Day 8 of the trip was a Saturday; Gulf War II had been in progress for
a day and half. We went off the complex to meet with the operators of
Team D, and then had lunch at the complex cafeteria (pepper steak and
chips). After that we visited the Australian War Memorial.

The War Memorial is an incredible place. It is, at one and the same
time, a memorial to all Australian soldiers who died in war and a museum
of military history.

The upper level is built like a shrine. You go up the steps, through
glass doors, a lobby, and more glass doors, and you’re in a courtyard.
At the far end is a chamber with a dome; if you go inside, you find
yourself in a darkened room with stained glass windows; the Tomb of the
Unknown Soldier is at your feet. On either side of the courtyard, raised
above the floor, are two long galleries containing floor to ceiling metal
plaques. On the plaques you’ll find the names of the Australian war
dead, from Kitchener’s march on Khartoum to rescue “Chinese” Gordon
up to the war just before the current one. Many
of the names will have red flowers tucked in beside them. On the outside
of the galleries, visible from the courtyard, are the names of the places
Aussies have fought. Many were unfamiliar to me; others, like Gallipoli,
are known to everyone.

It was deeply moved the first time I was hear, in 1999; I was even more
affected this time, knowing that people might be dying in Iraq as I stood
there. Now, of course, I know that the casualty figures for both
soldiers and civilians have been unbelievably low–God be praised.

After visiting the memorial, we went downstairs to the museum, which is
simply enormous. It would take two or three days to do it justice. And
the tone is perfectly set. The War Memorial doesn’t glorify war; the
aches and pains and blood and guts of warfare are clearly documented.
The War Memorial doesn’t trivialize the reasons for war, either; the wars
for which Australians have fought and died are not dismissed simply as
the result of evil warmongers and arms merchants. And finally, the War
Memorial respects her own, the soldiers who fought. Their sacrifices are
recognized, but their accomplishments are celebrated.

The Australian War Memorial is unique; the United States has nothing
comparable.

Somewhere, which I cannot for the life of me recall, I read that Tony
Blair presented Bill Clinton with a copy of this book on a visit to the
States. I hadn’t read the book at the time and thought it a rather
strange gift. Both men are highly intelligent although from what I
recall, Bill wasn’t doing much recreational, um, reading in the White
House. Anyway, I bought it on the strength of my past readings of
Trollope and a faint, very faint, desire to know what it was that Mr.
Blair had in mind.

What he had in mind was a warning to Bill about what happens when you
build your house on shifting sands using wormy wood.

Augustus Melmotte is a wealthy man. Everyone says so, therefore it must
be true. Everyone flocks to his presence though they are offended by his
vulgar, coarse manner and his total lack of breeding, family, or class.
His wife is an ugly, unfashionably dressed woman who lingers in the
background of society, put up with by the wives of the gentlemen who need
the Melmotte wealth. His daughter is chattel to be married off for the
reflected consequence of the title her future husband can bring, in
exchange, of course, for a substantial dowry and marriage settlement. He
has no friends, only business partners. He has absolutely nothing of
worth except what money can buy.

Lady Carbury is the widow of an abusive husband reduced to writing
extremely bad romantic novels to support her daughter and horrid,
dissipated son. Felix Carbury lives off his mother having wasted his
inheritance on gambling, horses and drink, caring nothing for her or his
sister except that they leave him alone and provide him with cash to
gamble with. His haunt is a club called the Beargarden where he spends
his time reveling the night away. However, he is persuaded by his mother
to court Melmotte’s daughter, Marie, for her money in the hopes that he
can find his way clear of the crushing debts he has accrued. Lady Carbury
cares nothing for his happiness except that he should have money enough
to support himself.

Paul Montague, in love with Lady Carbury’s daughter, Hetta, has invested
unwisely in a land scheme in San Francisco. His uncle and partner sells
his shares in the venture to a man named Fisker who comes up with the
idea of creating a paper company supposedly to finance a railroad from
Salt Lake City to Mexico City. Augustus Melmotte is named the London
Director and is given control of the company and Paul, on the Board but
having no shares to sell, is drawn into the whole fraudulent scheme, not
knowing how to get out.

That is a brief outline of the novel’s intersecting plots. Around this
are other characters who gather around Melmotte, feeding his ego and
losing their money in bad business decisions. I disliked just about
everyone in the book, even the stodgy Roger Carbury who is supposed to
represent the “good” gentlemen of England in the book. None of the women
in the book were in the least sympathetic. They were either self-
centered, egotistical predators or mindless, spineless victims.

Despite that, the book was fascinating. I think it was the sense that all
this was going to come to a head, that it couldn’t go on. And the crash
was going to be horrible. And knowing people were going to be hurt, I
couldn’t look away.

Kind of like the same feeling I felt during the Bill and Monica thing.
Disgusted, angry and fascinated at the same time.

In my next lifetime, I am going to be independently wealthy. I will be
able to skip the annoying requirement of going to work when what I really
want to do is Finish My Book. This one almost, though not quite, caused
me to take a personal day. Then, I also will be able to have a maid and
cook to take care of the annoying chores I have to do when what I really
want to do is Finish My Book. Life will be grand.

In reality, life would be pointless and reading would not be nearly as
precious as when I carve out the time to do it.

This novel I carved time for. It totally captivated my imagination. I
thought about it driving, doing dishes, cooking and waiting to fall
asleep. I had a hard time putting it down. That NEVER happens anymore.
The plot is fairly simple. A man and a woman are walking along a river,
separately mulling over their marriage and divorce, when a young man
attempts to drown himself. The man jumps in and drags the kid out, saving
his life. The same man, a child psychologist, did an assessment 13 years
before on a 10 year old boy who was alleged to have murdered an old
woman. He finds that, in fact, the child understands death, the
permanency of death, and right and wrong. The child is sent to prison,
for life. The young man who attempted to drown himself is the child he
had sent to prison.

Their meeting causes the psychologist to rethink his previous assessment,
revisit the places the child has been kept and the people he has been
with in the prison system and to finally make peace with himself that he
made the correct judgment the first time around. It is an intense
internal journey into himself and the mind of a very sick child, now a
very sick adult. The writing is bare and crisp, the characters are fully
developed and not overworked, and the settings are somehow fully dressed
with a minimum of description. In my mind, I know exactly what these
people look like, what the houses they live in look like and how they
sound when they speak. Except for one memorable and hysterically funny
scene, the novel is somber in tone but never mawkish or grim. Even near
the end, when you have seen how twisted the young man has become, there
is still hope for him. And I liked him, almost against my wishes. I want
to dislike him as a twisted, manipulative killer, badly. But I don’t.

Very interesting stuff. I had read Barker’s “Regeneration” trilogy and
remembered how completely involved with it I became. It’s nice to know
her skill continues. I look forward to reading more of her work.

This tale was included in the same volume as Bowman’s
The Ascent of Rum Doodle; and I’m glad to say that it’s
altogether more fun. Binder, the narrator of the first book, is invited
to the home of a friend who has become convinced that all animals are as
intelligent as people. Somehow he finds himself bankrolling an ocean raft
expedition in search of a species of talking fish. With him go his
friend, several other men, a frog named Darwin, and an oyster named
Neptune.

As with the previous book, The Cruise of the Talking Fish
isn’t to be taken seriously, but to Bowman’s credit it improves upon that
book in two ways. First, the plot is considerably more screwball;
second, the characters take everything with great seriousness. Good
farce is like a souffle, and if those involved treat it lightly it falls.

The Ascent of Rum Doodle was a pleasant diversion during a
business trip; but The Cruise of the Talking Fish is actually
worth seeking out.

This is another book I found at the bookstore in the Kingston
neighborhood of Canberra. As with The Overloaded Ark it was
the title that caught my eye; and opening to page 100, I found this:

All this interfered with the rhythm that is so essential to climbing at
high altitudes. I decided to forget everything else and concentrate on
the rhythm. I devised a little rhyme to keep step with my feet:

Organ grinders, kings and queens,
Call for Binder’s Butter Beans.
Three times daily, knave and noodle,
Eat them gaily on Rum Doodle.

This went round and round in my brain all day, and made such a nuisance
of itself that it only added to my worries.

That certainly sounded promising; further, the blurb compared it to
Three Men in a Boat, which is a delight. “A humorous account
of a mountain climbing expedition,” I thought. “Why not?” And so I
bought it.

When I actually sat down to read it, I found that the comparison with
Three Men in a Boat was a tad strained.
Jerome K. Jerome’s tale of boating on the Thames is indeed
humorous, but in the vein of Mark Twain’s non-fiction.
The details are exaggerated, but the basic story appears plausible.
The Ascent of Rum Doodle is anything but. Moreover, it’s of
that genre of humor in which the narrator pretends to be an idiot; much
of the fun comes from the narrator’s misinterpretation of actions and
events which are quite clear to the reader.

This isn’t a style of humor that lends itself to book length, but Bowman
somehow manages to pull it off. It’s not in Jerome’s or Twain’s league,
but I enjoyed it, and I laughed out loud more than once.

These books have been on the tables at the Large Chain Bookstore I go to
for quite some time. I’ve picked them up, browsed them, laid them down
etc. several times before taking the plunge and buying them. The premise
is so, well, different from most mysteries that are out there that I was
a little skeptical about them.

Boy, was I wrong. They reminded me of

and
and, oddly, some of Jan Karon‘s books, without the Christian
theme. I just felt happy when I read them. I like Mma Ramotswe. I’d love
to sit down and have a cup of bush tea with her. And tell her my problems.

The bookstore categorizes these as Mysteries, a title that is deceiving
and not particularly acute on their part. I suppose every book needs its
place on some shelf or another. The books are about Mma Ramotswe, who
sets up a detective service after the death of her father leaves her with
a legacy. She is widowed, independent and wants to help people. She hires
a secretary, because every detective agency must have one, and her
friend, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, gives her a typewriter. She puts out a sign
and she’s set for business. And she sends away for a manual on running a
private eye service which gives her much wise advice to supplement her
wealth of common sense and knowledge of the ways of people. Plus she has
read Agatha Christie.

The whole thing is tongue in cheek most of the time. Mma makes horribly
sexist statements about men that, coming from anyone else would offend,
but seem fairly reasonable flowing from her mouth. She has much to say
about women as well so she balances out nicely. Botswana is a major
character of the book; you can almost smell and feel it. National pride
is there and the horrific problem of AIDS is lightly addressed while not
being made the theme of the book. The theme of the book is Mma Ramotswe and her
wish to help. And her love of Botswana.

I haven’t enjoyed a series so much since I discovered Laurie King. If you
like light, wry detective stories go and get them. The next one comes out
this spring.

This is the second book in the Rhapsody trilogy, and has the
strengths and weaknesses of its predecessor. Which is to say, I liked
it; but I think it could be trimmed quite a bit.

I found this book in a bookstore in the Kingston neighborhood of
Canberra. I plucked it off of the shelf because of its title, and
submitted it to the Page 100 test, a trick I learned from one of
Donald Knuth’s books. Having read the cover blurb and
perhaps the table of contents, open the book to page 100, and
read that page. This is far more effective than reading the first few
pages; the author expected you to look at those pages first thing, and
probably spent lots of time polishing them. But there’s nothing to
distinguish page 100 of the book from any other in the author’s
mind–indeed, when he submits his manuscript, he probably doesn’t even
know what’s going to end up on that page–so it’s a more representative
sample of the quality of the book as a whole.

Now, The Overloaded Ark is a memoir of an animal collecting
trip to the Cameroons (as they were called in the 1950’s) by the owner of
an English zoo. It’s intended to be light and funny, though factual, and
for the most part it succeeds. Page 100, for example, concerns the
author’s attempts to teach the village boys that he won’t buy animals from them
unless they are in good condition. He finally shames them into it by
publically rewarding a little girl who brings him a bird she’s handled
gently and well, and then questioning their manhood. After that, he
says, he has no more difficulty.

And that sample is indeed representative, but not in the way the author
would have expected. Because what’s most interesting in this book isn’t
the depiction of African flora and fauna (though these are presented by a
loving and witty hand), or even the travails of collecting the animals
and keeping them alive for the return trip to England. Rather, it’s the
relationship between the author and the natives. They are dark-skinned;
he is the great white sahib. He calls them by name; they call him Masa.
They have villages dances; sometimes he deigns to adorn their dances with
his presence. He is erudite; they are ignorant, frequently knowing less
about certain animals than he does. He is masterful; they are
subservient.

And yet, he genuinely cares for his native employees, and takes care of
them in many ways; and they, for their part, seem genuinely honored by
his attention.

Quite frankly, it’s a PC person’s nightmare. And though I don’t try to
be politically correct, it nevertheless gave me much food for thought.

So it was an interesting book to read, as well as being a useful source
book should I ever wish to write anything about collecting animals. On
the other hand, it wasn’t quite the laugh riot I’d been hoping for.