The Great Purge has begun. Moving my study has meant fitting all
of our books into less space, which practically speaking means purging
the collection of those books we no longer want or need. This is
generally a traumatic experience–at least, it was the last time I did
it–but time and the presence of three children have changed many things,
and perhaps it will be easier this time.

In any event, I decided that I wanted to keep a list of the books I was
getting rid of, so that in some future time when I’m looking for them I
need not remain in doubt over why I can’t find them on the shelves. And
given that, I thought it would be fun to list them here, with the reasons
why I’m getting rid of them. So here it is, more or less a collection of
mini-reviews of books I not only didn’t read in the last month, but may
have never succeeded in reading ever:

Books I No Longer Want

The Great Ideas, by Mortimer J. Adler. This is an
amazing book, a tome among tomes, the product of a truly frightening
amount of scholarship and synthesis. I was introduced to it (truly, this
is a book that needs an introduction; only the very bold would dare
presume to strike up an acquaintance with it without one) by my friend
Rick Saenz, a man whose opinions I respect. Alas, when I first attempted
to make use of the book to research one of the “Great Ideas”, I found
that the book is an outstanding soporific, either as reading material or
(due it its weight) as a blunt instrument. I think I’ll take my ideas a
little less highly refined in future.

Windows Millenium: The Missing Manual by David Pogue. I
bought this when I got my present laptop with Windows ME pre-installed.
Windows ME doesn’t come with much of a manual, and I thought this might
be helpful. Perhaps it was; I no longer recall. What I do know is that
I’ve not had any reason to refer to it in the last two years.

Philosophical Explanations, by Robert Nozick.
Nozick was, so I’m given to understand, one of the great philosophers of
our time. I first heard of him when he died some time ago, and was inspired by
an article about him to send away for this book. The article described
it as playful, whimsical, interesting, a book not just for professional
philosophers but for any thinking person. Indeed, one of the blurbs on
the back cover says, “It is important for you, whoever you are, to
read…this book.” I have no idea what the ellipsis in the previous
sentence represents, but I suspect that the full sentence was something like the
following: “It is important for you, whoever you are, to read books of
all kinds, except for maybe this book.

To be fair, I got through maybe a hundred pages of this difficult and
abstruse book, and on that evidence I must say that Nozick was
able to write with clarity and humor about difficult metaphysical
problems, with no detail lost, no matter how small. But following him
through the logic was exhausting, and I finally was forced to confess
that I had far less interest in the questions he was addressing than he
did.

Our Southern Highlanders, by Horace Kephart. I
picked up this book six or seven years ago when a good friend of ours
(now, alas, deceased) was doing a Great Purge of her own. Since then
I’ve looked at it on the shelf any number of times without the slightest
temptation to open it and read its contents.

XML Elements of Style, by Simon St. Laurent. XML
is something every technogeek needs to be familiar with these days; I’ve
tried to make use of it several times, only to founder on the same
rock–what I’ve been doing instead of XML has been easier and more
convenient for me. In any event, this book didn’t add notably to my
understanding.

Politics in the Ancient World, by M.I. Finley.
Cambridge University Press has an imprint called “Canto”, which they use
for books they think might reach a wider audience. I’ve bought quite a
few of them now, and some of them are very good. This one, however, was
too dry for words. As a history buff and as a sometimes-aspiring author,
I thought a discussion of how the Greek city-states governed themselves
would be interesting, enlightening, and stimulating: good source material
for some future novel. And perhaps it could, in theory: but in practice
I was disappointed.

The Penguin Guide to Ancient Egypt, by W.J. Murname.
I got this after reading a spate of books set in Egypt
ancient and modern. I thought it might lend some perspective. In
practice, it sat on the shelf unregarded.

Undaunted Courage, by Stephen E. Ambrose. This
book details the Lewis and Clarke expedition, and was quite popular a few
years ago. I’ve read it. I’ve grasped the reasons for the expedition,
which Ambrose explains cogently; these remain in my mind. For the rest,
well….it was interesting when I read it, but I can’t picture myself
reading it again.

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, by
Marcus Rediker. This is another book from Cambridge
University Press’s “Canto” imprint, and another that I shall discard
without dismay. It’s a history of merchant seaman, pirates, and the
Anglo-American maritime world in the first have of the seventeenth
century, an area to which I was led by my interest in
Patrick O’Brian‘s sea stories. And reading the back cover, I
can see why it sounded interesting. And there was some interesting stuff
in it, but over the whole thing is cast the awful pall of Marxist
Scholarship. Unfortunately the reddish tinge obscured more
than it revealed. So long, Mr. Rediker.

The Naval War of 1812, by Theodore Roosevelt.
Here’s a book I do give up reluctantly, but only because I wish it were a
different book. As a young man, Roosevelt (yes, that Theodore Roosevelt)
discovered that all of the chief books about the War of 1812 were written
by the British, and were horribly biased. In response he wrote a fair,
balanced work, demolishing the bias of those who preceded him. It’s
apparently now considered “the” book on the subject by scholars on both
sides of the Atlantic. It is also astonishingly dry for a book about war
at sea. Sigh.

The Temple and the Lodge, by
Michael Baigent and Richard Leigh. I reviewed this a year or
so ago; you can find the review using the search box if you like. This
is a book that attempts to link the Knights Templar with the Masons. It
has some interesting things in it, but some of the statements strike me
as being so credulous, so filled with wishful thinking, that I’m at a
loss to know what part of it I can trust and what part I can’t.

The Penguin Who’s Who in the Ancient World, by
Betty Radice. Again, this is reference book I bought
thinking I might find it helpful. In the six or seven years since I
bought it, I’ve never referred to it.

One of the main themes of Pratchett’s Discworld books, especially the
earlier books, is the power of stories. On the Disc, the power of the
Law of Narrative Causality is nearly absolute. One noted victim was the
evil witch Black Aliss, who took to turning princes into gingerbread and
building houses out of frogs. She met her demise at the hands of a pair
of young children she was planning to have for supper. It’s dangerous to
get too cozy with stories.

In the present book, which follows directly after
Wyrd Sisters, Magrat Garlick inherits the fairy godmothership
for a young girl named Ella, who lives in the far off exotic city of
Genua. So happens Ella has two fairy godmothers, and the other one is
determined that Ella, though oppressed by two evil step-sisters, will
nevertheless wed the handsome prince and live happily ever after–no
matter how many lives she has to torque out of shape in the process.

With the godmother’s wand, Magrat inherits the injunction not to allow
Ella to marry the prince, and in no case to let Granny Weatherwax or
Nanny Ogg to help her with the situation. Naturally the older witches
join in (which was rather the idea of the prohibition), and the three
witches are off to “Foreign Parts”. What follows is a hugely
entertaining tale in which Pratchett rings the changes on just about every
fairy tale you can imagine. It also explains New Orleans cookery.

This book continues the tale of Sam Vimes, Carrot, and the rest of the
watch. As before there’s a plot to give Ankh-Morpork a king rather than
a Patrician–but this time the powers who would be behind the throne have
realized that Carrot, rightful heir though he may be, has no interest in
listening to them. Consequently, they are carefully researching
(and constructing a lineage) for a most unlikely fellow. Meanwhile,
Vimes and his men are trying to track down a fiendish killer–who just
might be a golem.

This isn’t one of Pratchett’s better books, though it’s nevertheless
entertaining; I especially liked the bits about the consequences of
painting coats of arms from live models.

Now this is an outstanding book.

I first read this, very reluctantly, when I was in third or fourth grade,
at my teacher’s suggestion. I went on to read it over and over, and then
eventually I forgot about it. And then the other day, when I was at the
bookstore looking for good books to read aloud to David at bedtime I
happened upon it. Renewing my acquaintance with it has been one of the
most pleasant aspects of the past couple of weeks.

Oh, and Dave liked it, too.

It’s January, 1849. Young Jack’s parents are dead; he and his two
sisters have been living in the old family home in Boston with Aunt
Arabella, and the butler, whose name is Praiseworthy. The family money
has run out, and in less than a year Aunt Arabella will have to sell the
house. Gold has been discovered in California, and Jack resolves to run
away to the gold fields, strike it rich, and return with his fortune to
save the family home. Praiseworthy discovers the scheme, of course–and
thinks it an excellent plan. As the book opens, Praiseworthy and Jack
are stowaways on the good ship Lady Wilma, en route to San
Francisco by way of Cape Horn.

That’s the premise; how they get to California and the gold fields, and
what happens after, is the story. I won’t spoil it by telling it all
here. I’ll just say that Fleischman is an outstanding story teller, and his
prose is a joy to read aloud. More than that, without any lecturing he
manages not only to tell Jack and Praiseworthy’s story, but also to let
us in on quite of bit of historical information about the Gold Rush, and
the gold camps, and how gold mining was done. I learned a lot of what I
know about the Gold Rush from this book, and while I’ve added to that
information in the years since, the book is still striking in its
accuracy. (For example–I’ve been to several of the gold towns Jack and
Praiseworthy visit.)

This is a kid’s book, sure. But if you’re planning a trip to
California’s Gold Country you could pick a worse introduction. And even
if you’re not, it makes a heck of a good yarn no matter how old you are.

This one picks up some time after the end of Guards, Guards.
Sam Vimes, still Captain of the Night Watch, is also engaged to marry
Lady Sybil Ramkin, dragon-fancier and one of the wealthiest people in
Ankh-Morpork. Carrot, watchman and rightful king of Ankh-Morpork, is now
a corporal, and has come to know the city very well. This is a
good thing, as the steady influx of trolls and dwarves to the city is
fueling an equally steady rise in ethnic violence. The Patrician, Lord
Vetinari, has responded by insisting that the Night Watch take on some
new recruits: a troll, a dwarf, and beautiful woman who’s also–but
that’s getting ahead of things.

One of the old writers of hardboiled detective novels–Raymond Chandler,
or maybe Dashiell Hammett–once said that when your plot is stuck, introduce a
man with a gun. And that’s what Pratchett has done here. There’s
exactly one gun on the Disc, and it’s in the hands of a man who thinks
that Ankh-Morpork needs a king again. Will Carrot play along? Therein
lies the tale.

Having just read about Sam Vimes’ earliest days in the watch in
Night Watch, I decided that I’d like to go back to the first
book Pratchett wrote about Sam Vimes and work my way forward. And that
brought me to Guards, Guards!.

When we first see him, Sam’s drunk in the gutter. There are two reasons for
that; one is that he’s normally about two drinks more sober than everyone
else, and needs a drink or two just to reach parity. The other is that
he’s a good copper at heart and there’s nothing of any value for
him to do but drink. When Lord Vetinari came to power he legalized
thievery–chartered an entire Thieves’ Guild in fact. The thieves are
allowed a certain amount of larceny every year, in return for which they
pledge to deal harshly with any unlicensed thieves. More than that, most
well-to-do citizens simply pay the Guild a small fee every year, for
which they are officially immune from thievery for the year.

So all-in-all, things have been pretty peaceful in Ankh-Morpork, and the Night
Watch has become nearly obsolete. Where once it had many watch houses,
now there’s only one, and that houses only three watchmen. Captain Sam
Vimes, Sergeant Fred Colon, and Corporal Nobby Nobbs.

But there are currents of change oozing down the River Ankh. Dwarves and
Trolls have been moving to the city in record numbers, along with
zombies, vampires, and werewolves. Inter-species violence is on the rise.
There will be rioting in the streets if something isn’t done.

And then there’s an ambitious fool with a plan to give Ankh-Morpork a
king again. It’s been almost three hundred years since King Lorenzo got
a well-deserved axe in the neck, but he had a son who escaped. What’s
more romantic, more proper, than the notion that the line of kings have
bred in hiding all these years, disguised in humble garb, only to come
save the city in its hour of need. All that’s necessary is to summon a
handy dragon to give the city something to be saved from.

And then, and then, there’s the Night Watch’s first new recruit in ages.
Corporal Carrot, the dwarf. At least, he thinks he’s a dwarf, although
he’s well over six feet tall. He was raised by dwarves; they found him
when he was a baby in the wreckage of a wagon destroyed by bandits. The
people with him were all dead. Hidden in the body of the wagon was a
sword. And on Carrot’s arm, there’s a birthmark in the shape of a
crown….

The tone here is entirely different than in Night Watch, which
as I’ve said is hysterically funny and dead serious at the same time.
Here Pratchett is simply having fun with the idea of the “City Guard”,
those poor sods (rather like the Red Shirts in Star Trek) who get called
out in every fantasy novel just so they can get killed. And, like many
of the Discworld books, Pratchett has a lot of fun with the idea of
“narrative causality”.

The Disc is a very magical place; it has to be,
just to exist. It doesn’t have much use for natural laws, but it does
have things it uses for natural laws, and one of them is narrative
causality–the fact that stories have power, and when a story is
happening, certain things just have to happen in a certain way. Thanks to
narrative causality, million-to-one shots can be trusted to come up nine
times out of ten….

This is Pratchett’s latest novel; as usual when a new Discworld book
comes out, I commenced to read it to Jane on the way home from the book
store. It occupied our evenings quite nicely for the next week or so.
It was a delight to read aloud, as is usual, it was sometimes
sidesplittingly funny, as is usual, it was a good time all the way
around, as is usual.

Sam Vimes is one of Pratchett’s ever increasing cast of continuing
characters. He first appears in Guards, Guards as the
alcoholic Captain Sam Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork Night Watch. Over the
next several books in which he appears, the city grows over more diverse,
and Vimes rises in rank. By the time of this book he is Sir Samuel
Vimes, Duke of Ankh, Commander of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, and a
power in the city. And (though no longer a drunk) still the same
hardnosed irascible copper he started out as.

As a thunderstorm brews, Vimes’ watchmen (and dwarves, and trolls, etc.)
have run a silver-tongued psychopath named Carcer to ground atop the
roofs of Unseen University. Vimes himself mounts the dome of the
University Library to capture him, just as lightning strikes.

On the Discworld, a lighting strike is always accompanied by a strong
magic field. And as anyone familiar with Unseen University can tell you,
the last place you’d want to be hit by lightning and the accompanying
magic field is any part of the University Library. Both Vimes and Carcer
are thrown thirty years into past, into an incredibly busy and fraught
week.

It’s the week after Vimes first joined the Night Watch. It’s the week
that Mad Lord Winder’s madness reaches its peak. It’s a week of
revolution in the streets. And thanks to the cheerfully murderous
Carcer, one of the most important players during that week is
dead-on-arrival to Ankh-Morpork. As Vimes soon discovers, he has to
take on the dead man’s name and role–or history will be changed, and
he’ll never get back to his own time.

So much for plot summaries. This book is markedly different than its
predecessors. It’s still funny, it’s still well-written, it’s still
greatly entertaining–but at the same time, it’s also dead serious. It’s
about cities and civilization, and about making things work; it’s about
being responsible for your own job and your own patch of ground and
insisting that here, at least, Evil Will Not Be Tolerated.

It isn’t Pratchett’s out-and-out funniest book; but it might well be his
best to date.

When Neil Madden reviewed Look to Windward last month, I was
both pleased and disappointed. Pleased because it meant there was
another Banks novel on the horizon; disappointed because I figured he was
reading a British edition and that it might be months before it hit the
shelves in the U.S. Much to my surprise, I found a copy of it the next
time I went the book store.

I won’t repeat the plot; Neil covered that in Ex Libris.

This is one of the more accessible Culture novels; and as always the
scenery is gorgeous. Banks has an outstanding imagination. The story
itself, however, is only so-so; some of his other books (notably
The Player of Games) are much better. But I have to admit,
the scenery is just about worth the trip. I wish I had Banks’ gift for
names; the “dirigible behemothaur” just about made my day.

Knitting as a popular pastime seems to be making a comeback in the last
year or two. By that I mean that other people besides the die-hard fiber
enthusiasts are taking it up and the publishing industry is responding
with really expensive books geared to the new knitter making faddish
sweaters with ultra expensive yarns. Normally, I page thru the books,
find every glaringly stupid design flaw they have included, sniff and
spend my money on yarn. Badly designed sweaters on twig thin models
aren’t going to look good on the average lumpy body no matter how
expensive that glitzy yarn is. I prefer to spend my book money on books
about knitting history, fiber production and design techniques that work
with more than a $35 dollar an ounce yarn. It really ticks me off when I
see a new knitter struggling with difficult yarn and a badly written
pattern that some shop owner sold her. Anyway, I found this book after
hearing about it at my knitting group and quickly snapped it up.

Annemor Sundbo bought a shoddy factory in a out of the way corner of
Norway as a way to finance her own fiber habit. “Shoddy”, in the textile
industry, is the word for recycled wool. It’s drifted into the common
language to mean “of poor quality” since the recycled wool is no longer
fit to spin for knitted clothing. It’s used, rather, as filler for
quilts, for carpets and for weaving tweed fabrics which are rough and
usually lined in the construction of garments. The factory Sundbo bought
took castoff old woolen garments, and picked and ripped them into shoddy
wool for Torridal Tweeds. However, as she was going thru the warehouse of
old garments she found thousands of garments handknit in folk patterns
dating back at least to the turn of the century. Some were earlier. Truly
a treasure trove for a knitter and a lover of folk knitting. But the
interesting part of the book is when she organizes the garments and then
does historical research using old pattern leaflets, old paintings and
photos and yarn company flyers to date and find the location of where
they came from. She traces patterns to England, Iceland, Sweden, Latvia,
and even Holland in her research. Some of the color designs have roots in
Persian carpet elements. Norway had a healthy sea trade and all those
sailors brought home gifts which were translated into design elements for
sweaters, mittens, and stockings.

The book does have problems. It is badly written and even more badly
translated. There were a couple of times I wondered what she was actually
trying to say and did the translator really know English? Plus, she
bounces all over the place in her organization of the book, making it
difficult to follow the text and giving me a real appreciation of what a
good editor can do for a book. All of that is completely and totally
offset by the fabulous color plates of the sweaters, often placed next to
the painting or leaflet she used to date them with. They were
astonishing. Breathtaking. Inspiring. The pictures are worth the price
of the book alone.

This is yet another Dalziel/Pascoe mystery, and it’s just as much fun as
the others I’ve reviewed recently.

When Dalziel was a young detective, he was involved in one of the last
“Golden Age” country house murders. A guest was murdered, and the lord
of the manor and a young nanny were determined to be the murderers. The
lord was hanged, and the nanny sentenced to life in prison.

It’s now many, many years later. A TV documentary has raised doubts
about the nanny’s guilt, and after some cursory investigations by the
Home Office, she is freed pending a full police investigation into the
case. Early signs are that the result of this “full police
investigation” will be a report blackening the name of Dalziels late
friend and mentor, Wally Tallantire. Dalziel can’t be having this, and
despite being told to leave it alone undertakes an investigation of his
own–and begins to realize that some of the other folks who were at that
country house that deadly weekend are still very important people indeed.

It’s not as good as the best of the series, but I enjoyed it thoroughly;
also, it provides some of the long term background presumed by the later
book Arms and the Women.