I’m off on a business trip at “O-dark-thirty” tomorrow morning, and won’t be back until the end of the week. I might blog something between now and then, but probably not. I just wanted to assure everyone that I’m not going to gone for another six months.
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Midnight is a Place, by Joan Aiken
Start with Lemony Snicket’s Series of Unfortunate Events. Subtract the coy, arch attitude, and all the little comments about just how awful everything is. Place the story in approximately Dickensian England…but don’t pick up Dickens’ wordiness. Make the story far more awful and gripping in its horrors, but give it a reasonable happy ending. Improve and deepen the writing throughout. Now forget Snicket altogether. That should give you a glimmering of what Joan Aiken’s children’s books are like.
The canonical Aiken remains The Wolves of Willoughby Chase, but Midnight is a Place is similar in tone. It’s a tale of two children put into an impossible position and forced to work to support themselves at a carpet factory during the early phases of the Industrial revolution. It’s not an exposé, as some of Dickens’ work was; rather, the horrible conditions, fatality rate, and enormous machines in the factory are played almost entirely for chills, and effectively so.
I’m not sure the book is entirely a success; the ending struck me as rather abrupt and not entirely satisfactory. But it the characters are well-drawn and their doings are interesting–and if I read it to the kids properly, they’d most likely have nightmares about the carpet press. That’s got to be worth something.
Aristotle for Everybody, by Mortimer J. Adler
One of the reasons I’ve been mostly silent this year is that I’ve been doing a great deal of theological and philosophical pondering, a state I expect to continue for some time. (The extent to which any of said pondering will appear here is as yet undetermined.) But as part of it I’ve been beginning to look at Thomas Aquinas; and to understand Thomas Aquinas, it was recommended that I understand a little about Aristotle. And in particular, it was recommended that this book was a good introduction to Aristotle for dumm–well, say, for the complete id–well, anyway, it’s a good introduction to Aristotle. So I got, and read it, and re-read it, and studied it thoroughly.
The book is both lucid and helpful, explaining clearly the notions of the good, the true, and the beautiful, of matter and form, of the four causes (efficient, material, formal, and final), and so forth; to that extent, it’s just what I was looking for. Having finished it, I’ve stepped into the pool of Aristotle’s own writing–and the water is swirling about my nose, and I’ve not even reach the bottom of the shallow end. I’m maybe on the first or second step down.
In short, I liked this book; now I’d like something to take me further. The same source that recommended this book for beginners also recommended Sir David Ross’s Aristotle for the intermediate reader of philosophy; but having looked into it I can see that Ross’s book assumes a considerable quantity of background knowledge that I don’t yet have. If anyone can suggest something in between the two, say, Aristotle for the Reasonably Smart Novice, I’d appreciate it.
The Children of Hurin, by J.R.R. Tolkien
I bought this book with mixed emotions, knowing full well what I was getting into. I’d read the short version in the Silmarillion. I’d read the somewhat longer version in Unfinished Tales. So I knew that it’s a tragedy, that bad things happen to (mostly) good people, that there’s no happy ending in it, and that it’s all terribly, horribly dramatic. From page one it’s clear that Turin Turambar has no chance of settled happiness; and in the end he dies badly.
I hope that didn’t spoil anything for anyone; but I suspect that most of the potential readers of this book are as familiar with the outlines of the tale as I am.
I bought it mostly for completeness’ sake, and out of respect for Tolkien himself, whose other work I love, who himself clearly loved this tale and lavished his attention on it. Oh, would he had spent as much time on the tale of Beren and Luthien, or that of Tuor and Idril and the fall of Gondolin, or on that of their son, Earendil the Mariner, any of which I’d rather spend time with than proud, doomed, Turin Turambar.
(Sigh.)
Still, Christopher Tolkien did a good job editing his father’s material; it flows smoothly and seamlessly. And it’s certainly the most human-scale treatment of any of the tales of the Elder Days that I can recall.
(Sigh.)
Rumours of My Demise are Greatly Exaggerated
Hmmm. My last post was in May, and it’s now the end of July. ‘Twasn’t my intent to remain silent for so long, but I’ve been travelling a lot on business, and we went on vacation, and, well, I guess I’ve been busy. I’m beginning to feel like it’s time to get back in harness again, though perhaps somewhat differently than before. For over ten years, I reviewed virtually every book I read, often in some detail. I’m not sure I want to do that, anymore; but on the other hand I’ve been reading an awful lot, and sometimes I find that there are things I’d like to say. We’ll see how it goes.
Thought for the Day
Can someone explain to me why being discommoded is a bad thing? Seems to me that if were seriously and deeply commoded, I’d be grateful if someone pulled me out….
The Horrible Thing About Smeagols
The horrible thing about Smeagols
  Is Smeagols are horrible things.
Their eyes they are made out of lanterns (my Precious)
  Their hair it is made out of strings.
Thievesie, Sneaksie, Tricksy, Precious,
  Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine!
But the most horrible thing about Smeagols
  Is their Precious for which they pine.
Well, that and the throttling, and the eating raw meat, and the treachery,
and….
— J.R.R. Milne, The Mount at Doom Corner
(Well, really, Ian Hamet and myself….)
A Passing Reflection
Coming downstairs when you’re supposed to be in bed, and telling your father that your sister pulled your hair, when your sister sleeps in a crib she can’t get out of and you sleep in a bed across the room,
is unlikely to get you anywhere you want to be.
The Biblioholic’s Bible
… and he spent all his inheritance on cheap magazines and dissolute books. One day, while reading an Andrew Greeley novel, he thought to himself: “Even the servants of my father’s house enjoy better reading material. I will go back and ask his forgiveness.”
There’s more at Happy Catholic.
At Last, It Can Be Told…
I’ve recently received permission from Ian Hamet to explain the events behind his mysterious disappearance from the Web last July, and his enigmatic reappearance in mid-October. The tale’s not quite as lurid as the fevered imaginings that had me calling the American consulate on Ian’s behalf, but it’ll do.
It seems that in early July Ian attended a film festival in Shanghai. The festival lasted a couple of days, running from before dawn until well after dark, and he was there for most of it. During a late-night showing of one of Bruce Li’s early films he found himself alone in the theater with a Chinese gentleman who turned out to be nearly as much of a film geek as Ian. They got quite chummy as the film went on, and afterwards moved on to a nearby bar for some mutai.
If you’ve never heard of it (I hadn’t), mutai is an incredibly strong rice wine, about 100 proof. All important business deals, so Ian tells me, are concluded over far too many glasses of mutai.
After enough mutai to underwrite a sizeable venture, Ian staggered away home, leaving his new chum inert and halfway under the table. He didn’t think any more of it–not after the hangover wore off–until a couple of days later, when he was exploring a new section of Shanghai. As he’s reported in the past, Shanghai drivers are erratic, careless, and pay no attention to stop signs. When a car approached him he paid it no mind, simply being careful to keep out of its way. There was nothing unusual about it until the car stopped dead in the middle of the crosswalk and two big guys bundled him into the back seat. They shoved him down onto the floor and held him there. Naturally, they wouldn’t answer his questions, and Ian tells me he wasn’t inclined to push.
When they let him up, the car was down by the waterfront. They hustled him onto a motor boat, and took him out to a barge anchored in the harbor. And that’s where Ian spent the next three months–on a barge in the middle of Shanghai harbor. A barge that, it turns out, belonged to his chum from the film festival.
It’s still not clear to Ian just why Mr. Chinese Film Geek grabbed him. It seems likely that Mr. CFG was a bigwig in the local mob, and perhaps he was afraid he’d said a little too much to Ian over the mutai. Or maybe he just wanted to have a fellow film geek on tap to help him practice his English; he seemed to think that Ian had offered as much during their mutual binge. Also, he was impressed with Ian’s capacity for mutai.
Be that as it may, Ian spent the next three months below decks. During the day he was made to help one of Mr. CFG’s underlings devise Chinese subtitles for pirated American movies; the underling’s English was bad, and Ian’s Chinese isn’t good, and I’m sorry to say that some of Ian’s translations were not untinged with malice. (Ian has a wicked sense of humor.) And then, in the evenings, Mr. CFG would send for him and they’d watch Mr. CFG’s favorite American movies and Mr. CFG would practice his English. And then Mr. CFG would say something on the order of, “Good night, Ian, sleep well, I’ll most likely kill you in the morning,” and send him off to bed.
One night, shots rang out on deck while Our Man In Banana was watching Master of the Flying Guillotine with Mr. CFG. More shots followed. Finding himself alone in Mr. CFG’s sanctum, he managed to slip out and over the side during the confusion. He’s still not quite sure just what was going on, though he conjectures that one of Mr. CFG’s business partners had come to pay off a debt of some kind. Anyway, he swam to the nearest dock and was gone before anyone thought to look for him.
It was an interesting experience, he tells me, but one he could have done without; especially since his landlord had confiscated and sold most of his belongings.
So there you have it: Ian Hamet’s Big Adventure, and more than enough reason, I’d say, to leave China for good.
Update: It’s been suggested that perhaps I’ve let my imagination run away with me–that perhaps it didn’t happen quite like this. Or even that it didn’t happen at all like this. Well, maybe. All I can say is that my version is a lot more interesting and colorful than the tale Ian actually told me, which was a sad little thing of venal clerks, dishonest landlords, and unfeeling bureacracy. I like mine better.
The View from the Foothills 