David Halberstam, The Teammates: a Portrait of a Friendship (2003).
Good Reads meta-data is 218 pages, rated 4.04 by 5789 litizens.
Genre: Biography.
DNA: Red Sox Nation.
Verdict: ‘Good at life.’
Tagline: Life goes on.
The Brotherhood of the Bat was Dominic DiMaggio, Bob Doerr, John Pesky, and Ted Williams. No pitchers allowed. (Grizzle: while pitchers have to bat, batters never have to pitch. Can that be right?) Baseball brought these four together where they had fused into a lifetime camaraderie. A couple had become acquainted as teenagers, others later. One was marital matchmaker to another, and so on. Their children played together and, sometimes, more than that into the next generation.
The common currency in this unlikely union of such differing personalities was baseball, and specifically hitting a baseball. Even in their eighties they could and would argue over technique with the bat. By social norms these four had little in common but baseball, and it was enough. Even when they were no longer teammates, they remained fast friends, though I did wonder how that worked with the draconian fraternisation rules of baseball applied when the teammates were split up, but our author does not comment.
David Halberstam
This short book is a welcome reminder that great performers, in this case athletes, have lives off and on the stage, as well as before and after their careers. It begins at the end with the death of the singular Ted Williams and works back with empathy and insight.
The Lonely Hunter: A Biography of Carson McCullers (1976) by Virginia Carr.
Good Reads meta-data is 600 pages, rated 4.23 by 667 litizens.
DNA: Dixie.
Verdict: Meets the standard.
Tagline: A betazoid.
Born Lula Carson Smith (1917-1967) this precocious and sickly girl-woman was a prodigy, an ill-fated infante incroyable. At fourteen she dropped the ‘Lula’ name and embraced the androgynous ‘Carson,’ a family name. When later she married James Reeves McCullers she took his name and kept it, though she did not always keep him or he her. When Mrs McCullers was 19 she began to write her first novel, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, hard though it is to believe that an adolescent, and one who was comfortably sheltered, could produce such empathy and insight into its cast of characters, but she did.
‘We are all homesick for a place we have never been called happiness.’ She didn’t say that but it fits. McCullers was a tormented and doomed genius, more often than not, silent and alone, like one of her characters.
How did this inconsolable soul emanate from a happy home? This is one of the questions the author deals with in a masterful fashion. It was precisely because she had a supportive and comfortable start in life that her senses extended, almost palpably, to those who were not so fortunate. When the preteen McCullers visited a travelling carnival, she went to the freak show and stood for hours watching the bearded lady, the enormously fat man, the boy with a flat head, the armless man, the legless woman, the dwarf, the pinhead, Andre the giant, half man-half woman, and other deformities of nature, and she wondered so hard about being them that she became one of them in her mind, on paper: an outcast, a reject, inferior, useless, a freak. She also wondered about a god that created such beings and then left them to their own devices.
While McCullers had many writing teachers, a high school graduate, she did not go to college, but rather enrolled in a variety of adult education writing classes. It was through these experiences that she found her way to publication. Even before The Heart is a Lonely Hunter was published, she had written much of what later become Reflections in a Golden Eye.
This biography meets my principal test: it shows the adult in the child and the child in the adult. In the girl Carson are the liniments that form the woman McCullers, and in the mature McCullers, the author shows, the sources in the girl Carson. One example is the cocktail of silent introvert and loud extrovert. Mostly, she was silent and brooding, or perhaps better, soaking up observations of the world and people around her, but she also liked, occasionally, to be the centre of attention, to be opinionated, noisey, and even ill-mannered. There was no in-between of normal conversational interaction.
She began telling stories as a child and never stopped. She was encouraged by her mother who never doubted her genius, and educated in part by her father, the watchmaker who stressed persistence and precision.
The biographer uses passages from McCullers’s novels and stories to describe and explain Carson’s life because she so closely identified with her deformed characters that she became, at least in her own mind, a grotesquerie herself. McCullers has been a posthumous recruit in the LGBTQAA1 alphabet world. All part of her Indiana Jones exploration into the far reaches of the human psyche, looking for a bottom to touch and finding nothing fixed and firm.
She published four novels, many short stories, and several plays.
Let this passage from her first published, though not her first written, work about tweenager Mick Kelly, who goes to bed hungry most nights, indicate the kind of fiction she wrote. Restless, Mick roams her small Georgia town on hot summer nights, and stops to listen to radios emanating from open windows because her family is too poor to own a radio or have the electricity to run it.
“Then the music started. Mick raised her head and her hand went up to her throat. It was like God walking through the night. The outside of her suddenly froze and only that first part of the music was hot inside her heart. She could not even hear what followed, she sat there waiting and frozen, with her fists tight. After a while, the music come again, harder and loud. It was her, this music, walking in the daytime, in the hot sun. The music boiled inside her. She wanted to hang onto it, to all of it. The whole world was this music and she could not listen hard enough to remember it all. Then the opening music again, but this time with different instruments. It was like a hard hand had punched her. And then it ended. This music did not take a long time or short time. It had no time; it was time.”
Music was McCullers’s even greater passion than prose and she was never without it, Beethoven (Eroica above), Brahms, Mozart, Vivaldi, the Liszt goes on.
Her horribilis annus was 1944. Her father died. Her mother collapsed as a result. Carson had three strokes over the year that left her partly paralysed. In between the strokes her recurrent pulmonary affliction knocked her down. During one of the many visits a doctor told her that she could not have children. Then a cancer was discovered. She was accused of anti-Semitism and that wounded her. Her husband was an Army Ranger and his unit went up the bluff face on Normandy Beach with 50% casualties. She knew he was a Ranger and she knew his Ranger regiment took the bluff, per the news reporting, and from that source she also knew the casualty rate, but it was weeks before she learned he had survived, though twice wounded.
Through much of life she was a stick figure with a withered arm. Several surgeries on a leg to restore circulation did not succeed and it atrophied. Recurrent stokes. Near constant pain treated with alcohol and drugs. The press photographs required all too often by publishers were agony for her. She had to psych and pretty herself up, mask her deformed arm in long sleeves and forgo the sling she often wore to keep it out of the way. She would greet an interviewing journalist or photographer seated so as not to reveal how hard it was for her to move. The photographs of her standing were choreographed. Yet through this all those voices of the neglected and rejected that had gestated within her leaked out onto the page, sometimes dictated, sometimes typed with the good hand or written. She was an oracle through whom the speechless spoke.
Reeves McCullers, that husband, survived Normandy with wounds and later when he was herding German prisoners onto trucks, he waited for the next truck, a German naval officer who was at the head of line read the name stencilled on his shirt – ‘McCullers,’ and in English said, pointing, ‘An unusual name. Did you write The Heart is a Lonely Hunter? A very moving book.’ It seems this German had read it in captured booty earlier. Reeves told the German it was his wife who wrote it, and then he, the German, dug into his kit bag and handed over a piece of Belgian lace, saying, ‘Give it to her from a grateful reader.’ After the war, the textile hung as silent testament on the walls of their digs. Throughout her life, when her health permitted she read and replied to letters from readers.
Aside: It rivals the story I read elsewhere of the Luftwaffe pilot who on being shot down west of Bradford in Yorkshire, asked his capturers if he might see the Brontë’s cottage before being taken away.
Virginia Carr
The book is almost a diary of her day to day life, and I got bogged down in detail that did not, to this reader, add any more understanding of either the author or her works. In such a forrest few trees were visible. No doubt those whose accolades adorn the book cover had greater persistence than did I.
The movies I have seen derived from her books are pale watermarks of the intensity of the original. I expect most of her novels are now banned in Florida.
Pel and The Death of a Detective (2000) by Juliet Hebden
Good Reads meta-data is 224 pages, rated by 4.33 by 3 litizens.
Genre: krimi.
DNA: France: Burgundy: Gauloise.
Verdict: Is this the end of Pel?
Tagline: Incroyable! Pel stopped smoking…for hours on end.
Everiste Clovis Désiré Pel, Commissionare, Police Judiciare, Dijon is nearing the end. The moody, irascible, sharp-tongued, hypochondriac considers giving up the struggle, the struggle against the judiciary, the struggle against the rules and regulations, the struggle against the well armed villains, the struggle with the hapless civilians who see nothing, hear nothing, and know nothing when questioned by police officers. (And perhaps also the struggle against we readers who want more and more of Pel and we want it now!)
All these frustrations came to a head for Pel when one of his detectives is killed in action because, he thinks, of misinformation supplied by a rule bound bureaucrat who is more interested in photo ops than crime fighting. No, not the egregious Misset, the bad penny who always lands on his feet somehow, but his number one, Daniel of the movie star good looks, which proved no protection against bullets.
Pel has earned a rest after 25 books and two generations of writers chronicling his trials. Here near the end the thin veil is dropped and Dijon is named as the locale.
Much as I enjoy the hunchbacked, balding, diminutive chimney that is Pel, I found this title to be overdone. There are so many back and side stories at the start I needed GPS to navigate. However, it is also true to say that (nearly) all these threads are drawn together at the end, but even so it was hard going wielding a mental machete to get to the end.
Good Reads meta-data is 304 pages, rated 3.68 by 811 litizens.
Genre: Krimi.
DNA: Israeli.
Verdict: heavy duty procedural.
Tagline: slow and unsure wins the race.
When the Psychoanalytic Institute in Jerusalem is opened early Saturday morning one of its most illustrious members is found dead. It is a job for Michael Ohayon, chief inspector, who is always exhausted and frequently distracted but seems to have a bottomless budget.
The first question is practical, how was the misdeed done? It sorta looked like suicide but the absence of the gun blunted enthusiasm for that conclusion (though we know that is not always decisive, see The Silence of the Rain discussed elsewhere on the blog). Then the next question is why. What was the motive? Was the perpetrator someone off the street or a member of the Institute. The security of the building is proof against an intruder, so then an insider, or – just to complicate things – an outsider with access to an insider, must be a murderer!
On it goes with a cast of blue herrings: a soldier, a confused patient, a jealous rival, an inept analyst, an Arab gardener, and more in a rich cast. In the end, well, read the book.
It has much back-and-forth in Jerusalem at all hours, which I found more interesting than the de rigueur backstory of Ohayon. The trope is a variant of the locked room murder. In this case the locked Institute. It is also a variant of the isolated locale, since the Institute is staffed and frequented by very few. Then there are the stock uncooperative witnesses whose next scheduled meeting is far more important than apprehending a murderer in their ranks.
There are some loose ends to this casual reader: the lecture notes seemed to have been stolen twice. I never did find out what was in the lecture manuscript that was so important. Though the solider was treated carefully, not so the far more formidable judge.
Batya Gur
In short, it has the usual ingredients of a police procedural and they were well handled, so that I kept reading. I will likely try another in this long running series. This one, by the way was the first.
I Hate Hockey (2011) J’häis le hockey by François Barcelo
Good Reads meta-data is 112 pages, rated 3.20 by 60 litizens.
Genre: krimi.
DNA: Québec.
Verdict: This is an adult?
Tagline: Take a deep breath; slow down.
How can any Canadien hate hockey? Least of all a Québécois? In the Eastern Townships there is only one sport – Le hockey! And it is not a sport but a way of life! Or so everyone feels, except our Hero. He blames hockey for ending his marriage, because his wife was a fanatic for the game, and he could never quite manifest sufficient interest in it to satisfy her. He blames hockey for the estrangement of his teenage son, who is embarrassed by a father who doesn’t skate. He blames hockey for losing his sales job because he could not talk the sport with customers. In short, he couldn’t keep his stick on the ice. Worse, he doesn’t want to do so!
Yet, by dint of a cosmic misalignment, he is suborned into acting, emphasis on ‘acting,’ as coach for his son’s hockey team in one match, because the league rules requires adult supervision and no one else is available. This is one fish out of water, or on ice, or something.
The players are so good they don’t need a coach except for compliance. However he discovers that the real coach died, unexpectedly. That is, he was murdered. Specifically, beaten to death by one or more hockey sticks! Tabernac!
It is told in a frenetic style of the early Woody Allen, which was at first entertaining, bemusing, then exhausting, soon annoying, and finally irritating. Hero jumps from one ill-founded conclusion to another with Olympic speed absent Olympic grace.
François Barcelo
A 100 breathless page monologue with Romeo and Juliet ending that bears no relation to previous pages. The end.
The Silence of the Rain (1996) O silèncio da chuva by Luis Alfredo Garcia-Roza
Good Reads meta-data is 256 pages, rated 3.68 by 913 litizens.
Genre: krimi.
DNA: Brazil.
Verdict: It is not about Espinosa.
Tagline: Variation on the locked room.
The introverted Inspector Espinosa inspects after a victim is found shot to death in locked car parked in a large, downtown garage. Is it robbery gone wrong, or something else staged to look like that? With patience, persistence, resilience, and the other virtues of literary detectives Espinosa traipses back and forth through Rio de Janeiro to find out, often taking the subway or a bus since parking, even for a marked police car, is nigh impossible.
We know something he doesn’t from the get-go and that deepens the mystery for readers because….
No honour among thieves but there were so many thieves I got lost. I never did fathom the original act, the widow, her would-be paramour, or the motivation of the villain, but it was a good trip all the same.
There is a strong sense of place with the tropical flora, coastal weather, enervating humidity, salvation air conditioning, criss-crossing Rio de Janeiro by night because it is too hot to do much in daylight.
It is not every detective who obsessively reads Charles Dickens in down time or keeps cautioning himself not to jump to conclusions. Though I thought he was let down sometimes by non-sequiturs in the translation, and a confusion among the characters.
Ricardo motivations? Unknown to me. Aurelio motivations? Unknown to me.
Luiz alfredo Garcia-Roza
I have read 3 or 4 of this series which run to either 8 or 11 depending on which opinionator on Good Reads is cited. The author is a professor of philosophy at Rio University. Perhaps that explains why the detective is called eSpinoza.
Amo, Amas, Amat, and More (1985) by Eugene Ehrlich
Good Reads meta-data is 329 pages, rated 3.80 by 188 litizens.
Genre: Reference.
DNA: Latin.
Verdict: nihil obstat.
Tagline: ab initio.
Reading a history of Latin last week reminded me of this well-thumbed book on the desk reference shelf, and so, in an idle moment, I retrieved it. It is an alphabetical list of Latin tags. It has a detailed index for seekers of the right phrase.
It makes an important distinction, that partly justifies the exercise, between the translation of a Latin idiomatic phrase and its meaning. The example is ab asino lanam, literally ‘wool from an ass.’ Ehrlich renders it equivalent to the English idiom, ‘blood from a stone.’ The meaning is that the impossible cannot be done. That is a salutary reminder that some of those magisterial Latin tags come from the barnyard.
The cover boasts an introduction by William F. Buckley, Jr. What wise and witty things might this über maven offer to those of us who do not have the good fortunate to be him? Hmm, 0 is the answer. It runs to just over a page and is mostly about his favourite subject, himself. What a surprise.
Considering that the book has been in print for 40 years, I expected more raters on Good Reads. The WorldCat lists in 1445 libraries in 13 editions. By contrast Ad Infinitum: A Biography of Latin is found in 800 libraries.
It starts in the Vatican Library, a place I would like to see, where a woman, having gained the necessary permissions, is consulting…a cookbook. It went down hill from there.
Titillation without substance follows for hundreds of pages. All the women are mysteriously beautiful. The men are handsome and, well, manly. The sex is plentiful. The stereotypes are working overtime. All the many murders are elaborately gruel, gruesome, and detailed. A more descriptive title would have been A Season at the Abattoir.
Leaden prose, place name dropping but no ambience. All the ingredients for well received book on Good Reads: Vacuous and trite. (My, I am feeling grumpy today.) Instead of plot or character we have an enveloping conspiracy of the unnamed and unseen others.
First in a series for those strong of stomach and weak of mind.
David Hewson
***
Written in that fractured thriller style back-and-forth between characters and settings that leaves me cold.
I chose it for opening scene in Vatican Library, but it is just a site for some gaudy, gruesome, and cheap thrills. Might as well have been an abattoir. I tried to read it years ago and stopped, trying again to get my money’s worth out of it, a duty not a pleasure, interest, or diversion
Pel and the Precious Parcel (1997) by Juliet Hebden
Good Reads meta-data is 176 pages, rated 3.33 by 3 litizens.
Genre: krimi.
DNA: France; Species: Burgundy.
Verdict: Hooray for Pel.
Tagline: He’s back!
The irascible Inspector Pel who never has a good word to say about or to anyone is on the job, and, as usual, he won’t let go. Sergeant Misset is a lazy incompetent; the weather is damnable and damned; and the witnesses are witless, but Pel keeps on keeping on.
When a group of armed men in hooded black clothing rob the cargo hold of a plane on the airport apron, they take only one package. Which package is that? Why, the one containing perfume samples! Perfume!
As he reached for his 30th Gauloise of the day, Pel could hardly believe his ears. The plot thickens when a technician finds that the listed weight for the parcel on the cargo manifest far exceeded anything such a volume of perfume could weigh. What was in the parcel?
Those in the perfumery and the family that owns this private business are clueless, so they say. But Pel knows a lie when he hears one and presses on, because someone knows something, and he will ferret it out with his usual distempered determination taken out on those around him, that is, all save Madame Pel in whose presence he goes all docile and devoted. Had he a tail then it would wag in her presence.
In several of Pel’s cases there is a long echo of the Debacle and the Occupation, as there is here in a minor key.
***
This is number 20 in the series, the third by Juliet who took to the typewriter when the founder Mark hung up his keyboard. There is only one Pel no matter the name on the cover.
IMDb meta-data is runtime of 1h and 24m, rated 6.1 by 445 cinematizens.
Genre: Sy Fy.
DNA: USSR.
Verdict: Lugubrious.
Tagline: [Ask the bear]
An American journalist finally gets permission to enter a restricted area in the Appalachian Mountains, but before he sets out he is abducted and…. [Who knows.] But he has little memory of this excursion. It might have been a dream. Off he goes to meet many hillbilly stereotypes, including an idiot savant of mathematics destined to be an actuary.
There is a reference to genetic manipulation of bears to increase intelligence and that may have something to do with the restrictions. Yes, brown bears.
***
The A.I. subtitles were nearly unintelligible but amusing. I never did figure out the plot. Nor did the poor quality of the video help.
Some Soviet filmmakers masked criticism of their own society by setting stories elsewhere, especially in science fiction, and this might an example of that. By the way, this also occurred in the States, the examples being the Twilight Zone or Star Trek on themes no commercial sponsor would otherwise accept.
