I’ve just posted the September Issue of my book review page, Ex Libris Reviews. For those of you who aren’t familiar with it, it’s a monthly book review column; most of the reviews are posted first on this weblog, but there’s always something new as well.

I picked this book up in a used bookstore in Washburn, WI, a very small town
on the shore of Lake Superior just south of Bayfield. The year-round
population can’t be more than 500 but when we drove by and I spotted it, the
store looked so interesting we had to stop. And it was nearly the best used
bookstore I have been in for ages. They had everything from lit crit to
Roman history to regional stuff to a dynamite sci-fi section that my son
mined with glee. And they had a coffee shop attached so I could sip an iced
French roast coffee while browsing. What more could a girl ask for?

Anyway, I read the entire Lord Peter Wimsey series some years ago before the
kids went to school and I had two hours of naptime every single afternoon to
do with as I pleased. This one stuck with me as the best of the lot and, as
I recall, seemed to me more a feminist tract than a serious murder mystery.
When I saw it on the shelf I wondered whether my perception of it had
changed with the passing of time and my ever changing taste in books.

Essentially, it still strikes me as feminist in tone, though having recently
read Sayers’ essay on education and having read more about her classical
studies and work, I can see the emphasis on education and serious scholarly
work for women that she puts into the book. Originally I thought it just a
vehicle for her ideas about women and work. Now I see the emphasis on higher
education for women and allowing women the same respect for academic
achievement that is afforded to men. All of this is very dated, of course.
She was writing preWWII when college and work for women was a choice of the
upper class only and not taken more seriously than a way to bag a well
educated husband. It’s the same argument that Virginia Woolf makes in
A Room of One’s Own, another book I read about the same time.

The plot is quite simple on the surface. Harriet Vane has gone down to
Oxford for a reunion of graduates called a “Gaudy Night.” She has just
returned from a tour of the continent designed to give her some breathing
space from Wimsey’s attentions and allow her to come to some decisions. There
she meets old classmates, some who have married and given up intellectual
life and some who have gone on in their studies and missed marriage and
kids. On her way out, she finds a piece of hate mail tucked into her gown
sleeve and, thinking it the work of some belligerent undergrad, burns it and
travels back to London–only to be called back to Oxford when the
notes continue with other members of the college along with obscene graffiti
on the bathroom walls and burning gowns in the commons. The head of the
college wants it stopped with a minimum of fuss and, more importantly,
publicity so she calls on Harriet as a detective fiction writer to help them
out. She comes to Oxford under the pretense of doing research on Sheridan Le
Fanu and quietly tries to figure out who is doing it.

To a point, I really enjoyed the book. The mystery aspects of it were well
done. Although half way thru the book, I suddenly remembered the ending, I
still could follow the laying out of clues and the setting up of the plot
with enjoyment. The Oxford setting was interesting also since I now have a
dear friend who attended Oxford in the 50’s and has told me stories about
women in the academic setting there. What bugged me this time is that having
set the book up as feminist in tone, she cops out at the end and brings Wimsey
in to save the day. Ok, he IS the detective in the series and I have to
admit, I found him a compelling suitor for Harriet. I kept wanting to tell
her to quit thinking so much and just give him a kiss, you twit. On the
other hand, to be consistent, Wimsey shouldn’t have come into it until
Harriet had the whole thing figured out. After I finished it and thought
about it a bit, I was disappointed in Sayers for doing that.

However, I wasn’t disappointed enough to bypass the bookstore on the way
home rather than stopping and picking up some more in the series. I have to
find out if she marries him or not.

Last week I got my little boys a little CD player, and made them CDs of some of the music they really like. Their first three requests?

• The Fury of the Aquabats, by the Aquabats. Silly ska music–I’m especially fond of the songs “Attacked by Snakes” and “Cat with Two Heads”.
• The Weavers at Carnegie Hall, by the Weavers. Classic folk revival stuff–an outstanding album, if you’ve never heard it. I grew up listening to the Limeliters and Harry Belafonte, but we never had any Weavers albums in the house; I figure my parents didn’t like their politics. (Mr. Belafonte’s politics must have been either less strident or less visible in those days.)
• The Yellow Submarine Soundtrack Album, by the Beatles. Not the original Yellow Submarine, but the re-release of a few years ago, with all the tunes from the movie.

Clearly we’re doing something right.

Chapter 30 and Chapter 31 of my novel Through Darkest Zymurgia! are now available for your delectation at Once-Told Tales.

Courtesy of Arts and Letters Daily, I found this review of a mainstream novel I’d never heard of by an author I’ve never heard of. The review begins,

Man goes to 30th college reunion. Remembers girl who got away. Feels sad. The end.

You just got five hours of your life back.

She then goes on to lament that in this book, nothing much happens–in short, there’s no story:

Pretty sentences, all dressed up with nowhere to go. That’s what I think is ailing fiction, has been ailing fiction for some time. I get no points for noticing. Better minds than mine have complained.

She mentions some other egregious examples (I didn’t recognize them, either), and then says:

Here’s what I do want points for: These are not novels. They are essays, maybe even newspaper columns, sometimes glorified diary entries, stretched out to unconscionable length and price.

How about a novel dressed up in novel form, huh? With characters who face conflicts (you remember those from ninth grade: Man vs. Nature, Man vs. Man, etc.), who act, suffer and grow. I could really sink my teeth into one of those right about now.

Fascinating. I read books like this all the time. Granted, you don’t generally find them on the Literary Fiction shelves….

So yesterday, Jane was driving up the street from Trader Joe’s when the left-side cargo door of her minivan slid open. That’s the door that little Anne’s car seat is by. Jane stopped the car, closed the door (wondering why on earth it had popped open) and drove slowly home.

When she opened the cargo door to take Anne out, she discovered that the top of the door had come out of its track; once opened, the door hung drunkenly off of the side the van in the most remarkable way. So she called me, and I came home (picking up our two boys along the way), forced the door closed again (I was completely unable to get the little wheel back in its track), and we all went off (in two vehicles) to drop the van off at the dealership to get fixed.

While I was talking to Joe the service guy about the door (I don’t think he’d ever seen such a thing), I asked him to look into something else–the front of the van had sometimes begun to shake a little bit when I put on the brakes.

It turns out that the brake pads were not just worn; they were gone altogether.
The rotors were getting thrashed. And so we need a really expensive brake job.

And we found out about it before the brakes failed completely because the left-side cargo door popped mysteriously out of its track and we had to take it to the dealer.

God is good.

Sigh.

I finished reading this aloud to David the other night. While it wasn’t
precisely a favorite of mine as a kid, I happily checked it out of the library on
any number of occasions, and so several months ago I bought in eager
anticipation of a magical, joyful romp.

Sigh.

I remembered James as brave, inventive, persevering. I remembered Old Green
Grasshopper as kindly and wise. I have all kinds of memories of this
book which, alas, don’t seem to match the reality.

In a book of essays
I’ll be reviewing some time in the next few days, C.S. Lewis
talks about reading more in a book than is really there–about filling in
the gaps with one’s imagination and bringing an otherwise dull book to
life, generally without noticing that you’re doing it. That seems an apt
description of what I must have done as a child.

To be fair, a good reader of fiction will always do this; it’s his job,
after all. But some books lend themselves to it more than others, and
some in their richness bring forth a corresponding richness from the
reader’s mind–a richness that sometimes goes on and on long after one
has finished the book. (I saw a web site the other day that describes the
various fonts available for typesetting Tolkien’s Elvish languages.)

But sometimes a young and enthusiastic and imaginative reader can bring
forth wonders from a book that’s really rather ordinary and prosaic. And
while James and the Giant Peach isn’t that bad, it certainly
lacks the charm I remember. For example, James certainly manages to come
up with a solution for every problem the Peach and its passengers
encounter, but he hasn’t much personality. Old Green Grasshopper plays
a mean fiddle, and he’s certainly a nice enough giant bug, but he fails
to do anything that strikes me as wise or particularly kindly. I think
I must have endowed him with my grandfather’s virtues simply because
he was old.

In fact, the only bit that still worked for me was near the very
beginning, when the strange little man gives James the brown bag of
magic thingies.

Having just turned forty, I have to ask myself, “Is it my fault?
Have I turned into an old fuddy-duddy? Have I become incapable of
appreciating good children’s books?” And I don’t think that’s the
case, given that I’ve really enjoyed most of the books I’ve read to
David over the last couple of years. And while David listened attentively each night, he wasn’t particularly excited by the book either.

An interesting sidelight–Jane asked David today which of the many
chapter books I’ve read him over the last year did he like best. I was
surprised (and pleased) to find that it was the very first one–
The Hobbit.

I read this while spending the week in a cabin in the northern woods of
Wisconsin. Just before leaving I finished the first book in the series
(The Thirty Nine Steps) and, luckily, had the foresight to
buzz over to the bookstore to pick this one up. It was all they had by
Buchan so I consider myself lucky, I guess.

This is a spy thriller published in 1916. Richard Hannay is recovering from
wounds he received in action on the front when he gets a telegram from a
high placed person in the Foreign Office. A spy sent into the Mid East has
returned bullet-ridden and on the verge of death. Three mysterious words are
scribbled on a sheet of paper he holds and are thought to hold the key to
the German plan to dominate the area. A revival of Islam in its
fundamentalist form is also brewing in the area and could possibly unite the
area against the Allied forces. Richard Hannay is asked to go into the area
and find out what the words mean. He’s given a couple of fellow spies to
work with as well. Blenkiron is an American with an uncanny ability to toady
up to anyone and, being American and officially neutral at this point in the
war, can get into the Germans good graces. Sandy, a young aristocrat who had
spent time before the war wandering the area and learning all the languages,
making friends and generally gaining a pile of useful contacts will help
with the locals. They meet and decide to split up until they can meet on the
appointed day in Constantinople. And that’s when all the real action begins.

From the perspective of 2003 the book has some problems. The unqualified
racism is a little appalling. Normally, I can shunt aside my modern
sensibilities and get on with the story but it was just a tad more than I am
comfortable with, even when reading a story written nearly 100 years ago.
And then, it was written so long ago so when compared to the modern thriller
with its over-dependence on guns and gizmos it moved just a little slowly
at times.

However, with that said, I enjoyed it. There were a couple scenes that had
me mentally on the edge of my seat and the end was pretty dramatic in the
telling. The bad guys were really, really bad and the Hannay just escapes by
his wits and a little luck. I enjoyed it enough to hunt for the rest of the
books in the series Buchan wrote about Hannay.

I’ve just changed the link colors for this blog; the old colors were hard to read. The new ones are much easier to read, but they seem a tad strident. Hmmm.

Leave a comment if you’ve got an opinion….

Update: Things evolve rapidly–see the comments, if you’re interested in the changes I’ve made.

There’s a neat group blog called The Thinklings which concerns itself mostly with Christian theology. And just today I found there a post defending C.S. Lewis against charges of being a Force For Evil (the Thinklings acquit Lewis of all charges, by the way, most usually in his own words).

Now, long-time readers of my site might think that this is yet another attack on Lewis by the likes of author Phillip Pullman, angry because Lewis’ books are chock full of–wait for it–Christianity. But no! Apparently certain extreme Christian fundamentalists have decided that Lewis has been leading Christians astray for over half-a-century: that he is, in fact, a Servant of Satan.

I won’t detail the charges they bring against Lewis; if you’re interested, you can go look at the Thinklings post I link to above, and then on to the page making the charges. And I won’t repeat the defense, either; the Thinklings demolish each accusation quite handily.

What really annoys me is the principle of the thing. Lewis’ accusers are taking the position that anyone who diverges in the slightest jot from their brand of theology is a heretic, not to be trusted in any way. Such a person is a Tool of Satan. (Actually, yes, they do use those words.) And it is this that I really want to speak to.

I am an orthodox Christian. By that I mean that I hold fast to the traditional teachings of the Church from ages past, as expressed in the Nicene Creed. That is, the Triune God, the Son of God’s birth, death, and resurrection, and all the rest of it. I believe these things to be absolutely true. I believe that because of Christ’s sacrifice that my sins are forgiven, and that because of his resurrection I shall join him in Heaven when I die. I believe quite a few other things as well that I won’t go into now.

But please note–my salvation is not dependent on being 100% correct about these things. My salvation is the gift of a person–Christ my savior–not the result of being really, really sharp about theology. And this is a good thing, because it’s not possible for me to be 100% correct–“now we see through a glass, darkly.” If theological exactitude were the requirement, none of us would make it.

And this is the mistake that Lewis’ accusers are making. They are judging Lewis not by the fruit of his life and work, but by a standard which they can never themselves meet. That they are doing so on the shoddiest of evidence is the least of it.