Collected Miscellany

It seems an appropriate coincidence that on Veteran’s Day I should be reviewing a book on war. That’s what Carl Melcher Goes To Vietnam is about. It is not a philosophical treatise nor a rambling historical survey, but instead a simple story about a young man caught up in war.

Carl Melcher straddles the line between fiction and autobiography. The author, Paul Clayton, clearly fictionalized his own experiences in writing this novel and the work, in e-book format, was nominated for the 2001 Frankfurt e-Book Award as non-fiction. But in fictionalizing the story Clayton has in many ways taken it out of time and place. Instead of the story of one particular person in one particular war it becomes a story about coming of age and about the absurdities of war.

The basic plot line is simple. Carl flunks out of college, gets drafted, and sent to Vietnam. Once there he finds himself in a weird no mans land between full out war and all the death and destruction than entails and the safety of home. The enemy is out there, and on occasion attacks “the hill” where Carl is stationed, but he also seems just beyond Carl’s reach. Out in the jungle far from action, and where everything is shielded by the lush vegetation, Carl wonders if the whole things isn’t a giant fake training exercise. It is only when the war intrudes more deeply, and when Carl’s buddies are killed, that he is forced to deal with the ugly reality.

Continue reading →

Here is a question for the group: Is there a difference between a “book” blogger and a “literary” blogger. What if one likes to read and enjoys a general discussion of books but has no formal training or education (or even a self taught familiarity) with literary culture. How does a blog from this perspective differ from one written by a English major or MFA grad?

There is likely no surprise why I raise this question (and I probably have raised it before): it seems to apply to me. I am an avid reader and book addict but only had one literature class in all my years in college (I have a Masters in History). I don’t tend to read the most current books, nor have I read the “hot” books of the last few years. I am not plugged into a literary scene where I live nor do I follow one via the Internet.

The reason this has relevance is that in some important way blogging is about community. It is about communication. Recently I have begun to realize that this blog seems to lack a clear community. I am not really a part of the lit blog community – even though many of them have graciously linked to me – for a number of reasons. Politics has become a clear difference in this election year, but the title of this post is another difference. I really don’t share the interests or background of the lit blog community. Because of this I don’t feel like I am having a conversation or part of a larger discussion. It feels like I am dumping half-assed opinions into the Google stream; like I am some sort of late night AM radio DJ talking and talking but with no one really listening.

So, what does this all mean? Well, the original question still interests me. Do you think there is an important difference between people who love books and people who love literature? Are the resulting blogs very different things?

In addition to positing questions, I am also venting my own feelings. Obviously I am feeling some angst about what this blog is all about and whether I think it is worth anything. This is not just insecurity about my “worth” as a blogger nor is a complaint about my site traffic. It is more about risk reward, about whether I am wisely investing my time and energy. I have been milling some things over in my head lately and will have more to share on that front soon. For now I am going to continue as a “book blog” whatever that means.

Since I seem to have caused a bit of a controversy by my intemperate comments below (see the comment section of the post directly below), perhaps I should return to safer ground and cover a literary topic. I was looking through a book I never fail to find fascinating, Fighting Words: Writers Lambast Other Writers, and I was amazed at the vitriol aimed at Jane Austen. Here for example is Ralph Waldo Emerson:

I am at a loss to understand why people hold Miss Austen’s novels at so high a rate, which seems to me vulgar in tone, sterile in artistic invention, imprisoned in their wretched conventions of English society, without genius, wit, or knowledge of the world. Never was life so pinched and narrow. The one problem in the mind of the writer is . . . marriageableness . . . Suicide is more respectable.

Ouch! That is a rather scathing critique. Not to be outdone, Mark Twain also weighs in:

Jane Austen’s books, too, are absent from this library. Just that one omission alone would make a fairly good library out of a library that hadn’t a book in it.

Now we see where Twain’s reputation come from! But Nabokov sees Twain’s insult and raises him by insulting the whole gender:

I dislike Jane, and I am prejudiced, in fact, against all women writers. They are in another class. Could never see anything in Pride and Prejudice.

Well. So, who should come to the rescue? Edmund Wilson, writing in response to Nabokov’s letter quoted above, defends Miss Austen but in a unique way:

You are mistaken about Jane Austin. I think you ought to read Mansfield Park. Her greatness is due precisely to the fact that her attitude toward her work is like that of a man, that is, of an artist, and quite unlike that of the typical women novelist, who exploits her feminine day dreams . . . She is, in my opinion, one of the half dozen greatest English writers.

So, any theories as to the dislike of Jane Austen? Sexism, ego, style differences?

My initial reaction to the despair of Kerry supporting lit bloggers was, I confess, a wry smile. There was a tinge of sadness that they were so upset, but I admit I felt a certain satisfaction that President Bush would torment them for four more years. After reading a bit more of their opinions, however, I began to feel insulted. It is obvious that many on the left assume that Bush supporters are ignorant, intolerant, homophobic, theocrats out to destroy all that these elite cosmopolitans hold dear. They are so angry and disgruntled that many of them are seriously considering leaving the country. They lashed out at America for being so stupid and wondered how they could go on.

At one point I was planning on writing a long rant on just how condescending, intolerant, out-of-touch, and emotional these folks have become. But I decided that would accomplish little. Bloggers who reacted in this manner really could care less what I think and there are few on either side of this divide whose opinion or attitude would be changed by any rant I might offer. So instead, let me offer two books that might serve to cheer up anyone out there who needs it.

The first is a collection of comic strips featuring the Bloom County character Opus. Opus: 25 years of His Sunday Best by Berkeley Breathed is a interesting trip down memory lane with one of the oddest comic characters in the history of the genre. Who would have thought that a “turnip shaped” penguin with a weakness for bad television and Jane Pauley would have entertained comic readers for so many years.

Continue reading →

File this under the better late than never category of books released in August not read until October. The Wake-Up is published by Pantheon, an imprint of Random House; Sonny Mehta is the editor and Sonny was on the day he signed Robert Ferrigno.

The Wake-Up tells the story of Frank Thorpe, an ex-Army ranger who needs a vacation. Frank was employed by ‘the shop’ a covert wing of US intelligence that takes an active interest in bad guys and gets up in their faces about it. Frank’s in LAX waiting for a flight to Miami when a hard charger collides with a kid sellling candy on the concourse; Frank witnesses the incident and it pisses him off. He follows the businessman outside where a blonde in a Porsche Carrera is providing airport duty. Frank gets a partial plate number and decides the business man needs a ‘wake-up,’ shop parlance for an attitude adjustment.

What angers Frank is the businessman’s utter disregard for the Latino boy he flattened with his briefcase; Frank’s got other problems. An assassin named The Engineer has caused the death of a woman that Frank was in love with; The Engineer has the same access and training Frank does, plus a three hundred pound gofer named Gregor.

The hard charger is an art dealer in a tony suburb of LA; he’s peddled a piece of pre-Columbian art to Clark and Missy, social climbers who own a string of surfer shops around the area. Frank attends a party thrown by Missy and plants his wake-up; maybe the art is just a copy. Maybe the hard charger ripped Missy off. Complications ensue as unintended consequences present themselves; the art dealer’s wife is a decent person and Missy isn’t your average suburbanite on the make. She’s dangerous and now she’s mad.

The balance of the novel follows Frank as he tries to balance the scales of immediate justice for the deserving while pursuing his inevitable resolution with The Engineer. Robert Ferrigno doesn’t miss a beat as his story unfolds; the stylish prose underscores the novel’s theme that while no good deed occurs in a vacuum, his characters self-sorts through small acts of courage or craven self-interest, depending on which side of the good and evil chasm they stand on. Frank’s instinct for understanding that distinction drives the plot; a strong moral compass guides Frank even through the mayhem his wake-up engenders.

The Wake-Up grabs you from the opening page, puts you in Frank’s world and holds you there until the story ends; it’s one of the best books I’ve read this year. Go out and buy it.

File this under the better late than never category of books released in August not read until October. The Wake-Up is published by Pantheon, an imprint of Random House; Sonny Mehta is the editor and Sonny was on the day he signed Robert Ferrigno.

The Wake-Up tells the story of Frank Thorpe, an ex-Army ranger who needs a vacation. Frank was employed by ‘the shop’ a covert wing of US intelligence that takes an active interest in bad guys and gets up in their faces about it. Frank’s in LAX waiting for a flight to Miami when a hard charger collides with a kid sellling candy on the concourse; Frank witnesses the incident and it pisses him off. He follows the businessman outside where a blonde in a Porsche Carrera is providing airport duty. Frank gets a partial plate number and decides the business man needs a ‘wake-up,’ shop parlance for an attitude adjustment.

What angers Frank is the businessman’s utter disregard for the Latino boy he flattened with his briefcase; Frank’s got other problems. An assassin named The Engineer has caused the death of a woman that Frank was in love with; The Engineer has the same access and training Frank does, plus a three hundred pound gofer named Gregor.

The hard charger is an art dealer in a tony suburb of LA; he’s peddled a piece of pre-Columbian art to Clark and Missy, social climbers who own a string of surfer shops around the area. Frank attends a party thrown by Missy and plants his wake-up; maybe the art is just a copy. Maybe the hard charger ripped Missy off. Complications ensue as unintended consequences present themselves; the art dealer’s wife is a decent person and Missy isn’t your average suburbanite on the make. She’s dangerous and now she’s mad.

The balance of the novel follows Frank as he tries to balance the scales of immediate justice for the deserving while pursuing his inevitable resolution with The Engineer. Robert Ferrigno doesn’t miss a beat as his story unfolds; the stylish prose underscores the novel’s theme that while no good deed occurs in a vacuum, his characters self-sorts through small acts of courage or craven self-interest, depending on which side of the good and evil chasm they stand on. Frank’s instinct for understanding that distinction drives the plot; a strong moral compass guides Frank even through the mayhem his wake-up engenders.

The Wake-Up grabs you from the opening page, puts you in Frank’s world and holds you there until the story ends; it’s one of the best books I’ve read this year. Go out and buy it.