Ian’s got a delightful take on author Thomas Hardy; it’s exactly the sort of thing I expect I’d write if I seriously attempted to read Hardy, though I doubt I’d have said it so well. As it is, now I don’t have to. (Does this make me a Philistine? Possibly so.) I can’t comment on Ian’s opinion of David Copperfield (the character, not the book), because I haven’t read the book, but I suspect I’d feel the same way. (Am I the only one who can’t stand Romeo and Juliet because the young lovers are such idiots?)

These are the third and fourth volumes of
The Complete Peanuts, and they are surely a treat.

I had a pretty sizeable collection of Peanuts paperbacks once upon a
time, one or two which were bought just for me (the one I remember in
particular was a green book with an angry kite chasing Charlie Brown
on the cover–I don’t remember the title) and a whole bunch I inherited
from my siblings. As near as I can tell the set spanned the period from
maybe 1952 or 1953 until probably 1960 or so. Friends of the family had
a book or two that covered the earliest strips.

Thus, I was on familiar ground in these two books, and was delighted to
renew my acquaintance with many an old favorite.

One of my joys in reading old comic strips is watching the strip and the
characters as they develop. At the beginning of this pair of books, the
classic cast is pretty well complete: Charlie Brown, Lucy, Linus,
Schroeder, Pigpen, Shermie, and Violet are all here, all recognizeably
themselves, all drawn just as you’d expect them to be drawn. Sally
hasn’t been born yet.

But Snoopy–these are the books where Snoopy really begins to come
together. In these books, Snoopy first dances, first tries to sleep
on top of his dog house (with mixed results), first kisses Lucy on the
nose, first begins to exercise his imagination. At the end of 1958, he’s
still not drawn quite like the iconic Snoopy of today, but he’s getting
closer.

I can’t wait for the next volume.

The December Issue of
Ex Libris Reviews is now on-line.

I like Hill’s mystery novels, but only his Dalziel/Pascoe books are
generally available here in the States. As a result of cleaning up my
study, I’ve consolidated my to-be-read pile onto a couple of shelves.
Here’s a book I got on my last trip to Australia (several years ago)
that I only got around to reading this week.

Trudi Adamson has had a quiet life in the twenty-five years since she
got married. Her husband has taken jobs in Switzerland and in Vienna
and such-like romantic locales, and she, being shy and agoraphobic, has
spent most of them quietly at home ignoring the world while her husband
travels on business. Now her husband is dead in a car accident, leaving
her almost nothing, and she somehow has to learn to live by herself and
for herself. She crashes for some time, surviving only with the help of
an old friend from her school days, but eventually scrapes some gumption
together and gets a job.

And then, of course, peculiar things begin to happen. Her husband’s
death didn’t occur quite the way she’d been told. In fact, she begins
to come across evidence that her husband’s life away from home was rather
different than she’d thought. And that, of course, is just the beginning.

What we have here, really, is Charade artfully redone as a thriller
rather than as a screwball comedy with moments of violence. And without
Cary Grant, of course. As I was reading it, it all seemed a little too
farfetched, and Trudi’s metamorphosis from shy agoraphobia to
self-reliant assertiveness doesn’t quite work. Still, I wanted to find
out what happened, and the final twist was both unexpected
and rather touching.

A little something from last year’s Advent Season:
The Cavalcade of Bad Nativities. I especially like the geese.

Here’s another book I read while looking into the history of the Early
Church. I finished it over a year ago, and was moved to begin a long and
detailed description of its contents. I was never moved to complete that review,
alas, and now the details are too foggy, so a briefer summary will have
to do. This is from memory, mind you, so I might not have all of the
details perfectly correct.

Subtitled “The Early Church In Her Own Words”, Bennett’s book consists of
excerpts from the writings of four of the early Church Fathers: Clement
of Rome, Ignatius of Antioch, Justin Martyr, and Irenaeus of Lyons.
Bennett surrounds each with material on the background and context of
each excerpt, turning the whole into a complete, if narrowly focussed,
look at the first two centuries of the Early Church, written from a
standpoint of faith rather than skepticism.

The book is also about Bennett himself. Raised a Baptist, he’d been
taught that there is a wide gap between the time of the Apostles and the
later church, a gap about which we know very little and during which the
church had gone wrong, necessitating the Reformation and its drive to
return to the ways of the Early Church. Hence, the Reformation’s
rallying cry of Sola Scriptura! And yet, although Protestantism
harkened back to the Early Church, none of his teachers seemed to know
much about it.

Bennett determined to correct this, and went looking for what he could
find. And what he found were these four authors whose lives form an
unbroken chain from the time of the Apostles (Clement came to Rome in the
days of St. Peter) through the end of the second century–four authors
who neatly fill that pesky gap he’d always been told of. That was the
first surprise.

The second surprise came when he read what these men had to say, and
looked at the Early Church through their eyes. It did not, in fact, look
anything like the Baptist church he’d grown up in; it did, in fact, look
a great deal like Roman Catholicism. (Having grown up Catholic myself, I
can vouch for this; Justin Martyr’s description of Christian Sunday
observance is recognizably the Mass I grew up with–even given that I
grew up with the Post-Vatican II Mass and not the Latin Mass.) This was
a turning point in Bennett’s life, and he subsequently joined the Roman
Catholic Church.

This is a popular work; if you’re looking for a scholarly commentary,
look elsewhere. At the same time, I found this to be quite a good
introduction to Clement, Ignatius, Justin, and Irenaeus; and leafing
through it again, it’s clear that although he focusses on these four,
it’s evident that in preparation he covered the entire waterfront. I
liked it; and it’s a good complement to Chadwick’s
History of the Early Church.

Here’s the first set of books being purged this go-round. There will likely be more, but this is probably the lion’s share.

Baghdad-By-The-Bay, by Herb Caen. This was one of my mom’s books. I
thought I might read it; I’ve since decided that San Francisco is
insufficiently interesting.

Gardens of the Moon, by Steven Eirikson. This is the first book in a
series entitled “The Malazon Book of the Fallen.” I liked this book well
enough, and I’d like to read the rest of the series some day. This,
however, is a hardback I got as a review copy, and it takes up more than
its share of space.

Hawkes Harbor, by S.E. Hinton. Yet another review hardback. Not a
bad book, but not a favorite, and I need the space.

The Lovely Bones, by Alice Sebold. I think we were given this.
We’ve had it for some time, neither Jane nor I has been moved to read it,
and it’s a hardback.

What If? 2, edited by Robert Cowley. This is a collection of essays
by noted historians on what might have been if critical moments in
history had gone differently. It was Christmas gift, and one chosen
carefully to appeal to my tastes, and I received it happily. Alas, I
didn’t like it.

How To Read A Book, by Mortimer J. Adler and Charles Van Doren. I
read some of this; but I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m
insufficiently anal-retentive to ever study a book in the detail or
manner they recommend. Learning styles differ, I guess.

Agile Software Development with Scrum, by Schwaber and Beedle. An
interesting book, I guess, but not interesting enough to finish.

The Weird Colonial Boy, and And Disregards The Rest, by Paul
Voermans. I picked these up during a visit to Victoria, B.C. maybe ten
years ago; Voermans is an Australian science fiction author, and the
books caught my eye for some reason. I’ve never felt moved to re-read
them; what I chiefly remember is that it was in one of them that I first
encountered the topic of chicken-sexing.

Competitions, by Sharon Green. I rather tore this one apart when I
reviewed it some while back. ’nuff said.

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, by Annie Dillard. This was recommended to
me, and I read quite a bit of it, but I’m afraid it never really grabbed
me.

Lord of the Far Island, by victoria Holt. I’m not entirely sure
how we acquired this book; I think we got it ten or fifteen years ago
from a friend who was purging her book collection. What’s certain is
that neither Jane nor I has ever been moved to read it.

An Edge in My Voice, by Harlan Ellison. I went through a real
Ellison phase quite a long while ago now. The man writes well, but I
find the prospect of curling up with a book of his essays no longer
appeals; I can easily get my daily dose of vitriol on the ‘Web.

Stagestruck Vampires, by Suzy Mckee Charnas. A review copy I simply
shouldn’t have accepted; I don’t like vampires. It’s well-written, but
not at all my kind of thing.

Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands, by Jorge Amado. I picked this up
during one of my occasional excursions out of genre fiction. I enjoyed
it, but I’ve no desire to re-read it.

Benchley Lost And Found, by Robert Benchley. This is a short
collection of some of Benchley’s humorous essays. Somehow the idea was
more interesting in theory than in practice.

The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald. OK, so this is a classic
of American Literature. I’ve read it twice now, once in high school and
once a few years ago; I figure I’ve done my bit. If I ever feel moved to
read it again, I’m sure I’ll be able to locate a copy.

E=mc2, by David Bodanis. I feel odd getting rid of this one, but
I never finished it, and although the position of the bookmark indicates
I got three-quarters of the way through it I can’t remember any of it.

Little Altars Everywhere, by Rebecca Wells. We inherited this from
my mom, and have tired of it knocking around the house. Jane might have
read it, I dunno.

How To Clean Practically Anything, published by Consumer Reports.
Jane decided she didn’t want to keep this. Given that this kind of thing
is readily available on the ‘Web, and given that we’d be unlikely to know
where the book was when wanted, that’s probably the right decision.

Alice in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll. Duplicate copy.

Hard Rain, and The Streetbird, by Janwillem van de Wetering. I
read these based on a recommendation from one of my correspondents, and I
wanted to enjoy them; however, I didn’t like them much. Something about
the author’s attitude put me off.

Most of The Most of S.J. Perelman, by S.J. Perelman. Another
humorist; the book had its moments, but in quantity Perelman’s appeal
palled rather quickly.

Idlewild, and Eden-born, by Nick Sagan. Two more review copies
of books which were merely OK.

Take a Thief, by Mercedes Lackey. I do not read Mercedes Lackey; I
read some of her early books avidly enough, but found them nauseating
when I went back to re-read them. Since then, I’ve avoided
her books. Possibly she’s improved. Jane bought this one, but was
content to let it go.

Arabesques, Arabesques 2, edited by Susan Shwartz. These are a
pair of anthologies of fantasy tales with a more-or-less Arabian setting.
I remember very little about them, so I’m content to let them go.

1632 by Eric Flint. Duplicate.

The Cat Who Talked To Ghosts, by Lilian Jackson Braun. I went off
this mystery series quite an amazingly long time ago; Jane bought this
one. She was willing to let it go, though, so maybe all of the others
I’ve got boxed up can go too!

No Secrets, by Lance Rucker. Another review copy. Not bad, not
great, not worth keeping.

Bicycling Through Space And Time, The 22nd Gear, The Ultimate
Bike Path, by Mike Sirota. Somewhat amusing, as I recall….but in all
the years I’ve had these, I’ve never been tempted to re-read them. Out
they go!

Essential Writings, by G.K. Chesterton. The writings might be
essential, but this collection of them is not. Get Orthodoxy
instead.

The Interpreter’s One-Volume Commentary on the Bible. This was one
of my mom’s books. It’s massive, takes up a lot of space, and given what
I’ve been learning about the state of biblical scholarship in the 20th
century, is probably suspect. Without knowing more about the scholarship
behind it, I’m not interested; and I don’t tend to consult commentaries
anyway.

Ancient Egypt: Discovering its Splendors, published by the National
Geographic Society. This is a massive coffee table book filled with
pictures of Egyptian antiquities. The pictures are good, but the size is
not.

Beautiful California, published by Sunset Magazine. Another of my
mom’s coffee-table books, this one is filled with pictures of California.
It dates from the year I was born, which is the most interesting thing
about it. Yet another book that’s just too darn big. Tell Lileks he can
have it if it wants it.

Middlemarch, by George Eliot. I got this many years ago when a
friend was culling her own library and I was experimenting with English
novels (Trollope, etc.). I never got around to reading, and I’m not all
sure I ever will. As with The Great Gatsby, I’m sure I’ll be able
to find a copy if I want one.

Beach Music, by Pat Conroy. I picked this up on a recommendation
back in 1997, and have never been moved to read it. The statute of
limitations has expired, and out it goes.

The Faerie Queene, by Edmund Spenser. I picked this up while working
on a novel called The King of Elfland’s Nephew which might see
the light of day at some point. I’ve since decided that Orlando
Furioso covers the same territory and is more fun.

If You Want To Write, by Brend Ueland. Not a bad book; but I’ve read
it. I took a creative writing class some years ago, and under its
influence I bought a fair number of books about writing. Most of them
are about unfettering your inner spirit, silencing your inner editor, and
letting the words fall where they may. Fact is, I don’t regard writing
as a magical expression of my inner spirit; I regard it as a way
communicating what I want to say, one word after another. Now, writers I
respect recommended this book…but there’s no royal road to success as a
writer. To lose weight, you need to exercise and control your diet; to
write well, you need to read a lot and write a lot. Books like this one
are mostly of use, I think, to those who freeze when confronted with a
blank screen.

Writing Down The Bones, by Natalie Goldberg. Another book on freeing
your inner writer. Ueland’s better, if memory serves.

Fiction Writer’s Workshop, by Josip Novakovich. I must have gotten
this one about the same time as Ueland and Goldberg, above, but I
remember even less about it.

A Dance to the Music of Time, by Anthony Powell. I bought two
volumes of the four volume set a long time ago on the advice of some
folks on the rec.arts.books newsgroup. After I finished the first
volume I was nonplussed–there was a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, and a lot
of people I didn’t much care for, and a lot social maneuvering I found
boring, and I asked, “Is this all there is? Does it get better?” I was
told, “Yes, what there is is what you’ve seen, and yes it goes on like
that. Sorry you don’t like it.” Perhaps I’m a philistine; oh, well.

Switching to the Mac, by David Pogue. I switched to the Mac years
ago, and this book was quite helpful. I’ve not had need of it in the
longest time, though.

Mac OS X, Second Edition, by David Pogue. Out of date; this was OS X
10.2.x, and I’m now using 10.4.3. It was helpful while I was getting
started, though.

Mac OS X Hacks, by Dornfest and Hemenway. Similarly out of date,
and not nearly as useful (to me, anyway).

iMovie 3 & iDVD, by David Pogue. Also out of date; I think we’re up
to iMovie 5 now.

Story of the Irish Race, by Seumas MacManus. Another book we
inherited quite a long while ago, and which I’ve never got around to
reading.

Great Books, by David Denby. At 48, the author returns to Columbia
University, and takes their Great Books curriculum for a second time, to
see if the Great Books are still valid, and to watch the youngsters
engage with them. It’s an interesting book, but I don’t imagine I shall
re-read it.

Lies My Teacher Told Me, by James W. Loewen. He’s got a valid
complaint (the content of most high-school American History texts is not
what it should be), but I don’t like his solution any better, and anyway
he annoys me.

Unreal–Official Strategy Guide, by Craig Wessel. I no longer have a
computer capable of playing this game; and I rather expect that all of
the essential information is freely available on the ‘Web anyway.

Myst: The Official Strategy Guide Revised and Expanded Edition, by
Barba & DeMaria. I could get a version of this that runs on my current
computer, with some nifty updates….but said updates obsolesce the book,
and (again) I’m sure the essential info is available on the ‘Web.

So why, after posting sporadically if at all for many months, am I suddenly posting up a storm? And why so many negative reviews?

It’s simply because I’ve been off work most of this week; and given that I’m not heavily involved in any personal projects at present, I’ve been taking the time to clean up my study. That necessarily involves organizing the stacks of books that have accumulated, and I’ve identified a number of categories, including the following:

• Books I’ve not yet read.
• Books I’ve started reading and mean to finish one day.
• Books I’ve read and reviewed and want to keep.
• Books I’ve read but not reviewed yet, that I want to keep.
• Books I’ve read but not reviewed yet, that want to get rid of.
• Books I’ve never finished reading and don’t intend to ever finish reading and indeed intend to dispose of because I really didn’t like them.

This categorization effort has had two immediate effects: first, the books that I’ve read but not reviewed are all together, on one shelf, staring me mercilessly in the face. So I’ve been trying to deal with them. Second, the kind of organization I’m attempting always involves a certain amount of purging of the book collection, which means donating books to the library, which needs to be done with expedition or else the boxes will sit around for ever. Consequently, I’m trying to focus on reviewing the ones I didn’t like, especially the ones I didn’t finish, so that I can get them out of the house.

So how are you spending your holiday?

I like Chesterton a whole lot, and I bought this book during my last
Chesterton binge. That was some time ago, and it’s taken this long to
review only because I never finished it. And why did I never finish it?
Because it isn’t a very good book.

What it is, is an anthology of a few essays and many excerpts from longer
books, most of which I’d already read. The excerpts are
all good bits, but somehow they aren’t as compelling when plucked from
their proper setting. Each piece has an introduction by some guy named
William Griffin, with whom I have two quarrels: first, I dimly remember
that his introductions annoyed me, and second, he somehow managed to make
Chesterton boring. Perhaps I’d have felt differently if I hadn’t read
most of the material before; and perhaps this book would be a good
introduction to Chesterton for one not yet acquainted. I dunno. But I
didn’t like it.

On a whim I did a Google search on the
American Chesterton Society’s
web site; for what it’s worth, they make no mention of the book at all.

A couple of years ago, due to controversies raging within the Episcopal
Church, I became interested in learning more about the history of the
Early Church, and especially the period from Christ’s resurrection up to
Constantine. This book was recommended to me, and it quickly migrated to
my car.

The thing about history books is that they are very often dry; and the
material takes some pondering, or it doesn’t really sink in. At that
time I was regularly stopping for breakfast on my way to work, and I had
the habit of keeping a book in the car to read while I ate. And
Chadwick’s book became that book. Then, of course, I was put on a diet
and started eating breakfast at home every week; and I only got to
Chadwick’s book on the rare occasions when I went out to lunch by myself.
Eventually I finished it.

My considered opinion? It’s OK, but it wasn’t the best book for my
purposes. In addition to getting the basic historical details, I was
also interested in tracing the thread of orthodoxy from its earliest
days, through the various controversies and heresies and schools of
thought. Chadwick covers all this, naturally, but he doesn’t seem all
that interested in the theological details, and I frequently found his
descriptions to be rather opaque. Nor, as he describes the various
disagreements, does he give any indication of which point of view
eventually won out. On top of all this, he writes as though the truth or
falsehood of any of the claims is irrelevant; or, rather, as though they
are all equally false compared to the historical truth he’s attempting to
describe. This is a common attitude among historians, but as a Christian
attempting to discover more about the early days of my faith I found it
uncongenial.

All that said, Chadwick’s better when dealing with the
non-theological details, and I intend to keep the book around for
reference.