Thrills, Chills, and the Oxford English Dictionary

The Professor and the Madman: A Tale of Murder, Insanity, and the Making of the Oxford English Dictionary by Simon Winchester, read like a novel (it even had illustrative sketches). The narrative focused on two men: Professor James Murray, who led the team of compilers for the Oxford English Dictionary, and Dr. W.C. Minor, a Civil War veteran. Minor was imprisoned as an inmate of an asylum for the criminally insane in England after he murdered a man in a fit of paranoid delusion. Dr. Minor’s insanity concentrated itself on nighttime delusions. For example, he thought that little girls made him perform “appalling actions” during the night and though mostly rational by day, he would baracade his bedroom door at night because he believed that intruders were pouring poison into his mouth through a funnel. He would insist on being weighed each morning to see if the poison had made him heavier. His madness finally led him to a desperate act of self mutilation that I will leave out, just in case you want to read the book and be unpleasantly surprised. 

Winchester’s portrayal of this “madman” is insightful, tragic, and complex. Though enslaved by madness for much of his life, Minor was also a keen academic, a surgeon during the Civil War, and a collector of antique books. From his cell in the Broadmoor Asylum for the Criminally Insane, he submitted over ten thousand words to the OED project.

While Minor is an extremely interesting character to read about, I was also impressed by enormity of the the OED project. I’m so used to having a Dictionary at my fingertips that the idea of not being able to find a concise definition for a word, let alone being responsible for compiling, defining, and finding examples for all of the words in the English language is hard to conceive. It took over 70 years to complete the Oxford English Dictionary. 

The only reservation I have about this book is that a lot of it seemed based on conjecture. Phrases such as, “might it be possible....,” “perhaps,” “one wonders if,” and “it seems reasonable to think” abounded. If it weren’t for these signal phrases one could easily assume that everything Winchester wrote was based on flawless, factual research. It’s clear, however, that he felt free to “fill in the gaps” and as long as you’re comfortable with a bit of fiction mixed with fact, you shouldn’t feel annoyed by the liberties he took in writing this book. 

The Book Jacket Conspiracy

Though the first book in this series came out in 2007, as of last week I had never heard of Michael Scott or The Alchemyst: The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel. My interest was piqued when I read on the dust jacket that Michael Scott is “a master of fantasy, science fiction, horror, and folklore, he has been hailed by the Irish Times as ‘the King of Fantasy in these isles.’” The King? What a powerful recommendation! I bought the first two books in the series and fully expected to be amazed.

Once again, The Great Book Jacket Conspiracy, fueled by crafty publishers, duped me. 

The one really positive thing I can say about this book is that Scott’s love of mythology and folklore is ever apparent. According to the author, every character, with the exception of the twins, is “based on real historical characters or mythological beings” (371). That’s something. 

The constant references to iPods, Hummers, computer games like Myst, etc. were beyond annoying. Am I really supposed to believe that the Morrigan (a warrior goddess from Irish mythology) is addicted to eBay and online strategy games? He might as well stick full-page color advertisements in between the chapters. Perhaps Scott is hoping that such blatant commercialism will lead to a movie contract. Whatever the reason, these product shout-outs made his magical world much less magical. 

The fact that the twins were constantly trying to be convinced that what they’re seeing is real also made the story less convincing. The blending of the magical world with the non-magical world just didn’t work. Why would someone be surprised that they can’t get a cell phone signal or find a power socket when they’re in a Yggdrasill (the “World Tree”)? That’s less believable than the tree itself. 

Finally, Scott’s narrative often digresses into long bouts of theorizing about the beginning of the earth. Not surprisingly, he is a proponent of evolution and the dull spiels about our ape descendants grated on my nerves. There was too much of an agenda for me. 

Despite all this (or maybe because I’ve already bought the second book), I’m actually hoping that these books will improve. Series can be unpredictable. Sometimes the first book hooks you and the rest let you down. Other times, the author is just getting warmed up and you have to wait for them to build their plot. The verdict is still out. 

Lonesome Dove

Lonesome Dove. This was the first “real” Western that I have ever felt a desire to read. When Miles and I were at The King’s English Bookshop a few weeks ago I pulled it off the shelf mainly, I’ll admit, because the cover was pretty (the shame). After reading the first three pages the cover was quickly forgotten and I felt a bit "visionary," already convinced that this book would be amazing. 

At the heart of this story is Augustus McCrae and Woodrow Call, revered Texas Rangers who are biding their time in a drought laden dust hole filled with centipedes and rattlesnakes in a South Texas town known as Lonesome Dove. Longing for purpose and adventure, Call takes it into his head that the Hat Creek outfit should drive a herd of cattle to Montana. What follows is an epic adventure with dozens of memorable characters. 

Nicholas Lemann, from The New York Times Book Review wrote that “Everything about Lonesome Dove feels true . . . These are real people, and they are still larger than life.” 

Nobody in this novel gets what they want or what they think they want. People die when they shouldn’t; yet, despite the sadness and disappointment, you're glad they tried. I guess that is like real life. 

Lonesome Dove captures the excitement of an untamed frontier and the desire to see new places that are unsettled and uncivilized. The magic of this book is that despite dust storms, sand storms, and wind storms; a mangy despotic indian whose cruelty and gruesome deeds turn your stomach; clouds of locusts and nests of water moccasins; beady eyed bandits and bad men who murder simply for the sake of murdering - it still made me believe that if I could only ride out alone some night onto the open plains and gaze up at a star studded sky that it would all be worth it. 

Ethan Frome and The American

For the past month I have faithfully gone to the gym every morning as penance for, what I shall term, "The 2011 Chocolate Scandal." Not surprisingly, this past week I became a bit bored with watching the news (can Newt Gingrich just go away?) and reruns of “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.” Seeking a way to keep myself motivated, I decided to start bringing my Kindle with me. I was afraid I wouldn’t work out as hard if I did (I was right), but at-least it kept me going to the gym. I’m not sure why I chose Edith Wharton and Henry James as my gym companions - they're really not the type to go to the gym - but I was amply rewarded and punished in my choosing. 

Ethan Frome (1911) is a short novel by Edith Wharton. The story is set in Starkfield, Massachusetts and narrates the tale of Ethan Frome, the unfortunate inheritor of a rather decrepit farm, who once dreamed of becoming an engineer and a man of learning. I would like to indulge in some of the details of this tale, but that would ruin it. Let’s just say that Frome is married to a hypochondriac with false teeth and shrunken cheeks who is seven years his senior and about as conniving and manipulative as Mrs. Bates of Downton Abbey. Mattie, Mrs. Frome’s rather more attractive and more enchanting cousin (who is still in possession of a good set of teeth) comes to housekeep for them on their lonely farm. I’ll leave it to your imagination what happens next. Suffice to say, Wharton seems to enjoy cranking the wheels of fate and crushing her characters under their own desires and ambitions. It seems rather heartless, but it’s all so gloriously and magnificently done that I would actually categorize this under an “enjoyable” read. If I ever read a Wharton story that has a happy ending I think I will be extremely disappointed. 

After flying through Ethan Frome, I had that New England bug and ambitiously moved on to Henry James’ The American (1877). I loved Portrait of a Lady and The Turn of the Screw and I think Henry James is a genius, but ugh.

The novel centers on the plight of Christopher Newman, an American businessman who has made his fortune, has tired of the trappings of the business world, and gone to Europe to improve himself. He sounds like he would be an interesting character, but he is about as exciting as cardboard left out in the rain. He is amiable, unsuspicious, phlegmatic, and because he has money he thinks he is the equal of anyone, even the Parisian aristocracy. The main conflict centers upon his courtship with Claire de Cintre, a woman from a very, very old Parisian family. 

James and Wharton wrote in a similar vein, but while I cared for the sufferings of Wharton’s characters, I was actually relieved when James’ characters rushed to their demise. Actually, the problem was that they did not rush to their demise, they lazed about waiting for demise. The themes were interesting (Old World vs. New World; Americans vs. Europeans; new money vs. old money, etc) and I didn’t hate it, but this story unfortunately falls under the category of: “I have forced myself to read something dreadfully boring because I know it is good for me and I have just barely survived the ordeal.”

East of Eden

Before last week my exposure to Steinbeck consisted of the usual: The Grapes of Wrath (read at PUC) and Of Mice and Men (high school). When I thought of Steinbeck I pictured dust, California, downtrodden farmers, more dust, and mentally unstable giants who suffocate puppies and women (by accident, of course). 

While East of Eden contained all of these elements (except Lennie), it was far more complex than I anticipated. The first 70 pages of the story dragged a bit, but when Cathy Ames (aka Kate) came onstage, I was hooked. Cathy is probably one of the most heinous characters I have ever encountered. She puts Dracula, Dorian Grey, Elkenah Bent, and Mr. Hyde to shame. She is horrible; therefore, she is interesting. Vampirism, magic mirrors, and secret potions are not to blame. She is evil incarnate: malicious, depraved, destructive, and completely human. 

Here's one description of her:

Cathy was chewing a piece of meat, chewing with her front teeth. Samuel had never seen anyone chew that way before. And when she had swallowed, her little tongue flicked around her lips. Samuel's mind repeated, "Something - something -can't find what it is. Something wrong," and the silence hung on the table. (171)

Here's another description of her when she's giving birth to her twins:

Her head jerked up and her sharp teeth fastened on his hand across the back and up into the palm near the little finger. He cried out in pain and tried to pull his hand away, but her jaw was set and her head twisted and turned, mangling his hand the way a terrier worries a sack. A shrill snarling came from her set teeth . . . He stepped back from the bed and looked at the damage her teeth had done. He looked at her with fear. And when he looked, her face was calm again and young and innocent. (191) 


Since we're working with allegory in this novel, her snake-like qualities are intentional. 

East of Eden is set mainly in the Salinas Valley and Steinbeck was aiming for a primordial significance that parallels themes found in the book of Genesis: father/son relationships, redemption, and freedom of choice. I found the most fascinating theme of this book to be the question of inherited sin. Following three generations of characters whose morality ranges from good, bad, evil, and everywhere in-between, the conclusion is that everyone has a choice as to whether they will choose good or choose evil. Humanity is not predestined to make the choices that that their parents made and they are not doomed by genetics to act in a certain way. The philosophy might be a little heavy, but reading this book was effortless. 

I love Steinbeck’s straightforward prose. He’s never over the top with description, yet he still manages to be poetic. 

“It was a deluge of a winter in the Salinas Valley, wet and wonderful. The rains fell gently and soaked in and did not freshet. The feed was deep in January, and in February the hills were fat with grass and the coats of the cattle looked tight and sleek. In March the soft rains continued, and each storm waited courteously until its predecessor sank beneath the ground. The warmth flooded the valley and the earth burst into bloom - yellow and blue and gold” (308).  

I’m not a huge American Literature person, but I do want to read more Steinbeck. When I read Steinbeck I know I am encountering greatness in a novelist. 

The House at Tyneford

I scooped up Natasha Solomons book, The House at Tyneford (2011), on one of our Costco trips a couple of weeks ago because the sales plug on the cover caught my eye: “Fans of Downton Abbey and Kate Morton’s The Forgotten Garden will absolutely adore The House at Tyneford.” 

Well, I’m a huge fan of Downton Abbey and I’ve been told I will like The Forgotten Garden, but I didn’t exactly adore this book. It was o.k. It kept me entertained. For the most part though, it was kind of dreary and morose. There was none of the sparkle of Downton Abbey and even less of the addicting intrigue.

The premise of the story was interesting. It is 1938 and Elise Landau is a 19-year-old Jewish girl living in Vienna. Her mother is a famous opera singer and her father a well-known philosophical writer of novels. She has always been taken care of, is somewhat spoiled, and used to parties and champagne. She is not as beautiful, talented, or graceful as her older sister, and this gives her a bit of a complex. In order to keep her safe her parents send her off to England to become a parlour maid. Obviously, she begins her new life resentful and forlorn, but she is transformed when she strikes up a friendship with the son of the master of Tyneford, Kit. The rest of the novel revolves around her romance with Kit, her relationship with her sister (who has fled to California with her husband), and trying to figure out how to rescue her parents from Vienna. 

If you’re going to read this book, be warned, Solomons writing is bloated with description. 

In terms of style, the first page of her novel was an easy indicator of things to come. In-fact, Solomons seems to have copied her style directly from Daphne Du Maurier’s 1938 classic, Rebecca. 

Here is a sample of the first couple of paragraphs from Rebecca:

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter, for the way was barred to me. There was a padlock and a chain upon the gate. I called in my dream to the lodge-keeper, and had no answer, and peering closer through the rusted spokes of the gate I saw that the lodge was uninhabited. No smoke came from the chimney, and the little lattice windows gaped forlorn. Then, like all dreamers, I was possessed of a sudden and supernatural powers and passed like a spirit through the barrier before me. The drive wound away in front of me, twisting and turning as it had always done, but as I advanced I was aware that a change had come upon it; it was narrow and unkept, not the drive that we had known.”  

Here is a portion of the opening paragraph of The House at Tyneford:

“When I close my eyes I see Tyneford House. In the darkness as I lay down to sleep, I see the Purebeck stone frontage in the glow of late afternoon. The sunlight glints off the upper windows, and the air is heavy with the scents of magnolia and salt. Ivy clings to the porch archway, and a magpie pecks at the lichen coating a limestone roof tile. Smoke seeps from one of the great chimneystacks, and the leaves on the unfelled lime avenue are May green and cast mottled patterns on the driveway. There are no weeds yet tearing through the lavender and thyme boarders, and the lawn is velvet cropped and rolled in verdant stripes. No bullet holes pockmark the ancient garden wall and the drawing room windows are thrown open, the glass not shattered by shellfire. I see the house as it was then, on the first afternoon.” 

Eerily similar, are they not? I don’t suppose it’s a crime to copy someone else’s style, but by the time I got to the last 50 pages I just wanted to plow through the description of every hill, flower, wave, and cloud so I could get on with the story line. In the end, even though the characters weren't overly lovable and the plot was a bit transparent, I would recommend this book to anyone who wants a light weekend read. Just don’t expect anything nearly as tantalizing as Downton Abbey, no matter what the book cover says! 

Angle of Repose

Usually, when I hear the phrase, “Western literature,” I have visions of sagebrush, haggard, craggy-faced women in unflattering calico dresses husking corn on their front stoop, and simple God fearin’ folk singin’ hymns. So last week when I picked up Wallace Stegner’s Angle of Repose, I automatically assumed I was entering the world of buffalo chips and butter churns. 

Sometimes, I’m such an ignoramus. This book was brilliant (the Pulitzer Prize committee also thought so in 1974). My notions of what a “Western” writer is have been turned upside down. With compelling and complex relationships between characters and poetic and elegant prose, Wallace Stegner is the Henry James of the West. Here’s an example of the richness of his writing: 

"In that latitude the midsummer days were long, midsummer nights only a short darkness between the long twilight that postponed the stars and the green dawn clarity that sponged them up. All across the top of the world the sun dragged its feet, but as soon as it was hidden behind Midsummer Mountain it raced like a child in a game to surprise you in the east before you were quite aware it was gone from the west. One summer out of four, when the moon was nearing or at or just past the full, there was hardly anything that could be called night at all."

What is this story about? I'm too lazy to summarize for myself, so I'll let my book jacket do it:

"Angle of Repose tells the story of Lyman Ward, a retired professor of history and author of books about the Western frontier, who returns to his ancestral home of Grass Valley, California, in the Sierra Nevada. Wheelchair-bound with a crippling bone disease and dependent on others for his every need, Ward is nonetheless embarking on a search of monumental proportions - to rediscover his grandmother, now long dead, who made her own journey to Grass Valley nearly a hundred years earlier."

The story flips back and forth between Lyman, with his difficult relationships and realizations about himself and his ancestors, to a narrative on Susan Ward's (his grandmother) life. This narration is furthered by interspersing letters that his grandmother wrote to her cultured friend back East. His grandmother is an artist and her husband, Oliver, an engineer and the clashing of their temperaments and desires is juxtaposed against the varied landscapes of New York, Colorado, Mexico, Idaho, and California. 

Stegner made me realize that despite that harsh realities of Western life, cultured people who thought there was more to life than just eking out an existence, didn’t just exist in the East. I love reading novels set in sprawling English estates teeming with aristocrats, butlers and maids, but suddenly the West has captured my imagination with a grace and honesty that makes the glitter of chandeliers and the gleam of polished silver seem dull by comparison.