Girl Detective

Waiting on the Catbus

Day: made

Via

We’re in the middle of a movie bender because of the long Memorial Day weekend and a clump of requests that came in to the library from my reserve queue. I’m struggling to keep up with life basics (must remember: a shower is not a privilege, it is a SOCIAL CONTRACT*) so don’t have time to review each one individually. So.

Kung Fu Panda (2008). With the kids on DVD. They loved it. So did my husband and I. “There is no charge for awesomeness.”

Jane Eyre (2011). Moms’ night out. Loved how literally dark it was, and how strong and sassy Jane was. They did not use the famous line, “Reader, I married him.” Because it wouldn’t have made sense. Judi Dench as Mrs. Fairfax brought a minor character her due.

Kung Fu Panda 2 (2011). With the kids in a theater with extraordinarily expensive popcorn and pop. Total for one adult and 2 child tickets, 2 kid combos, a Fresca (mmm, ester of wood rosin) and a small popcorn: $37.50. Again, very entertaining. “I’m gonna need a hat.”

Exit Through the Gift Shop (2010) with my husband on DVD, part of a clump that came into the library from my request list. Weird. Fascinating. Fun to watch. More than a little head-tilting, though. Huh? What?

More to come. I’m not sure my movie/book balance is going to hold for long.

*Hat tip, LA for this phrase.

I read Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World by Jack Weatherford for one of my book groups. One of the members voiced annoyance after we read The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. She’d wanted us to read non-fiction for a long time, but didn’t love the Lacks book, which had jumped the queue ahead of some of her suggestions. So she got the next pick, and chose Genghis Khan over other biographies of Marco Polo, Magellan and Einstein.

For me this is a great book group book. It’s not one I ever would have picked, it’s by a local author (he’s a professor at Macalester College), and it’s world history, which I am sadly deficient in. It was interesting and accessibly written, though not a quick read. It’s based on the translation of a Chinese document detailing the secret history of Genghis Khan, then follows his descendants and their influence over the centuries. Genghis (a title, not a name) was a warrior intent on gathering all tribes together under the “Banner of the Great Blue Sky,” his animistic faith. Interestingly, religious and cultural freedom, like retaining language and customs, were not only allowed, but encouraged as long as the group submitted to Genghis Khan’s rule and contributed goods to the growing empire.

Genghis Khan’s ability to manipulate people and technology represented the experienced knowledge of more than four decades of nearly constant warfare. At no single, crucial moment in his life did he suddenly acquire his genius at warfare, his ability to inspire the loyalty of his followers, or his unprecedented skill for organizing on a global scale. These derived not from epiphanic enlightenment or formal schooling but from a persistent cycle of pragmatic learning, experimental adaptation, and constant revision driven by his uniquely disciplined mind and focused will. (9)

Weatherford’s main point is well documented and taken–that Genghis Khan was not the monster history has portrayed. But reviews, from National Review and H-Net point out some historical inaccuracies and misreadings in the text. But as an incitement to read more history, or learn more about Genghis Khan, this book is an excellent place to begin.

My husband sent me a link, which he saw at Boing Boing that they got from Making Light to Sustainable Cities on “The Real Reason Why Bicycles are the Key to Better Cities“:

image from Boing Boing

The bicycle doesn’t need to be sold. It’s economical, it’s fun, it’s sexy, and just about everyone already has one hiding somewhere in their garage.

Invite a motorist for a bike ride through your city and you’ll be cycling with an urbanist by the end of the day. Even the most eloquent of lectures about livable cities and sustainable design can’t compete with the experience from atop a bicycle saddle.

“These cars are going way too fast,” they may mutter beneath their breath.

“How are we supposed to get across the highway?”

“Wow, look at that cathedral! I didn’t know that was there.”

“I didn’t realize there were so many vacant lots in this part of town.”

“Hey, let’s stop at this cafe for a drink.”

Suddenly livability isn’t an abstract concept, it’s an experience.

I tried to convince 5yo Guppy and 7yo Drake to go on a bike ride last night. They wanted to watch Phineas and Ferb, so I took my bike out on my own, and went 9.9 miles, if Google is to be believed.

A few weeks ago I traded in my big unwieldy though cute cruiser for a zippier rebuilt Schwinn single speed. It was a lovely early evening, sunny and not too cool. I saw a heart-shaped puddle on the trail:

I’d never listen to a music player while biking, because I wouldn’t feel safe. But my mental playlist popped up Perfect Day by Iggy Pop, Just a Ride by Jem, and Ramblin Man by the Allman Brothers. I have a funny subconscious.

My standard apology for a lapse in blogging. I’ve had a bunch of articles due that I took way too long to write, and life seems to be crashing around me in waves, which are tremendous fun if I’m a little ahead of them, but instead I keep getting sand in my suit and swallowing the ocean.

My husband and I deemed Kenneth Branagh’s new Thor date-worthy, after it got some good reviews out of the gate. And I enjoyed it a great deal, but at least some of that may be due to how ridiculously handsome I found the guy who plays Thor, and I’m normally more drawn to Mediterranean looking guys, not Nordic ones. Some of this, too, has to be due to director Kenneth Branagh, who knows from directing himself as a young king in Henry V, how to made a young blond guy look good, as well as tell a compelling story about how he has to fight for his place on the throne, overcome the rashness of youth, and court an awkward, brunette foreign beauty. But it was the “villain,” the jealous sibling and trickster Loki, played by Tom Hiddleston who really made the film, I thought.

This is not A-list comic-based fare, like Spider Man 2 or The Dark Knight, but it’s up there with Iron Man as a solid, well-done, interestingly cast, entertaining flick.

Who said “he who is not with me is against me”?

a. Jesus
b. Hamlet
c. King Arthur in Excalibur
d. Hillary Clinton
e. Patrick Swayze in Road House

I re-read Dream Country, collection of Neil Gaiman’s Sandman series along with Glen and Linda at NPR’s Monkey See blog. I’d never thought that this volume, the series’ third, would be a good entry into Sandman for newbies, but many commenters say it is. And after this most recent re-reading, I can see why. This book contains four short stories: Calliope, A Dream of a Thousand Cats, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and Facade, illustrated by three different artists. Each brings his/her different look to the quite different stories, which include an artist’s relationship to his muse, a cat seeking justice, a surreal pastiche of fiction and reality around a play performance, and an obscure character exhumed from DC Comics’ archives who briefly gets her own spotlight.

If you haven’t read Sandman, check out Glen’s primer, and try this volume out. This is especially true if you tried volume 1, Preludes and Nocturnes, and gave up. Gaiman and his crew readily admit the series got off to a wobbly start, and they didn’t find their stride till several issues in. Jumping in on Dream Country gives a good idea of the mix of literature, myth and horror that Gaiman and the artists brewed up. It’s heady stuff, and this is a good way to see if it might be for you.

I’ve been reading a lot of post-apocalyptic and dystopian stuff lately, and decided I wanted something cheerier, so I selected Christopher Moore’s Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal for one of my book groups. I read and enjoyed it before (holy cats, that was over five years ago, before Guppy was born!), but think I’ve grown to love it this time. At first, it seems like a silly romp–a fictional account of the lost years of Jesus told by his buddy. But a second reading reinforced not only a sweetness to the story, but an underlying provocativeness that makes me want to go to the gospels to remind myself of what’s “true” and what’s “fiction.” Moore triesto be obnoxious, and probably succeeds, to many people. But I don’t buy it. There’s an underlying earnestness in Biff, and thus in the book, that makes this more than a Bible-based confection.

I wrote in 2005: “This is a fun, funny, clever book. I didn’t find it life-changing, or overly thought-provoking, though.”

I don’t think that was true. I’m pretty sure it was after reading Lamb and the passage in which Joshua and Biff stay with Gaspar in a Chinese monastery that I became conscious of the pervading multi-tasking that I did, and tried to do one thing at a time.

Right before I had a second child. Nice timing. Didn’t work.

But I _am_ aware of it, still, and think of it nearly every morning, when I have to remind myself not to read, but simply enjoy my cappuccino and cherry-pomegranate toaster pastry. So, this book is not only funny, but it might change your life. How’s that for a recommendation?

I was happy to re-read Jennifer Egan’s A Visit from the Goon Squad when it came up as a Books and Bars pick. After I read a friend’s copy and loved it last year, I got my own copy, and didn’t have to wait long for an excuse to re-read it. I imagined I would slow down and savor this set of interrelated stories on a second read, paying close attention to try to fathom how Egan pulled off such a show. Instead, I blazed through it in about 48 hours. The prior reading made me aware of who was who; this anchoring allowed me to glide effortlessly through these linked stories without any shudder of reorientation at each new narrator and setting. I hadn’t noticed the stories were structured like an album, with an A and B section, which seems so obvious in retrospect. I really loved the characters, and the snapshots of their lives over time and into a near and not-so-pleasant possible future.

First, of all, I hope you took time to honor all the mothers in your life. If you live in the US, where it was Mothers Day, or not.

Second, I hope you took time to honor all others who get short shrift this day: those who couldn’t be mothers, those who were but aren’t, those who chose and choose not to be in spite of tremendous societal pressure, single dads, dad-dad families, and anyone else this day. There are many ways to mother, and those whose title it is don’t even always do a good job at it, so we should honor ALL.

Third of all, I’m now up to 4 minutes, and haven’t even written about the lovely day I had yesterday: eggs Florentine and my favorite draft root beer for brunch, browsed at 2 shops full of pretty, shiny things, and got a necklace and earrings. Got a double of passionfruit sorbet and chocolate/amaretto ice cream at my favorite shop, then a macchiato at a new coffee shop, then a nap, then played catch with 7yo Drake and practiced 2-wheeling on his bike with Guppy. Read my book. Went to bed.

I am so, so fortunate and I wish love to you all.

I always figured, given my love for religion and literature, that I would have to read The Red Tent. I didn’t, though, because too many people I trusted told me it was a good story, but not well written. After I recently read The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood, a friend urged me to read this, saying there were so many similar themes and ideas that it would be worth it. And she wasn’t wrong.

The Red Tent is narrated by Dinah (DEE nah), the youngest child and only daughter of Jacob, brother of Esau, by Leah, one of his four wives. Purportedly speaking out of an oral tradition of her mothers, who told her everything, Dinah relates the history of her family from long before she was born, as well as a story from all their perspectives over time. I wondered more than once at the validity of her all-knowingness in spite of the rich oral tradition she came from; far too often she knew a lot too much.

Diamant, a journalist and scholar of Judaism, has done something here that is normally the province of sages and rabbis. She’s created a midrash, or backstory, to explain gaps in the stories of Genesis, such as why Jacob had nine children by Leah if he felt cheated in marrying her, what happened to Dinah after the tragedy described in Genesis 34, and how Joseph and his coat of many colors might fit into these histories. She richly imagines what might have been, and has crafted a popular story based on aspects of Biblical history that many aren’t familiar with, such as the polygamy and polytheism of the time, as well as the deep divisions between the sexes in societal and functional roles. Best of all, for me, was the portrayal of a women’s culture in which the feminine aspect of God had not yet been so cruelly excised from the practice of the nascent religion that Christianity would later claim as its heritage. (NB, this doesn’t necessarily work the other way. Not all practitioners of Judaism believe that Christianity was the next step in development, i.e. what Judaism would become when it “grew up.” Hence the problematic assumptions made with the widespread use of the term Judeo-Christian, used unquestioningly by Christians, and hardly ever by Jews.)

The many and detailed passages about the feminine face of God were worth the time I spent with this book. Among those named were Isis, Astarte, Asherah, the Queen of Heaven (later a name given to Mary the mother of Jesus), Taweret, Gula, Innanna and more.

What didn’t work for me, in addition to the Point of View problem I described above, is that both the writing and story were too similar to a conventional romance or bodice ripper. Numerous passages detailed a romanticized physical appearance of the characters:

Rachel’s beauty was rare and arresting. Her brown hair shaded to bronze, and her skin was golden, honeyed, perfect. In that amber setting, her eyes were surprisingly dark, not merely dark brown but black as polished obsidian or the depth of a well. Although she was small-boned and, even when she was with child, small-breasted, she had muscular hands and a husky voice that seemed to belong to a much larger woman. (8, 9)

[Leah] was not only tall but shapely and strong. She was blessed with full, high breasts and muscular calves that showed to good advantage in robes that somehow never stayed closed at the hem. She had forearms like a young man’s but her walk with that of a woman with promising hips. (12)

I turned to Judah and realized that my brother’s body had begun to take the shape of a man, his arms well muscled, his legs showing hair. He was the handsomest of all my brothers. This teeth were perfect, white and small (114)

or descriptions of their love making, which I will spare you. So, as I suspected, the book was a mixed bag. I know it’s beloved by many, so my ambivalence about it will not endear me to them, but it did illuminate aspects of the society in Handmaid’s Tale, as well as the history of the feminine aspect of god. For those at least, I’m glad I read it.

The documentary Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work got good reviews when it came out, of the urging kind, as in “I urge you to seek out this film.” Eventually it was my turn at the library, and my husband and I watched it this week. And still, it surprised us with how good it was.

Joan Rivers, with her squawky voice and admitted predilection for plastic surgery, would be an easy target. But she steadfastly refuses this role. She’s 75 and not only still working, she’s disappointed in herself if she’s not doing more than one show or appearance a day. She’s happiest when she’s busiest, especially when she’s onstage and making people laugh. She’s shameless about her fear of not working and readily admits she’ll do anything (not just about anything) for money. This honesty helps balance out her raucous, oft offensive, jokes. She is simulataneously unafraid of saying or doing anything, but very afraid of being forgotten or ignored, or bombing on stage. She is fascinating, funny, offensive and though larger than life, still human. This was a fine portrait of an interesting person.

or, How Neil Gaiman Depedestalized Himself. I find it hard believe I haven’t written this story before. If I have, I can’t find it, so here it is.

Neil Gaiman’s Sandman was one of my gateway comics, way back in 1990. A boyfriend urged it on me along with some of the usuals, like The Dark Knight Returns and Watchmen. But Sandman–with its literary references, magic, horror and mystery–was really what hooked me. I started reading during the Season of Mists story line, which is still one of my favorites. I became a geek girl, devouring old series (Alan Moore’s Swamp Thing and V for Vendetta, Baron and Rude’s Nexus, Morrison’s Animal Man and Doom Patrol), showing up at my comic shop on Wednesdays for new comics, and appreciating the attention I received there as a not unattractive female of the species.

Sometime in the early 90’s, Gaiman scheduled a signing at my then comic shop, Fat Jack’s Comicrypt on 19th Street in Philadelphia. I planned carefully for the event. I picked out my favorite outfit, and selected my three items to have signed. I wanted to convey that I was better than the average fan, so I didn’t want to only take recent stuff. After nerdishly obsessing for far too long, I selected the first graphic novel collection of Sandman, Preludes and Nocturnes; issue 19, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream“, which I liked so much I’d bought the individual issue even though I had it collected in Dream Country; and Black Orchid, an obscure DC universe character he’d resurrected in a beautifully painted story by Dave McKean.

I pondered the questions I would ask him. They had to be things I was really curious about, plus that would display how cool I was. The fantasy scenario in my mind was pretty clear. My cuteness, smart questions and interesting signing picks would single me out of the crowd. Neil (of course I was thinking of him on a first-name basis) would ask me to join him and his team for dinner that night. And the obvious would happen: we would become friends. Interestingly, this was strictly a platonic fantasy. He seemed much too old for me, more like a young uncle than a potential love interest. Anyway, he was married and I had a boyfriend, and it just wasn’t on my mind.

The day arrived; I left work early. I found a parking spot on the street just a few blocks from the store. I loaded the meter with quarters, and prepared to meet my destiny. (Sandman pun not intended.) The line, when I arrived, was nearly out the door. I thought I was lucky to be inside, but soon realized the tradeoff. It was a warm summer day outside, and positively stifling inside. Many in line were not conscientious about personal hygiene. The line moved slowly. The grey cat atop the back issue boxes surveyed us all with disdain. Sweat trickled down my back and from under my arms. My hair expanded to a gigantic frizzy triangle. The books I clutched had damp handprints on them. Gaiman and his assistant took a break near the end of the hour I’d thought would be more than sufficient on my meter, and the time approached for the class I had that night. I was not near the front of the line. I asked the guys in front of and behind me in line if they’d save my space, overcoming a flash of grade-school embarrassment. The guy behind me looked annoyed and merely nodded. I had to wade through the crowd to the register to get more quarters. Once outside, I breathed in the relatively fresh air. If you’ve ever been on a street in summer in downtown Philly, you know the steaming, fug-spewing grates on most corners. Still, it compared favorably to the inside of the comic shop. I ran the blocks to my car, plugged the expired meter, and raced back. The line had barely moved. The guy who’d been behind me glared, and didn’t make room for me in line. I glared back, put my shoulder down, and wedged my way back in. Time passed. Gaiman chatted equably with those at the head of the line. The rest of us shuffled forward. The additional hour on my meter ticked down. My class was about to begin. Finally, oh, finally, I reached the head of the line.

“Let’s take a break, get a sandwich, shall we?” said Gaiman’s assistant.

“No!” I cried, desperate and without shame.

Gaiman, his assistant, and the comic-shop guy looked at me as if I’d sprouted a head.

“Please,” I added in what I hoped was a more reasonable tone of voice. “My meter’s about to expire and I have a class I have to get to. Can you please sign these before your break?” In other words, I begged.

Gaiman shrugged and held out his hands for the books; the assistant rolled her eyes and asked him what he’d like to eat. He scribbled a signature in my book without looking to see what it was. I waited for him to answer her so I could ask my questions.

“Are we going to find out how Delight became Delirium?” I said.

He didn’t look up from the book he was signing. “Someone else is going to do that.”

Daunted but determined, I forged ahead, “Is the next issue of Miracleman coming soon?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged, sweeping his Sharpie across the inside of my last book. He pushed the books across the table without looking at me, then stood and walked away. Crushed and disappointed, I slunk out of the store.

My fangirl dreams died that day. Most likely a good thing. Neil Gaiman was a man, not a god like Dream, even though he _was_ English.

Later, when I gained a little perspective, I was able to muster some empathy for him. If the store was miserable for me, at least I could stand quietly in line; he had to be nice to everyone. And I heard he was there for hours after I left in that cramped, airless store. While he was distracted and dismissive at my questions, he was also in the midst of a legal battle over Miracleman, and was likely pretty peeved over the whole affair. It’s easy to imagine that the signing was at least as miserable for him as it was for me. From then on, I could be what I imagined a normal fan. I think of him by his last, not his first, name. I’m appreciative of what I like, disappointed in what I don’t, and interested to see what came next.

I think I’ve been to two readings he’s given since then. At neither did I bother with the line.

I read Peter Bognanni’s new first novel, House of Tomorrow, for the most recent meeting of Books and Bars. Bognanni is a local author, and was able to attend the 2nd half of the discussion, in which he read two very funny short pieces, and graciously answered questions about his book.

House of Tomorrow is a fast, fun read. It’s the bittersweet tale of Sebastian, a teenager who’s been squirreled away in a geodesic dome and homeschooled by his grandmother according to the principles of Buckminster Fuller. (Who, I learned from our discussion, seems to have been known as “Bucky” to his friends.)

I took a deep inhalation of chill air and began pressing and releasing my suction cups, moving over the apex of the dome to tend to the bird stains. At the age of sixteen, I was already the same height my father had been when he passed away, and my lanky frame covered a surprising amount of space on the dome. When I adjusted myself perfectly on the top, every major landmark in town was visible with the naked eye. (3)

When Sebastian’s grandmother collapses during a tour of the house, he meets a family only superficially more normal than his own. He gets to know the Whitcombs, and begins a tentative friendship with Jared, who introduces Sebastian to punk rock. Sebastian had never heard music with lyrics before, so this was a pretty big shock. Each of the characters is dealing (or not, as the case may be) with particular issues, which clash and change over the course of the story. While marketed to an adult audience, this is a charming teen coming-of-age story, and anyone who loves punk should probably check it out, too. It reminded me many times of Frank Portman’s King Dork, which is also a weird-kid-coming-of-age-who-play-in-a-band story. Bognanni (pronounced Bun-YON-ee, not Bog NON ee) says he hasn’t read it, though, so the similarities are coincidental.

Both the story and Sebastian are funny, sweet and sad. While I was bothered that the teen-girl character, Meredith Whitcomb, is overtly sexualized, this worked within the story, but my friend and YA crusader friend Dawn pointed out to me the trope of clueless boys being accosted by sexually intimidating girls, (e.g., King Dork, American Pie) and the same idea is in play here. While it ostensibly gives the woman the power, I think it subversively takes some of it away, too. To Bognanni’s and Meredith’s credit, she is empathic, savvy and intuitive, so a complex character rather than a stereotype.

Over at NPR’s Monkey See blog, they’re doing an “I Will If You Will” book club, with a handy primer for skeptics. The most recent selection is Dream Country, a graphic novel collection of short stories in the series Sandman. The first story is “Calliope” written by Neil Gaiman, pencilled by Kelley Jones, inked by Malcolm Jones III, colored by Robbie Busch and lettered by Todd Klein.

I have been telling you people for years and years to go read Sandman. It was my gateway comic over twenty years ago, and I still make Wednesday pilgrimages most every week to my comic shop for new releases. It’s a horror comic, and it took a while to get its legs, so it’s not for everyone and easy to put down in the early issues. But those who persevere for all 75 issues plus this and that special will be rewarded. Richly.

I am not an uncritical slavering Gaiman-phile. (He crushed my fangirl worship early on, which I now think was really a blessing. I’ll tell that story sometime. In fact, I can’t believe I haven’t told it before.) He’s done some good stuff, some terrible stuff, some derivative stuff, and some really good stuff. Overall, I like his work and his storytelling. I enjoy how he combines a classical education with modern speculative fiction. And I think the whole of Sandman exemplifies that.

So, if you haven’t read Sandman yet, go get a copy of Dream Country. Read “Calliope”, then check out the long but well-worthwhile conversation in the comments (Neil even liked it). Then read the next story, “A Dream of a Thousand Cats” and wait with me for Linda and Glen post about it.

Then wiggle in geek-joy anticipation for the next story, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” one of my favorite comic issues, ever.

So, I won’t actually talk about “Calliope” in this entry, but will start off the comments with it so as not to spoil for those who haven’t (ahem, yet) read it. I did manage to squeak in one comment but didn’t get to follow up after I’d read the other 108.

From: “Does Anyone Want to Be ‘Well-Read?’” by Roger Ebert at The Sun Times laments:

At the end of the day, some authors will endure and most, including some very good ones, will not.

and writes an impassioned defense of reading:

That’s how I’ve done my reading: Haphazardly, by inclination. I consider myself well read, but there has been no plan.

At NPR, Linda Holmes talks about the two approaches we can take to being well read in “The Sad, Beautiful Fact That We’re All Going to Miss Almost Everything“:

Culling is the choosing you do for yourself. It’s the sorting of what’s worth your time and what’s not worth your time…

Surrender, on the other hand, is the realization that you do not have time for everything that would be worth the time you invested in it if you had the time, and that this fact doesn’t have to threaten your sense that you are well-read.

I don’t think culling or surrendering are mutually exclusive. But as I age, I’m leaning more toward surrender. Linda says:

Culling is easy; it implies a huge amount of control and mastery.

I disagree. I find culling exhausting. Too many decisions to make. So I lean toward surrender, but tend to forget sometimes, especially when I’m in a bookstore. I returned a handful of recent purchases today. I resisted buying more. I don’t need them, don’t have time for them, and if either of those things changes, I can buy them later or, better yet, borrow them from the library. I haven’t read, and won’t read, most of the authors Roger Ebert mentions. I’m OK with that. I came late to the desire to be well-read, and feel I am doing a decent job of catching up.

“Why’d you get this?” my husband asked when I brought Stand by Me home from the library. I had to think a moment. “I saw a review of the new Blu-ray edition in EW,” I said (we do not own a Blu-ray machine), “plus you mentioned you’d read on Wil Wheaton’s blog they’d had a reunion and he was sad River Phoenix wasn’t there.”

There you are, folks. As good an example of how my mind works as anything.

I’d seen it before, but can’t remember when. My husband G. Grod hadn’t. I’d read the Steven King novella, “The Body” from Different Seasons. G. hadn’t. So he got to watch a very good film for the first time and I got to be surprised at how well it stood up these years later (apart from the framing sequence, which I didn’t care for) and still cringed and covered my eyes at the scene that most grossed me out AND stayed with me all these years, in both its book and movie form. (Steven King has a way of doing that, doesn’t he? I think there’s one scene from most every one of his books I read that stays with me that I wish I could drain of its power to horrify me.)

It’s about four twelve-year-old boys in 1959, who find out about a secret in the woods, and decide to go looking for it.

Vern: You guys wanna go see a dead body?

It’s a strong character piece, refreshingly devoid of the supernatural elements that are King’s normal stock in trade but what impressed me most were the performances director Rob Reiner coaxed out of his young cast: Wil Wheaton, Corey Feldman, Jerry O’Connell, and poor, dead River Phoenix. The non-showy acting and story combine with apparent effortlessness to tell a satisfying, bittersweet story.

Via Bookmoot, a collection of at The Guardian of envelopes by children’s book illustrators to their publisher. I especially love the Satoshi Kitamura ones, as he’s a favorite of mine. This is an image based on his UFO Diary:

In the wake of re-reading Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead, I wanted to check out her non-fiction essays, like The Death of Adam: Essays on Modern Thought collection from 1998. This is a dense, erudite collection of writings that focus mostly on her defense of Puritanism in general and John Calvin (or Jean Cauvin, as she chooses to sometimes refer to him) more specifically. I read it over the course of a few months, consuming one chapter at a time in between other books. Reading it all at once would have been too much, and would not have allowed me sufficient time to ruminate on Calvin and the other topics she covers. I highly recommend this for those who want to read more of Robinson, and for fans of critical scholarship. Those looking for a quick, fun read should look elsewhere, however.

I have never yet been inspired to do a chapbook-type entry till now, but the essays in this book seem to beg it of me, and should give you an idea if her topics and style would be of interest to you.

Introduction

I want to overhear passionate arguments about what we are and what we are doing and what we ought to do…I propose that we look at the past again, because it matters, and because it has so often been dealt with badly. (4)

I have encountered an odd sort of social pressure as often as I have mentioned [Calvin.] One does not read Calvin. One does not think of reading him. The prohibition is more absolute than it ever was against Marx, who always had the glamour of the subversive or the forbidden about him. Calvin seems to be neglected on principle. (12)

If history means anything, either as presumed record or as collective act of mind, then it is worth wondering how the exorcism of so potent a spirit might have been accomplished, and how it is that we have conspired in knowing nothing about an influence so profound as his is always said to have been on our institutions, our very lives and souls. (13)

Darwinism

What, precisely, this theory called Darwinism really is, is itself an interesting question. The popular shorthand version of it is “the survival of the fittest.” This is a phrase coined by the so-called Social Darwinist Herbert Spencer, in work published before the appearance of the Origin of Species and adopted–with acknowledgment of Spencer as the source–in later editions of Darwin’s book. There is an apparent tautology in the phrase. Since Darwinian (and, of course, Spencerian) fitness is proved by survival, one could as well call the principle at work “the survival of survivors.” (30)

Darwinism is harsh and crude in its practical consequences, in a degree that sets it apart from all other respectable scientific hypotheses; not conicidentally, it had its origins in polemics against the poor, and against the irksome burden of extending charity to them (47)

Facing Reality

Lately Americans have enjoyed pretending they are powerless, disenfranchised individually and deep in decline as a society, perhaps to grant themselves latitude responsible people do not have or desire. (78)

Family

It seems to me that something has passed out of the culture, changing it invisibly and absolutely. Suddenly it seems there are too few uses for words like humor, pleasure, and charm; courage, dignity and graciousness; learnedness, fair-mindedness, openhandedness; loyalty, respect, and good faith. What bargain did we make? What could have appeared for a moment able to compensate us for the loss of these things? (106)

Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Bonhoeffer’s life and his thought inform each other deeply. To say this is to be reminded of the strangeness of the fact that this is not ordinarily true. (110)

McGuffey and the Abolitionists

[McGuffey] is believed to have created or codified a common American culture, and in doing so to have instilled a shirtsleeve values of honesty, and hard work in generations fo children. Moral, cheerful, narrow, and harmless–insofar as such traits are consistent with harmlessness–his texts supposedly expressed and propagated the world view of the American middle class…I read a few of these books, and I came away persuaded that something else was going on with them. (133)

Puritans and Prigs

When we say someone is moral, we mean that she is loayl in her life and behavior to an understanding of what is right and good, and will honor it even at considerable cost to herself. (159)

priggishness…is highly predictable because it is nothing else than a consuming loyalty to ideals and beliefs which are in general so widely shared that the spectacle of zealous adherence to them is reassuring. The prig’s formidable leverage comes from the fact that his or her ideas, notions or habits are always fine variations on the commonplace. A prig with original ideas is a contradiction in terms, because he or she is a creature of consensus who can usually appeal to one’s better nature, if only in order to embarrass dissent. (160)

Marguerite de Navarre, parts I and II

To argue that Marguerite de Navarre, sister of the French king Francois I, was a decisive influence on the literary and religious imagination of Jean Cauvin is to do her no service at all until Calvin is recovered and rehabilitated. (175)

Wilderness

Environmentalism poses stark issue of survival, for humankind and for all those other tribes of creatures over which we have exercised our onerous dominion. Even undiscovered species feel the effects of our stewardship. What a thing is man. (245)

The Tyranny of Petty Coercion

courage is rarely expressed except where there is sufficient consensus to support it. (255)