recommended reading

Life's more fun when you own up to having bad taste. Or better yet, glory in it. Indulging in strange or antediluvian books, movies, clothes and décor is one of life's greatest and rarest pleasures. I had a pretty darn good day yesterday, not just because I spent most of it with a special lady, but because I know what I like and am secure enough to partake of it without shame. We went shooting in the morning. We had a Beretta semi-automatic, a .22-caliber Ruger target pistol, a big .45 M1911, and the pièce de résistance, an 1873 Colt single-action Army revolver. It's one of my father's reproduction cowboy firearms, and has served both of us well in many a competition. It's a surreal thing, just to see it and hold it: polished walnut grips, case-hardened frame, barrel and cylinder cold black steel, grit personified. It's a piece of history, this gun. Nothing satisfies the scholarly mind or itchy fingers like loading a few massive .45 slugs into it, spinning the cylinder flippantly, and driving six giant holes through a paper bulls-eye. Some people are too caught up in your modern, plastic firearms like Glocks and M-16s. They don't appreciate the worth of a classic six-shooter. But I do. Then we went to the Old 247 Café and laid waste to the cheeseburger special. Burger, fries, and a medium Coke for $4.60 apiece. Where else in the country can you still find that kind of deal? And it was delicious, let me tell you. Diets and veggie burgers and protein shakes can go hang themselves. There's no denying the decadence of a good old-fashioned hamburger, packed with lettuce, tomatoes and pickles and dripping ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise onto the grease-bound fries. But the spiritual center of the Postman's brand of arcana—the place where I really let my horrible taste and singular cravings run loose—is the used book store. I found a science fiction novel by some guy I've never heard of (James White), called The Escape Orbit. It's about a bunch of human prisoners-of-war who, taken captive by the instectoid race humanity has warred with for 60 years, get dumped on a wild planet filled with carnivorous alien monsters. How cool is that? Yeah, yeah, I know. It's not Twain or Brontë or Dostoevsky. But it's fun, all right? I don't care if people say I have questionable taste in books. I don't care if Dad rolled his eyes when I excitedly explained the book's premise. I think it's neat. I mean, come on: if I liked (the original) Clash of the Titans, where you've got a bunch of guys fighting fantastic monsters with swords and bows...well, shoot! How is this any different? The monsters just happen to be giant green elephants with six legs, two trunks and shark teeth. I've delved into the first chapter already, and I must say that White does an excellent job of not clogging up the beginning with too much description or background. He just gets the story started, introduces some of the characters, and lets the context seep in where it seems logical. I need to work on that. I stand to learn a lot from this novel, especially since there's quite a few monster-fighting scenes in my own series. I could probably use some tutoring on how to do them properly. Just to make sure they keep the tension going and don't drag on endlessly, you know? Now let's see, what else do I have to report? Did I ever render a verdict on The Reivers (William Faulkner)? I don't think I did. I also haven't told you much about Race to the Pole (Sir Ranulph Fiennes). I finished it. And I've started in on my cousin's Western romance novel, Blue Mist Rising. So let me give you the skinny on those three and then we'll be all caught up on our monthly book reviews. THE REIVERS: In 1905 Mississippi, half-breed Indian Boon steals his boss's new car and, in the company of Ned, the family's giggly black retainer, and Lucius, the boss's eleven-year-old grandson, embarks on a long-haul joyride to Memphis, Tennessee, getting into all kinds of messes along the way. I liked the book. Faulkner is one hell of a yarn-spinner, and manages to create an entire world, filled with characters of every stamp, and scrapes and plot-twists of every conceivable caliber. Despite using some admirably long sentences and an incredible amount of parentheticals, he doesn't waste a single word. The scenery is rich, the humor ribald, the voice matter-of-fact, the tone bleak and weary at times, wistful and almost jovial at others. I got the sense that Faulkner, in his declining years, and having witnessed the brutalities and absurdities of human existence and the hypocrisy, grandstanding, bombast and foolishness that accompany them, wrote this book to show all of it up. The author was rueful of men's idiosyncratic idiocy, and yet still able to jibe about it, probably because he realized that no one can honestly expect people not to behave like animals. At times his author's voice suggests a learned species of resigned acceptance. The trials and trammels of humanity in the modern age—greed, bigotry, mendacity, pettiness, fear, corruption, anger, and lust—are lambasted in this novel, often to humorous effect. Lucius, the eleven-year-old protagonist, begins as a naïve chump, and loses quite a bit of innocence over the course of the book. In the end, he comes to understand the basic principles of rape, extortion, whoring, horse-racing, horse-trading, misuse of power, political corruption, theft, dishonesty, and sexual exploitation, and even, to an advanced degree, the reason behind them. (And in only three days to boot!) This is, as you may imagine, a traumatic process. Faulkner demonstrates his brilliance in both analyzing the human condition and translating it into words when he writes that Lucius, "having no receptacle" to put these new and confusing experiences in, and not having the maturity or wisdom to muster up some perspective, nearly breaks down with horror and chagrin as his worldview is assaulted. But with precocious rationality, Lucius refuses to let himself be corrupted completely, even if he willingly abetted the original sin (the theft of his grandfather's car and the start of the trip to Memphis) and many that followed. He takes in the unpleasantness he's witnessed, absorbs it without allowing it to consume him. (Of course, the cup does brim over at times; but whose doesn't?) Lucius's character serves as a sort of everyman, with whom the audience can identify and learn: we may observe depravity, and even partake of it, but we must never fall wholly victim to it. With good reasoning and a little maturity, we may process the information and be on guard against temptation. Failing this, we risk being lampooned as a minor character in a Faulkner novel. RACE TO THE POLE: Renowned polar explorer and O.B.E. recipient Ranulph Fiennes, the first man to transect Antarctica on foot (and who also ran seven marathons on seven continents in seven days) takes pen in hand to debunk the myths and pernicious rumors surrounding Robert F. Scott's second and final expedition to the South Pole in 1912. This was also quite an interesting read. According to Sir Fiennes, Scott has been infamously and unfairly treated by the critics and the history books. Many of the mistakes that were made during the fatal endeavor (Scott and four companions died of starvation and exposure on the way back from the Pole, to which Roald Amundsen had beaten them by over a month) were the result of ignorance and circumstance, Fiennes alleges. For example, 1912 turned out to be the worst year possible for such work. It was the most freakishly cold summer in decades, according to data collected by the expedition itself and latter-day meteorologists. Being the first expeditionary force to push so far into the Antarctic wastes, Scott and his party also suffered from a profound lack of knowledge about conditions, particularly where nutrition was concerned: Fiennes's research reveals that neither Scott nor his men were consuming enough calories to keep them going, leading to a gradual loss of stamina, body fat and muscle mass, which eventually resulted in hypothermia and exhaustion. Sir Fiennes also hoists the English flag above Scott's icy grave, insisting that the only reason Amundsen made the pole first was his inherent sneakiness. He deceived the world, fooling both Norway and England into believing he was making a push for the North Pole, changed plans at the last second, bought up all the best Greenland sled dogs, rushed southward, and mounted his own expedition in opposition to Scott's. Since Scott's work was scientific in nature and Amundsen's was not, the Norwegian was able to make far better time and devote every ounce of energy to movement instead of data-collection. This may seem like fair play in the modern age, but in the old days Amundsen's actions were nothing short of barbaric. The English were hopping mad. Even Norway disowned him in embarrassment. Nonetheless, Amundsen rose to eternal glory as the first man to reach the South Pole. If you want an interesting and well-written treatise on Antarctic exploration, scientific diligence, and the limits of human endurance (plus an engaging account of both of Scott's harrowing polar expeditions), pick up this book. It's got everything: killer whale attacks, breaking ice floes, wooden sailing ships, ferocious storms, hellish blizzards, deadly cliffhangers, and enough seal-blubber soup to choke a sled dog. BLUE MIST RISING: Romance novelist (and my own second cousin) Jacqueline Franklin spins an erotic tale of danger, romance, and intrigue as Grady, a half-Indian gunslinger, returns to his Arizona hometown to save his lady-love Kaylee from the clutches of his mean and ugly arch-nemesis Dade. I haven't read much of this yet, and (if you've read even half of this blog post) you know that I'm not much into romance novels. But Cousin Jax did me a great service by reading my manuscript, which, as a fledgling piece of science and historical fiction, must've been as repulsive to her as erotic romance novels are to me. But I'm going to finish it. And I must say, Jax sets a scene pretty well. Two chapters in and we've already been introduced to all the major players and their wants, desires, and dislikes. I'll let you know more when I've read more. So that's what's on my plate right now, The Escape Orbit and Blue Mist Rising. And what am I going to read when I get through with these? You remember that special girl I mentioned earlier? Well, she has lent me a book. That book is Moby-Dick. Yes, the massive Melville classic. That's right, folks. I'm going into the breach again. Another attempt to scale the mountain will soon be under way. Let's see if I can get through the whole thing this time. I knocked off twenty chapters a few years ago and then completely ran out of steam. Melville is a pretty dry writer, even if the stuff he wrote about would make the average person pee their pants. I'll let you know how it goes. Until then...stay tuned.