“I, Strahd: The Memoirs of a Vampire”, by P. N. Elrod

 

309 pages, TSR, ISBN-13: ‎ 978-1560766704

If you’re not a hopeless geek then much of what I’m about to relate will be simply obtuse to you. Deal. So, I, Strahd: The Memoirs of a Vampire by P. N. Elrod is the tale of Count Strahd von Zarovich, the big baddie in D&D’s Ravenloft Campaign Setting, as told by himself (and read by Dr. Rudolph van Richten, TSR’s answer to Prof. Abraham Van Helsing). Within, we discover just who and what Strahd is and how he came to be. Essentially, young Strahd, frightened by his own mortality and driven by jealously of his younger brother, commits a horrific crime to achieve both immortality and his one true love, only to be denied both by the evil powers he dealt with (well, whataya want; they’re evil, aren’t they?). And all told by Elrod, a modern-day master of the fantasy horror genre (circa 1993).

Beneath Elrod’s pen, Strahd becomes more than just a one-dimensional answer to Dracula. We see the young Strahd, powerful warrior and brilliant leader, slowly succumb to the doubts and shadows that plague all men as he proves to be mortal after all. As he relates his tale to us, the Reader, we follow his thinking, relive his agony and share his doubts until, quite surprisingly, one finds themselves sympathizing with the monster and almost urging him on. It is a rare feat indeed to make a sympathetic villain, but Elrod succeeds. Incredible read for any fan and, I would argue, for anyone looking for a fresh vampire story. Yes, yes, yes, I, Strahd plays on every vampire trope under the sun (heh), but there is something to be said on how much this novel encourages one to sympathize with the devil.

If you familiar with Curse of Strahd – perhaps, like me, as the module’s Dungeon Master – you already know how this story ends. But that doesn’t stop you from savoring every scrap of hope Strahd allows himself, and you join him desperately wishing for an impossible happiness.

“The King Whisperers: Power Behind the Throne, from Rasputin to Rove”, by Kerwin Swint

 

336 pages, Union Square Press, ISBN-13: 978-1402772016

The King Whisperers: Power Behind the Throne, from Rasputin to Rove by Kerwin Swint is about those shadowy figures who lurk in every government, whispering in the king’s ear and all but ruling the kingdom in fact, if not in name (I would love to know the names of the people who did so in the Biden Administration). Swint has subdivided these whisperers into ten distinct types: The Machiavellians, Empire Builders, Kingmakers, Spies, Silver-Tongued Devils, The Generals, The Rebels, The Truly Evil, The Fixers and Schemers; he further provides thumbnail sketches of forty-one examples of men (and some women) to illustrate each type.

Swint’s format should find broad appeal for the novice historian, although I expect that the expert will be rather bored, if not offended by the many mistakes (it was never “The Empire of Germany” but rather “The German Empire” is but one of many examples). But the unique subject matter should appeal to both, seeing as those bright, shiny crowns so easily distracted us poor peons from who were really calling the shots. And, seeing as this is but a primer on the subject, this book also sparked interest in finding out more about these shadowy figures for whom pomp and circumstance were anathema, but who craved power and influence all the more.

These types of individuals are fairly good representatives of the archetypes named in each chapter and, if I may be so bold, I found I was more interested in those I had never heard of versus the more famous names. Swint also doesn’t confine himself to one era, nation or region, but likewise attempts to spread the blame around to all and sundry. The one problem I had with this approach was his inclusion of more modern figures; while many of these persons may, in fact, fit the profiles he has established, it seems to me that he was hurrying things and not allowing the flow of history to sweep them along – perhaps he was trying to be relevant?

Anyway, The King Whisperers works as an introductory work that, hopefully, will whet your thirst for more detailed, meatier faire.

“Child Star: An Autobiography”, by Shirley Temple Black

 

546 pages, McGraw-Hill, ISBN-13: 978-0070055322

Shirley Jane Temple Black was born on April 23^rd, 1928, in Santa Monica, California, the third child of homemaker Gertrude Amelia Crieger Temple and bank employee George Francis Temple after their boys, Jack and George. Black was an American patriot and had a diverse career in public service, first as a delegate to the 24^th United Nations General Assembly from September to December 1969, then as the 9^th United States Ambassador to Ghana from December 6^th, 1974 to July 13^th, 1976 before becoming 18^th Chief of Protocol of the United States from July 1^st, 1976 to January 21^st, 1977, then the President of the Commonwealth Club of California from February to August 1984 before becoming the 27^th United States Ambassador to Czechoslovakia from August 23^rd, 1989 to July 12^th, 1992. In this last role she witnessed first-hand The Velvet Revolution and the end of 41 years of one-party Communist rule in Czechoslovakia that ended peacefully, whence a parliamentary republic was established and the command economy dismantled…

Ah, who am I foolin’? You and I know Shirley Temple as an American child actress, dancer and singer who began her film career in 1931 and continued successfully through 1949. Over that time she starred in over 40 films for Fox (saving the studio from bankruptcy during the Great Depression), Paramount, MGM and Warner Brothers, said films ranking number One at the box office from 1935 through 1938, in addition to her work in television and radio. Temple danced in her films with some of the most famous and accomplished entertainers of her era, such as Buddy Ebsen, Jack Haley, Alice Faye, George Murphy, Jimmy Durante, Charlotte Greenwood, Jack Oakie and Bill “Bojangles” Robinson (whom she said was her favorite partner). At the 7^th Academy Awards in 1935, Temple was honored with the first Academy Juvenile Award., while later that same year her hand and foot prints were immortalized in cement at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. She received a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame on February 8^th, 1960.

Much of this and more we learn from Shirley herself in Child Star: An Autobiography – and make no mistake: this is an authentic autobiography written by the woman herself with nary a coauthor or ghostwriter in sight. Technically, this is her second autobiography, the first being My Young Life from 1945, but Shirley has stated before that that book was actually cribbed from past published quotes; this work is the real deal, written by herself alone and ending in about 1954, when she was just 26 years old. And what an autobiography; Shirley’s personality shines through with every sentence, whether describing her family, famous costars, directors, producers or studio heads. Her intelligence, verve and wisdom are all on display and, mores the point, described in her own words. I had never before been a fan of Shirley; oh, I had nothing against her but, under Mom’s influence, had rather drifted towards Margaret O’Brien, instead. But that changed upon completion of Child Star; I can now be counted among the legion of Templeholics.

But if Shirley’s book has any overarching thread it is the relationship she had with her mother and how “[s]he was not only my best friend, but we had a partnership”. I suppose that it’s a good thing that Shirley thought so well of her Mother (and her Father, although George Temple’s influence on his daughter pales next to his wife’s). But it is hard not to realize just how manipulated our little curly-top dynamo was by the parents she so obviously loved and adored, her Mother especially. That Shirley made a great deal of money cannot be disputed; that she could have made so much more if only she had proper representatives who knew how to negotiate and read a contract likewise cannot be disputed. Her parents just weren’t up to the task. Also, Shirley’s adored parents took advantage of their child to advance their worldly ways and ignored others who misused her as well if it boosted her monetary value; but judging by our author’s words, she either didn’t or couldn’t face this fact (the last words of her autobiography are “Thanks, Mom”).

But this is about the worse thing I can say about this book, as Shirley wrote a rambling recounting of her extraordinary life in which the sun seemed to always shine and nothing ever went wrong – well, not exactly. She mentions plenty – the discrimination suffered by Bill “Bojangles” Robinson because he was black, the exploitation of actors of every stripe by the studios, the sexual harassment of female stars and starlets that was rampant under the “studio system” (like her own, when Arthur Freed exposed himself to Shirley when she was 12-years-old; or when she was raped by another, unnamed producer) – but all of it told from her viewpoint and in her own words, with nothing spared us. But she managed it all in ways that newer stars today can’t, because she had a strong, supportive family to back her up. While her parents pocketed much of the money she made over the years, it was used to support the family and not some lavish lifestyle – a small concession, perhaps, but meaningful nonetheless.

Upon coming to the end of Child Star I was a fan and admirer of this cultural icon who, upon the end of her career, did not pine for a life that was over, but instead launched a new career as wife, mother and, later, diplomat (if only other stars would follow her lead, rather than cling to fame like grim death). But I was also left a little vacant, for Shirley had intended this work to be the first of many volumes that would have recorded her service in the State Department, books that were never written. Which is a damn shame, for I would love to have read what she thought of Republican power brokers and foreign statesmen, especially Václav Havel, the leader of the Czech Velvet Revolution with whom she interacted with during the same. But it was not to be. Shirley Jane Temple Black lived an extraordinary life, most of it in the public eye, and she always carried herself with dignity, charm, intelligence and vigor. Would that all stars these days would do the same while showing a basic respect for the nation that made them rich.

God Bless You, Shirley.

“Scotty Bowman: A Life in Hockey”, by Douglas Hunter

 

408 pages, Triumph Books, ISBN-13: 978-1572433502

William Scott “Scotty” Bowman is the winningest coach in NHL history, with 14 Stanley Cups as a coach and/or executive (behind only Jean Béliveau’s 17) to go along with his 1244 regular season wins and 223 wins in the Stanley Cup playoffs. We here in the Motor City will always be grateful to him for ending our 42 year Cup drought in 1997 and winning 3 Stanley Cups to give the Detroit Red Wings 10 total (upped to 11 after Mike Babcock won in 2008). But in many ways the man is a cypher whom few can ever get close to, especially those of us in the cheap seats. And so when I discovered Scotty Bowman: A Life in Hockey by Douglas Hunter…somewhere, I picked it up to see what could be learned about this fascinating and maddening hockey guru.

Be warned, however, for this book was written without any input from Bowman at all; indeed, it would appear that several of his past and current players also refused to cooperate, seeing as the book did not have Bowman’s authorization and thus, did not have his blessing (I, for one, would not want to be on Scotty’s bad side, and I don’t even know how to skate). For all that, Hunter still manages to dig deep and uncover all sorts of gems from the life of this most private and inscrutable man, partially by providing such density of information – over 46 years of coaching, Bowman crossed paths with damn near everyone in the NHL – that one can, at times, feel rather buried in hockey tales, statistics, player bios and so on and so forth.

But it is still Scotty who is the subject of this work and, in spite of his subject’s noncooperation, Hunter managers to uncover several hidden gems. Such as Hunter’s idea that Bowman’s playing days were not cut short when that sonovabitch of a Frenchman Jean-Guy Talbot cracked his skull with a flailing stick; rather, it was the impetus Scotty needed to hang up the skates on a mediocre career at best and instead move behind the bench – a fact Bowman new all too well. This revelation says a lot about our subject and his clear-eyed, unsentimental view of things, especially of All Things Hockey. Since he could see that he would never prosper as a player he segued into coaching without muss or fuss; if anything, the frog Talbot did him a favor.

And it was as a coach that the legend of Bowman would take root and grow. While coaches come and go in the league, Bowman thrived and survived when so many around him faltered and fell. As to how he managed to last and succeed for so long, Hunter posits that Bowman, almost alone amongst his peers, could adapt faster than a chameleon to the fluctuating world of professional sports, be it changing tactics, adapting strategies, or massaging the egos of all of those big-name millionaire athletes who have killed many a coaching career. All this, as well as his ability to take advantage of other teams and their struggles on-and-off the ice to advance the cause of whatever club he happens to be with at the time.

I don’t know about other leagues, but hockey is rather notorious for the revolving-door appearance of so many coaching positions, something that not even the Legendary Bowman has been immune to. That he has achieved the success and longevity despite not having a playing career worth talking about makes his many achievements so much more extraordinary. And to think, when this book was published in 1998, Bowman still had one more Stanley Cup to win as the Red Wings Coach, along with three others as senior advisor of hockey operations to the Chicago Black Hawks. While at times rather dense and turgid, Scotty Bowman: A Life in Hockey goes far in capturing the personality and drive of this man as traditional trailblazer.

“The Watchmaker of Filigree Street”, by Natasha Pulley

318 pages, Bloomsbury, ISBN-13: 978-1620408339

The Books on Tap bookclub that I run for the Fraser Public Library is an opportunity for me to introduce the Reading Public at large to all sorts of different books and subjects that are, perhaps, outside of their typical experience – like Longitude: The True Story of a Lone Genius Who Solved the Greatest Scientific Problem of His Time by Dava Sobel (reviewed on June 13^th, 2012), for example – only the members of the bookclub had no interest AT ALL in reading about longitude, so I substituted it for The Watchmaker of Filigree Street by Natasha Pulley, instead. Ah, well; their loss. Not that I really minded, in the end, for The Watchmaker was as interesting and intriguing book as any I’ve read – that it was also Natasha Pulley’s first ever novel makes her accomplishment that much more triumphant.

So, what’s it all about? Set in 1883, we follow one Thaniel Steepleton who, after returning to his tiny London apartment after a day of work as a Telegraphist, finds a golden pocket watch on his pillow, its provenance unknown. Six months later, the mysterious timepiece alarm function goes off as he is in a pub – minutes before a hidden bomb explodes, thus saving his life while destroying Scotland Yard. This prompts Thaniel to go off in search of its maker, one Keita Mori, a genius who creates ingenious clockwork creations who informs Thaniel that the watch had been stolen months before. A whole chain of unexplainable events soon suggests he must be hiding something, and when Grace Carrow, an Oxford physicist, unwittingly interferes, Thaniel is torn between opposing loyalties.

The Watchmaker kept me interested the whole time I was reading it. Pulley pulled out just enough facts to keep the story moving while hiding her Big Reveals in such a way as to make them intriguing rather than irritating. The main characters – Thaniel, Mori and Grace – were interesting enough to keep me intrigued, while the motivations of all concerned were clear-cut – well, except for Mori, whose decisions were decidedly opaque. Until, that is, we discover more about the man and what he is all about, whence all those strange things he said and did make perfect sense. There is a plot hole or two I could mention. But won’t. For The Watchmaker of Filigree Street kept me engrossed in its tale and its characters enough for me to overlook much, and to look forward to the continuing adventures of Mori et. al

 

“A Wrinkle in Time”, by Madeleine L’Engle

 

248 pages, Dell, ISBN-13: 9780812422917

A Wrinkle in Time is yet another book that Mrs. Roberts read to us in the 4^th Grade that came to mind while perusing the children’s shelves at the Fraser Public Library. In a nutshell, Meg Murry, Charles Wallace Murry and Calvin O’Keefe embark on a journey through space and time and from galaxy to galaxy as they endeavor to rescue the Murry’s father and fight back The Black Thing that has intruded into several worlds. It also offers a glimpse into the war between good and evil as the young characters mature into adolescents on their journey. Pretty heady stuff for 10-year-olds to stomach but, hey, after surviving Old Yeller (reviewed on February 5^th, 2025) I think we found we could survive anything. It also turns out that A Wrinkle in Time is but the first in a series of seven other books (and one short story) in which all sorts of themes are explored and discussed.

A Wrinkle in Time begins when 13-year-old Meg Murry meets the family’s eccentric new neighbor, Mrs. Whatsit, who refers to something called a tesseract (if you’ve seen a Marvel movie lately you know what that is). Meg finds out that it is a scientific concept her father was working on before his mysterious disappearance. The following day, Meg, her genius brother Charles and classmate Calvin visit Mrs. Whatsit’s home, where the equally strange Mrs. Who and the voice of the unseen Mrs. Which promise to help Meg find and rescue her father. From there the game is afoot as the kids and their mysterious benefactors teleport by “tessering”, a fifth-dimensional phenomenon explained as folding the fabric of space and time, and – well, read the book, will ya? What I remember as a kid was being spellbound by the tale and where it would take us next.

There are several themes throughout the book that L’Engle brings up in a subtle manner, which, to my mind, made them that more powerful. One is religion (just not in the organized sense), in which divine intervention plays a part in many of the passages of the book. Madeleine L’Engle has made no secret of her (rather liberal) Christianity, and it shows in the many instances in which the kids are subject to a spiritual intervention they don’t necessarily understand, but which signals the presence of God in the everyday world, to say nothing of the reach of His power and love (well, according to L’Engle, it is His universe in which all of this action is taking place). This religious viewpoint is also evident in the fight against The Black Thing, which represents Evil, and the desire for Light, which is shorthand for God and the love he spreads.

Another theme touched on in the books is the fight against conformity, which has been read as an allegory over the fight against Communism. In the novel this takes the form of IT, the dominate power on the planet of Camazotz, in which the phrase “created equal” is warped to mean that everyone is uniform in appearance, attitudes and abilities; even Charles Wallace Murry conforms to the dictates of IT and is only rescued by his sister Meg. But there’s more to this concept as, in a three-page passage that was cut before publication, L’Engle understood that all totalitarian regimes of the Left or the Right needed to press conformity on their populaces in order to maintain their grip on power – while in democratic societies the desire for security led to the same impulses, as the passage of the Patriot Act in the US has demonstrated.

Besides all that, L’Engle’s books are important for young readers because, amongst children’s authors at least, she was one of the first to expose them to deep, dark subjects that other authors were unwilling to broach, like the meaning of truth, the perils of choosing individuality over conformity, and death. But for all of these Deep Thoughts, L’Engle still managed to be positive and uplifting. In true Christian fashion she managed to delve deep, underneath the surface values that most people can see, and perceive them in a manner more complete than other authors; at both light and dark, good and bad, joy and pain. Her faith allowed her to see all of this and to transcend mere mundane qualities and instead uncover the absolute nature of human experience that we all share – something I think I grasped at the time, even if I couldn’t express it.

So A Wrinkle in Time is many things, but it is especially brilliant, hopeful, dynamic and a worthy way in which to introduce the young to concepts they must learn about eventually.

“The Dante Club”, by Matthew Pearl

 

372 pages, Random House, ISBN-13: 978-0375505294

The Dante Club by Matthew Pearl was the first book he wrote and concerns a club of poets who are translating the Divina Commedia by Dante Alighieri into English in 1865, only to discover parallels between a recent spate of brutal murders and the punishments described in Dante’s Inferno. The poets in question are in fact historical personages, as was their club: James T. Fields, Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr., Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and James Russell Lowell. These men set out to solve the murders, fearing as they do that, seeing as they are among a handful of Americans who are familiar with the work, that they would also be the only suspects should the police discover their interest; also, scholars that they are, they worry that the truth of the murders would ruin Dante’s still-burgeoning reputation in America, thus damning the Italian poet in the minds of their countrymen while also dooming their translation.

While the first corpse is discovered quickly in the book – and a more gruesome description one would be hard-pressed to find (not a complaint; merely an observation) – the second takes much longer to turn up, as does the third. Meanwhile, the stage is set by Pearl as Old Boston comes back to life, these long-gone poets are resurrected and their quest to translate and bring Dante to the benighted masses of their countrymen – as the Civil War winds down, mind you – is given life once more. For Pearl is in no hurry to get the story going as he rebuilds this lost world and makes it real. While at times the depth of detail can make one wish to skip ahead to the good stuff, don’t do it; Pearl’s writing is a masterclass is descriptive detail and world-building. When the story begins to take off and the poets follow the clues (oh, and the police too, as they carry on their investigations independently of Fields, Holmes, Longfellow and Lowell) the game is afoot.

Pearl’s strength is his descriptive prowess, with seemingly inconsequential details coming forth and men and places breathing once more. The mystery surrounding the murders unravels slowly as the poets piece together what is going on without help from the police – well, there is Sergeant Rey, the first (half) black officer on the Boston police force, but the higher ups are AWOL through most of the book. As mysteries go it’s alright; while one is ever wondering who is going to die horribly next and discover just how Dante’s Inferno fits into everything, there was never any real suspense through the book. Rather, this is an intellectual story in which a bunch of Long Hairs play detective and delve into the mysteries of medieval poetry in the Modern (to them) world. All good stuff if that’s your bag (and it is mine), but if a mystery filled with suspense and red herrings and craven criminals is your thing then The Dante Club isn’t for you.

After finishing I had learned a good deal about Dante Alighieri – to say nothing of James T. Fields, Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr., Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and James Russell Lowell. In an “Historical Note” at the end of the book, Pearl helpfully tells us that he recreated the speech of his protagonists from the “poems, essays, novels, journals, and letters of the Dante Club members and those closest to them”, so perhaps in reading of their exploits we are again hearing the voices of Fields, Holmes, Longfellow and Lowell after having been silenced by time. Perhaps that is enough reason to read The Dante Club.

“Island of the Blue Dolphins”, by Scott O’Dell

 

177 pages, Houghton Mifflin, ISBN-13: 978-395069629

Hey, you remember me mentioning Mrs. Roberts 4^th Grade class? And how she’d read us stories now and then, like Old Yeller, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, James and the Giant Peach, and a bunch of others I have yet to remember? ‘member that? Well, as I was walking the shelves of the Fraser Public Library the other day I came across Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell and was once more transported back to the Glorious 80s and the 4^th Grade. And once more I was listening to Mrs. Roberts tell the tale of Won-a-pa-lei (secret name Karana) after she and her little brother are left stranded on an island off the coast of California for years when her tribe is relocated, and how this young girl managed to survive on nothing but wits and grit.

Turns out this story was based on a tale told by the inhabitants of San Nicholas Island about one Juana Maria, the last of the Nicoleño Indians, who lived all alone for twenty years. In 1939 her hut, made of whalebones, was discovered, and in 2009 several more artifacts of Juana Maria and the Nicoleño were uncovered, as well, giving credence to the tales told about the Lone Woman and making O’Dell’s story so much more believable (it just goes to show that the best tales ever told really happened). So just like that this tale of a Native American answer to Robinson Crusoe (which was likewise based on a true story) gains credibility. I knew none of this back in the day as Mrs. Roberts regaled us with the adventures of Karana, only that I was engrossed and couldn’t wait for the tale to continue.

And what a tale, too. Island of the Blue Dolphins was published in 1960, when adventure tales starring Indian girls taking on traditional male roles weren’t a thing. But it is told with verve and motion as we follow Karana and her quest just to live. From finding food, to building canoes, to fending off the wild dogs of the island, to just survive being alone all the time, we root for Karana and wonder what we would have done in her place. And none of it is condescending, either; O’Dell was a white man who crafted an engrossing story starring an Indian girl who is as alive, forthright, engaging and inspiring as any Eurocentric story one could mention. And O’Dell shows us just how she does it, too; through intelligence, guile, and sheer stick-to-itiveness, not because Karana is some unstoppable girlboss who can do no wrong.

Island of the Blue Dolphins is yet another story from my youth that has stayed with me because it was an excellent tale expertly told without ulterior motives or personal politics involved. Imagine that: a story about a strong woman that neither denigrates others nor makes its protagonist into a super-being. Would we had more such stories today.

“Driving Like Crazy: Thirty Years of Vehicular Hell-Bending, Celebrating America the Way It’s Supposed to Be – With an Oil Well in Every Backyard, a Cadillac Escalade in Every Carport, and the Chairman of the Federal Reserve Mowing Our Lawn”, by P.J. O’Rourke

 

267 pages, Grove Press, ISBN-13: 978-0802144799

Patrick Jake “P.J.” O’Rourke passed away from lung cancer on February 15^th, 2022, and the Conservative movement in particular and American humor in general lost one of the most original and acerbic voices ever to breath air. I have read and reviewed several of his books, such as Age and Guile Beat Youth, Innocence, and a Bad Haircut: 25 Years of P.J. O’Rourke (reviewed on August 10^th, 2016), Parliament of Whores: A Lone Humorist Attempts to Explain the Entire U.S. Government (reviewed on January 25^th, 2019), Give War a Chance: Eyewitness Accounts of Mankind’s Struggle against Tyranny, Injustice and Alcohol-Free Beer (reviewed on April 20^th, 2021) and All the Trouble in the World: The Lighter Side of Overpopulation, Famine, Ecological Disaster, Ethnic Hatred, Plague, and Poverty (reviewed on July 16^th, 2021). I will now have to hunt down the rest of his books, for the only way in which we can still enjoy P.J. is by reading and honoring and laughing at all he left behind.

Like Driving Like Crazy (you can read the full title above) which was published in 2009 and collects his many articles featuring cars, driving and fighting the good fight against the regulatory Man. While driving cars and enjoying cars and wrecking cars and celebrating cars is notionally what this book is about, it is also as politically subversive as anything O’Rourke wrote. With tongue firmly in cheek, he recounts many escapades of his wild youth, middle-aged fantasies and crazy trips in a strange mash-up of adolescent political incorrectness, childish silliness and near-religious reverence for American chrome, steel and horsepower. In O’Rourke’s telling, cars are quintessentially American because cars equal freedom: freedom to go where you want and when you want without some busybody central planner telling you NO. Which is why busybody central planners love public transportation and want to kill the oil industry, just so that we all can be more easily under their green totalitarian thumbs.

All of which is recounted across 18 articles and one interview. Driving Like Crazy is, like all of the Late Great P.J.’s work, subversive, entertaining, enlightening and energetic, and makes one miss the man all the more.

“The Police: 1978-1983”, by Lynn Goldsmith, introduced by Phil Sutcliffe

 

192 pages, Little, Brown and Company, ISBN-13: 978-0316005913

I stated before that I was never really a fan of The Police (in my review of Strange Things Happen: A Life with The Police, Polo, and Pygmies by Stewart Copeland, as it happens, published on August 25^th, 2025); while liking many of their songs I just wasn’t rabid for them, like I am for The Beatles, Rush, Queen and Kate Bush. But when I saw that I could have The Police: 1978-1983 by Lynn Goldsmith (introduced by Phil Sutcliffe) for a mere $1 from the Fraser Public Library Book Sale well, I mean c’mon, who wouldn’t buy it?

In a nutshell, photographer Goldsmith had almost full access to the band, from their founding in 1978 until their separation in 1983; the whole of this book, published in 2007 to commemorate the band’s 30^th anniversary and their subsequent reunion tour, captures their rise to fame until the final curtain call. Also found within are a series of quotes by Stewart Copeland (drummer), Andy Summers (guitarist) and Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner (lead singer and bass guitarist), all taken from the books The Police L’Historia Bandido by Phil Sutcliffe and Hugh Fielder and One Train Later by Andy Summers, and from Rolling Stone, The London Sunday Times, The New York Times and sundry other magazines.

So, what do we have her, then? If many of these pictures look familiar to you, it is because Lynn was responsible for so many of the most famous, iconic images of The Police that we have known for decades. This book has sections of images devoted to singular portraits of Stewart, Andy and Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner, along with sections devoted to the band as a whole. And while the inclusion of quotes from the band members themselves help tie this volume together, none of the photos are captioned; sometimes one can puzzle together just where this or that pic was taken – especially if one has seen any of the band’s music videos – but a little insight as to just what we were looking at would have been nice.

But so what. The Police: 1978-1983 was made for fans of Stewart, Andy and Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner to celebrate their long-lost band and to reminisce on their youth when the world was better and brighter.

“Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald”, by Therese Anne Fowler

 

375 pages, St. Martin’s Press, ISBN-13: ‎ 978-1250028655

Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald was more than just the wife of Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald; she was also a novelist in her own right, a painter, a playwright, a dancer and Southern socialite who, sadly, died before her time in a fire in a hospital, widowed and all but forgotten, after living in a series of sanatoriums and undergoing a decade worth of electroshock therapy and insulin shock treatments. Sad, tragic and pathetic. And so we owe Therese Anne Fowler a debt of gratitude for reviving this most interesting of women in Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald and letting her live and frolic once more – if only in our imaginations.

The novel begins when 17-year-old Zelda meets the dashing young Army officer F. Scott Fitzgerald and continues on to document their lives together until their ultimate, tragic ends, all told from Zelda’s point of view. Not being at all familiar with the life of Zelda, I cannot vouch for the accuracy of this telling, only that Fowler follows her subject as she traipsed all over America and Europe, as she and Scott (and their daughter, Scottie) enjoyed the privileges of being young and relatively well-off in the Roaring 20s. One wonders at Fitzgerald’s view of this time, seeing as he and his bride seemed to enjoy it so much.

While their lives of the Fitzgeralds are documented and brought back to life for us, I have to say that they and their world remained flat throughout; I mean, Zelda’s voice was never in stereo in Fowler’s telling, only ever in mono, a strange situation for this opinionated and passionate woman. New York, Paris, the American South and even Minnesota never came alive in this telling, as all the colors Fowler paints in are faded pastels rather than the vibrant oils a woman like Zelda deserves. Not badly written, as the book moves along at a brisk and interesting pace, but I couldn’t help but feel that there were depths there being left unexplored.

And Zelda herself never really seems fully realized. While her friends wish her to latch on to the then-nascent feminist cause she never actually does, as she was then enjoying all the freedoms her predecessors could only dream of (this in spite of the fact that many of her stories were published under her husband’s name). But her works – novels, short stories, paintings, etc. – are never named or described, and her accomplishments are mentioned – by herself, mind you – only in passing. Thus, even in a novel in which Zelda Fitzgerald is supposed to be the main protagonist, she plays second fiddle to her more famous husband. Strange…and disappointing.

I had circled this novel for several months at the Fraser Public Library before adding it to the Books on Tap book club schedule; having finished it, I wonder if the other participants will like it more or less than I did (whenever a book I have chosen falls flat I always have a feeling of guilt, like I let them down). Maybe they’ll have a better opinion than I, but overall while Z was an enlightening look into the lives of a golden couple of the Lost Generation, it was an outsider’s view rather than an insider’s. Zelda guides us through her life before-and-after Scott, but she never truly comes alive in Fowler’s telling.

But I have to say that Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald has at least kindled my interest in this fascinating if maddening couple, so much so that I think I will seek out a biographies of Zelda and F. Scott, and read their many, storied works. So all was not lost reading Fowler’s flawed if still interesting work – so there’s that.

“Turn of Mind”, by Alice LaPlante

 

320 pages, Grove Press, ISBN-13: 978-1594135798

Turn of Mind by Alice LaPlante centers on Dr. Jennifer White, retired orthopedic surgeon, and the murder of her friend, Amanda O’Toole (whose fingers were surgically severed after death, to boot). Dr. White is the prime suspect but, complicating matters for her and the police is the fact that she is suffering from advanced-stage Alzheimer’s and can remember nothing or, when memories do spring to mind, are always fractured and out of sorts. The structure of the book is told from the viewpoint of the unfortunate Dr. White, a viewpoint that, as one can well imagine from a person with dementia, is out of sorts and unreliable. It also serves to make the book smaller in fact than it purports to be, as it is written as a series of small, brief, paragraphs separated by a blank line or two (to say nothing of a very fast read).

One thing that suffuses this book is the loss of Jennifer; not literally, or course, as she is the narrator and principle voice of the book. But hers is a broken voice, spoken by a woman who is no longer there, mentally. When she is most cognizant is when she remembers the past – the far past, if you will, rather than the recent, which she cannot grasp. This woman was so much more than what she is now and to see such an accomplished and respected woman brought low by a disease that robs one of their intellect and dignity is a damn shame (it also proves that there are, in fact, fates worse than death). In this state we learn more about Jennifer and discover that she is flawed; indeed, one of her sins especially proves that her late husband, James, was a saint for putting up with her in her normal, pre-Alzheimer condition.

As mysteries go, however, Turn of Mind is not very…mysterious. The murder of Amanda is supposed to be at the center of the book but, in fact, Jennifer’s Alzheimer’s is the engine of this car. Seeing as it is told from Jennifer’s fractured and unreliable point of view this makes sense, as we puzzle along with her what is real and what is misremembered fantasy; what are relevant facts and what are irrelevant meanderings. The suspect list is thin and the final reveal – dealing as it does with our demented heroine fleeing the facility she was placed in and attempting to solve the crime on her own – is rather shocking (to me at any rate). Whenever I finish a mystery that fools me I usually go back and reread certain portions to try and determine why I didn’t sniff it out; Turn of Mind was no different, and I kick myself for not having uncovered the perp.

So Turn of Mind requires patience on the part of the reader as you try to puzzle out Jennifer’s thoughts and the motivations of those around her. But stick with it, as the final reveal will make it all worthwhile.

“Relic”, by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

 

382 pages, Forge, ISBN-13: 978-031285630X

Relic by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child is set in the New York Museum of Natural History (now the American Museum of Natural History) and follows the opening of a new exhibit called “Superstitions”, about native and obscure religions and beliefs from around the world – only to be plagued by a series of brutal murders in which people are savagely mutilated and their brains partially eaten (the 1997 movie The Relic was also based on it, but that bombed so you probably didn’t see it). It turns out this book was the first to feature their reoccurring characters Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast and Detective Vincent D’Agosta.

So, anyway, Relic was okay. The mystery at the heart of the story is over the relic in question that is the center of the new exhibit, the culture from which it was taken and its connection to the bloody murders. As the scientists and researchers study the history and mystery surrounding the whole, bits and pieces fall into place as the novel barrels headlong. All of this was fine as these Very Smart People try and piece together the strange findings that come their way. If you are not a geek then much of this may be dull, but any library rat worth their salt will find all of this techno-digging to be well worth the read.

The real problems lay in the wooden characters; not once while reading Relic did I feel any dread or suspense, a damning critique for a book that purports to be a thriller. This is mostly because I couldn’t give a damn for any of these posts masquerading as people. Then there is Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI who is investigating these murders due to their similarity to deaths that had occurred in New Orleans a few years before. While Aloysius brims with personality – especially in relation to the blocks of wood all around him – he also knows…everything and has had just the right unreal life experiences to make him indispensable.

And the ending is LONG, as everything comes to a head and all hell breaks loose and there’s blood and guts and – hell, just wading through the last several chapters was a chore when it should have been a suspenseful hell-ride as we bump and jostle towards the conclusion. The Epilogue, however, was good, as the writers wrap everything up and answer all of your unanswered questions – and set up the sequel. The character through which they do it was always present and, while arrogant, was not very malevolent, until he reveals his ultimate plans. If I had enjoyed Relic more then I think that this last chapter would have gotten me excited for the next book.

The Relic was a ‘B’ Movie, which should come as no surprise, seeing as the book it was based upon was also subpar. An entertaining enough read that occupied me for a week, I shan’t be reading any more Preston and Child books and must bid adieu to Special Agent Pendergast and Detective Vincent D’Agosta.

“Battlefield Earth: A Saga of the Year 3000”, by L. Ron Hubbard

 

1144 pages, Galaxy Press, ISBN-13: 978-1619865099

My first encounter with L. Ron Hubbard and his Sci-Fi novel Battlefield Earth: A Saga of the Year 3000 came way back sometime during the Glorious 80s when my older brother Tom bought a hardcover edition of this thing with cover art by Gerald Grace (the softcover version I borrowed from the Fraser Public Library – “21^st Century Edition, complete with Expanded Content, Author Interview and Discussion Guide” – featured art by Frank Frazetta, a marked improvement). And I had my eye on it ever since, because it was one of those instances that stayed with me for reasons I cannot fathom. But one day when I was doing one of my laps around the Fraser Public Library, I passed by this thing for the umpteenth time and decided at long last to take the plunge. If you eliminate the long-winded introduction and the post-novel Author Interview, that still leaves one with over 1000 pages to barrel through, divided into 33 Parts and each Part into several chapters. So I had my work cut out for me but, hey, who doesn’t like a challenge?

So what’s it all about, then? It is the year 3000; after having been conquered a millennium before by an alien species, the Psychlos, Mankind is on the brink of extinction, reduced to a few primitive tribes in isolated parts of the Earth and numbering fewer than 35,000 worldwide, while the Psychlos strip the planet of its mineral wealth. In what was once Colorado, Jonnie Goodboy Tyler begins the long process of discovering his world and how to drive the alien interloper off and freeing all from its vile presence. So what we have here is some rather classic Sci-Fi pulp fiction in which big themes are discussed, grand vistas are explored, huge battles are fought and goodness and righteousness are tested; if Battlefield Earth had been published during the golden era of pulp fiction then Jonnie Goodboy Tyler could very well have taken his place alongside such exemplars of the genre like Buck Rogers or Flash Gordon (not surprising, really, considering that Lafayette Ronald Hubbard was born in 1911).

But throughout reading this book I couldn’t shake the notion that I was reading another type of book masquerading as Sci-Fi. Most of the first third is taken up by the machinations of Terl, the Psychlo chief of security of Earth, who desperately wants to escape this backwater world and return to Psychlo – and get rich, in the bargain. This is when he captures Johnnie and launches his plan to turn the Man Animals into unpaid workers who will mine the gold he needs. This is all in keeping with the “leverage” that Terl seeks over his superiors, a concept that dominates this part of the book so much that one forgets that this is supposed to be science fiction. Not bad, mind you; seeing Terl plot and plan his way off of Earth is all rather amusing, while Johnnie’s attempts to gain some leverage of his own are likewise engrossing. And whenever one train of thought seems to have run its course Hubbard always does a course correction and refreshes the tale, keeping one interested enough through several hundred pages.

But (you just knew a “but” was coming, dintcha?) there are issues with this magnum opus. While Mankind is on the brink of extinction, there are still several groupings alive around the planet, such as in Scotland, where kilts are still worn, bagpipes are still played and the word “laddie” is used liberally. And it was all just a bit too precious for me. As Hubbard would have it, after 1000 years Scots culture is unaltered, which is nonsense; the Middle Ages lasted from about 500 to 1500 and during that time Europe changed so much as to become unrecognizable, and yet the Scots haven’t altered one iota during the millennium (don’t get me started on the perils of inbreeding). This idea becomes truly ridiculous as other tribes are discovered – like the Red Army – across the globe who likewise have kept the old ways of a world a thousand years dead and languages that, apparently, have remained unchanged. I like the idea that Man and his cultures are resilient, but Hubbard takes this idea to absurd conclusions that beggar belief.

Hubbard liked to say that Battlefield Earth was “Hard Sci-Fi” – that is, science fiction characterized by concern for scientific accuracy and logic (no sound effects in space here) – but this, too, is absurd. From planes that “fly” through unknown means to an alternate periodic table, this book is suffused with technology that can only be described as fantastical. One would think, after reading this, that Hubbard’s grasp of science was mediocre at best and that he made up that which he didn’t know (which was a lot). Some of it works – like the enormous teleportation plate by which the Psychlos transport their earthly plunder back to the homeworld, or the learning machines that force-feed Johnnie the knowledge Terl thinks he needs; I could suspend my disbelief over those. But there were just too many convenient technological solutions to the myriad problems Hubbard raises and then just as easily dismisses in order for his heroic hero to man-up and take on the evil aliens and defeat them at their own game.

But all that isn’t the worst thing about Battlefield Earth. As I noted earlier this book has its roots firmly in the pulp fiction era of novels, and so it is big, brash, loud and as unsubtle as a brick to the head. If Hubbard can say something using 20 words rather than only 5 than you can bet that’s just what he’ll do. The characterizations are simplistic and paper-thin, and while Hubbard can write about the most base and evil impulses, other, grander ideas – like, say, love, generosity, compassion – are ignored altogether. Several times Tyler is challenged and forced to grow and develop, which at least gives him a hero’s arc to complete. And Terl is as devious and plotting a villain as one could hope for, not just a stupid alien to be defeated and purged. But the fate of Psychlo is absurd at best (to say nothing of convenient), the dismissal of the Psychlo Empire is weak, other alien species of the universe are ridiculous and half of the book meanders about, like Hubbard wanted to write a Sci-Fi equivalent to The Lord of the Rings without enough material.

So then…I don’t regret having read Battlefield Earth, but I also can’t recommend it. Not as bad as others have said it was, it certainly isn’t as good as it’s backers would have you believe. There are better uses for trees than all those killed printing this thing (and if you think I’ll go anywhere near the Mission Earth dekalogy you’re nucking futs).

“The Historian”, by Elizabeth Kostova

 

642 pages, Little, Brown and Company, ISBN-13: 978-0316011778

Lots of new authors get loads of attention and praise when their first book gains the interest of the right people – like, for instance, Elizabeth Kostova’s The Historian, first published in 2005. Basically, our author blends the fictional Count Dracula with the very real Vlad Țepeș (The Impaler) with the story of Paul and his (unnamed) daughter and their quest to find the tomb of everybody’s favorite 15^th Century Romanian Tyrant – who may or not be extant and unliving it up. To do so the novel ties together three separate narratives using letters and journals, much like the original Dracula: Paul’s mentor in the 1930s; that of Paul in the 1950s; and that of Paul’s daughter in the 1970s, with the last being the principle narration.

These letters and journal entries, written by earlier Dracula hunters and being read by later ones, form the basis of the book; so what we have, then, are one set of scholars reading an earlier scholar’s account who in turn read from this other scholar’s work which references an even earlier piece of work…layer upon layer upon layer of scholarship and research to read and sift through, and you the Reader are along for the ride through it all (it was, I think, an homage to Stoker’s original novel, which was structured in much the same way). But I often had to remind myself that I was reading a character’s letter…that went on for page after page after page with a level of detail that was…um, interesting. Yeah, let’s go with that.

And the pacing reflects this scholarly hunt, for even when a character is being hunted by the denizens of the dark, they still manage to tear through whole sheaves of paper and record how “I can hear them right now, outside my window, they are coming for me” and so on and so forth. Very thoughtful of them. And…well…unrealistic, for while, for the most part, I enjoyed Kostova’s writing, it was events like this that made me realize that I was reading a novel and not a record of events, which took me quite out of the fantasy. I get wanting to show off and write these wonderful passages in which the world in described minutely, but come on, already; does one write a 10-page (or more) letter while the forces of evil lurk outside your door?

And, well, there are other issues, not least the original MacGuffin that sets the plot in motion: a mysterious tome, consisting of empty pages but for a dragon woodcut in the center, is given to a character and, no matter what they do, they just can’t get rid of it. Following the clues of the woodcut should lead them to the mystery at the heart of The Historian – and here is where my first real problem with the book comes into focus, for as MacGuffins go this one is weak. I mean, a blank book with one woodcut? That’s it? No rhymes, or poems, or archaic words to set one off on a life-or-death quest? And why a book? Wouldn’t a broadsheet work just as well? There are better, more satisfactory ways to get a plot rolling.

As for the quest, there, too, we have issues. The scholars, spurred on by the book and disappearance of one of their own, begin their investigation, only to be checked by shadowy forces who assault, intimidate, steal, vandalize and even kill all who would oppose them (it’s never stated, but its vampires). Their motivation – and the appearance of the mastermind – are finally revealed at the end of the book and…man, was it dumb. DUMB, I tell ya. I’m really trying not to spoil it for you but you’d have thunk that an immortal would have thought up a better plan or have had loftier goals. After wading through 600+ pages of, admittedly, mostly artful prose to end her book so stupidly was the ultimate Lucy-and-Charlie-Brown-Football-Yank.

The Historian was, then, LONG, beautiful, intriguing but, ultimately, disappointing. I wish I could recommend it but the conclusion just left too bitter an aftertaste, even after page after eloquent page.

“Girl in a Green Gown: The History and Mystery of the Arnolfini Portrait”, by Carola Hicks

 

256 pages, Vintage Books, ISBN-13: 978-0099526896

Girl in a Green Gown: The History and Mystery of the Arnolfini Portrait was the last work by the British art historian Carola Hicks (indeed, it was published posthumously) and concerns one of the most popular and enigmatic paintings of its time. Painted in 1434 by Flemish artist Jan van Eyck in oils rather than tempera – and measuring a mere 3’ tall – the Arnolfini Portrait is regarded as the first work of art which simultaneously celebrates both middle-class comfort and monogamous marriage, although the subjects of the portrait are in dispute; it is assumed that it shows Giovanni Arnolfini and his probably pregnant wife at their home in Bruges.

What Hicks has written is a kind of double-portrait of this most enigmatic of works: numbered chapters that trace the provenance through the centuries are interspersed with non-numbered chapters that detail the painting itself and all of the hidden meanings of the same. She explores not only who owned this painting and where it travelled, but also all of the hidden details and meanings that may be found dispersed throughout the whole, often hidden in plain sight (unless you didn’t know what you were looking at). Overall, through her vivid descriptions and apt writing, it is obvious why Hicks was such a popular and well-regarded historian.

I like art as much as the next fella but can’t honestly say that I could tell Alla prima from Underpainting. But with Hicks you don’t need to; everything is described in clear language and a detail that doesn’t get bogged down in academic jargon. She “shows” you this detail or that, walks you through its significance and wraps it up with its importance, when she isn’t tracing the history of its owners and place in the world. While doing so, the reason for the importance of this seemingly minor work of art becomes evident to even the most cretinous Cretan. A rare double-feat and more evidence of why Carola Hicks will be missed.

“The Woman in the Window”, by A. J. Finn

 

 

448 pages, HarperCollins, ISBN-13: 978-0062678416

Another book I assigned for the Fraser Public Library’s Mysteries & Munchies book club, The Woman in the Window by A. J. Finn (that would be Daniel Mallory to his friends) features another unreliable female narrator. Dr. Anna Fox, a once-successful child psychologist, finds herself a prisoner in her own home suffering from agoraphobia. She spends her days drinking (too much) wine, playing online chess, counseling patients on the ‘net, watching old movies, recalling happier times with her husband and daughter – and spying on her neighbors. The way in which Finn unrolls the clues of Anna’s life and condition, and how she got here from there, really draws one in and hooks them from the beginning – as does her voice; Anna’s near-constant irreverence and snideness drew me in ever-deeper until I found myself devouring page after page, wanting to learn more and more about her and what drove such a bright woman into such dire circumstances. I was hooked from the get-go.

I admit, the number of thrillers out there that involve an unreliable woman whom nobody believes because she drinks too much, or pops too many pills, or both, is becoming rather tedious (see my review of The Woman in Cabin 10 from coming soon as an example). But this unreliability is central to the plot (and, probably, to all the other plots driving all those other books). What makes Anna stand out so is her voice as, trained child psychologist that she is, she dissects everything she sees with a scalpel and then minutely observes the results. And in a voice that is as acerbic as rubbing alcohol on sandpaper. As the book rolls out its facts in dribs and drabs, you learn that this observational technique is used on herself, as well – only you don’t know it. I have read other reviews that claim that the plot is obvious and predictable, but I found this not to be so; the writing is such that each revelation was a surprise that made me reread what I had read and to admire Finn and his technique.

Whether or not The Woman in the Window is derivative, I thought that Finn wove a mystery that kept me guessing for most of the book. The facts I found to be excellent accessories to the tale, with details from old movies and references to Hitchcock and Christie adding to the story; furthermore, Finn did so in such a way that the end result was not some slavish imitation of past masters of the art but rather an homage to the same. But it all comes back to Anna, as compelling a Train Wreck as one could hope for. While the revelation as to how and why her agoraphobia took over her life changes your view of her, it adds rather than detracts; she is no saint and knows it, once again bringing her therapist eye to a subject close to her – herself. None of us is perfect and most of us don’t like reading about flawless, impossible characters; it is our faults that make us human and, by extension, relatable to each other. And Anna is no different, God bless her.

If you have read other books that I have heard resemble The Woman in the Window – Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train come to mind – then perhaps you will not be so enamored with Finn’s efforts; IF, however, those other books are mysteries to you, then this one will rope you in and keep you hooked from start to finish. In this regard, ignorance truly is bliss.

“Perfume: The Story of a Murderer” by Patrick Süskind

 

272 Pages, Knopf Doubleday, ISBN-13: 978-0375725845

I read Perfume: The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Süskind for a history course on the French Revolution; my Prof. assigned it not so much for its subject matter – more on that in a minute – but because of how the writer described pre-Revolutionary Paris, especially its awful slums. And make no mistake, Paris under the ancien régime comes to life once more under Süskind’s pen (keyboard?) in all its filthy glory. It turns out that Perfume was also Kurt Cobain’s favorite book, and upon completion of this bleak work I could see why. In the man’s own words, “I’ve read Perfume about ten times and I can’t stop reading it. It’s like something that’s just stationary in my pocket all the time. It just doesn’t leave me. I read it over and over. It just effects me”. Depending on what you think of Cobain, this is either an echoing endorsement or a resounding rejection.

Perfume follows the life of Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, a person born with a seemingly supernatural sense of smell in a world in which he is forsaken and unloved. Given birth by his mother at a market stall among rotting fish guts and the stench of corpses – she even uses a fish knife to cut the umbilical cord – Grenouille is eventually discovered in the street, covered in flies and offal (his mother is found and executed for infanticide). Thus orphaned at birth, he is passed between wet nurses, one of whom, Jeanne Bussie, saying of him: “He’s possessed by the devil…This baby makes my flesh creep because it doesn’t smell the way children ought to smell… like fresh butter”. Loved by none and unwanted by all, Jean-Baptiste grows to hate humanity as much as humanity hates him. In so many respects he was damned from the very beginning.

Eventually, Grenouille lands an apprenticeship with a perfumer where that remarkable nose of his can truly come into its own. As he learns his craft and eventually eclipses his employer, he aspires to become the greatest perfumer of the age, an olfactory artisan par excellence whose creations move their wearers like no perfume ever has before. Indeed, it is Grenouille’s ambition to create scents that are so overwhelming that they will allow him to control them and bend them to his will even – and this is key to his motivation – force them to love him. But in order for this godly scent to come into creation, Grenouille must harvest the most pure, delightful and innocent scents from their source – and that source is living, virgin girls. The lengths he goes to in order to bring forth his obsession are monstrous, but what obsessive can corral his demons?

This is grim stuff, and so I find it eminently believable that Kurt Cobain drew inspiration from it for Nirvana’s 1993 album In Utero; the second song, Scentless Apprentice, draws directly from the novel with lyrics such as, “Like most babies smell like butter/His smell smelled like no other/He was born scentless and senseless/Every wet nurse refused to feed him” and a chorus that shrieks “Go away/Get away”, coming from a line in the novel in which “Grenouille no longer wanted to go somewhere, but only to go away, away from human beings”. On could easily argue that many more songs on In Utero were inspired by Perfume, but I won’t belabor the point. As I said above, Cobain’s love of this novel may serve either as a recommendation or a damnation; for me it was neither, as I viewed the thing through its own prism.

Perfume is one of those books that sticks with you, whether you want them to or not. There can be no doubt that Süskind’s descriptive powers are second to none, and that the character he created and the tale he crafted affects one for their sheer detail if nothing more. Paris under the kings comes alive, Grenouille himself virtually walks off the pages and the scents he creates virtually waft around the reader as he takes it all in. And the murders…the murders of all of those young girls strike at one’s heart, so much so that you wish you could reach into the page and throttle Grenouille before he can harm anyone else. I guess I can see how Cobain was inspired by this dark work, but as to why he carried a copy with him everywhere always escapes me – then again, I’m not a drug-addled manic depressive with black thoughts.

“Byzantium”, by Stephen Lawhead

 

645 pages, Zondervan, ISBN-13: 978-0061092961

Stephen Lawhead’s Byzantium tells the tale of Aidan, a 10^th Century Irish monk sent to take the Book of Kells to the Byzantine Emperor in Constantinople. During his quest he becomes separated from his fellow pilgrims and undergoes a variety of exotic adventures, from being captured and enslaved by Vikings, to engaging in political intrigue at the court of the Byzantine Empire and enslavement (again) in the caliph’s mines. Throughout it all his faith in God and Man are tested, and whether or not he comes to the end of his journey a better, bigger man – well, you’ll just have to find out, wontcha?

Byzantium is one of those books that, while I read it lo, many moons ago, has stayed with me ever since. The tense situations Aidan are thrown into time and again are well drawn and fairly exciting, especially the sea battle towards the end of the book, a battle that hums with energy and tension. Throughout each event, Aidan must rely on his wits and various abilities to stay alive and hope to complete the mission he set out on. Lawhead certainly has the ability to create intriguing set pieces, whether in a Danish festhall, an Arab palace, or the city of Constantinople itself. An excellent piece of historical fiction.

But there is more to it than that, for Byzantium is also a tale of a Christian man whose faith is tested time and again. As Aidan is tossed upon the seas of faith, his trust in God is likewise tossed about, and as he witnesses Man’s inhumanity towards Man, that faith becomes ever-more frayed until – to repeat myself, you’ll just have to find out, wontcha? It is to Lawhead’s credit that his writing never turns into preaching, and that his message is delivered with the subtlety of a brushstroke rather than of a sledgehammer. And Aidan’s encounter at the end of the book with the Viking who enslaved him at the beginning…there is no finer example of a Christian apologia in popular fiction.

So Byzantium is great historical fiction with a subtle Christian message that is all the more powerful for being so. It is also great entertainment that kept me engrossed the whole time I was reading it, a rare trifecta of literary skill that Lawhead should be applauded for.