“We set our stupidities in dignity when we set them in print.” —Montaigne, 1592
I like Michel de Montaigne — I’ve written about him before. For a guy whose life is pretty drastically different from mine, he made observations from his life that I find eerily applicable to my own. And I’m not the only one. HisEssays have been in print more or less since they were first published in 1580.
Writer-who-draws (and thinker) Austin Kleon shared the quote I copied above (and into my journal) the other day, and I didn’t understand it right away. What does Montaigne mean? The more I think about it, the more it confuses me.
Portrait of Michel de Montaigne, 1570s
Does Montaigne mean that setting our stupidities in print improves them? My stupidities remain pretty stupid no matter what I do with them. Setting them in print sure doesn’t dignify them.
Or does it change the nature of stupidity at all? Is Montaigne saying that printing them merely dignifies them and does not correct them? In fact, whatever dignity is gained, the stupidity is all the worse now that it’s in print? Folly upon folly.
I don’t know.
About the Author: Benjamin L. Clark writes and works as a museum curator.
Growing up in Lincoln, Nebraska, in the 1980s and ’90s, there was a bookshop in the scuzzier part of downtown in an old brick building, under a towering overpass that took you out to the interstate on the east side of town. It was a tiny corner of our modest town that felt like a much bigger city. There were pigeons.
Bluestem Books was an institution by then. There were always cats around, and no one cared if you stayed and browsed or just sat and read for hours on end. Even as a teen doing his best grunge impression day in and out browsing the history, essays, and mystery sections. There was an old green chair in a little nook that was a coveted spot. People would circulate through the store, accidentally sneaking up on one another because there were virtually no open lines of sight because of the tight, full shelves.
The building was also ancient, for Lincoln. The wavy glass in the drafty windows and crumbly brick gave the building a charming derelict feel it may have deserved. Doorways had been knocked through brick walls, giving the shop a rambling layout. The wood floors creaked dreadfully, though muffled under threadbare, faded rugs. Old cast iron pipes passed through here and there, their purposes unclear. Strange metal fittings studded the concrete vault ceilings in places. I wondered if portions of the bookshop had once served as a meat locker or some other weigh-station for once-living things headed out on the nearby rail lines.
It was always warm in there. It probably had more to do with an old boiler heating system, but that was my recollection of it. Going there on an intensely cold day, howling winds that wanted to slam the door on you as you wrenched it open. The door may have been kept attached to the building with a long, old storm door spring to help it eventually snap shut. The spring sang a stretched-out springy twang and thwack back into the door as it closed. There was a faded, soiled note taped to the door with instructions on how to use the door. “Hold on tight on windy days,” or “Don’t let the door slam,” or something like that.
Near that old green chair were a couple of short shelves dedicated to series like Everyman’s Library and The Modern Library — small vintage uniform editions of classics and some contemporary fiction, “contemporary” meaning 1920-1965 or so, arguably the heyday of such series. It was there that I saw the Modern Library series as a series — the recognizable books were a great size and affordable, and they looked cool on the shelf. Looking cool on the shelf is a virtue we don’t admit often enough as book lovers.
I don’t remember if I bought any Modern Library books there that early … I may have. I never had a lot of money, but I sometimes had a job after school, so I had a little spending money in my teens. I don’t remember buying much there in my teenage years, really. But it felt good to be somewhere where I could buy books.
After leaving Lincoln for college, I would try to come back whenever I was back in town. I’d bring friends sometimes but usually come alone. It was the kind of bookshop that in some ways was better to go alone.
Reading one of the John Dunning biblio-mystery novels featuring his rare bookseller/ detective, Cliff Janeway, which takes place mostly around Denver, I sat upright one night where toward the end they mention Bluestem Books in Lincoln by name. My book world had been so insular, so much part of my niner life that it was strange to think this author had been there too and wrote about it, and it came into my hands. I took my battered paperback down to Scott at Bluestem and had him autograph it. He laughed and told me he’d had a few others, but not in a long time.
Around 2000, they added a bookshop dog, who was a delightful addition, and quite a departure from the cats they had. A floofy friendly thing a little less broad than an ottoman and about as tall named Don Diego. I’m not a cat person, but I remember one cat named Thurber who had been awarded employee of the month for several months (and years) running. But then Diego was different. He was eventually awarded the title of Director of Customer Relations, a role to which he was perfectly suited. He was a Havanese, a breed of dog I had to look up later after I’d asked the owners about him. “He’s hypoallergenic!” they claimed. Don Diego’s grand-niece Maribel is now filling in since his retirement.
Don Diego de la Bluestem. And the old address under the overpass.
Even by the mid-1990s, things were changing in downtown Lincoln’s western district, soon to be ubiquitously known as “The Haymarket.” The thrift stores and vacant storefronts that were home to the homeless and pigeons were beginning to change. Fresh brown paper went over the windows, and work trucks began to fill the alleyways. Eventually, it became Lincoln’s hotspot, to the betterment of local tax revenues, no doubt, but losing its seedy charm.
Bluestem had to move too, eventually but managed to find a larger location not too far away, but it’ll always be the old building in the shade of an overpass I used to think was a meat-locker by the railroad tracks on the bad side of downtown that I’ll hold in my heart.
About the Author: Benjamin L. Clark writes and works as a museum curator.
The Library Book by Susan Orlean — This book was on some great end-of-year lists last year and for good reason. I had it on my shelf for a while waiting for “someday,” and, well, someday came. It’s an amazing book. Is it very, very long-form journalism, is it popular history? A twist on True Crime? Where does that line even exist? It doesn’t matter. Deeply, passionately researched, this is a love story. Not simply to the beautiful Central Library in downtown Los Angeles, but to libraries everywhere, to the librarians who made and make them what they are, and most of all to the libraries of our hearts.
Burning the Library
Los Angeles Public Library, courtesy, California Historical Society, CHS2015.1897
The story of the 1986 fire that became one of the largest single-event losses of print culture in human history is the burning hoop that keeps this story together, fueled by the clear-eyed curiosity of Susan Orlean. Orlean is present in the story, but with so much uncertainty around the fire, and around the man who was arrested for it, her voice is the anchor readers need. Harry Peak was arrested for starting the fire, but not charged and eventually released has a slippery historical record, but a fascinating and in the end, sympathetic story. He died in 1993. Though the case remains unsolved, Orlean has done an incredible job taking the scraps and bits, talking to the right people who still remember important things, and puts it all together, not only cohesively and effectively, but in a touching and humane way.
I’ve liked the L.A. Library for a long time, too. I’ve never been there or anything, but I like the architect who designed it, Bertram Goodhue. He also designed the capitol building of my home state of Nebraska. He is an interesting person as well, and his role isn’t ignored either.
What Didn’t I Like?
Nothing. It was an incredible story well told. I’m sure Orlean could have filled four thick volumes of footnotes for all of it, but didn’t need to. I can see some readers may not see the point of going back to the L.A. Public Library’s very genesis, and down through the years along the way, but I found it fascinating! There are several other people who should have a lot more written about them! What we got was not enough! I kept hopping over to Wikipedia to look up more about individuals mentioned, looking for other connections.
Reading Such A Book “In Times Like These”
“Under our current circumstances,” “in these unprecedented times,” whatever your preferred euphemism for sheltering at home during a novel virus pandemic that has already taken 300,000 lives worldwide, it’s a strange time to review a book at all. Especially one about a disaster. But I found this book to be strangely calming. Orlean brings order from an avalanche of charred, damp, broken bits. I also miss my local library. Also, as curator of a museum, I couldn’t help but feel encouraged — we’re going to be OK too.
The book was also a balm for how open-ended our “current circumstances” are. The library fire burned for several hours, but the destruction and unanswered questions lasted for years. I can’t imagine working in the conditions the people there endured for so long. Would the library be rebuilt? Would the institution even survive? Could the city even afford to rebuild if there was political will to do so? Spoiler alert: In the end, the library was restored, expanded, and is thriving.
Who Should Read It?
Bibliophiles of any stripe, anyone interested in the history of Los Angeles. Creative people, people pushing nostalgia for the 1980s. People facing disasters. Survivors. Culture vultures, architecture nerds, the bookish, the lonely, the weird kids. Friends of the Library, Museum, Symphony, Theater, whatever. It’s a great book and you should read it too.
John le Carré (David Cornwell) says that every one of his books was titled The Pigeon Tunnel at some point in the early stages. He finally nails a book worthy of the title with this memoir of his writing life, his time working for British Intelligence, and between the lines, a sense of the man behind the stories of espionage and intrigue.
Le Carré tells stories about meeting Arafat, about fellow author and intelligence operative Graham Greene, and letting Robert Redford borrow his Swiss ski chalet, which he’d built with the proceeds of his first smash hit book The Spy Who Came in from the Cold… But le Carré doesn’t splay these stories before readers, pushing his own life before us like a wordy, mercenary paparazzi, exploiting his limelight-adjacent life. He also comes across as a man trying to sort things out, but barely mentions marriages and children. Perhaps out of respect for their privacy, or perhaps because they’ve been covered in past interviews. I don’t know, but for me, it’s a curious absence.
Some stories are well-polished yarns le Carré has no doubt shared for many years over drinks, at readings, or over dinner. Like the time he was with Joseph Brodsky when he found out he won the Nobel Prize. Or being summoned by Margaret Thatcher to Number 10.
Then there are the stories of his father. Ronnie Cornwell, le Carré’s father, was a con man of the very highest order. A few of his schemes and cons are outlined here by le Carré, but again, as a man trying to make heads or tails of what information he’s been able to gather, and willing to share. You can almost see him shaking his head throughout the retelling. However, it does give readers a glimpse into how the son of con-man would be drawn into the life of intelligence.
John le Carré speaking at the German Embassy in London in June 2017.
It’s an excellent book. You won’t find much of “the writer’s life” type of musings, but I doubt many readers will be all that interested in that. No, over his long and productive life, I get a sense that le Carré has been just as busy managing his intellectual property rights, film rights, and fighting off lawsuits and inquiries to make the actual writing of fiction a wonderful respite when he’s able to get down to it. I recommend Pigeon Tunnelif you’re interested in his books, Cold War stories, or Hollywood.
And about that title. After reading his explanation, which takes readers along on a gambling escapade in Monte Carlo, I can see just about any one of his books carrying the title, and it’s meaning, very well. It’s perhaps the aptest metaphor I’ve read in a very long time for not only the life of people working in intelligence but also for writers. I don’t think Le Carré sat on the title all these years because he kept finding titles that suited his novels better. I think he knew it was a title with only one story worthy of it: His own.
About the Author: Benjamin L. Clark writes and works as a museum curator.
The Kincade Fire had been burning for a couple of days and the National Weather Service alerted us that 70 mph winds were on the way. I live in Santa Rosa, California, and my home was becoming surrounded by mandatory evacuation zones. Pacific Gas & Electric (PG&E) announced they were cutting power in more areas, too. Homes and businesses were starting to burn. As my wife and I talked about evacuation, I started thinking about my books.
My book collection as it stands today is … I like to think of it as a carefully curated distillation of the mighty thing it once was. As a museum curator, my career has taken me on big moves a few times, to the point that today I own maybe a modest few hundred books as opposed to the several thousand I’ve owned over the course of my entire life. But even a few hundred books is a lot of books. My wife’s collection is about the same size, likely giving us around a thousand books or so between us. Though we’ve been together for about five years now, we only just started shelving our books commingled together recently. These things take time, right?
The yellow circle is where we live.
The fire was about 15 miles away but was growing and growing, expected to become larger than the devastating Tubbs Fire of 2017 that burned thousands of homes in our city and though we weren’t here for it, everyone we know was. The whole city gets anxious when there’s smoke in the air. At our house, when our power goes out, we lose cell service, mobile data, pretty much everything but the battery-powered radio. So, instead of sitting at home and listening to the wind rattle our house, smelling smoke and wondering if it was getting closer and waiting for the police sirens to tell us to evacuate immediately … we took off ahead of being told to.
But what to take? We packed light, a few days worth of clothes and both of our handwritten journals (many years worth for both of us) and a couple of boxes of photographs. We each grabbed a couple of books, mostly to read while we were away, fairly confident we’d be home soon. I took a few quick videos on my phone of our bookshelves, just in case, and we left.
In fact, though we were under no direct threat from the fire after we arrived at our hotel a couple of hours away, it was funny what did grab after we took stock. I only took two shirts. The one I was wearing and another, which apparently had some gum in the pocket when it went through the laundry and now sported a big ugly blotch on the chest, which I hadn’t noticed grabbing it out of the dryer. I also brought no other shoes than what I had on. We also brought enough LEGOs to rebuild a temporary home should the need arise.
While we were away I couldn’t help thinking about the books I left behind. Not merely particular titles, but *my* copies. My copies of Walden — the copy that turned me into a bibliophile, my second edition, my collection of the Sherlock Holmes stories, P. G. Wodehouse, the Saga of Hugh Glass my grandfather gave me to prove he was right and I was wrong, gifts from my wife. What about the pieces of wonderful ephemera that I’m sure I own the sole copies? I couldn’t think about it too much without getting a terrible feeling. I had other things I needed to be thinking about.
Coming Home
After five days of being almost constantly on the move, a neighbor said the power was coming back on. We decided to head for home. Fortunately (?) we’d have two previous multi-day power outages, so we didn’t have a lot of food on hand to spoil in the refrigerator or deep-freeze. We had buttoned up the house pretty tight, so there wasn’t much smoke or ash to deal with either, though I think next time I’m going to tape the gaps in the back doors, which I should have thought of. Due to the winds, we did lose a couple of our sad patio chair cushions. All-in-all, we got off extremely easy compared to some of our neighbors.
Bouillabaisse for Bibliophiles
We unloaded the car and I went straight to my shelves, thankful. What did I read when I came home? I leaped at my copies of William Targ’s Bouillabaisse for Bibliophiles and Unpacking my Library by Leah Price. I had only recently rediscovered my copy of Targ’s Bouillabaisse after it had been in storage for a while, and I had reluctantly assumed I’d given it away. It’s exactly what you’d expect. A hearty stew of choice morsels simmered together to what really amounts to bookworm comfort food. My copy is special to me. It’s not special in any intrinsic way. I’ve had it for many years (and moves) now, buying it at the public library used book sale while I was in grad school in Texas. I remember reading it then and how wonderful it was as a balm to my bibliophilic soul at a time when my reading was guided by coursework. It’s an anthology of all kinds of book-related stories. Stories from writers, the great collectors, librarians, publishers, just about anyone associated with books (up to the late 1940s when it was published).
Unpacking My Library: Writers and their books
Leah Price’s Unpacking My Library: Writers and Their Books isn’t so much a special copy, but one that I knew would be a comfort. Stories from writers who range from ardent bibliophiles to others who just understand that books are useful tools without getting too sentimental about them. Several of them shared stories I found comforting. Stories of loss and starting over, and renewal, but also the power of books.
In the End, It’s Just Stuff
Going through the evacuation did not help me decide what I should take should there be a next time. Do I take the precious stuff? The sentimental stuff? The unique stuff? The valuable stuff? It’s hard to say.
Don’t get me wrong, I would be *devastated* to lose my home library. But what do you grab in a fire? I’m still not sure which books I should take with me when we evacuate for a wildfire, but I do know this: I would drop it all for my kid’s favorite hat, the family portrait drawn by a caricaturist, or anything else to bring my loved ones comfort as we sit and wait in terrible anticipation.
About the Author: Benjamin L. Clark writes and works as a museum curator.
Did James Crumley write the greatest opening to a crime novel of all time?
Author James Crumley in 2005, via Wikipedia
October 12, 2019, would have been writer James Crumley’s 80th birthday had he lived to see it. He died in 2008. Long before then, his books had developed not only a cult following but critical acclaim as well, and today, they still don’t have the recognition they have long deserved. I don’t remember when I found Crumley, or how. He was probably referenced somewhere when I moved to Montana on a list of Montana writers or perhaps on a list of crime writers everyone should know. Either way, it would have been around the time of his passing in 2008. I also started to go deep into Mystery/Crime/Thriller writing, seeking mentors in text at that time. I found myself a copy of The Last Good Kiss right away at a defunct paperback exchange, and branched out from there, picking up copies of any of his books I found at used book shops whenever I found them.
Crumley seemed to have liked long openings too. His sentences are lush, but not long. There’s something of Steinbeck, even Faulkner in there, but not ponderous. Every bit as “Masculine” as Hemingway, but without the fragility of a man both attracted to women and repelled by them for their inherent threat to that sense of masculinity. I don’t get tired of Crumley. I can get hungover with him, though.
So, today, writing from my home, a ramshackle place just outside Sonoma, California, I remembered one of the truly great openings in crime fiction, from The Last Good Kiss. It’s one of Crumley’s shortest and is fairly widely acknowledged as one of the greatest openings of all time.
“When I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon.” – The Last Good Kiss (1978), 4.06 avg rating — 6,112 ratings.
James Crumley’s Other Openings
James Crumley published eight novels in his lifetime. The openings for each of them is below, in chronological order. After the titles are the Goodreads numbers, a rating based on a 5-star system and the number of given ratings. (Even though I’m more of a LibraryThing man myself.)
“It’s funny how stories get around. Just the other day Captain Gallard mentioned that one about the car. He hadn’t spoken for several minutes, but had sat, staring out my window toward the sixteenth green running his fingers through his curly hair. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, drifting far from the Philippines, all the way back to Iowa and his childhood, as he told me about the mythic automobile of his youth.” One to Count Cadence (1969), 3.91 avg rating — 310 ratings.
“There’s no accounting for laws. Or the changes wrought by men and time. For nearly eighty years the only way to get a divorce in our state was to have your spouse convicted of a felony or caught in the act of adultery. Not even physical abuse or insanity counted. And in the ten years since I resigned as a county deputy, I had made a good living of those antiquated divorce laws. Then the state legislature, in a flurry of activity at the close of a special session, put me out of business by civilizing those divorce laws. Now we have dissolutions of marriage by reason of irreconcilable differences. Supporters and opponents were both shocked by the unexpected action of the lawmakers, but not as shocked as I was. I spent the next two days sulking in my office, drinking and enjoying the view, considering the prospects for my suddenly very dim future. The view looked considerably better than my prospects.” – The Wrong Case (1975), 4.01 avg rating — 1,423 ratings.
“We had been blessed with a long, easy fall for western Montana. The two light snowfalls had melted before noon, and in November we had three weeks of Indian summer so warm and seductive that even we natives seem to forget about winter. But in the canyon of Hell Roaring Creek, where I live, when the morning breeze is stirred off the stone-cold water and into the golden, dying rustle of the cottonwoods and creek willows, you could smell the sear, frozen heart of winter, February, or, as the Indians sometimes called it, the Moon of the Children Weeping in the Lodges, crying in hunger.” – Dancing Bear (1983), 4.08 avg rating — 843 ratings.
“When the 3:12 through freight to Spokane hit the east Merriweather crossing, the engineer touched his horn and released a long, mournful wail into the wet, snowy air of our second early fall storm in western Montana. It sounded a hell of a lot like the first note of a Hank Snow ballad. I slipped the dolly from under the jukebox and plug it into the extension cord. When I drop a quarter into the slot, the large machine burped, the bubbling neon tubes glowed softly in the night, and the machine seemed to settle more solidly onto the railroad tracks.” – The Mexican Tree Duck (1993) – winner 1994 Dashiell Hammett Award, 3.74 avg rating — 835 ratings.
“Maybe it was the goddamned suit. Tailor-made Italian silk, as light and flimsy as shed snakeskin. Or maybe my whole new clean and shiny wardrobe looked strange under my battered old face. A thin knit shirt under the suit coat, woven leather loafers — without socks, of course — and a soft Borselino felt fedora that made me look like a Russian Black Sea summer pimp. Not bad, though, I thought. For a pimp.” – Bordersnakes (1996), 3.89 avg rating — 523 ratings.
[In the Advance Reading Copy of Bordersnakes I happen to own, has the wonderful typo, “woven lather loafers.” Borsalino is also misspelled.]
The author’s collection of James Crumley novels
It was late November on the edge of the Hill Country, but I had learned very quickly that down here nothing was ever quite what it seemed. As I drove through northwest Austin that day, it might as well have been spring. The thin leaves of the pecan trees hadn’t turned. People still mowed their lawns in T-shirts and shorts. Or in this upscale neighborhood, watched various illegal aliens hustle like dung beetles back-and-forth across the thick Saint Augustine lawns through scattershot swarms of gnats. Overhead a brilliant afternoon sun floated in the rich blue sky polished cloudless by those soft southeastern breezes. A single buzzard overhead seem to be keeping a weathered eye on things. Winter seemed distant promise, bound to be broken. – The Final Country (2001), 3.89 avg rating — 412 ratings.
It was a lovely, calm Montana summer evening, a Saturday night after a long weekend of softball. The full moon rose blazing over Mount Sentinel, outlining the mall of the Hell Gate Canyon with silver fire. A streak of summer haze like a line of blood lay across the moon’s idiot face. The motel’s pool lights were reduced to dim glows. The hot tub shimmered around us like a pot of silver. The earlier August afternoon had been as hot as a fiddler’s bitch, and a molten slice of sunset still glowed with a hot golden flame along the jagged edge of the western horizon, but the early evening air had cooled quickly enough to draw vaporous swirls of steam from the heated water. The rising moon seemed to muffle the night for a moment. The only sounds are faint — the hiss of traffic over the Clark Fork bridge, the soft paddles from a gaggle of children in the pool, the romantic whispers of two young blond girls in oversize softball shirts leaning into each other, and the brazen chuckles squirting out of a coven of young men brewing drunken plots of disorder and early sorrow at a poolside table. – The Right Madness (2005), 3.69 avg rating — 456 ratings
What say you?
“You said he published eight novels, that was only seven.” You’re right detail-oriented reader. Crumley’s first novel, One To Count Cadence, is one I don’t own and couldn’t get a copy through inter-library loan quick enough for this post. I’ll update it later accordingly.
What are some of your favorite opening lines? Mystery, thriller, crime novel, or whatever.
About the Author: Benjamin L. Clark writes historical mysteries and works as a history museum curator.
Kopp Sisters on the March by Amy Stewart, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 368 pages.
If you’ve missed the previous four Kopp Sisters novels by Amy Stewart, you’re missing out. That said, don’t let that stop you from starting now. Book five of the series, Kopp Sisters on the March works as a standalone novel. After all, this book is not only about the trio of sisters who have braved many trials and tribulations, but also about Beulah Binford. A “wicked woman” if there ever was one. Or was she?
Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know?
Beulah’s very real, historical infamy became a pop culture phenomenon, a meme even, of the early 20th Century eastern states, and beyond. Such that she had a hard time keeping a low profile even in New York City, though she was from Virginia originally, and where infamy found her. In the end, her story, though tragic, was believable, ringing true not only in fact but of the era. On the surface, Beulah’s story was not one I’d typically go along with — a vapid, vain young woman has been abused by people she trusted, but who she also pursued — but once it was laid out, I was hooked. I found her fascinating.
All three Kopp sisters also have fascinating storylines themselves. However, in On the March, they all fold back onto the story of Beulah, though Stewart’s version is more fictionalized, deviating on a few matters from the historical record. The very real, historical Kopps disappear from the historic record in this time, so Stewart is able to explore the characters she’s created a bit more alongside this true-crime tale, and not lose any of the histories of her series protagonists.
And of course, like the previous books of the series, there are interesting explorations into the role of women in this pivotal time. So many changes are in the air for the world, for the United States, and for the Kopp Sisters. Women come to the fore during a time of war, stepping into leadership roles over enormous organizations, and demanding a bigger part of the decision-making. Stewart keeps the machinery of war moving far from the action of On the March, and I hope is setting up storylines for the years of World War I for Book 6.
This book is well-paced — not a breakneck thriller, but more of a straight historical novel than a nail-biting whodunnit. Something I liked, but didn’t realize until it was all over — there’s no romance to speak of in this book besides the romance of being young and finding yourself. Or being a little older, and finding yourself again. Anyway, I enjoyed it.
My Only Qualm
I truly love the cover art by Jim Tierney for this series. Each book’s cover is completely different and looks amazing. I’m pretty sure it was the covers that drew me to the series initially even though I already liked Amy Stewart’s non-fiction work. World War I aircraft are like catnip to me. It’s one of those things that I cannot explain. And there are biplanes on this gorgeous cover for On the March. As I read and enjoyed the book, I kept thinking, “Maybe the planes come later? Maybe at the end?” But, the cover is sadly the only place you’ll find aircraft in this book. *Sigh* Though all three sisters have decent roles and interesting storylines for themselves, none of them fly planes. Or get close to planes, or think of them, speak of them, or … anything.
Hungry For More?
Author Amy Stewart has prepared a fantastic Q&A for readers as well on her own website — you can check it out here, but be sure to click my links below before leaving.
I saw it was Clive Cussler’s birthday today so I thought I’d share a review I wrote years and years ago for the first book of his historical thriller/mystery series starring Isaac Bell, a private detective of considerable private means. So, here it is, from the archives:
A cold-blooded bank robber has had astounding success throughout the western states and the Van Dorn Detective Agency has been hired by the US Gov’t to stop him. Van Dorn sends their best — Detective Isaac Bell, an independently wealthy detective who is hyper-competent and whose intuitions are never wrong.
The story was, unfortunately, more predictable than I like. A little bloated too. Of course, you know early on that a train is a main focus for the story — and the fact it has this amazing cover with a train at the bottom of a lake is also pretty cool, but … Cussler left a lot of potential for suspense on the table, I felt. Even with the built-in ticking time bomb realizing a large part of the story is set in the spring of 1906 … in San Francisco.
Also, I didn’t love the main character Isaac Bell. I’ve not read a lot of Clive Cussler’s books in my life — I know fans of his read dozens, but I’ve read a couple, and have listened to one or two on audio while road-tripping with my father. Bell is just like the other Cussler heroes, and frankly, I found him kind of dull. I liked the supporting cast (what little we see of them), even though I expected several of them to shout “Golly!” at any moment. The shifting locations helped keep a lively pace. Honestly, I enjoyed reading the villain more than the hero in this one.
The history info dumps are what writers like Cussler are known for — cool car on the scene boom he writes an essay on the car’s technical details. That’s OK with me, I’m here just as much for the history as I am for the story. The random, purposeless historical cameos — not so much. It gives historical fiction a bad name, I think, and these particularly clanked off-key. One was OK (John Barrymore), another (Jack London), was sadly pointless.
So, if you like your historical thriller with some action, but not a lot of mystery, check out The Chase. I’ll probably read more of the series myself (it’s my favorite era at the moment), but it won’t be a high priority, especially with others starting to come out in this era. But the books are easy to get a hold of, and almost always a few to be found when the library starts weeding shelves.
About the Author: Benjamin L. Clark writes and works as a museum curator.
What an interesting book. It is literally about the dreams — the hallucinations of slumber — of writers. Not so much about daydreams, or aspirations, or anything other than the literal dreams of writers.
Naomi Epel worked as a driver/helper of visiting writers in San Francisco. She’d pick them up, drive them to book signings, talks, etc. Naturally, they’d talk, and she was keenly interested in dreams. She later hosted a radio show on the subject as well, eventually putting together this book. 20 years later, it’s still a fascinating read. A couple of the essays sounded familiar — especially Sue Grafton’s. Grafton edited a book about the process of mystery and thriller writers, including herself, and she talks a lot about how dreams play a part in her process.
Gloria Naylor, in her essay in Naomi Epel’s Writers Dreaming, says that writers are a work’s first audience. The idea stuck with me, and I’ve been thinking it over. I think it may be true. It feels true at least, and that’s not the worst test.
I know some writers get huffy when other writers say that their characters take over, that they have no idea where ideas come from, that they are just along for the ride, etc. Abdicating responsibility for their work with what sounds like a projected false humility.
The writers that get mad about these statements resent members of the tribe going out and making light of our work. Writing as work is frequently minimized, unacknowledged, even denied. Who wouldn’t be mad about that?
Gloria Naylor in Writers Dreaming, 1993.
As (one of my writing heroes) E. B. White said to his step-son, Roger Agnell when he proposed that White might “have fun” revisiting the city and write a little piece about his old haunts in New York for Holiday Magazine (of which Agnell was an editor). E. B. White replied, “Writing is never fun.”
But I also see what Naylor was saying in her essay. We open the taps of creative flow, and like a kid playing in the rainwater rolling toward a gutter, we put in little sticks and leaves and watch them go. We pull up clumps of mud and find big rocks to try and redirect the flow of water. This is writing, in a way.
It must be connected to the part of our brain that makes faces out of things and the stew of you, all the bits and pieces, the ingredients that have become you. Your genetics, your upbringing, your talents, and fears. Your love and failures, the rivers you have drunk and mountains you have stood upon – the deserts that lay ahead and behind.
Stories are the same. All the makeup is outside of you trying to get in but it may first be run through you – sieved into you to become whatever it will become. And as it becomes, we create and watch, creator and first spectator together – as always a multiplicity of identity in any given moment — human.
What artist/ writer/ creator, hasn’t been surprised by the product of the pen or brush? If you never have, you should write more. Surprises await. What do you think? Hit reply and let me know!
About the Author: Benjamin L. Clark writes and works as a museum curator.
My wife and I love books. Books were a big part of our mutual attraction early in our relationship. In early October 2015, we decided to take a few days off and attend the Iowa City Book Festival. It was cold, but it was a joyous trip — our first as a little family since our son was born a couple months earlier in July. The book festival happened to coincide with a food writers conference my wife wanted to attend there, but there was plenty for me and our infant son to enjoy too with all the book-ish fun. I had the huge thrill of meeting Sara Paretsky, and visiting the Szathmary Culinary collection at Iowa State University. And of course, buying lots of books.
Todd Bol building a Little Free Library in Iowa City, Iowa in October 2015.
But the biggest thrill was meeting Todd Bol and getting to spend a little time with him. Todd was there to help promote Margaret Aldrich’s new title (at the time) The Little Free Library Book and to help build some Little Free Libraries for local organizations. So, there he was on the plaza running through the historic part of Iowa City on a windy, cold day in October, in his sports coat, knocking together Little Free Libraries … by himself. I don’t know if no one else was supposed to be there, or I just happened to come across in-between shifts of helpers, but there he was. So, I helped. I had my baby with me, (his Mom was in a session), and Todd and I built a couple LFLs while my baby boy napped in his stroller, bundled against the chill. Todd had turned up the little collar on his jacket. It couldn’t have helped much. I remember being cold too. I think we were all caught by surprise by the weather.
I don’t remember exactly what we talked about. I had wanted to build a Little Free Library for a while, but being a new Dad, working full-time, and just about any other convenient excuses, I hadn’t gotten it done. He encouraged me as a new Dad. He encouraged me to build the LFL, I remember and we talked design — I was planning to use a discarded kitchen cabinet as the starting point. I remember he was kind and appreciative, even though he had built an untold number of the little book boxes by then.
I bought one of the books and grabbed all the LFL swag I could in good conscience. I really regret, especially now that he’s gone, I didn’t get a picture of he and I together.
I went home that fall and started my own Little Free Library, with the help of my Dad. It was a fun project and we got it installed and the neighborhood loved it. We’ve since moved houses, moved states, but the Little Free Library was still at that old house, serving the community around it. In fact, it was a feature the buyers loved about our house. Take that, curb appeal! A Little Free Library will help sell your house! It also does a lot of good for you and your neighbors.
So, if you happen to have a yellow and purple Little Free Library, Charter #25387: Todd Bol himself and I built that one. According to the Little Free Library Map, that one is located in Pittsburgh at Falconhurst Park!
