Teaser Tuesday

As we approach the end of November, I’m afraid it doesn’t look terribly good for my SciFi month goals. I have a Heinlein novel I’m almost done with, but I keep pecking at several Star Trek and Star Wars novels and not getting sucked into any of them yet. History is also launching an assault, bound and determined to right the scales and restore itself and its nonfiction compatriots to glory. Presently it still trails fiction by three points, but I have faith it will prevail. It doesn’t help that I’ve been writing more this weekend than reading — not for NaNoWriMo, which is evidently extinct from scandal, but just for the pleasure of it. I’ve been playing with two short stories and began reading one of my successful Nanowrimo runs from back in 2018. (It’s fantasy, if you can believe that, based on a Heroes of Might and Magic II scenario I designed in high school.) Anyhoo, today’s TTT is about being thankful, sooo I’ll just link to my Long and Short Review post from last week and let people who click on it blindly be slightly confused. But here is a Teaser Tuesday!

Another Yank of five weeks’ service featured by long marches complained: “If there is anything particularly attractive in marching from 10 to 20 miles a day under a scorching sun with a good mule load, and sinking up to one’s knees in the ‘Sacred Soil’ at each Step, my mind is not of a sufficiently poetic nature to appreciate it.” (THE LIFE OF BILLY YANK)

“When enemies had at him they quickly found that his weight was the least of their difficulties; what really sent them sprawling was the fact that his whole huge carcass seemed to be made of iron. There was no give in him, no bounce, no softness. He sailed through American history like a steel ship loaded with monoliths of granite.” (H.L. Mencken on Grover Cleveland, as quoted in A MAN OF IRON.)

This next one is less of a tease and more of a whole chonka text, but I love the Book of Common Prayer and enjoyed reading this passage. (Yes, I’m nibbling at three nonfiction books and three SF books simultaneously. I am insane. I do get a four day weekend, though.)


Yet for all its modesty and derivativeness, Cranmer’s 1544 Litany was the beginning of something very big indeed. That single rite would be the first installment of a book, the Book of Common Prayer, that would transform the religious lives of countless English men, women, and children; that would mark the lives of millions as they moved through the stages of life from birth and baptism through marriage and on to illness and death and burial; that would accompany the British Empire as it expanded throughout the world. When Cranmer was still alive a version of that book was the first book printed in Ireland; a quarter-century after his death prayers from it were read in what we now call California by the chaplain of Sir Francis Drake; and versions of it are used today in Christian churches all over the world, as far from England as South Africa, Singapore, and New Zealand. That book’s rite of marriage has become for many people, Christian and non-Christian alike, the means by which two people are joined: I participated many years ago in a Unitarian wedding in Tulsa, Oklahoma, that began with the minister’s intoning of the familiar words: “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy Matrimony.” Whatever Cranmer was thinking when he sat among his books in Croydon Palace, in “an obscure and darke place” surrounded by trees, whatever he thought might come of his little exercise in vernacular rite-making, he was imagining nothing even remotely like what would come to pass. (THE BOOK OF COMMON PRAYER, Alan Jacobs)

I especially enjoyed this passage because I remember going through the Book of Common Prayer in one of my first Episcopal services as a visitor, I found the service of marriage and marveled at how influential it was.

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Shadowlands: A Play

I have been given the choice twice in my life. The boy chose
safety. The man chooses suffering.

C.S. Lewis died on 11/22/63, a week before his 65th birthday. Over the years, I have taken up the habit of spending “a week with Jack” — reading something of his in that space, to spend time with an author whose letters and essays delight me like no other’s. While looking for a quote of Lewis’ to share on Christmas (specifically, his harrumping at the vulgar commercialization of it), I stumbled upon “Shadowlands: A Play” and was immediately intrigued. A few years ago I watched a movie about the relationship of Lewis and his American friend, and later wife, Joy Gresham — and it shared the same name. While “Shadowlands” is largely about the growth of Jack and Joy’s relationship, the scenes are more confined. Much of the play happens at the Kilns, where Jack and some male friends debate and argue and joke — and where Jack and Joy have more serious conversations. “Shadowlands” is not entirely about their relationship, though. It also draws heavily on The Problem of Pain, in that Lewis and his interlocuators frequently discuss suffering and theodicy. This is not abstract filler, either, as during the course of the play Joy learns that she’s been divorced and must now face the world alone. She doesn’t, of course, as anyone familiar with Jack and Joy’s story knows, but their union will bring its suffering as well as its bliss — as we see later in A Grief Observed. I loved this: the writer had a fairly good handle on Lewis’ voice, I think, even when Lewis isn’t being quoted, and the dialogue is often funny and insightful. As the play develops, it becomes quite serious — with Lewis arguing with himself, finding words written about suffering sound rather different when one is deep in the valley of the shadow of death. Definitely recommended to Lewis fans.

Here I’m going to say something which may come as a bit of a shock. I think that God doesn’t necessarily want us to be happy. He wants us to be lovable. Worthy of love. Able to be loved by Him. We don’t start off being all that lovable, if we’re honest. What makes people hard to love? Isn’t it what is commonly called selfishness? Selfish people are hard to love because so little love comes out of them.

God creates us free, free to be selfish, but He adds a mechanism that will penetrate our selfishness and wake us up to the presence of others in the world, and that mechanism is called suffering. To put it in another way, pain is God’s megaphone to rouse a deaf world. Why must it be pain? Why can’t He wake us more gently, with violins or laughter? Because the dream from which we must be awakened is the dream that all is well.

“We’re like blocks of stone, out of which the sculptor carves the forms of men. The blows of His chisel, which hurt us so much, are what make us perfect. The suffering in the world is not the failure of God’s love for us; it is that love in action. “

I could argue that art has quite the opposite effect. Great art breaks through that separateness, and lets us touch the very heart of reality.

Riley: What I resent about Christmas is the general presumption of good will. I feel no good will towards my fellow men. I feel ill will.
Lewis: It’s got nothing to do with how you feel, Christopher. Feelings are far too unreliable.

Lewis: You sound like me, Joy. You’re supposed to be dragging me kicking into the twentieth century.

Joy: Professor Riley, as you know, I’m an American, and different cultures have different modes of discourse. I need a little guidance here. Are you being offensive, or merely stupid?

Joy: Don’t you sometimes burst to share the joke?
Lewis: What joke?
Joy: Well. Here’s the neighbors thinking we’re unmarried and up to all sorts of wickedness, while all along we’re married and up to nothing at all.

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Fresh Air with Terry Grosz

The only law out there is God, and He is in short supply in that neck of the woods.

When it’s time for me to do my annual writeup in a month or so, I will have to mention the Black Swan event that was game warden-oriented books suddenly exploding onto the scene, bursting out of nowhere like a covey of quail. It’s largely been an absurd number of novels, but I can now included two game-warden memoirs in the list. Wildlife Wars is the memoir of Terry Grosz, who appears to have begun service in 1966, where he was part of the new wave of ‘professional’ wardens who had formal educations. This did not endear him to the old guard, who regarded themselves as lawmen rather than scientists, but Grosz’ skiful reading of the land, creativity, and sometimes sheer brazenness combined to make him an effective warden, eventually moving him from California to overseeing a massive district in the upper west. The stories cover quite the range, as he recollects everything from being a boarding agent on the coast (hopping onto boats to inspect permits & hauls) to sneaking through mountain forests to get the drop on antelope poachers. I found all of them enjoyable, and they are action heavy, even the undercover case he was involved in as a newbie.

Grosz proves himself someone who makes clever and studious use of his environment, though I imagine that’s a practice all wardens have to develop. His submersion in a rice field to monitor duck hunters must have been as uncomfortable as Bob Lee hiding in a woodpile for hours on end to ambush some fish poachers. There is danger aplenty here, both from the animals Grosz is protecting and from those hunting them: at one point, he was shot in the back end multiple times with a shotgun—thankfully loaded with birdshot. The sheriff provided the first and only aid, as the lawmen didn’t want area poachers knowing the warden was injured or suspecting he might be off the job for a few days. A few months later, a quarrelsome hunter cheekily informed Grosz that he understood the warden had had “his ass sprayed”—and Grosz instantly knew the man was his assailant, as only three men knew of the incident, and two of them (Grosz and the sheriff) hadn’t said a thing, not even to Grosz’s wife. Another time, Grosz recounts, he was in the rifle sights of a man he’d busted for poaching, and only the wife — who remembered Grosz’s kindness by supplying them with seized meat — stopped the man from taking the shot.

The most memorable story, though, is the rookie undercover assignment he was given right out of the gate by a captain who despised wardens with university degrees. Because Grosz was unknown to the area’s hunters, he was able to walk into a tackle shop and purchase equipment for “snagging” sturgeon—and thereby earn the trust of the shopkeeper, who just happened to be connected to a group of poachers illegally snagging fish and smuggling them to Native American communities to be smoked and sold at a tidy profit. Grosz was almost immediately invited into the conspiracy after they learned he had a pickup truck that could transport the goods—and the end of this story is even more incredible. Grosz is a memorable warden: physically imposing, clever as a fox, and a stickler for principle: in one story he arrests a couple of deputies who are poaching fish, and then stands up to a judge who reprimands him for arresting his nephew and threatens him with throwing the warden’s future cases out until he learns the importance of “professional courtesy”. (Grosz leaked the story to the press, according to his narrative, and the judge backed down.)

This was a fun surprise, especially considering how often Grosz was operating on his own: this not only heightens the stakes, but forces him to get creative. Fortunately for him, his height and preference for surprises worked to his advantage. Interestingly, Grosz has written some fiction, which I may check out last year.

Not Terry Grosz

Related:
Backwoods Lawman, a game warden memoir set in Florida

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For Cause and Comrade

The moment I saw this book at a university booksale I knew I wanted it, because in the second story of that same library I’d researched my senior seminar paper to earn my BA in history.  For Cause and Comrades dives into the letters of  Union and Confederate combatants to explore what led them to fight and what kept them fighting after things grew miserable. (I’d done the same with Civil War songbooks to explore how they expressed motives and the experience of war.)   James McPherson is best known for his Battle Cry of Freedom, a  Pulitzer prizewinning history of the Civil War, and is generally regarded as the most preeminent of ACW scholars.  Between the topic and the author, I knew to brace for a good read and was not disappointed.

McPherson writes at the beginning that he chose to focus on letters, not memoirs, because memoirs were often written decades after the events themselves, where  memories could become pliable and made to fit feel-good narratives. While letters could also be performative – as men tried to reassure themselves and their wives and family at home that their boy was OK on the front –  McPherson found them to be surprisingly raw and honest much of the time.  

 It’s worth noting, as McPherson does, that men of the 19th century lived in a much different culture than we did:  it was more idealistic and romantic,  and ideas like duty, valour, and honor had meaning that our cynical modern age frequent dismiss as sentiment.  This is important to keep in mind, especially as it informs how Union and Confederate soldiers were fighting for “Cause”.  The Union in 1861 was not even a century old;  soldiers who fought for its preservation, or to help establish their own Confederacy, could have had grandparents who remembered a time before its existence.    This made it especially precious to soldiers who believed the American experiment was still quite young and in need of protection –  but at the same time, less important to Confederate soldiers for whom it was a political abstraction and not their “country”, proper.   Many of the soldiers’ letters here testify to not believing in secession, but nonetheless defending it because Lincoln was invading their home.  (General Robert E. Lee also fell into this camp, and it’s expressed in the film The Blue and the Gray when a Southern journalist who despises slavery and secession both winds up taking up arms at the end when the Yankee army is burning their way through his home county.) 

McPherson’s shared letters and comments do not shy away from the fact that “cause” for both Union and Confederate soldiers was complex.  Most Union soldiers were not fighting to exterminate slavery: at the beginning of the war,  only 3-10% of letters (varying on region) expressed that thought, and  in early 1863 many Union soldiers expressed bitterness that Lincoln was trying to turn it into a war to free blacks – though they used less polite terms. One of the more disturbing things I learned from David Williams’  A People’s History of the Civil War is that racism was not only pervasive across the entire United States, but even present with some abolitionists – and that’s evinced here.   As the war progressed, though, and as Union soldiers waded further into the South and saw how slavery stagnated the economy and dehumanized both whites and blacks — and as they realized every runaway slave meant sapping the Confederate war effort – the number of Union soldiers writing against slavery increased. 

On the Southern side,   there were soldiers fighting for the institution of slavery,  although far less than a modern reader would expect. This owes in large part to the fact that most southerners were not slave-holders, though many non-slaveholders did fight to defend slavery purely for the disruption widespread emancipation would cause. These letters concern both the practical economic effects, as well as social fears, particularly being “lowered” to the level of a slave. A poor tenant farmer or struggling freeholder might not ever have any status in society,  but at least he wasn’t a “Negro”.  Far more pervasive was the conviction that Southerners were fighting for “Their country” –  be that Virginia or Texas, or the South in general.  The fervor that Southerners had for their states was sometimes a cause for desertion: after Arkansas fell to Yankee armies, Arkansans fighting in Tennessee wondered why they were still in this thing for. (Nevermind Franklin’s adage about hanging together or hanging separately.)   

On that note, McPherson notes that soldiers in units formed tight bonds with one another that often sustained them even when they’d stopped believing in causes.  Part of this may be tied to the culture of the era, in  which honor was taken far more seriously than now, but I don’t think it’s all of the story.   Soldiers in the Civil War refused promotions to different units and continued fighting after their first term was up for the same reason soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq continued to “re-up” even if they hated  the wars and the land and the people they were fighting in and for – because their brothers were there, and they would not desert them.  Considering that volunteer regiments tended to be highly localized,  this makes sense – but men also formed strong bonds with strangers.    When regiments were shattered by massive battles, though, a soldier who found all of his friends dead might be so overwhelmed he didn’t see any purpose in holding on.

Despite its size, this is a book rich with insight.  It doesn’t skew toward anyone’s preferred narrative of the war, because the variety of quoted letters is enough to give any tidy stories   pause for thought.   McPherson is present as an editor and narrator, but if his thumb was heavier in some aspects or another I didn’t notice.  A book like this – and other works like The Life of Billy Yank, or the Life of Johnny Reb – are valuable because they allow us to break through the staid paintings of narrative and see the subjects come alive and speak for themselves. 

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WWW Wednesday, SciFi Month Prompt 19, and Books that Shaped Me

WWW Wednesday

WHAT have you finished reading recently? The Politically Incorrect Guide to the South, which was fairly mixed. Some interesting Civil War content that I’m still fact-checking, bookended by fluff.

WHAT are you reading now? Double Star, Bob Heinlein. It’s a quickie so I will probably be done before this post is scheduled, actually. Also 33% through For Cause and Comrades, on what can be gleaned from Civil War combatants’ letters.

WHAT are you reading next? Will continue with For Cause and Comrades, and then more SF.

SciFi Prompt 19: Lost in Translation

If everybody’s answer for this isn’t Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir, they’re wrong. I don’t mean to be rude, but that’s just the way it is.

Also on the subject of SF, I watched Source Code last night and really enjoyed it. I can’t say much for fear of spoilers, but let’s say that Jake Gyllenhaal keeps reliving the same eight minutes on a doomed commuter train over and over, and in each attempt is trying to figure out where a bomb is, how to disrupt it, and who planted it. I also watched the 2002 version of The Time Machine, which is so loose an adaptation that all we can say is “There was a guy and he met some people who called themselves Eloi and Morlocks, but Jeremy Irons is the villain so it was ok.” The music was quite nice, though.

Long and Short Reviews Prompt: Books That Shaped Me

This is a subject I have written about before, in a post on authors who have shaped me. Nearly ten years on I suppose it’s nearly time for a considered update, but this prompt is about specific books. Most of these will be familiar if you’ve been around RF for a while, but I’m going to try to throw in less intense/less serious options, too.

  1. The Death and Life of Great American Cities, Jane Jacobs. This book, which I literally announced an annual theme for just to prompt me to re-read it, had completely altered my thinking about everything before I was even a third of the way through. I should note that it will not have that effect on other readers: I’d been reading and thinking about things that this book had a catalytic effect on, making me think about emergent order and the morality of intervention. For most people, this is merely a fascinating book about how cities develop and function.
  2. Cathedral, Forge, and Waterwheel, Frances and Joseph Gies. This book overturned the snobby Victorian dismissal of the medieval era that my schoolbooks had given me by looking at how technological and intellectual arts flourished in that oft-libeled epoch.
  3. Building a Bridge to the 18th Century, Neil Postman. I found this book in my local library while looking for books on the Enlightenment, and portions of it led me to Postman’s other works, Technopoly and Amusing Ourselves to Death, which explored the effects of technology on society and people ourselves. I had never thought about this before, beyond reading Al Gore’s The Assault on Reason, and found Postman fascinating. I later read Nicholas Carr’s The Shallows, and these two men are why I didn’t buy a smartphone until 2018 and why I’m constantly analyzing my engagement with social media, the internet, etc. I keep my open tabs to four or under, when I’m reading an ebook I actively restrain myself from checking email or checking the facebook feed, and so on.
  4. The Airman’s War, Albert Marrin. I had an interest in WW2 history in high school, but after Marrin made the war come ALIVE in this book and his other WW2 titles (Operation Overlord and Victory in the Pacific), I was obsessive. Marrin made me especially nuts about WW2 aviation, leading to my writing multiple papers in college on WW1 and WW2 aerial warfare, and many museum visits. I am not a car guy, but I’m pretty darn OK at spotting WW2 fighters.
  5. The Geography of Nowhere by Jim Kunstler was a complete sea change for me, giving me vocabulary to think about issues that had troubled me in a murky way for years. Kunstler’s history of American urbanism — and its death by sprawl in the postwar period — made me start thinking about the importance of the built environment on human flourishing.
  6. Bowling Alone, Robert Putnam. It’s hard to articulate this book’s effect on me, but I read it during a transitional year and I think it’s an important part of the mix.
  7. small is beautiful, E.F. Schumacher. Ditto.
  8. The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis. The book that made me a Lewis fan. I read it, or at least read from it, every Advent.
  9. The Meditations, Marcus Aurelius. I found this book during a hard moment of life, nearly twenty years ago now, and Stoicism is a vital part of my philosophical & religious biography.
  10. The Consolations of Philosophy, Alain de Botton. I believe a search for Seneca led me to this, and ever since then de Botton has remained one of my favorite authors.

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Teaser Tuesday & SciFi Month

Today’s tease is from Robert Heinlein’s Double Star!

“Before my revered father died, he made me promise him three things: first, never to mix whisky with anything but water; second, always to ignore anonymous letters; and lastly, never to talk with a stranger who refuses to give his name. Good day, sirs.”

Continuing with Sci-Fi Month, last night I watched Edge of Tomorrow. I had no idea what the movie was about when I checked it out, but it looked like SF and it had the late great Bill Paxton, so I was game. I didn’t even know the premise, so I was astonished by what happens to Tom Cruise’s character and wholly absorbed by the film. I also began watching Source Code, but fell asleep. One of my library coworkers is desperate for me to finish watching it tonight so he can talk about it without spoiling anything.

Today’s Sci Fi Month prompt is SF works we think will become classics in the future. That’s a hard question to answer, mostly because I’m fussy about the word classic: it must mean something more than ‘a book people will still like in a century’. I think books can be retroactively liked without necessarily being “classic”. For me, classic is that they have something fundamental and enduring to say about life and the human condition, something that contributes to the “Great Conversation”, as it were. Most of the modern SF I read is more near-future SF where the emphasis is on tech and society, not necessarily humanity, so as much as I love Blake Crouch’s books I don’t know that they would apply. However, DAEMON keeps coming to mind so I will mention it for the nth time. And while it may seem silly, I also want to mention The Circle and The Every by Dave Eggers, because they capture so well how social media and the gamification of everything are seriously warping human psyches and human civilization.

Looking back at some of the week’s prior SF prompts:

  • Long Running Series. Gotta mention Foundation, because not only is it long in itself, but Asimov retroactively put it, the Robots series, and the Galactic Empire series all into the same universe, and all part of one broader story united by R. Daneel Olivaw.
  • Red Alert, An SF Book Where It All Goes Wrong: Honestly, something goes badly wrong in most books, just to have plot happenings. When the Moon Hits Your Eye is a recent funny example; Lucifer’s Hammer is another, though that’s more of a “disaster from space!” book than technological SF.
  • Current Read: Double Star, Robert Heinlein

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Over Yonder

Woody is an aging defrocked priest in jail for — well, let’s not say, since that’s not fully revealed until the end. At any rate, he’s getting out with a bad heart and an ex-wife who is engaged to another man but who is still devoted to making sure Woody gets on his feet and starts eating right. Grappling with freedom, his complex relationship with his former wife, and his ailing heart would be enough on anyone’s plate….but out of the wild blue yonder Woody gets a call from another ex-wife who informs him that (1) she is dying of cancer and (2) they have a seventeen year old daughter she never thought to tell him about before. Oh, and the daughter is being chased by some violent gang because she has a flash drive containing materials that will lead to a cache of Civil War era-gold or some such. It’s really better to glance away from that part of the plot because it’s ridiculous, but just know that from time to time people will be in mortal peril and this helps the book along. There’s a lot of good tension, though: between Woody and his ex-wife who does not act like an act; between him and his stranger of a daughter who is about to have a child of her own, and between himself and the reader. We see Woody as a good man, but he begins the book in prison and details about that are slow in coming.

Over Yonder is like Dietrich’s other novels: charming, funny, and filled with distinct characters. Woody’s surprise daughter Caroline is seventeen and pregnant knocked up by some doofus named Tater who could probably be making good money in an auto shop (he knows a lot about cars) if he’d pry his butt off the couch and stop playing on the Xbox. (I just realized Dietrich never referred to the baby as a tater chip. Talk about a missed opportunity!) As the book develops, Woody and Caroline meet and begin getting to know one another, but the aforementioned goldbug gang will occasionally split them up. As is also the case with Dietrich novels, the ending is fairly poignant. I enjoyed reading this for the characters, atmosphere, and Dietrich’s humor, but the latter was sometimes overdone and the aforementioned goldbug plot was not developed in any way that I could take it seriously.

The interstate was littered with advertisements. One of the most jarring things about leaving prison was all the advertisements. Ads on every flat surface, digital platform, and billboard. Product names plastered on people’s clothing. On their shoes. On the bands of their underpants. And ads kept multiplying exponentially as though they were having wild billboard sex every night when the world was asleep and making new ad babies.

Related:
Sean Dietrich Talks Healing, Hope, and his New Book, Over Yonder

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The Politically Incorrect Guide to….Science Fiction?

“If we were being strictly descriptive, this book would be called Dave’s Guide to Science Fiction and Fantasy Novels.”

I was surprised to spot this on the shelves, and intrigued enough to give it a go — especially since this is SF month, after all. It’s not that science fiction is not political: politics is arguably inseparable from SF to some degree, and many SF works are explicility political. George Orwell, Bob Heinlein, and Ray Bradbury come to mind, of course, as do cyberpunk and solarpunk as entire genres. It’s just that the Politically Incorrect Guide series is generally aimed at a conservative audience, and I rarely encounter conservative literary analysis of SF. Brad Birzer is a notable exception: he has a lecture series on SF from a libertarian perspective, enjoys discussing the works of Heinlein and Bradbury on podcasts, and has written a book (Mythic Realms) that includes reflections on SF&F. That could very well be me just not having encountered those perspectives, though. At any rate, this book proved to be unlike any other PiG in that it’s a straightforward introduction to SF&F, with the series’ normal edge nearly completely sheathed.

Butler begins from the first signs we have of the human power of wonder — strange cave paintings of human hybrids, and the stories of the Constellations themselves — and moves forward through European recorded fantasy. As we hit the industrial age, science fiction is incorporated as well, and the two are thereafter tracked separately under categories like Cyberpunk, etc. The PiG books are all on the slim side, 200 page or so, so most authors only get a paragraph or two. High-profile authors like Tolkien, Lewis, Heinlein, and le Guin get more attention, of course, but even here Butler has to be spare. The Space Trilogy, which was intended as SF, is ignored to chat about Narnia, instead. As he continues to move through to the present, there are frequent sidebars to discuss related topics: the rise and role of conventions and fan fiction, for instance, or the growth of tropes and character types like antiheroes. The author strives for comprehensiveness and includes authors he doesn’t like, and his attitude is largely neutral except on some occasions where he waspishly strikes at adult Harry Potter fans. (I should note that I can only vet the SF category’s range: my fantasy holdings take up less room than Twiggy standing sideways.)

As mentioned, this title is anomalous in the Politically Incorrect series in that it doesn’t have the aggressive edge of those books. They’re generally written to be provocative, some authors can be downright acerbic, which is why I have read so few of them. Aside from a few pointed remarks about cancel culture, though, Butler generally ignores politics. As the caption quote above says, this is largely Butler providing an introduction to books and authors, from the view of someone who is a published author himself. (Of……Mormon steampunk?) Around the 65-75% mark, Butler switches from introducing the reader to authors and concepts with SF&F and begins writing about current issues within the craft. He is concerned about the rise of “Hard magic”, for instance, magic with defined rules and quantifiable elements, and argues that it removes the mystery, and thus part of the attraction, from magic. Here, some politics does come up, but it’s not that pointed and is heavily mixed in a grab-bag of SF&F related thoughts, like how many authors have lapsed series these days, or trends in publishing.

This was a decidedly odd read: enjoyable enough, and there’s no shortage of new-to-me authors and books to learn about from here. The issue for me in recommending this, though, is that that’s all there is. Granted, there’s value in that: if I’d read this back in say, 2010 when I became more broadly interested in SF outside of Star Trek and Isaac Asimov, it would have given me a lot of ideas. As it is, though, it was a pleasant way to spend a few hours.

The desire to indict Tolkien also makes the choice between philosophies clear. Tolkien fought in the Great War. His boyhood friends died in the mud in France. He writes about the need for sacrifice and the urgency that the men of the west band together and stand against the mechanized evil of Mordor. Martin, on the other hand, claimed conscience objector status to avoid going to Vietnam and then made a career in Hollywood. He wants us to believe that there are no heroes, that everyone is a potential murderer, out for himself. I know which world I believe in, and which man I’d rather be.

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Springtime for Northheim

The branch of the linden is leafy and green,
The Rhine gives its gold to the sea.
But somewhere a glory awaits unseen.
Tomorrow belongs to me!

“Tomorrow Belongs to Me” is one of the more disturbing songs in the musical Cabaret, not because of the song itself, but because of what the viewer knows it portends. It begins simply, with one sweet voice singing at a country picnic; a young boy, not quite barefoot with cheek of tan but looking beatific all the same, until the camera pans down and reveals the swastika armband this Hitlerjunge is wearing. The lyrics gain menace as more and more citizens join him, at the end all singing lustily of blossoms and bees and somehow yet sounding like a people called to war. The Nazi Seizure of Power is a similar treatment, though at a more deliberate and academic pace. It is the story of a slow boil as the NSDAP struggled to find traction in this central German town, then all of a sudden appeared to be everywhere. The author begins by giving a profile of the town (its economic strata, health of civic organizations, and so on) before tracking the history of Nazism in Northeim until the fall of the Hitler state in 1945. Because of how intensely detailed it is in the first half — tracking Nazi activity everywhere from Lutheran councils to school boards — this might be a challenging read for a casual reader, but it has solid lessons to teach.

Allen’s opening profile of the town reveals how class-fixated it, and Germany, were. Every kind of social club was duplicated multiple times for different strata of society. This is relevant because the Nazis promised a society in which these divisions would be swept away in the creation of their “volksgemeinschaft“, the people’s community — and this was something people across parties did yearn for, although the socialist and national socialist ideas about achieving this were rather different. The profile also included an analysis of the political leanings of the town: the people were evenly split between ‘conservative’ parties and the social democrats, who were themselves fairly conservative in that they were the establishment. The SPD’s establishment status — committed to slow, gradual change — would prove to be a serious disadvantage when dealing with the Nazis once the Weimar economy faltered and Germans began radicalizing. When the global depression began, Germans lost faith in the “establishment”, or what Nazis called The System: fringe parties like the Communists and Nazis began growing in popularity, and notably both of these fringes were not dedicated to the preservation of democracy. The SPD proved an especially useful whipping-boy for the Nazis: Hitler’s cohorts could blame them for being both radical socialists and the bloated and entrenched establishment.

Although the book’s title declares this covers over a decade of Northheim’s history, that’s not really the case. 1933 to 1945 pass in the blink of an eye, with the author dismissing them as years of stasis for the Nazi party’s control. The book largely focuses on the late 1920s and the first two years of the 1930s, in which we see the Nazis boom from no-presence at all into a major force. This happens very quickly, too: in 1930, the Nazis barely had enough supporters to fill Northeim’s largest meeting hall a couple of times a year; by 1932, they were earning so much through membership fees that they kept the meeting hall booked on retainer, eating the fees so that it was always available to them and never to their rivals. One reason the Nazis succeeded in gaining interest was their focus on performance: their gatherings weren’t just speeches, but overall spectacles that included music, poetry readings, and more. They were also deeply invested in showmanship: even when their party numbers were small, not even able to sustain themselves at the local level, they focused efforts on flashy parades and fracases with other parties that caught attention. The Nazi takeover of Northeim is a classic case of “slowly, then all at once”: while for years their attention was on converting Lutheran church councils and local school boards, by the time Hitler came to power they had enough of a following to make the Nazification of all social institutions and society in general happen fairly quickly. The author notes that the Nazis, appreciating how their strength had been built through civic/social organizations over the years, denied that weapon to their enemies: the Nazi years were marked by the nazification of any social organization, even chess clubs. Those organizations that were resistant, like the churches, were overtly attacked and silenced. This, of course, is emblematic of fascism and totalitarianism: to quote Mussolini — “All within the state, nothing outside the state”. Burke’s ‘little platoons’ that constitute civil society were laid waste by the SA and later the SS.

The Nazi Seizure of Power was a detailed dive into how Nazis manipulated the social structures of Northeim to achieve power, and then destroyed those structures. It testifies to the role of theatrics and the economy into abetting Nazi power, and indicates how few people were really invested in the Nazi “platform”: what people longed for was Someone to Do Something, and the Nazi promise of wiping away class and social divisions. Antisemitism, interestingly, is not a large part of this picture: the author suggests that Northeim’s local intimacies made demonizing neighbors difficult, whether they were Jews or Socialists. That itself hints to how hatred was often ginned-up, rather than native. This was interesting but grim reading, and I am glad to be done with it.

T o the Socialists the Nazis were a threat only insofar as they might attempt an armed coup d’état. Serious politics was a matter of rational appeals and positive results. Since the NSDAP seemed incapable of either, they could not constitute a political threat.

But effective propaganda need not be logical as long as it foments suspicion, contempt, or hatred.

The SA generally incorporated weapons into their uniforms. Leather shoulder straps were made detachable and the buckles were weighted. Many SA men carried blackjacks, brass knuckles, or Stahlruten. These last were ingenious weapons consisting of a short length of pipe open at one end, inside of which was a spring with steel balls attached. The pipe was the handle; the spring and balls the weapon. When swung, the balls came out on the spring and struck with the leverage of their extended length, yet the whole contraption fitted neatly into a pocket.

When politics becomes a matter of vilification and innuendo, then eventually people feel repugnance for the whole process. It is the beginning of a yearning for a strong man who will rise above petty and partisan groups. The Nazis were to exploit this feeling fully, and though they contributed richly to the rise of partisan acrimony, they were also the first to pronounce “politician” with every possible tone of scorn and sarcasm.

The “German glance” (a sardonic play on the “German greeting,” which Nazi propaganda insisted was “Heil Hitler”) consisted of looking over one’s shoulder before saying anything that might mean trouble if overheard.

The single biggest factor in this process was the destruction of formal society in Northeim. What social cohesion there was in the town existed in the club life, and this was destroyed in the early months of Nazi rule.

Related:
Life and Death in the Third Reich, Peter Fritzschze

trust me, the last verse REALLY lands for 1931 Germany

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Midweek Meming

I didn’t post anything yesterday because of Armistice Day/Veterans Day: while some years I do not give it a great deal of attention, I’d been watching All Quiet on the Western Front the night prior and was more somber than usual. So, today’s Teaser Tuesday will join forces with WWW Wednesday.

Teaser….Tuesday

Müller greeted friends on the street in a courtly manner by tipping his hat, thus circumventing the “German greeting” (i.e., “Heil Hitler” plus the Nazi salute). To the solicitous advice that was given him to leave Northeim, he replied, “Where should I go? Here I am the Banker Müller; elsewhere I would be the Jew Muller.” (The Nazi Seizure of Power)

WWW Wednesday

WHAT have you finished reading recently? Eh, the Reverend Entwhistle book. In spite of having yesterday off, I didn’t finish or even look at the two books I’m close to finishing: instead, I listened to lectures and played through the last chapter of RDR2 for the nth time. (I’ve basically been playing RDR2 on a loop since 2018, except sometimes I restart at Chapter 5 because I really dislike Guarma.)

WHAT are you reading now? I am, as mentioned, quite close to finishing both The Nazi Seizure of Power and Sean Dietrich’s Over Yonder. I expect to finish Over Yonder today, but the Nazi book is one I’ve been dragging my heels through for weeks now.

WHAT are you reading next? Presumably some SF, but I am also wanting to try to balance SF and nonfiction this month so nonfiction can assume its proper place as top of the stacks in December. I don’t like fiction leading nonfiction and I’ll be dashed if it happens twice in a row. (Right now they’re at 56%/43% with fiction in the lead.) I got sidetracked from the zombie insects book but will return to it once I’ve gotten past the Nasties.

Long and Short Prompt: Being Thankful

Today’s prompt is things we are thankful for.

(1) I am still around. Having a surprise autoimmune disorder that killed my kidneys and almost killed me made this a close one, but I’m still ticking. Not only did I survive, but I was inexplicably blessed with an organ transplant that ended my need to be on dialysis. While this has brought with it its own complications — weight and bone density issues from the medication– as long as I am alive I can fight them.

(2) This Jack has apparently met his Joy. She’s put up with me for over a year at this point, even being the curmudgeon that I am.

(3) Good sitting trees. I spent much of college sitting under a tree and reading, and I have continued the habit well into my adult life. This past Sunday, for instance, I sat underneath a tree in my yard and read until the plunging temperatures overwhelmed my sweater. There’s the pleasure of sitting outside and reading, of course, but I also love the feel of a trunk behind me, and gazing up at the canopy.

My reading tree in Montevallo. Yes, I am VERY attached to it. (And I use the present tense on purpose: I still go by there once a year or so to read or have an outdoor meal, just because I can.) My current sitting tree is a sweetgum. Not as pretty, and irritating when it’s dropping spiky gumballs, but it’s a good reading partner nonetheless.)

(4) The enduring legacy of Montevallo, in fact. Before I lived there, I took for granted that I would one day move to a “big city” like Portland or somesuch, but when I lived in Montevallo I fell hard for the virtues of a ‘village’ type community. It helped that Montevallo had the walkability of a traditional town, but — because it’s a university town — it also had all the cultural opportunities of a larger one. Even if I lived there as a non-student, I could go to free recitals, public lectures, and so on. When I left Montevallo my purpose was to find something like that life wherever I went to next, and to a degree I was able to succeed. (At least, until COVID and the tornado gutted where I live, but c’est la vie.)

(5) The ability to find — and the willingness of others to provide — things like lectures, talks, songs, etc online. This is the thing I would miss most if I’d left Montevallo for someplace else in the pre-internet age. Public lectures outside of universities simply aren’t a thing unless you live in a TED-talk kind of city, and while I can go to chamber music recitals in nearby there’s always a fairly daunting fee, plus the driving. Online, though, I can listen to someone talk about southern agrarianism or overlooked garden vegetables or the literary influence of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn pretty much on demand.

(6) Fair Oaks Books, my town’s indie bookstore where I can ramble in on Saturdays after work, plop into a chair with a cup of coffee, and talk about anything — writing, town gossip, religion and philosophy, etc. Depends on who is around.

(7) And speaking of, people who still believe in, and work on, their local community. My hometown has been crumbling towards hospice care for decades now, but people still create things like Fair Oaks Books or other social/cultural events to remind others — we ain’t dead yet. I think this is vital not only for the meaning it gives to the participants, but for interrupting what could be a progressive feedback loop: things stop happening, people leave, there are fewer people to make things happen (or make things happen for), fewer things happen, more people leave, etc.

(8) The ability to find unexpected joy. Two years ago I wrote a short story and only in the last month was inspired to try a couple of related stories to it (think Port William-esque tales), and it’s been deeply fun to slip into that creative mode and play with the characters, dialogue, etc. I’ve had evenings where I didn’t watch anything, didn’t play any games, didn’t even listen to a podcast — I just typed, edited, typed, etc.

(9) An end to the Great Sticky Siege, at least until April or May. Or..mid-December. Alabama’s weather between October and April is bipolar.

(10) And music, in general. Yesterday I listened to “Piano Man” by Billy Joel like six times just because the storytelling in it impressed me.

It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday
The regular crowd shuffles in
There’s an old man sittin’ next to me
Makin’ love to his tonic and gin

He says, “Son can you play me a memory?
I’m not really sure how it goes
But it’s sad and it’s sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man’s clothes…”

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