Great first sentences in literature

As both a reader and a writer, I’ve come to appreciate the power of a truly excellent first sentence. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that some of the most memorable and best-loved books ever written have truly amazing first sentences. In many cases, you can name the book just from the power of those all-important opening words. Think of Melville’s “Call Me Ishmael,” or Dickens’s “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Classic. Unforgettable.

Here are fifteen of my very favorites. Trust me, every single one of these books lives up to the promise of that first sentence.

14.) “Marley was dead, to begin with.” A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.

13.) “He speaks in your voice, American, and there’s a shine in his eye that’s halfway hopeful.” Underworld: A Novel by Don DeLillo.

12.) “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen.

The parody in Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: The Classic Regency Romance – Now with Ultraviolent Zombie Mayhem! is almost as good. Seriously.

11.) Tie: “First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys.”
Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury.

And:

“It was a pleasure to burn.” Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury.

Ray Bradbury is an absolute master of sentences, period. No surprise that a couple of his first ones should make the list.

10.) “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.” The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien.

That’s simple but amazing. I can still remember vividly being eight years old, and being utterly fascinated to find out what a hobbit might be, and why one lived in a hole. The next paragraphs paint a portrait of a warm, comfortable place in the most vividly imagined other world in all of literature. Yeah, I’m going out on that limb.

9.) “A screaming comes across the sky.” Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon.

An amazing start to an amazing book. This is the heir to Joyce, Faulkner, and Proust, but it’s a surprisingly accessible book, and well worth the effort. This one is important.

8.) “It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.” 1984 by George Orwell.

This is a book that seems to be more relevant as the year in its title gets smaller in the rearview mirror. It’s a terrific beginning that puts the reader instantly into the hyperreality of the story.

7.) “You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter.” Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain.

Say what you want about the ending, but all of American literature begins here. Shakespeare may have invented character (as opposed to stereotype or archetype) but Twain invented the individual voice. I never claimed that this blog was a hyperbole-free zone, but I stand by that one.

6.) “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy.

How can you not love that? How? Can you think of a more heartbreaking, and utterly fascinating, opening? It’s a truth that echos in a hollow place deep in the gut, and it makes anxious, in more than one sense of the word, to read more.

5.) “Someone must have slandered Josef K., for one morning, without having done anything truly wrong, he was arrested.” The Trial by Franz Kafka.

So, what’s the book about? Just read the first sentence. And stop there. I dare you.

4.) “It took me a long time and most of the world to learn what I know about love and fate and the choices we make, but the heart of it came to be while I was chained to a wall and being tortured.” Shantaram: A Novel by Gregory David Roberts.

As gripping as that sentence is, the rest of the first paragraph just gets better: “It took me a long time and most of the world to learn what I know about love and fate and the choices we make, but the heart of it came to me in an instant, while I was chained to a wall and being tortured. I realized, somehow, through the screaming in my mind, that even in that shackled, bloody helplessness, I was still free: free to hate the men who were torturing me, or to forgive them. It doesn’t sound like much, I know. But in the flinch and bite of the chain, when its all you have got, that freedom is a universe of possibility. And the choice you make, between hating and forgiving, can become the story of your life.” The book is just delicious. Just delicious. Gregory David Roberts writes with the grace and fire of Pat Conroy.

3.) “I still remember the day my father took me to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books for the first time.” The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

As a book lover who adores finding those lost, dusty treasures that time has overlooked, that sentence alone was enough to make Carlos Ruiz Zafón one of my very favorite writers. This book and it’s follow up, <a href="The Angel’s Game“>The Angel’s Game, are not to be missed. Trust me.

2.) “He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad, and that was his entire inheritance.” Scaramouche The King Maker by Raphael Sabatini.

What’s not to love? Swordplay, revolution, philosophy, romance, and an absolutely terrific first sentence. This one has it all. Sabatini, who also wrote The Sea-Hawk and Captain Blood, belongs on the shelf with the great Alexandre Dumas himself.

and… drum roll, please!

1.) “Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.” One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez.

I think that sentence alone captures all the sadness and wistful, heartbreaking, magical joy that makes Gabriel García Márquez so utterly amazing.

And because you just can’t, can’t, talk about first sentences without mentioning this one:

“It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the house-tops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.” Paul Clifford by Edward Bulwer Lytton.

So what are your favorites? Writers, how important is a first sentence to you?

“The Magician’s Book: A Skeptic’s Adventures in Narnia” by Laura Miller

Read The Magician’s Book: A Skeptic’s Adventures in Narnia

I should start by pointing out that I am nobody’s skeptic. As a matter of fact, I consider myself very, if hardly conventionally, religious. That said, I read Salon co-founder Laura Miller’s The Magician’s Book: A Skeptic’s Adventures in Narnia with a constant grin on my face, as passage after passage made me cry out with delight: “friend!” Here is someone who seems to not only understand the love I felt for C. S. Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia, a love that still endures very deeply in my heart, but also my love of stories and reading. Indeed, she helped me understand that love better, and by consequence the person I am and the writer I hope to be.

The Magician’s Book: A Skeptic’s Adventures in Narnia is a hard book to define. It’s part literary criticism, part biography, and part memoir. It’s also a very poignant meditation on the difference between reading as a child and reading as an adult, about what we lose and what we gain. Ms. Miller first read the Narnia stories with the deep love of a child. As she grew older, and was able to recognize the Christian themes that permeate the books, she felt betrayed — even tricked — by an author trying to “sneak” religion past her childish, unformed defenses. And yet as an agnostic adult, she circled back to the love she knew as a child. That journey is an especially moving one, and it tells us as much about the powerful and, yes, even defining relationship between reader and cherished book as it does about C. S. Lewis and the Narnia stories themselves. Which is to say, quite a lot.

As much as I adored exploring Narnia in Ms. Miller’s company—and I truly did, and will do so again—we don’t see eye to eye on a whole wardrobe full of issues. I found her criticisms of Tolkien, for example, to be a little harsh. And she has developed a view of Christianity that, frankly, has little to recommend it—as is as far removed from my own experiences as the deserts in the south of Calormen are from the giant wastes in the far north (a little Narnia reference for you. If you haven’t read the books, well, it’s just way far. That’s all you need to know. But seriously, read the books). But ultimately, those points are minor, and I found Ms. Miller’s insights fascinating. She doesn’t gloss over the points that critics are wont to attack—the apparent sexism, for example—but she deals with them in a frank and honest way that only deepened my appreciation for Lewis’s works. Her love for Lewis’s work is undiminished by examination. If anything, it is strengthened. The love of a child assumes that the object of love is perfect and above reproach and criticism. The love of an adult sees past flaws—acknowledging, never ignoring them—and loves more deeply for that insight.

Her research is excellent, her interviews with other readers and writers are well selected and insightful, and she leaps from idea to idea with seamless grace. In fact, the sections on the differences between allegory and metaphor are worth the price alone. She understands what Lewis meant by joy and longing more than many scholars and Christians I know. After reading her book, I felt like I’d spent a weekend in deep conversation with a person I’d just met—one with whom I happened to discover a shared and wonderful past—and one I thought of as an instant friend.

Whether you are religious, agnostic, atheist, or somewhere in between, I highly recommend The Magician’s Book: A Skeptic’s Adventures in Narnia to all who loved the Narnia books as a child, or who has come to love them as an adult, or even to those who simply love books, reading, stories, and storytelling. It’s a special book. It’s certainly made me want to reread the Narnia books. With the holidays approaching, now seems like the perfect time.

I’d love to know what you think.

“European Romanticism: A Brief History with Documents” by Warren Breckman

Read European Romanticism: A Brief History with Documents (The Bedford Series in History and Culture)

Warren Breckman’s European Romanticism: A Brief History with Documents takes an interesting approach: it allows readers to discover a topic as historians would, but reading through the actual documents of the period, including literature, essays, letters, and more. A fairly brief introduction—some forty pages—gives a very thorough overview and introduction. After that, the period is the reader’s to explore.

At the dawn of the 19th Century, one of the great cultural shifts of the modern era swept western Europe the Romantic movement. Dr. Breckman’s anthology gathers an array of insights into the history of Romanticism as more than an artistic and literary fad, but also as a politica and philosophical movement that had surprising and wide-ranging influence on modern views of art, science, and even religion.

Dr. Breckman includes both creative and critical writings from writers throughout Western Europe, and even a small (black and white, alas) selection of visual art, showing the crucial and apparently contradictory roles of swelling nationalism and transnational connections that made Romanticism a movement of such wide-reaching scope. The book also includes a detailed chronology and a selected bibliography.

I confess that, aside from the introduction, this isn’t a volume I intend to read cover to cover. Nonetheless, I have thoroughly enjoyed diving in here and there, like a culinary novice at a gourmet buffet (I know that’s a contradiction; work with me here), and sampling a little of this and a little of that. I am looking to doing more of that in the future. This is a terrific little overview that has made me curious to explore more.

I’m not really qualified to judge the skill of the collection. I can only see what’s here, and I don’t have sufficient knowledge to know what’s left out. But what’s here is fascinating, and I applaud this approach to presenting the history of a movement and its impact both to students and casual readers.

“The Magicians” by Lev Grossman

Read The Magicians: A Novel

When I first browsed through Lev Grossman’s The Magicians at Blue Elephant Bookshop, I knew it was a book that was coming home with me. The jacket blurb promised a book for adults who, as young readers, had adored the Narnia, Oz, and Harry Potter stories, and books like T. H. White’s The Once and Future King. And indeed, The Magicians draws liberally and lovingly from those sources. There is a magic school filled with eccentric professors and strange wonders, teaching by turning students into animals (as Merlyn does with the Wart in The Once and Future King), and even a hidden fantasy world accessed through a sleepy “between” world filled with pools, a motif familiar to anyone who has read C. S. Lewis’ The Magician’s Nephew, one of the best of the Narnia books.

Even the characters in The Magicians grew up reading and loving a series of fantasy books, stories of a magical land called Fillory—one filled with quests, talking animals, mythical beats, and walking gods. That fond, nostalgic love is one of the reasons we are so drawn to them. In our mind’s eyes, we find ourselves pointing, smiling, and shouting, “friend!”

But don’t get the idea that The Magicians is a mere pastiche. The Magicians is told from a decided, utterly (even ironically) original, and heartbreaking, adult point of view.

Every page is dripping with unabashed love for the stories that moved and changed us at formative periods in our lives. But nonetheless, The Magicians is utterly unsentimental. Brakebills, the magical college, is filled with marvels, of course. But it is also filled with the tedium, hard work, angst, sex, and alcohol abuse one might expect in a novel about MIT or Georgia Tech. When the characters discover that Fillory, the fantasy land they loved as children, is real, they find it fraught with very real dangers they are utterly unprepared to face. And therein lies the genius, and the heartbreak, of The Magicians.

In the fantasies we love, Harry Potter, The Lord of the Rings, and The Chronicles of Narnia, for example, the characters may seem ordinary. But ultimately, they are heroic, larger than life. They are our idealized selves, the wish-fulfillment individuals we always hope we might be, or at least might someday become. The characters in The Magicians are flawed and all to close ordinary, everyday humanity. They are broken, wounded, and petulant, and they do selfish, petty things. They don’t mean to, or even want to, but that makes the heartbreak even more poignant. They learn, in the hardest way possible, that our careless, most casual fights are like spells—when the words are spoken, the world changes and people are hurt. Sometimes forever.

The hardest lesson of all for the characters The Magicians is that fulfilled wishes don’t necessarily lead to happiness. Fantasy, regardless of the individual merits of any one particular work, is often accused of being mere escapism (Professor Tolkien famously dismissed that criticism by suggesting that the only people for whom escape is a problem are jailers), and I myself can remember reading Narnia and wishing for the secret path or hidden gate that would open up and take me away to my imagined “real life” of heroism and adventure. In The Magicians, the gates open to places where defeat is likely, victory empty, and where good people die. The true gates to happiness, to maturity, to fulfillment, such as it is, lie within. It’s up to us to open them. Or not.

Looking back over this, I think I might have painted The Magicians a little unfairly. Like I said, it is utterly unsentimental, and it’s characters are flawed in all-too-human ways. But for all that, it is a charming book, one I raced through. The world it creates is fascinating and seductive. The characters, for all their wounds, are people you’ll want to spend time with. There are beauties in this book that you will long to experience. The story is gripping. You’ll remember those long-ago nights staying way too late to read under the covers with a flashlight. In spite of your very best intentions, you’ll find yourself caring, maybe a little too much.

And it is caring, of course, that leads to heartbreak.

Grocery Items: Bacon and Tomato Sauce

When I titled the blog, I was still intending to review mostly books. But since I left the the door open, and since the weekend is the time for grocery shopping (otherwise, you miss the really long lines, and the fact that they’re out of a lot of stuff), I’m going to pass along a few tips. Specifically, I highly recommend Wright Brand Bacon for my bacon-eating friends and Dei Fratelli Brand Tomato Sauce for everyone.

As many of you know, I am not the amazing chef that my wife Carol is. She can make pretty much anything, and typically starts with, you know, flower and yeast and things she picks out of the herb garden. Her cook usually involves a trip to the Farmers’ Market. My skills are more limited, but what I do (steaks and burgers on the grill or roast beef with Merlot Wine Sauce, for example, and absolutely amazing scrambled eggs—don’t laugh, God gave me a gift) I like to think I do pretty darn well. I cook the steaks over real wood, when I can, and my eggs are light and fluffy.

Okay, qualifications established.

But being a man, my speciality is, of course, chili. Sadly, I am not at liberty to divulge all of my secrets. But I will tell you this much: I used canned tomato sauce. I know, I know. Most recipes tell you to use diced tomatoes or even fresh ones. Don’t believe it. Canned tomato sauce gives an extra dimension of flavor and spice. Up until recently, I suffered under the belief that all canned tomato sauces were pretty much the same. I generally used Hunts, or even the Kroger or Publix store brands. They were just fine. And then, one happy day, I discovered Dei Fratelli brand tomato sauce.

Honestly, I not really sure what the difference is. It is nicely spiced, has a full, rich, and fresh taste (despite the fact that it comes from a can), and it adds a surprising but subtle sweetness that blends with the chili spices in a truly delicious way. I’d thought my chili had reached a plateau—if you’ll forgive the immodesty, how does one improve upon perfection? I am delighted to learn that there are still discoveries to make. Better still, I discovered it just in time for fall: chili weather!

Speaking of scrambled eggs, they are best served with bacon (or sage sausage, but I’m not reviewing that today). When it comes to bacon, I have to go with Wright Brand. It’s sliced thicker than most (or in fact, any) other brands that I’ve tried, and has a rich, bacony flavor that actually tastes even better than it smells. The secret (aside from the thick slices, which one cannot praise highly enough) is in the quality of the pork itself and the smoke. It’s smoked over real hardwood, and the result is terrific. They have four varieties: natural Hickory Smoked, Peppered, Applewood Smoked, and Maple. The applewood is far and away the best choice. Alas, it is also the most difficult to find.

I should note that my wife thinks the Hickory Smoked—the variety we buy the most often, is a little too salty. She has, however, been wrong before. Also, the size can be an issue. You have to use a very large pan (microwaved bacon is only for emergencies, of course), and you have to move the pan and the bacon around to ensure that the ends are properly cooked without overcooking the middle. Trust me. It’s worth the trouble.

Dei Fratelli Tomato Sauce
Wright Brand Bacon

The Book of Ratings and Fail Nation: like the Internet, only on paper!

Read Fail Nation: A Visual Romp Through the World of Epic Fails

Read The Book of Ratings: Opinions, Grades, and Assessments of Everything Worth Thinking About

Two of the funniest Web sites ever to make their way through the tubes of the Internets are, without question, the Book of Ratings (part of the sorely missed Brunching Shuttlecocks) and Failblog.org. When I say funny, I mean consistently laugh out loud funny, day after day, year after year. Funny once in a while is hard enough. All the time? Amazing. I’m happy to report that the books are every bit as funny.

The Book of Ratings, as you can likely guess from the title, rates things, offering grades from A+ to a very rare F on everything from Aspects of Bowling (shoes, beer, and even bowling itself) to sports and Superfriends. The commentary that accompanies is absolutely hilarious. The more recent video versions, in my humble opinion, aren’t quite as sharp as the good old text ones, but they still rise above the excellent bar. This is Daily Show level of funny.

If you haven’t yet discovered Failblog.org, shame on you. The site is updated several times a week with photos that have to be seen to be believed. I’d describe a few, but honestly, it’s probably better for everyone if you just take a couple of minutes and take a look for yourself. Go ahead. I’ll wait. When the laugher subsides, we’ll continue.

Okay? Now then. I mention these sites because some the best content from both sites has been repackaged into books. Sort of like print outs, but conveniently bound, and at a size that’s perfect for … well, anyplace where you might want a few good belly laughs as you, as my Uncle Roger would say, relax privately while spending a little quality time with yourself. And in living color! How cool is that?

Like I said, in both cases, the books are every bit as funny as the sites themselves. That’s not a great surprise, I suppose, since the content is the more or less the same. All the same, the print versions are worth their respective prices for a few reasons. First, it doesn’t cost that much, and it’s nice to see the content creators rewarded, at least a little, for their efforts. Second, you never know when the Apocalypse might come along, causing the Internet tubes to fall forever as civilization descends slowly and inevitably into barbarism. If that happens, you’ll be glad to have a few chuckles, I dare say. Finally, again, perfect reading for the bathroom (other places, too, yes, but perfect for a few short laughs when there’s not much else to keep you occupied for those few moments). But who wants to take even a laptop in there? The risk of, um, water damage and the danger of (very unfortunate) shock would be a enough discouragement, one would think. Thankfully, the paper version is available.

For the record, the other funniest sites, Hawtness, There, I Fixed It, People of Walmart, FmyLife, and It Made My Day, have not yet been collected. Yet. Here’s hoping. Improv Everywhere would also qualify, but I doubt a site that primarily composed of (hilarious) videos will ever be collected in book form. Alas.

“Silverlock” by John Myers Myers

Read Silverlock: Including the Silverlock Companion

A couple of years ago, fantasy author Peter S. Beagle was a houseguest at our place. Before bed, he asked to could borrow something to read. In a house filled with close to five-thousand volumes, that wasn’t hard to arrange. Finding something that was both wonderful and something Peter hadn’t read was more of a challenge. As it happened, I had an old Ace paperback of John Myers Myers’ (that’s not a typo) Silverlock on hand. To my very great surprise, Peter had not read it. The next morning, he looked at me with the bleary eyes of someone who’s been awake far too late reading (a look I know all to well) and said, “My God! How could I have missed this? What else is out there?”

That’s a question I’ve pondered myself more times than I can count. How many wonderful gems are waiting to be discovered? How many treasures have I passed by, my eye diverted from just the right dusty, forgotten shelf at just the right instant? It breaks my heart, but that’s a question I’ll never be able to answer. I suspect, though, that when it comes to books like Silverlock, the answer is pretty simple. Not nearly enough. But then, the scarcity of the experience is what makes it precious, I suppose. And God, I love this book.

I’ve read more than a few books since I first discovered the Ace paperback re-release of Silverlock back in the ’70s. I’ve certainly read better books. When I came across Silverlock, I had yet to experience most of Dumas, Dickens, and Bradbury, and Proust, Cervantes (author of the very first post-modern novel, although that’s a point for another essay), Faulkner, and Joyce were still in my future. I’d read Tolkien, of course, but I don’t think I’d even begun to appreciate his work as it deserves. I’ve read more elegant prose, tighter plotting (certainly that), and more profound insights into character, the human condition, and all that. But so help me, I’ll swear before God and all His angels, I haven’t found a book I loved more than Silverlock. In fact, I’d even say that reading Silverlock actually enhanced my ability to love those other books.

When we meet the lead character, A. Clarence Shandon, he’s about as unlikeable a hero as we’re likely to meet anywhere. But Shandon, soon to be called Shandon Silverlock, is shipwrecked on a strange island called the Commonwealth. There, along with his companion, the bard Golias (who is also known as Orpheus, Widsith, Amergin, Taliesin, and pretty much every other bard name you can think of from myth and legend), he encounters the witch Circe from Greek myth, Beowulf, Robin Hood, Puck, the Mad Hatter, Oedipus, Hamlet, Pangloss, Don Quixote, Faustopheles, and … well, dozens of other characters from myth, lore, legend, and literature.

You see, this isn’t just any island. It’s an allegorical place, in the most mythic sense. It’s the Commonwealth of Letters, and it changes you. Chapter by chapter, we see Shandon awaken into personhood, tempered and reshaped, until he, at last, is left with the trembling desire to make. He begins as someone that’s easy to, well, loath, and grows into someone we can admire. And yes, someone we can relate. A little too well at times, maybe, but that’s always the danger.

The plot is loose at best. It’s episodic and meandering, and makes no real effort at world building. And there are more references than an entire university full of tweed-coated academics could hope to identify. Don’t let that bother you. You’re about to learn the joyous game of reference hunting. It’s a lot more fun than it sounds. When I read Silverlock for the first time, I doubt I could identify more than a quarter. It didn’t bother me in the least, and every time I found a beloved friend from Silverlock waiting for me in some other book, I found myself grinning, the way you do when you suddenly find a dear old friend again, one you haven’t seen in ages, but for whom time has not dimmed your love. There’s a lot of that kind of beloved nostalgia waiting in Silverlock.

And back in my day, we didn’t have the Silverlock Companion or sites like this one where one could quickly check a reference or two. I urge to read it the first time without an answer guide. You might feel that you’re at a party filled with people you feel you should know, but where no one is wearing a nametag. No worries. Everyone is friendly and ready to welcome you. You can get to know them better later on.

Silverlock is a booklover’s book, sure. But more importantly, it’s fun. There are battles, quests, love lost and won, drinking bouts, and enough adventure to fill a library. Which is, of course, fitting. There are belly laughs a plenty, and songs you’ll ache to sing. For me, maybe, the love is more personal. Maybe I read it at just the right time, or under just the right circumstances. But it has stayed with me in deeper and truer ways, and for a longer time, than many overtly better books have.

When I shared Silverlock with my wife, Carol, she grinned all the way through, loving every page. At the end, she smiled, handed the book back to me, and said, “This is your myth!” I looked at her with a slightly puzzled expression. She added: “Here’s a story about a man who sort of moves from one mythological experience to another, making friends and growing and changing with every encounter. Your personal mythology!”

She’s right, of course. So much of my life has been spent exploring the Commonwealth of letters, and I’ve been changed by it, educated deeply in the heart. Did I love Silverlock because I recognized that part of myself? Or did Silverlock teach me to love the marvels I find between the covers of books?

In his introduction to the 1979 paperback edition of Silverlock (I still have my first 1979 Ace paperback, as well as a hardcover first edition and a lovely new hardback that includes the Companion), author Larry Niven enthuses: “You’ll get drunk on Silverlock. When you finish reading, you will feel like you got monumentally drunk with your oldest friends; you sang songs and told truth and lies all night or all week; you’ll sit there grinning at nothing and wondering why there isn’t any hangover.” I couldn’t agree more.

Jerry Pournelle added, “you now have the pleasure of reading Silverlock for the first time. I envy you.” God, I love this book. I mentioned that, right? And I’m thrilled to be able to share it with you.

On a related note, be sure to see my dear friend Lee’s Silverlock Reading Journal. Also, the link above goes to the hardcover edition. You can still find the Ace paperbacks at used bookstores. I understand it’s about to be released, and a Kindle edition is available for preorder. But if you can swing it, I’d go ahead and get the hardcover. The additional material is terrific.

Two books (that aren’t quite) within other books

Alice Hoffman’s novel The Third Angel, reviewed here, features a book written by one of the characters. The text of that novel, The Heron’s Wife, isn’t given. But happily, Ms. Hoffman has released it on her blog. You can read it here. Enjoy!

Likewise, Catherynne Valente’s Palimpsest (reviewed here) mentions a book within a book called The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland In A Ship of her Own Making. Again, the text of that tantalizing title isn’t given. But happily, it is available online, here, in return for whatever donation you feel is appropriate. It’s a wonderful, charming read.

It’s a joy to discover, after the last page of a good book is turned, that there is still more content to discover. Especially when the storytellers have the talent and grace of Alice Hoffman and Catherynne Valente. This kind of expanded “book within a book” content is a trend I applaud enthusiastically. I hope we’ll see more.

“Dreaming With Open Eyes: The Shamanic Spirit in Twentieth Century Art and Culture” by Michael Tucker

Read Dreaming With Open Eyes: The Shamanic Spirit in Twentieth Century Art and Culture

Normally, I wouldn’t recommend a book that’s out of print. After all, saying, “this is great, but you can’t read it, so nah nah nah!” is just kind of mean. But since you can still find a used copy for around ten bucks, and since it’s an amazing read, I’m going for it. This review is a little brief, but largely that’s because, despite the fact that I first read it four or five years ago, I’m still not sure exactly what to say about it, save that’s an amazing and thought-provoking read. I find that, years later, I’m still thinking about it. Frankly, that’s a pretty good recommendation in my book.

In Dreaming With Open Eyes: The Shamanic Spirit in Twentieth Century Art and Culture, Tucker looks at a broad sweep of modern art and finds, rather than the nihilistic cynicism, overt commercialization, and shallow objectification one might expect, a sort of hopeful ecstasy. Tucker makes a compelling argument that, at their best and most unfiltered, modern artists are the heirs to their ancient ancestors that painted on caves. They’re reaching into (forgive the pretentious cliché) an altered state of consciousness. As a result, they tap into something primal in the collective mythoconsciousness of humanity, something complex, symbolic, and profound.

In this book, Tucker has compiled a veritable encyclopedia of the literature of shamanism: literal (historic and anthropologic) and metaphorical, and draws compelling connections between the ancient and the bleeding edge. Modern artists working on the fringe of creative boundaries, Tucker argues, strip away some of the filters of contemporary experience and perceive the world in a metaphoric, archetypal way, as Aboriginal dream painters do. The result is art that reaches past the the filters of the consciousness mind to challenge the unconscious mind directly in its native grammar: the language of dreams and poetic inspiration, the language symbol. As a result, I’ve found that my own ability to understand and appreciate visual art as something more than mere illustration has grown deeper. I am beginning, at least, to appreciate that something profound happens in the communication between artist and audience, something that requires more than a casual read or glance.

Tucker argues that shamans, the first artists, have since ancient times been bridge-builders between worlds, visionaries whose journeys within the psyche bring insight, inspiration, and healing. Modern art is remarkable chiefly for what it reveals about the loss of meaning and spirituality in the modern world—and by what, at its best, it struggles to bring back. Modern art is trembling with shamanistic vision.

The language of the soul is metaphor and symbol. It’s no coincidence that, according to the Bible, God talks to us in “parable and dark passages.” The same applies, of course, to our own lives, both inner and outer. We’re not meant to understand at the most obvious, literal level, and to attempt to do so trivializes the messages of existence itself. The deepest communication, heart to heart or soul to soul, happens in a language that’s deeper. Most of the keys to that kind of understanding come from within, of course, but Tucker’s book offers some keys. He writes about visual art, but I find myself applying his ideas to music, mythology, and literature, and they work there just as well.

Dreaming With Open Eyes is a fascinating read, one that’s sure to make you question and perhaps even enrich and expand your own appreciation of the arts, and our own, truest desire to communicate and share on the deepest and most intimate levels. I urge you to pick one up while copies are still available and affordable. Check Amazon at the link above, or try abe.com. It’s worth the effort.

“The Third Angel” by Alice Hoffman

Read The Third Angel: A Novel

When I first started reading The Third Angel, I didn’t honestly care for it, despite the fact that Alice Hoffman’s prose is as lovely as ever. She is a master of a sudden and lyrical turn of phrase that seems as effortlessly graceful as a dancer’s casual step. Every line has magic and poetry in it, the kind that makes you smile and, more than occasionally, look back to reread a phrase or passage. An example: “It was that silver-colored time between night and morning, when the sky is still dark, but lights are flicking on all over the city. It was quiet, the way it is in winter when snow first begins to fall.” How perfectly and specifically evocative, concrete detail spun from froth and lace, and without a wasted syllable! Her prose has always been elegant, the way Earthbound angels would write, and she only gets better.

What bothered me in the opening pages, though, was her characters. They were a little too well drawn, a little too immediate. And they were, frankly, unlikeable. They all seemed hellbent on doing the worst possible and most hurtful things—to the people they love and to themselves.

I should have known better. I should have remembered that Alice Hoffman’s coat has magician’s sleeves. There are surprises hidden within, always. Some are magical, some are cruel. But they are marvelous, all of them. As always, there is magic in her book: blue herons, white rabbits, and, yes, angels. But it’s subtle enchantment, as in the very best works of Isabel Allende, Ray Bradbury, or Gabriel Garcia Marquez, like a hint of spice in a cake that you savor even as it fades, but that you can’t quite identify.

A few chapters in, I realized that I’d misjudged the The Third Angel and its characters, because I didn’t yet understand how deeply they were wounded. This is a book that reminds us that the heart heals itself with scar tissue, hard and ugly, but that beneath there is, sometimes, something lovely and enduring. That something is worth finding, and it makes all the difference. The novel is stitched together like a quilt from three integrally-integrated (wow, that’s some awkward alliteration) novellas, which examine the lives of three women, decades apart, each of whom has reached some crucial crossroad in her life. Don’t get the idea that these London hotel-centered stories are just part of a collection. They are bound together in devastating retrospect to form a whole that is more than the sum of its parts.

In the first, a successful New York attorney, Maddy, comes to London in 1999 has has a sudden affair with Paul, her sister’s fiancé. This was the point at which I had a hard time liking Paul or Maddy. Thankfully, I kept reading. After the night of fiery passion, Maddy copes with her sister’s impending marriage and with the hopelessness of loving the wrong man. That’s when she learns of Paul’s terminal illness—which happens to echo the cancer her mother faced when Maddy was a girl. The wounds run deep.

The next sections sifts back to 1966 London and the era of drugs, rock and roll, and free love. Now we get to know Frieda—the woman who will become Paul’s mother, and who we have just seen lose her son—as a young woman. Frieda falls for a singer trying to write a song. She knows he is doomed, and that he will break her heart. Love burns, but it is not wise.

The final section takes us back again, to 1952 and to Maddy’s future mother, Lucy Green. Now we see Lucy as a prematurely wise and book-loving 12-year-old. Lucy travels with her father and stepmother from New York to London for a wedding, where, at the same hotel, she becomes an innocent catalyst to a devastating event involving a love triangle, one that we’ve already seen echo through the other sections. Hoffman mingles the threads of these the three stories, gazing without blinking into forces that cause some people to self-destruct and others to find the inner strength that lasts a lifetime.

The novel is drenched in love, with all is beautiful, broken, and devasting glory. There is romantic love, of course. Hoffman’s characters fall in love with the wrong person, or with the right person at the wrong time. Hoffman writes about the love of parents for children. As one character puts it: “It will shock believe how much you’ll love your child. Nothing else will ever matter.” Love breaks the characters in the most devasting way imaginable, but it also rebuilds them, and binds them together in the most unexpected ways.

Hoffman writes as eloquently and movingly about death as she does about life and love. It is Frieda’s doctor father who describes, so beautifully, the Third Angel of the title. He says that when he went to visit a patient, there was always an angel riding with him: the Angel of Life or the Angel of Death. He never knew which until he arrived. But there is a third Angel, too. “You can’t even tell if he’s an angel or not. You think you’re doing him a kindness, you think you’re the one taking care of him, while all the while, he’s the one who’s saving your life.” He walks with us. He can meet him any time, anywhere. Hoffman’s characters are complex but flawed, yes, and they do terrible things, betraying those they love or even themselves. But they have heroic qualities as well. By mending their broken lives, they, themselves, sometimes become the Third Angel.

Hoffman doesn’t paint portraits; she sketches. We don’t see her characters through their whole lives. We only see moments, the most crucial and transforming ones, the moments that shape who we’re going to be. Now and then, maybe, the moments that can turn us in to the Third Angel. The Third Angel isn’t Hoffman’s best book. To me, that’s still Practical Magic. But it’s an amazing read, lovely and haunting, one that I find I’m still thinking about days after I turned the last page.

UPDATE:

By the way, the novel features a book written by one of the characters. The text of that novel, The Heron’s Wife, isn’t given. However, Ms. Hoffman has released it on her blog. You can read it here.

Aventinus

Several years ago, I was lured into a charming pub in Ottawa’s Byward Market by a hand-written sign which promised a Caesar salad for $9.95 Canadian. Since this was back in the days when a Canadian dollar was worth about 70¢ US, it seemed like something of a bargain even before I noticed the small print that mentioned that that the salad was served with a side of sirloin steak and fries. Sold!

Down I went, and I discovered one of those charming, warm, welcoming pubs that make you feel instantly comfortable in a new city. The food was tasty and the service friendly. But it was the beer menu that won my heart. Without question, it was the absolute best I’ve ever come across. It’s scope was amazing, and each brew was accompanied by long, loving descriptions that were almost poetic in their exuberance. Sort of like a beer lover’s J. Peterman catalog. I actually purchased a copy of that tome to take home. What they call a menu, I call a shopping list.

My friends and I sent a happy afternoon sampling quite a few from that list (old hard-to-find favorites and wonderful new discoveries) before we realized that we were reaching our limit, and decided it was time to stagger back toward our hotel. But just before we left, one last brew caught our eye. The last line of the description said, “quite possibly the best beer I have ever tasted.” Well. How could we pass that up? Happily, we did not. That beer was called Aventinus. I can say without hesitation, the beer menu poet did not exaggerate.

Aventinus is a Doppelbock, but don’t let its darker amber color fool you. It’s sweet without being syrupy, full-flavored without being bitter, and complex without being overpowering. I’m honestly not sure I know how to describe the taste, except to say that it’s like drinking a loaf of Christmas spice bread. If there was such a thing as a comfort beer, this would be it.

Most pubs serve Aventinus in its own glass. When poured, it has a medium golden brownish color that reminds you of harvest time and autumn wheat. It is slightly hazy, and about an inch or so of frothy head caps it off. Take a sniff. The aroma is soft and gentle, sweet and wheaty with hints of yeast, but also complex. I’d swear that there is some light presence of brown sugar, along with clove and some ripe dark fruit, almost like raisin or plum. The first glorious sip leaves rings and a pretty lace of foam. The flavor is amazing, mellow and complex with hints of subtle dark brown sugar and, again, raisin and plum, with no real trace of hops or alcohol. Not surprisingly the flavor opens up more as the beer warms, leaving a very subtle, faint aftertaste of that’s almost like (I swear) banana and chocolate. Like I said, it’s like drinking a loaf of the very best Christmas spice bread.

And yet, surprisingly, it’s not as heavy as you might expect. The feel on the tongue is medium-bodied with a soft, silky feel and gentle carbonation. Aventinus is definitely a sipping beer, but one that goes down easily. The rich, complex flavor makes you want to savor it slowly, and one a night is plenty. If you happen to live in the Atlanta/Decatur area, it’s easy to find on tap at the Brick Store (of course), the Grange, the Book House, The Porter, and others. If not, well, it’s well-worth hunting down wherever you happen to be. Sip it by the fire with good friends, warm and smiling, and think of crisp, longer nights as the year rolls from autumn to the winter holiday season. It’s terrific all year ’round, of course, but it’s best right about now.

Tuesday Night Irish Music Jam Session at The Grange Public House

The Grange Public House

Nestled as we are between Atlanta, Decatur, Oakhurst, and Little Five Points, Carol and I are blessed to live in Pubtopia. South, more or less, you’ve got the good old Brew House Café and the marvelous new gastro pub, the Porter. West, there’re two that I think would make just about anyone’s favorites lists: The Local (a quintessential neighborhood bar with great food) and The Book House (a friendly, literary gastro pub named for Twin Peaks!), both on Ponce. East takes you to Oakhurst and the Universal Joint, or to East Atlanta Village. North (I admit that my directions are approximate at best) and you’re in Decatur, where you’ll find Twains (a wonderful literary Brew Pub!), Leon’s Full Service (delicious upscale locavore), Eddie’s Attic (the best live music listening room south of the North Pole), and, of course, the Platoic ideal of the perfect pub: the Brick Store. I’m not even mentioning the world’s most ideal neighborhood bar, the venerable and beloved Manuel’s Tavern.

I should mention that all of these places are within a mile or two of us, and every last one is warm, friendly, and comfortable. All have very good to excellent pub food, with beer lists ranging from solid to jaw-dropping. Each has something special to recommend it: music at Eddie’s, the books at the Book House, barbecue at the Local, God’s own beer and whiskey menu at the Brick Store, and sports at the Brew House, for example. Indeed, it’s the embarrassment of riches that keeps me from naming a favorite: my own Cheers, as it were.

Which brings me to The Grange, also on Ponce in Decatur. It’s an Irish Pub, actually run by Irishmen, and it has a beer list to rival even the mighty Brick Store. It’s a comfortable, homey place—and one where you’re never going to hear that dang unicorn song. (They don’t usually have live music—for the stage-Irish pub Irish singers, you’ll need to head down to Limerick Junction in Virginia Highlands.) The upscale pub food at the Grange is amazing, even for Pubtopia. I have a hard time not ordering the slow smoked, Guinness braised brisket every time, but when I’ve managed to try the bangers and mash, the pasta with cream sauce, the fish and chips (excellent, but the James Joyce in Avondale still has the best), or even the burger, I’ve been exceptionally pleased. These guys have comfort food down.

If I had to pick a favorite, I’d agonize—but the Grange is probably the one I’d pick, if only because you can’t get in to the Brick Store on the weekends, you can’t park at the Porter, and Eddie’s is for music, not just hanging out. In fact, the Grange is the place I’ve chosen for my Raven Wakes the World book release “after party” November 7. (If you’re in the neighborhood, please join us! There will be live music that night.)

Again, any of the ones I’d mentioned could be a favorite. They’re all on the list, and I grin ear to er when I’d heading to any one of them. So why the Grange? The funny thing is, I didn’t care for it that much when it was the Angel, a British Pub owned by the chain that operates (or operated) The Prince of Wales, Hand in Hand, and Fox and Hound. I didn’t dislike it, mind. It was a pub—by definition, I liked it. And honestly, it doesn’t look all that different now. It’s elegant, with lots of brick an old dark wood, but it’s comfortable and welcoming. The food and drink menus are vastly improved, though. The big difference, though, is more intangible. It’s the feel of the place. Something about it just makes me feel comfortable and welcome.

There’s one more thing. Every Tuesday night, there is a Celtic music jam session. While most of us sit around in a circle, nursing our ales and listening in a sort of golden haze of happy ecstasy, some of Atlanta’s very best traditional music play—well, whatever you feel like.

Now, as many of you know, I am a huge fan of Celtic music. Once upon a time, I used to host a Celtic radio show, and my forthcoming novel Blackthorne Faire is just drenched in it. I don’t play, but the world needs audiences, too, and on most nights, I can clap along, or distinguish the difference between a jig and a reel. I’ve been to sessions all over the world, and I own CDs from some of the more legendary ones in places like Dublin and New York, but I’ll swear, these guys can hold their own with any of them. Heck, they’re tighter than a lot of studio bands. I’ve paid fifty bucks to hear Celtic bands that didn’t sound this polished.

If you’re good, you’re welcome to join in. If you’re a beginner, you’re probably going to want to sit and listen. But I’m told it’ll make you ache to practice until you’re good enough to join the circle yourself. For me, it’s enough just to listen, to let the music wash over me like healing waters. But I understand the feeling. Something in the music wakes the urge to make. I’m always dying to write when I leave there.

The music is (not surprisingly, given that it’s a Celtic jam) mostly Celtic. But there are a few diversions. You’ll hear some Old Time, some Bluegrass, and even some Gypsy Jazz. It’s all great stuff. And you can listen as you swap stories with good friends, and nurse a pint of your favorite. Here’s raising a glass to simple pleasures and good times. Good times that happen every Tuesday night are even better. Cheers, mates. I hope to see you there.

Vienna Roast by Atlanta Coffee Roasters

I’ve become something of a coffee snob as I’ve aged. I didn’t mean to, but there you go. I’ve loved coffee for ages — going all the way back to third grade Sunday School when my pal Steve Martin and I used to wander down to the fellowship hall to pour ourselves a styrofoam cup filled with milk and sugar, with a splash of coffee for color. By the time I reached high school, I was drinking it black, as God intended. Around then, I discovered Dunkin’ Donuts, and learned that, indeed, some cups of coffee are better than others. I was in college when I discovered that there are much better coffees, even, than Dunkin. Gradually, I discovered different beans and gourmet roasts, picking favorites from various specialty vendors, like Peet’s. If you appreciate a good, steaming mug, chances are that’s pretty much your story, too.

Turns out, though, I had one more lesson to learn. Fresh coffee — coffee sold with a week of roasting, and roasted within a few days of harvesting — makes an astonishing difference. Seriously. An astonishing difference. I made this discovery at Atlanta Coffee Roasters at the Toco Hills shopping center. It’s a micro-roaster. The coffee they sell is flown in daily. If you ever step into the back room, you’ll see great burlap sacks of coffee stamped with exotic ports from all over the world, all carefully selected, each waiting their turn for the artisan’s attention. Then, small batches are blended and roasted to exacting standards. It truly is an art, and hearing the roasters describe the process with such obvious love for their craft is a joy. By comparison, even when you buy your beans from a gourmet specialty house, the coffee you’re getting is usually at least a month or two old. If you’re lucky. It’s picked, shipped to the US, roasted, packed, warehoused, distributed, and … well, you get the idea. At Atlanta Coffee Roasters, the beans are roasted literally every day.

Much to my surprise, the difference in taste is amazing. There are entire new dimensions of coffee goodness waiting to be discovered. I mean that literally. There are waves of flavor that I had never tasted before. Dozens of varieties are available, flavored, blends, special roasts, you name it. My wife Carol and I have tried several. We used to get a pound of something different every week. We stopped that when we found what is, to us, the perfect coffee: the Vienna Roast. It is a dark roast, like a French or Italian roast, and absolutely full of robust flavor. But it is much smoother than you’d expect from a dark roast, and the aftertaste is almost sweet rather than bitter. It is, quite frankly, the very best cup of coffee I’ve ever head.

As I mentioned, there are other blends. All are worth a try. If you take the time to describe your tastes, the staff there will be happy to make recommendations. You can enjoy a cup there, or take the beans to go. We have ours shipped, so we never risk running out when we can’t work the schedules to make it to Toco Hills before we run out. Those of you reading this out of town, give it some thought. Even when you allow a few days for shipping, it’s still fresher than what you’re getting from, well, anywhere else that’s not a micro-roaster. There are at least two other micro-rosters in the area: Dancing goats and Jittery Joes (assuming Athens counts as local, and assuming they are still as good as I remember). Both are excellent. Neither are quite as good as Atlanta Coffee Roasters. By the way, Atlanta Coffee Roasters also has a very good selection selection of teas and brewing supplies. They also have WiFi. Although these days, saying a coffee shop has WiFi is a lot like saying, they have air. You just kind of assume.

“Palimpsest” by Catherynne Valente

Read Palimpsest

Catherynne Valente’s new(ish) book Palimpsest is a hard one to describe. Palimpsest tells of a city visited only in dreams. It’s a sort of sexually transmitted city. Certain people bear a strange tattoo-like mark on their skin … a map. Enjoy a moment or a night of intense passion with one of them, and in the heavy sleep after climax, you might find yourself in the city of Palimpsest. It’s a city of decadent magnificence, strange delights, and twisting, labyrinthine wonder. Of tall gothic cathedrals, bizarre masquerade balls, and bejeweled vermin. The story’s four characters all carry a wound of some sort, a loss. They’ve come to find solace in Palimpsest. They are bound together, each sharing what the others experience, pain and pleasure, tasting what the others taste. In the morning, they wake back in our world, marked with a strange tattoo, a map, and a longing to return. Like I said, it’s kind of hard to describe.

On one level, Palimpsest is a metaphor, of sorts, for the maze of sex and relationships, with all its beauty and danger. Sex can be a hollow, fleeting, even dangerous thing, or it can be sacred, the ultimate sacrament. The emotions are complex and churning. It marks and wounds, and it opens a longing in the depths of the soul. It’s a way that too people can build a world all of their own, a city of the heart. Once they do, they’ll always long to return there. That’s one level.

The joy of Palimpsest is in it’s lush, dense, baroque, poetic and, yes, even haunting language. Every line is lovingly wrought, a treasure. Every paragraph aches with loveliness. It is utterly sensual and at times even erotic. It’s also refreshingly witty. But it’s like rich food; it’s delicious, even decadent, but it’s hard to take too much at once. It’s a book to savor, in small bursts of bliss, and return to. It’s not a book for careless beach reading; it is for autumn, with blanket, firelight, and blood-red wine.

Descriptions are loving, detailed, and exact. But for all their beauty and precision, the images in Palimpsest are microcosmic, rather than macrocosmic. And see, that’s the genius of the book. Like any relationship, it requires a partner. Palimpsest is not a city created solely by the author, for all the magnificence of her words. More than any other literary world I can think of, it is created in collaboration with the reader. Read it, and pass your copy along to a friend, and the two of you will not be reading the same book.

You see, Palimpsest makes demands of the reader. If the foreground is created with detail and a master jeweler’s precision, the background (so to speak) is sketched, leaving the reader to fill in the rest. Don’t come thinking to read passively. It’s impossible. Like any relationship, it’s a partnership, a shared act of creation. The characters are fully realized, their personalities are defined to a breathtaking degree. You can’t help but ache for them. All the same, the portraits have holes, here and there, inviting the reader like open arms to enter and pour their own wounds in, to patch the empty places with parts of themselves. The characters, then, become, like the dream city of wonders around around them, something new. Marked and changed.

It’s a challenging book, and probably not for everyone. (What is?) The beauties here are uncomfortable at times. Lines are crossed, and yes, raw nerves are probed. But Catherynne Valente has discovered or created (I have no idea which) a unique way to couple with a reader, an astonishing act of sharing through creation. I found myself finishing each chapter breathless and basking in a warm smile of afterglow, longing for a cigarette even though I’ve never smoked. I also found myself wanting to pass the book along to friends to see what they might discover within.

“I Called I” by Desmond Drive

Listen to I Called I

First, disclaimer alert. The band Desmond Drive is fronted by a friend of mine, Bill Shaouy. So I’m a mite on the biased side. I think I’d be saying the same thing anyway, though. Because I really enjoy this album. It’s catchy, it’s fun, and it’s even a little bit wise. Nothing wrong with a little zen in your pop. That said, Desmond Drive was a breath of fresh air to me. While the roots are showing — influences of XTC and “Abbey Road” era Beatles are impossible to miss — the results seem fresh and original, and even contemporary in a retro sort of way. It’s nice to be reminded that pop doesn’t = shallow.

The tunes themselves are catchy pop, albeit a few degrees of mainstream center … hummable and, frankly, a joy to listen to. Thre lyrics are at time almost childlike: the song “Isn’t it a Wonder” it at first pass a simple catalog of ordinary things that suddenly seem miraculous. But upon a second listen, the joy of epiphany seems moving and filled with unabashed joy. “Your Name,” on the other hand, is a decidedly mature song, about enduring, spiritual love as opposed to the fire of infatuation that makes too many pop love songs seem banal. “My Tribe” is terrific, and expands the idea of relationship, a theme that recurs throughout the album, to found family, people made close by spirit rather than blood.

Give I Called I a listen. It’s fun, and its seeming simplicity hides surprises that reward repeat listenings. Besides, ow can you go wrong with an album that begins with a Greek Chorus?

“The Promised Land” by Dar Williams

Listen to The Promised Land

Naming a favorite artist is always a tricky thing—be they authors, musicians, filmmakers, painters. Whatever. Heck, naming a top ten list is usually nerve wracking enough. With musicians, I find it easier to pare things down and list by category. Say, my top favorite guitar players or live performers. This drives my music purist friends up the wall—they don’t seem to appreciate my running the light through a prism, so to speak, and breaking the beam into separate colors. I suppose I can see their point.

Nonetheless, when I saw the always-amazing Dar Williams at Eddie’s Attic here in Decatur recently, it struck me that she joins Tom Waits (Tom Waits for no man) and Leonard Cohen in my trinity of top favorite lyricists. Well, she did that night, anyway. Frankly, I think she would on most nights. For the record, I cheat a little. I don’t count Paul Simon, Lennon and McCartney (or George Harrison), or Bob Dylan, because I think they’re just givens. And my lists shifts a bit with my moods and circumstance, often including the likes of Jimmy Buffett, Johnny Mercer, Stan Rogers, Paul Williams, Beth Nielsen Chapman, Randy Newman, Kristen Hall, both of the Indigo Girls, Johnny Cash, and the Sherman Brothers (if you don’t know them, you haven’t been watching enough classic Disney). But when it comes to the sheer poetry, to elegant turns of phrase that strike unexpectedly deep notes of emotional resonance, Dar is just about always at the very top. One of her early albums features a song called “You’re Aging Well,” and at times, even after I’ve heard it a thousand million times, it can still sneak up on me unexpectedly and make me weep, because, for some reason I can’t quite explain, it reminds me, deeply in the heart, of my wife, Carol.

Dar’s new album, The Promised Land, is no exception. (I can call her Dar, because I met her once. She may not know it, but I am certain that we bonded.) Sure, Promised Land includes a cover tune: “Midnight Radio” from the rock musical Hedwig And The Angry Itch. But even there, Dar has made it her own. The original comes across as tragic; the cover, oddly, is almost soothing. The rest of the album is original, and its vintage Dar. Deep emotions that both cut and heal—and more than once, inspire a good laugh.

Social causes are never far from Dar’s music, although she never descends to treacley didacticism. Songs like “Buzzer” raise questions that are hard to answer, but the catchy, up-tempo melodies make them fun to listen to, and listen to again. “The Business Of Things” and “The Tide Falls Away” are almost astonishingly poignant.

If you know Dar’s music, you’ve likely already heard this album. If not, well, think of the realm of Sarah McLachlan and Sheryl Crow, with lyrics that can be mentioned in the same sentence as Waits, Cohen, Williams, Newman, Mercer, Dylan, and Simon. The Promised Land is a good place to start. But then, so is The Honesty Room, My Better Self, The Beauty of the Rain, The Green World, or … heck, any of them.Do yourself a favor and listen. Closely. Then listen again.

“Anointed: The Passion of Timmy Christ, CEO” by Zachary Steele

Read Anointed: The Passion of Timmy Christ, CEO

“When the Anti-Christ and Satan entered the bar, nobody took notice.”

That’s a great first line. Believe it or not, it’s not the start of a joke. It’s the first line of Zachary Steele’s novel Anointed, which is a scream. If you’re a fan of people like Christopher Moore or Douglas Adams, take a look. Sadly, (in my humble opinion) it hasn’t received the attention it deserves.

From what I hear through the grapevine, Zachary Steele was supposed to be interviewed on a radio show called something like The Open Mind, but they cancelled him when the found out the book wasn’t a slam on religion. Apparently, these are fundamentalist atheists that can only be open minded in one way. What it IS is a biting satire of the corporatization of religion, and it’s a scream. It’s a genuinely funny book, and well worth a read.

A word of disclosure: I know Zach, and his publisher, Mercury Retrograde Press, is also mine.

In Good Company: “The Company They Keep” by Diana Pavlac Glyer

Read The Company They Keep: C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien as Writers in Community

Until the publication of Diana Pavlac Glyer’s new book The Company The Keep: C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien as Writers in Community, I hadn’t realized how strong was my urge to be a “completist.” A new book out on the Inklings? By all means, I had to have it, period. This is fortunate, because if I paused to remind myself that I’d already read Humphrey Carpenter’s superb biography The Inklings, and then to ask if I really, really needed another book on the subject, the rational part of my brain might have said “no,” and (it’s not completely impossible) might have carried the day. And that would have been too darn bad. Glyer’s book makes a wonderful companion to Carpenter’s more well known volume, and stands very well on its own. Carpenter’s book is a biography; Glyer’s is an examination of the very significant ways in which, as a community, the Inkings challenged, inspired, influenced, and supported one another. The Company The Keep is a terrific and insightful read.

Carpenter’s The Inklings tells a rollicking good story. When Carpenter describes the group’s meetings at The Eagle and Child Pub, you can almost hear the glasses clinking merrily; you’d swear that, now and then, you catch, almost the faint and fading scent of sweet pipe smoke. You feel that you know Tolkien, Lewis, Williams, Barfield, and the others, a privilege as welcome as it is rare. Carpenter’s recreation of the now-famous conversation between Lewis and Tolkien on mythopoeia and the deeper truth hidden in the “lies” of myth is moving and profoundly beautiful.

By contrast, Glyer mentions this conversation only in passing. Her purpose isn’t to tell a story. It’s to explore. In her introduction, Glyer notes that early critics, from Gareth Knight and Lin Carter to Mark Hillegas and Carpenter himself, tend to downplay the influences the writers had upon one another. Glyer reminds us that Carpenter claims that the Inklings has, for example, no influence at all on the development of The Lord of the Rings. Glyer argues that this claim is at best unfair. Why would the men have continued to meet and critique one another’s works in progress if they perceived no value in the exchange? More, Glyer points out that common sense alone suggests that any group that meets over a long period of time — some seventeen years — is bound to change its members in ways both subtle and obvious.

So why would critics argue that the Inklings had no influence on one another’s work? Glyer builds a convincing case that Carpenter, Carter, and the others were reacting to earlier critics who accused the Inklings of a sort of group think, marching in almost corporate lockstep, writing interchangeable, virtually indistinguishable works. Confronted with such preposterous accusations, it seems natural that more sympathetic critics would have been quicker to defend each individual’s personal achievement and genius.

To start her study of the Inklings, Glyer looked at other communities of working writers, and was stuck by how both members and critics readily acknowledge the groups’ influence without diminishing individual achievement. More, Glyer found that members of writer’s groups and communities tend to influence each other in very specific ways: as resonators supporting and encouraging progress, as opponents issuing challenge, as editors, as collaborators working together, and finally as referents writing about each other. Glyer devotes long chapters to each, using letters, interviews, essays and other evidence to show how the Inklings filled each role for one another.

Glyer concludes that writers don’t create in a vacuum; every artist’s work is inevitably embedded in the work of others. Community doesn’t stifle creativity or individual expression. Rather, it fertilizes and nurtures it. For anyone interested in how a favorite book came to be, and especially for artists exploring their own craft, The Company The Keep is a must read. Her conclusions are well supported and her arguments thorough. Best of all, her book is fascinating and a joy to read. Any fan of Tolkien, Lewis, and the others absolutely must have a copy of Carpenter’s The Inklings. The shelf is equally bare without a copy of The Company They Keep.

“The Gnostic Bible” Edited by Willis Barnstone and Marvin Meyer

Read The Gnostic Bible

The Gnostics were mystics, mostly Christian, who believed that direct, personal experience of the divine, or knowledge, was the way to salvation. The early church, who regarded it’s own intervention and hierarchy as the means to salvation, viewed the freedom and independence of the Gnostics as a threat. In a relatively short time, the Gnostics disappeared. However, with the discovery of the “lost” texts in the Nag Hammadi library and the publication of Elaine Pagels’ definitive works, Gnosticism is currently enjoying a renaissance.

For those interested in the Gnostics and their actual beliefs and mysteries, as well as the early history of Christianity, The Gnostic Bible is a welcome resource. As a matter of fact, The Gnostic Bible is quite possibly the most comprehensive collection of Gnostic materials ever gathered in one volume.

The Gnostic Bible collects a wealth of primary sources, Gnostic texts from a wide variety of sources, including three continents and spanning more than 1300 years. The expected texts are present, of course, including the famous Gospel of Thomas, along with some unexpected resources. Making the volume especially useful to students of Gnosticwisdom traditions, the texts are well-organized into distinct movements of Gnostic tradition: Sethian, Valentinian, Syrian, Hermetic, Mandaean, Manichaean, and even, surprisingly, later Islamic and even Cathar texts.

I was especially surprised to find the Cathar material. Despite an amateur enthusiast’s fascination with the Cathars, I had no idea that such material existed. Until a “Nag Hammadi” or Dead Sea scroll” find of Cathar material is discovered, this is the best insight into their mysteries we are likely to find. Each section of texts is preceded by a brief but insightful introduction to that particular section’s brand of Gnosticism.

One thing The Gnostic Bible makes clear is that encapsulating Gnostic belief is a lot like summarizing Native American belief. Some themes and motifs seem to be consistent, but sweeping generalizations simply don’t do justice to the diversity of thought. The Gnostic Bible does an admirable job of expressing the surprising scope and breadth of Gnosticism, and the diverse traditions upon which it drew. The Gnostic Bible makes apparent the tremendous diversity of thought that exists under the broad category of Gnosticism, including Christian, Jewish, Muslim, pagan, Zoroastrian and Greco-Roman influences.

Most of the translations are newer (and presumably more accurate and complete) than those in earlier collections, such as The Other Bible (itself edited by Willis Barnstone, one of the editors of The Gnostic Bible) and The Nag Hammadi Library. I am not qualified to judge the authenticity or accuracy of the translations, when the collection has earned praise from such luminaries as Elaine Pagels and Richard Smoley, it’s hard not to take their word.

In addition to the original sources themselves, The Gnostic Bible contains an introduction summarizing current debates about gnosticism (by Meyer) and a truly fascinating overview of the issues of translation (by Barnstone). But perhaps the best editorial feature are the extensive notes that illuminate each text, enriching the experience by defining terms, providing historical and cultural context, and comparing especially puzzling passages to others for clarification. Many of the texts are being published here in English for the first time, making this a valuable resource for students, scholars, and anyone interested to one of Christianity’s most fascinating mystery traditions.

“Coyote Moon” By John A. Miller

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As fond as I am of trickster tales, it’s hard to imagine anything with a title like Coyote Moon can be anything other than mythic. Coyote Moon doesn’t have a lot to do with coyotes, or even with tricksters (although I have a feeling that author John Miller himself may qualify), but the novel is certainly mythic. First, baseball plays a major role in the story. As the brilliant book Ground Rules: Baseball and Myth shows, baseball is a goldmine for mythic material. Add in liberal doses of cutting edge physics (if you’re not up on your science, don’t worry), possible reincarnation, and the search for meaning and miracles, and the result is a myth lover’s delight.

A rookie baseball player, missing a past but blessed with a cannon for an arm and a stellar batting average, a Mexican waitress, a physics professor, the widowed owner of a trailer park, and a band of retired, wandering Germans are all drawn together to a place in the desert. Why? None are certain. Only that it seems something is about to happen. Something that might reveal a great secret, something that might even be a miracle.

As the relationships of the charming and engaging characters deepen, they seem reborn and renewed as their inhibitions and old lives melt away in the desert heat. What happens exactly? The ending, alas, is vague, or at least open to interpretation. All miracles are. And John A. Miller is at least as much a trickster as the coyote who seems to wink at the needy seekers in the novel.

But as ambiguous as it may seem in the end. Coyote Moon is certainly not unsatisfying, and is never less than a joy to read. The lyrical passages on love, life, the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, and, of course, baseball and the meaning of life and destiny, are lovely, and the characters are a genuine pleasure to meet and share a journey with.

“The Genealogy of Greek Myth: An Illustrated Family Tree Greek Myth” by Vanessa James

Read The Genealogy of Greek Mythology: An Illustrated Family Tree Greek Myth from the First Gods to the Founders of Rome

The Genealogy of Greek Myth: An Illustrated Family Tree Greek Myth from the First Gods to the Founders of Rome is a handy resource. Packed with well-researched information, this book provides “at a glance” charts and surprisingly detailed information about the complex and often confusing relationships of the immortal Olympians and the mortal heroes they interact with.

The author, Vanessa James, spent eighteen years putting the Genealogy of Greek Myth together, and it shows. The data is more than complete, it is exhaustive. More, it provides a truly elegant and genuinely useful way to trace the dynasties and major events of Greek and Roman myth.

The information, which includes more than 3,000 entries for gods, goddess, heroes, monsters, and mortals and 125 biographies of key characters, is nicely indexed, complete, and easy to access and grasp quickly. The family-tree style arrangement makes it intuitive to explore. It’s also fun to read.

Nonetheless, what really sets this book apart is the fact that it is just plain beautiful. It is lavishly illustrated with photographs, a mythological star chart, classical art (reproductions of paintings, sculptures, mosaics, pottery, etc.), maps, and the previouslty mentioned charts, all in lush and vibrant color.

The uniquely designed book slides out of a slip case and unfolds to become a 17-foot long poster, making the information accessible literally at a glance. The result is an excellent reference that’s also a treasure to own.

“Spirits in the Wires” By Charles de Lint

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Like Isabell Allende, Jonathan Carroll, and Alice Hoffman, Charles de Lint brings myth and magic out of faraway Middle-earth or fairyland and makes it live and breathe in the modern world. The result is no less wonderful, but somehow even more immediate and relevant.

In his novel, Spirits in the Wires, Charles de Lint once again returns to Newford, the fictional North America city that has been the setting for his recent novels and stories. Newford is more than a city; like the forest in fairy tales, it is a place where magic waits, hidden and subtle, just around the next corner, or one step sideways.

Spirits in the Wires gives surprising and fascinating life to the emerging new mythologies of the modern world, the spirits of the Internet, the World Wide Web, and even computer viruses. This isn’t really a new idea; Neil Gainman addressed similar ideas in his American Gods.

But where Gaiman relies primarily on cleverness, de Lint draws on heart, insight, and characters that we can help caring about. And that is what makes de Lint’s book succeed. He shows us exactly how myth surrounds us, even in a wired world of instant messages, PDAs, and computer viruses, and how it continues to touch and change us. It’s also a lovely reminder of how we all live stories, and our stories touch others in such wonderful and unexpected ways.

Spirits in the Wires is fun and entertaining. As a thriller, it’s a page-turner. But the myth and the poetry of the writing make it lovely, and the characters make it come alive. Our compassion for de Lint’s beautifully-drawn characters moves us, and makes the novel linger long after the last page is turned.

Speaking of the characters, some of them, especially the folklorist/author Christy Riddell, are familiar to those who have read de Lint’s earlier Newford novels and stories. It’s not necessary to read the previous works to enjoy Spirits in the Wires. However, it’s a much richer experience if you have. The four Newford story collections make a great place to start — epecially the stories Saskia, The Fields Beyond the Fields, and Pixel Pixies.