Little did I know I would chuckle as much as I did. Melville has got his harpoon in me. I found Ahab's monologue before the severed head of the leviatLittle did I know I would chuckle as much as I did. Melville has got his harpoon in me. I found Ahab's monologue before the severed head of the leviathan so mesmerizing I memorized the whole chapter (Chapter 70, "The Sphinx"). I will travel up to 25 miles from my home address to do a costumed rendition....more
12 Rules for Life kept me company on my morning walks in the cold of winter. By my calculations, I covered almost 50 miles in the hearing. Yet the dis12 Rules for Life kept me company on my morning walks in the cold of winter. By my calculations, I covered almost 50 miles in the hearing. Yet the distances traversed were not merely geographical. Jordan Peterson enters my memory during the controversy at his university in which he refused to comply with speech protocols on preferred pronouns. His voice was irritating beyond endurance. Nonetheless, I was impressed with his ability to remain calm while also forcefully articulating his positions--which I generally find to be well-reasoned, and grounded in wide learning, years of clinical experience, and personal reflection. That I have just listened to more than twelve hours of continuous reading aloud by the man whose voice once made me click away in frustration testifies to my enjoyment of the mental grappling that his thoughts occasion. I don't regard Peterson as a luminary, or a particularly gifted writer; as "for anyone educated before the cultural revolution, used to the orderly architecture of argument, it slides about on the page like mental porridge." Yet I do appreciate his philosophical and psychological determination to put his thoughts in public form, in an effort to guide others away from what is a prospective road to perdition. Orderly architecture of argument is not the proper mode of discourse for a fireman waving the occupants of a burning building to safety. Yet more surprising to me is the fact that I read something akin to a self-help book, after the Last Self-Help Book was written decades ago! What could possibly justify returning to this genre after Walker Percy retired it with honors? I kid, I kid. But I bring up Percy because I couldn't stop thinking about what he would have to say about Peterson. Percy, in a nutshell, was a pathologist-turned-novelist who, as a result of a conversion, translated the application of the diagnostic habits of science from bodies to souls. His conversion was philosophical before it was religious: as Kierkegaard had said of Hegel, Percy found that science "explained everything under the sun, except one small detail: what it means to be a man living in the world who must die." The problem of existence was intensified for him by the close contact with suicide in his own family history, having been orphaned at a young age by the death of his father at his own hand. Thus Percy was fascinated with the human predicament, and spent the second half of his life reflecting on the nature of the glorious, disgusting, pathetic, hilarious things that human beings did to understand and to misunderstand themselves and their fellow human beings. Above all, he was convinced that the human ability to use symbols and language, unique to us (as far as we know) in the whole history of the cosmos, was the key to getting ahold of the human mystery--in particular, our own individual selves. For we have a name, a symbol, a word for everything in the world, but for myself, I cannot be located and delineated in the same way as what is outside of myself. I am mysterious to myself in a way that nothing else is, no matter how distant or obscure. All names apply to me, and none. The greatest puzzle in my world is me, at once the secret hero and asshole of the cosmos. And so I am on a persistent search to locate myself in relation to everything else I know, through my own embodied experience (commonly sins of the flesh and violence), identification with something or someone desirable (totem, mascot, tourist, skeptic), or through transcendence in knowledge or art. I won't go into any more detail (this is a review of Peterson's book, after all) but I had a clear sense throughout 12 Rules that Peterson had Percy dead to rights thirty years ago. Peterson seems to fall within the third instance of the transcendent seeker of identity, gathering the abundant harvest of mythological, psychological, philosophical, and anecdotal insight into an ecstatic vision of things, evoking in the reader the sense that, "yes, that is the way things are." A fine endeavor, but one that only the most gifted can sustain indefinitely; for the rest of us, our brief arc through the heavens terminates with a meteoric reentry, a blaze of glory or shame. Peterson's own breakdown, on this account, was far from surprising. It was simply the consequence of not having gotten ahold of himself.
Percy would probably just chuckle, sip a julep, and say, "welcome to the human race."
What Percy had to say about the only plausible path that remains to us, I cannot include here, nor will I include further development of these thoughts which present to me such a suggestive path for creative response to the genuinely yeomanlike contribution Dr. Peterson has made to our popular conversation. I thoroughly enjoyed tussling with him on my morning walks, nodding vigorously in parts, shaking my head in others, laughing out loud after a witty turn of phrase brought relief to a long descent into darkness, failure, and despair. And yes, tears came to my eyes in the moment of eucatastrophe for his daughter, Michaela, as the therapist wrapped his hands around her ankle and solved years of arthritic disability, pharmaceutical confusion, and the prospect of amputation with 45 secunds of firm grip. I do not regret the reflections his thought has spurred in me, and I look forward in anticpiation to his sequel--
--not that we need any more self-help books....more
I can't say I know how I came to possess this book. A bout of illness while sheltering at home brought it into my lap after carrying it for years, beiI can't say I know how I came to possess this book. A bout of illness while sheltering at home brought it into my lap after carrying it for years, being a great fan of O'Brian's writing. Having recently finished reading (or listening to) the Aubriad, I was sorry to have to set aside his wonderful work, and Hussein seemed like just the thing to scratch the itch without just starting the whole series over again. I have known good friends to do so as many as eight times; I am not ready to make that kind of commitment, given the many books I yet long to read. But let me be clear: a life spent exclusively with O'Brian would not be such a bad life. I continue to be surprised by the quantity and variety of writing this wonder-worker produced in his lifetime. I devoured Hussein in a single fevered day, unable to put it down despite my fatigue and other sources of physical discomfort. It has been a long time since a book was able to capture my attention in this way. I should have written a review immediately upon completing it, as I have since devoured several more books and its original effect is now lost. What remains is O'Brian's ability to conjure an imaginative experience and a delight that feeds and strengthens the imagination in its most wide-ranging form. Ever since prompted me to read the classic The Dynasty of Abu, I have retained a remote, mostly literary fascination with the elephant, and of course a novel like this only intensifies that gratifying secondhand curiosity. Hussein is possessed of the gifts of the born mahout, and the large part of his adventures are sustained, even driven by the character of Jehangir, a bull elephant that is as wily and wise as any Hindu fakir--and far less easily moved by coin. Literary types are interested in seeing this early novel as a point along the line of O'Brian's development as a novelist, and I'm sure it can offer them sights of interest; many of the same tropes of espionage, wild chases, storming a redoubt against all odds, and mighty windfalls of gold are all present here, to great effect. So too, O'Brian interjects a number of great stories that Hussein or others tell to their gathered audience--creating interludes with a similar effect to the lore of El-ahrairah in another great British story, that of Watership Down. In fact, this novel strikes me as a unique blend of the easy globetrotting of Kipling, and the mysterious faerie-like quality of Roald Dahl's short stories (especially The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More). This little-known novel will soon be a staple coming-of-age gift to the young souls I know. I heartily recommend it to all in search of a worthy story to fill these times of enforced malaise....more
Norm Macdonald makes me laugh. A lot. Which is wonderful, because he used to annoy me. No longer. Based on a True Story is a strange book--a mix of alNorm Macdonald makes me laugh. A lot. Which is wonderful, because he used to annoy me. No longer. Based on a True Story is a strange book--a mix of alternate reality, retelling of past failures that for the sake of a laugh make him look even worse, and making his friends look even worse than that for a joke upon a joke. Norm has certainly gotten my attention and from what I'm told, this will soon be made into a film. I'm there....more
Gaiman has penned an enjoyable adaptation of the Poetic and Prose Edda that any lover of the Norse myths can appreciate. The more time I spend with thGaiman has penned an enjoyable adaptation of the Poetic and Prose Edda that any lover of the Norse myths can appreciate. The more time I spend with these stories, the more I enjoy them, regardless of who tells them. I am sorry this volume did not include illustrations--compared to the gold standard by Colum and Pogany, this version suffers only from a lack of sober playfulness that the imaginative eye of the illustrator can contribute. ...more
This novel was one of the few works of O'Connor I had yet to read--I had come across it numerous times in references and essays about 20th century CatThis novel was one of the few works of O'Connor I had yet to read--I had come across it numerous times in references and essays about 20th century Catholic literature and finally got around to it on audiobook. The narration by Bronson Pinchot is wickedly funny, and while it perhaps makes it a little too easy to laugh at O'Connor's characters, it sped me through the story with ease. I laughed out loud numerous times at these ridiculous conversations, Enoch Emory's stuffy-nosed literalism and Hazel Motes' car-hood harangues, while O'Connor's steady voice-over never intrudes, a museum curator taking the absurdity in stride. It is a vision full of horrors large and small, from blasphemy, fornication, and murder, to the freaks of peep-shows and museum artifacts, to the contradictions of unbelieving preachers and hideous seductresses. Not exactly comic material, but O'Connor manages. She once said in one of her letters, "The stories are hard, but they are hard because there is nothing harder or less sentimental than Christian realism…When I see these stories described as horror stories, I am always amused because the reviewer always has hold of the wrong horror." One could understand with this assembly of miscarried humanity. The horrific struggle O'Connor wants her reader to lay hold of seems to be the desire "to be converted to nothing instead of to evil"--to escape from the awful binary of redeemed or damned that is so awful precisely because there is no escape from it. To attempt the escape from the "nameless unplaced guilt that was in him" is what concocts the New Jesus and charlatan preachers and concern with everything but the truth. That it begets such horrors is no reason not to find them absurd, and therefore capable of being laughed at--that peculiar talent that Peter Kreeft identifies as the ability to "see tragedies as comedies without therefore ceasing to be tragedies." This Christ-haunted, grotesque, gut-smack of a novel is to a godless world what the whiff of gangrene is to a bedridden invalid....more
Perhaps one day, I tell myself, I will be a card-carrying curmudgeon.
Yet I know, deep down, curmudgeons do not come into beI aspire to curmudgeonhood.
Perhaps one day, I tell myself, I will be a card-carrying curmudgeon.
Yet I know, deep down, curmudgeons do not come into being as they begin drawing Social Security. A power that has long dwelt within them, perhaps latent, perhaps bursting forth in periodic furious expulsions of bile, at last takes its place within the list of Established Personality Traits. One cannot fake curmudgeonhood. I must begin...
To that end, I have begun my research in Charles Murray's short guide to conduct in the workplace, in one's writing, and in one's life in general. It came across my path through the advice of one Gavin McInnes, whose personal arc has made its way deeply into the grumpy, opinionated realm that Murray outlines. (He calls it the Bible of the "Proud Boys", the DIY movement of millenial men recovering the call to what might be designated unredeemed masculine virtue.) Murray's more scholarly work has been cited by figures I admire, like Rusty Reno of First Things magazine, and a recent perusal of Coming Apart was enlightening.
Murray's book is pretty solid. I certainly enjoyed it, but that's probably because I agree with much of what he says (agnosticism aside). Certainly the marriage advice is spot on, and I think the final sentence of the book, in which he acknowledges that his voice is not his own without his wife's guiding hand, is eloquent testimony to the truth that human flourishing, for the vast majority of us, cannot occur in isolation but only in relationship. That line alone made it a worthwhile excursion for me.
As a priest, I don't have to navigate the same kinds of straits that young men and women making their way in the world do, but I do want to offer them some waypoints. The distinction between "being nice" and "being good" is one that I've been articulating to young people for a while now, but haven't done it with the same aplomb as Murray. And the final excursion into the ethics of happiness and its foundational pillars of marriage, community, vocation, and faith is one of the best elucidations of that ancient doctrine in a contemporary context that I've yet seen.
It seems strange to give such a classic only four stars, but I'll be honest--I struggled to apprehend the greatness of this work, as delightful as it It seems strange to give such a classic only four stars, but I'll be honest--I struggled to apprehend the greatness of this work, as delightful as it was to read (actually, I listened to Grossman's translation via audible.com). Quixote and Panza will accompany me as lively and ridiculous friends that, if not wise, at least make being unwise a little less burdensome....more
Nothing could have interested me less, upon first hearing about this piece of narrative history, than a tale of architecture and murder. A friend whosNothing could have interested me less, upon first hearing about this piece of narrative history, than a tale of architecture and murder. A friend whose livelihood is architectural consulting had lent me the audiobook, so I’ll admit I dismissed his enthusiasm as geeking out on a subject of his own expertise. It languished in the center console of my pickup for nearly a year.
What a chimera then is man! What a novelty! What a monster, what a chaos, what a subject of contradiction, what a prodigy! Judge of all things, feeble earthworm, depository of truth, a sink of uncertainty and error, the glory and the shame of the universe.
One might say that Burnham and Holmes have coexisted in every age, though the 19th century convergence of a rush of civic optimism and the anonymity of the urban landscape provided a field on which their energies could be amplified to a pitch never before seen in the history of the world. Larson’s postscript confirmed my suspicion that it was indeed his intention to find in the World’s Columbian Exposition a lens to focus our wonder upon the monstrous prodigy, the glorious shame, that is humanity.
Larson’s ability to sweep his reader up in the process of conceiving, planning, organizing, and building the Exposition is truly marvelous. There were a number of moments where his slow, even painstaking ascent to some moment of triumph left me agape, chuckling, or at the point of tears. My favorite moment of the whole book—my enjoyment of which was aided enormously by Scott Brick’s excellent pacing—was Dedication Day, 1893, as hundreds of thousands gathered in the White City for the unveiling of the Court of Honor. His narration of the scene caught me up in a rush of patriotic fervor. At the push of the button by President Cleveland, there began a clamor: steam whistles blowing, pennants and banners unfurling from the eaves of the graceful and majestic halls arrayed in harmony at the waters� edge, the gilt Statue of the Republic blinding anyone who let their eyes rest on it for more than a moment, the guns of the USS Michigan thundering their salute and “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee� spontaneously bursting from the full hearts of the teary-eyed crowd. I was a happy kid for a moment, back at the Blue Angels airshow with Lee Greenwood on the loudspeaker.
And then someone steals Jane Addams� purse.
At first, I was furious at Larson for including that detail, which seemed to spoil the whole effect. Then, more calmly, I realized this was just the thing for a story dedicated to the infuriatingly indeterminate creature that builds such cities in the full knowledge that they will last but a season. There have always been those who wait for the chance of a far-eyed reverie to despoil their mark; for every Hal, a Falstaff will be close behind.
My solitary gripe with Larson is the nearly utter exclusion of any kind of religious content to the book. Perhaps it is my suspicion over our present cultural moratorium of all things godly, but it seemed negligent to confine any mention of religious matters to Holmes' rigid Methodist upbringing and Burnham's philosophical musings as the end of life approached. The Gilded Age certainly had its prophets and preachers, and to ignore what religious figures of the time had to say about the fair (or the religious convictions of its characters) is serious lacuna.
Listening to the audiobook version was a delight, as I tend to read too fast, preventing the images from taking form in my mind’s eye. The slower pace allowed me to join the architects in designing my own imaginary city, though I certainly tried my best to use photographs to assist the weakness of my own creativity. One resource I highly recommend can be found .
The whole story left me with a wistful longing for a time when people wondered at psychopathic criminals rather than love for the honor of city and nation. I would recommend this book for anyone who’s never wondered at either. ...more
This little volume is probably outdated on elephant knowledge but offers something truly unique. Sanderson offers a kind of world history through the This little volume is probably outdated on elephant knowledge but offers something truly unique. Sanderson offers a kind of world history through the lens of the "Abu" (his collective term for the distinct African and Asian species) and their relationship with mankind. It's quite a fascinating story and provides just as many helpful perspectives on humanity as it does on elephants. I came across this book through a recent article in the New Atlantis which offers a splendid bibliography, one that I'm planning to sift through ponderously, like a loxodont grazing in the jungle. ...more
I don't know what lit a fire in me to read MacDonald, but I finally set about diving into his work and have not regretted it. I began with The PrincesI don't know what lit a fire in me to read MacDonald, but I finally set about diving into his work and have not regretted it. I began with The Princess and the Goblin after coming across a decently cheap copy online and didn't start reading until just a few days after Christmas. I was at a friend's house for a Christmas dinner while a bunch of kids roamed the house. While waiting for dinner, I came upon the living room filled with kids of various ages occupied with various screens, and informed them that I would be reading a story. The TV went off, and a few ground rules were laid: 1) Everyone listens. 2) No one interrupts unless they don't understand something. 3) If one doesn't understand, one MUST interrupt. 4) After each chapter, everyone votes as to whether to stop or continue. I made it through 79 pages and 6-7 chapters before the call for dinner came, and kids from kindergarten age to 7th grade listened fairly attentively without complaint. In between chapters we had good fun speculating about the nature of various elements of the story that MacDonald leaves tantalizingly unspecified, and I got a unanimous "thumbs-up" from the audience after each chapter. In short, it was a wild success and convinced me that this fellow was on to something. I finished the story on my own within a few days and started on a few more, which were rapidly piling up thanks to my Amazon Prime account. MacDonald has a way of writing that is beguilingly simple. Reading him makes one wonder just how hard this storytelling thing is. Such is the nature of truly great storytelling, I believe; its effortless quality is deceptive. That's no exception here. Not long after, I started the sequel, , which begins with one of the most beautiful reveries on alpine beauty I've ever come across. Do yourself a favor and get to know George....more
My second time through this novel has proven it more worthwhile than I'd first regarded it to be. Thus far, it is the most enjoyable of his novels--a My second time through this novel has proven it more worthwhile than I'd first regarded it to be. Thus far, it is the most enjoyable of his novels--a bizarre chronicle of a mid-life crisis that has the humorous contrivance of being set at a time near the end of the world. There are angels and demons, angelism-bestialism, patient-therapists, lordly pilgrims and sovereign exiles that conspire, willingly or unwillingly, to bring Percy's vision of the predicament of twentienth-century western man to light. Saint Thomas More, ora pro nobis....more
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