First Read, First Love

Posted on August 8, 2010 by smellincoffee

BookingThroughThursday poses the question: What was the first book you remember reading? What about the first that made you really love reading?

It’s lightening today, so I figure I can post something intended to share on Thor’s Day.

In all likelihood, my first read was something by Dr. Seuss or a Sunday school book — you know, the kind that present the death of everything on Earth as a kid’s story. My parents encouraged reading in my sister and I, and were readers to varying extents themselves. Either my mom, my dad, or my sister would take me to the library once a week, where I would bolt upstairs and check out as many books as they would let me. I remember declaring early on that Beverly Cleary was my favorite author, so it is possible and likely that my first book of any substance came from her series about Henry Huggins, his friend Beatrice Quimby, her kid sister Ramona Quimby (who called Beatrice (“Beezus”), and Henry’s dog Ribsy.

I also enjoyed Gertrude Warner’s Boxcar Children series (mysteries) and R.L. Stine’s “Goosebumps” series. Goosebumps, a fantasy-horror-dark humor series aimed at kids, became an obsession in late elementary school.  I declared Stine, Cleary, and Warner my favorite authors at varying intervals. I also read a lot of Bruce Coville, who did science fiction for kids. One of his books, The Search for Snout, involved  an interplanetary crew searching for their apparently deceased, serious-minded friend Snout…..which now sounds vaugely familiar.

My first novel, though altered for children, was the Great Illustrated Classics version of Jack London’s Call of the Wild. I received it for Christmas and felt proud of myself for reading a “real” book. The first unaltered novel was Paul Zindel’s The Pigman, which may have been too serious or dark in theme for the child that I was.

Sorting out what book made me “love” reading is more difficult. I so much as a child because my parents believed televisions were unsuitable for Christians to have, so entertainment for me meant reading, playing with toys, or running around outside. Trying to figure when I began to love reading would be like figuring out when I began to enjoy sweet tea: I’ve been doing it for too long.  I do remember Brian Jacques’ Redwall making me value reading more, changing my perspective on what a book could be. Books like Goosebumps were light entertainment, but Redwall kept me spellbound for hours at a time. It did to me what Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter did for other generations of kids.

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The 100 Most Influential Books Ever Written

Posted on August 7, 2010 by smellincoffee

The Most Influential Books Ever Written: the History of Thought from Ancient Times to Today
© 1998 Martin Seymour-Smith
498 pages

In retrospect, the introduction should have served as a warning to me.  Author Martin Seymour-Smith opened his The 100 Most Influential Books by elaborating on the subjectivity of terms like “best” and “greatest”, maintaining that he preferred to evaluate books from a more quantifiable or objective basis, that of influence. After this promising start, he chose to spend six paragraphs berating Richard Dawkins and making it dead clear that The Selfish Gene would not appear in his book.  The bewildering viciousness of the seemingly random assault left me a mite puzzled. My facial expression resembled that of an anime-inspired emoticon, “o_O”.  Yet for my love of the subject — for I consider myself a generalist, and enjoy the full buffet of human experience  — I pressed on.

The subject itself kept me reading the book, for it spans most human endeavors: philosophy, religion, history, science, literature, sociology, and psychology for starters. There were a few names on the list I’d never heard of, leading me onward — but after two hundred pages in, the book simply ceased to be a pleasant experience.  Seymour-Smith wrote interestingly enough, but tended to ramble on to the detriment of his essays. In one six-page essay, he devoted four pages to biography of his subject and two slim paragraphs to the actual book, and those paragraphs told me nothing. Too many of the essays simply gave a dictionary-type definition of the concept for which a given author might be best known for, although there are a few — mostly those concerning post-Enlightenment philosophy — where he treats the subjects properly.  They are unfortunate exceptions: his essay on the Hebrew scriptures consists of a formulaic definition of the Torah followed by his grievances with modern Christianity. While I might share his grievances, I wondered why I was reading them instead of about the influence of the Hebrew scriptures.   It’s not as if I’m keen on them, but I thought he might have some insight I had not heard. He didn’t even broach the subject.

Seymour-Smith’s unprofessionalism turned the already difficult process of reading his disorganized essays into an outright chore. Caustic tirades tended to erupt from his ramblings, confronting the reader with violent paragraphs with little to no connection to their source essays. For instance, while writing on Euclidean geometry Seymour-Smith decided to return to his rant against Dawkins.Christianity, atheism, clerks, and political correctness — an altogether nebulous term he used so broadly that it lost all cohesion — were favorite subjects of repeated scorn. The endless barrage of temper tantrums and petulant whining embedded inside paragraphs soured the experience for me, and became dull with repetition besides: how many times can a man refer to political correctness as “neo-Stalinist, tyrannical mediocrity” in one book? Where is his editor? .

One of the reasons I kept reading the book — especially after he bellowed about both organized religion and atheism —  was to figure out what he did like. Although Seymour-Smith liked to employ scientific methodology as a means of seeming objective, he is no fan of rationalism or materialism. He refers to Epicureanism as an anti-superstitious philosophy and does not mean it as a compliment.  He reveres Jesus, refers to the Kabbalah often and fondly, and seems to enjoy natural philosophers with a background in mysticism (Newton, and to a lesser degree Kepler).  I believe he conflates science and meaning. Like Carl Sagan’s fictional Joss Palmer, he rebukes science for failing to do something it was not designed explicitly to do: make people feel good. Science, Karl Popper be praised, isn’t bronze-age cosmology.

Enjoyable subject, miserable book. This is one of the few books I regret having read. There’s far too much childish kvetching and far too little thoughtful reflection.

Related:

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Provenance of Shadows

Posted on August 4, 2010 by smellincoffee

Crucible, McCoy: Provenance of Shadows
© 2006 David R. George III
627 pages

Leonard McCoy is a man lost in time. Accidentally thrust into 1930s New York by the Guardian of Forever, McCoy befriends an idealistic young social worker named Edith Keeler, saving her life — and in so doing, destroys his own future. Although Kirk and Spock, temporarily protected by the Guardian, are able to restore the timeline,  McCoy still experienced that futureless life: in Crucible, McCoy: Provenance of Shadows,  McCoy lives two lives — one aboard the Enterprise in the 23rd century, going boldly where no man has gone before — and one in 1930s America, first in New York and eventually in a small southern town.

Their stories run concurrently, the author alternating settings after every chapter. While “Len” McCoy attempts in vain to find a way back to the future, migrating southward once he loses hope, Dr. McCoy continues as the Enterprise’s chief medical officer throughout Star Trek’s third season and movies. While he experiences all the curiosities and dangers of Enterprise’s various missions and attempts to solve a mystery of physics, “Len” McCoy enjoys a quiet existence in a small South Carolinian town, serving as the local doctor and cultivating new friendships. His contentment turns to horror when the version of World War 2 his fellow citizens experience diverts radically from the version he learned in the history books — to the detriment of humanity. Both struggle against McCoy’s ancient demons in coming to grips with his past and trying to learn to love again.

Provenance made for a quick read: George’s habit of switching back and forth did not distract, although I tended to see the novelization of TOS’s post-City on the Edge of Forever canon as a diversion. That thread picked up interest after The Undiscovered Country, as George explored new territory.  The hold that McCoy’s previous marriage held on him — in prompting him to join Starfleet, and which makes him reluctant to enter into romantic relationships — is explored in both books.

Enjoyable story; McCoy fans will especially appreciate it.

Related:

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This Week at the Library (4/8)

Posted on August 4, 2010 by smellincoffee

This week at the library…

  • Alison Weir’s Captive Queen, a novel of Henry II and Eleanor. Straining conventions, two young aristocrats marry for love — but the problems of empire, politics, and family life may prove too much for them. Starts off like a supermarket pulp romance, but shapes up into an interesting read of historical fiction.
  • La Belle France by Alistair Horne covers French history from the Romans to Jacques Chiraq in a little over four hundred pages. An informal and swiftly-moving narrative gives readers a big picture that tends to prefer stories of strong leaders to mass action.
  • A Time to be Born is a TNG relaunch novel set shortly before Nemesis and leading up to it: Picard’s career hits a sour note when he is thrown into a difficult situation and inadvertently causes the destruction of a starship and the loss of a Federation ally. The ending was interesting enough to keep my interest in this series alive.

Quotation of the Week: “There are mysteries and oddities here, and we want to shed some light on them. There are rational explanations for the gravity sink, the wild antimatter, the Ontailians’ actions, and we should go and find them. We may fail, but we can no longer take ‘Oh, it’s haunted’ as an explanation.” Jean-Luc Picard tiring of “goddidit” in A Time to Be Born. p. 89, John Vornholt.

Pick of the Week: La Belle France, Alistair Horne. Although I prefer tales of popular revolt to strong leaders, reading the book was otherwise a treat.

Upcoming Reads:

  • Crucible: McCoy, Provenance of Shadows by David R. George III. Leonard McCoy is trapped in 1930s Earth after he inadvertently destroys his future. 
  • The 100 Most Influential Books Ever Written: a History of Thought from Ancient Times to Today, Martin Seymour-Smith
  • Galileo’s Daughter: a Historic Memoir of Science, Faith, and Love; Dava Sobel. I picked this up when doing research for a paper on the evolution of heliocentrism and the perception of a rational universe, but I want to give a proper reading. 
  • Give Me Back my Legions!, a rare bit of historical fiction by Harry Turtledove portraying one of Rome’s most staggering losses. 

Future Potentials:

  • My library doesn’t have Admiral Hornblower in the West Indies; To the Indies! is not, as I thought,  its alternative American title. (Forester’s books sometimes have different titles when republished for sale in the US.) I still want to read it, though.
  • I’ve decided to dive right into Star Trek’s much-lauded Destiny trilogy despite not having read all of the books that lead up to it. Destiny is worshiped at the TrekBBS, and I want to know what all the fuss is about. 
  • I’m interested in reading more from Alison Weir, Simon Schama, and Alistair Horne. 
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A Time to Be Born

Posted on August 4, 2010 by smellincoffee

A Time to Be Born
© 2004 John Vornholt
284 pages

On the cusp of their epic battle with Shinzon, many of Captain Jean-Luc Picard’s long-time crew were heading for new assignments and new challenges. Among the changes were William Riker’s promotion to captain and his new command, Riker’s marriage to Counselor Deanna Troi, and Dr. Beverly Crusher’s new career at Starfleet Medical. But the story of what set them on a path away from the Starship Enterprise has never been told.

           UNTIL NOW.

Captain Jean-Luc Picard and the Enterprise-E have been dispatched to the site of a terrible battle during the Dominion Wars, a site filled with dangerous anamolies and mysteries. His orders are to collect the dead from Starfleet vessels and, analyzing the site’s physicial remains and examining ships’ logs, attempt to explain what happened during the conflict. He is accompanied by the Juno, an older Excelsior-class starship, and a few new allies who appear to have ulterior motives for infiltrating the rubble. Picard needs the help of his comrades and allies, for an unexplicable gravity sink, apparantly sourceless energy discharges, and a swirling vortex of debris are not the only dangers: combative scavengers flit among the remains, stealing parts and ambushing the Starfleet crews.  In the perilous darkness, nothing is as it seems, and Picard will have to make quick choces that end his career in Starfleet.

I bought A Time to be Born four years ago, although my reading of it stalled half-way through. In trying to get back into Trek lit, I figured I’d give the A Time to… series another shot. The series consists of nine parts, the titles of each coming from the Hebrew book of Ecclesiastes — though that may be more familar to some readers as being from Pete Seeger’s “Turn, Turn, Turn”.  The series aims to bridge Insurrection and Nemesis, exploring character development, Alpha Quadrant politics, and answering questions about or mending mistakes of Nemesis.  The premise of this initial book is interesting, and I liked the ending, but the development of Picard’s time within the battleground was a struggle to read through. If I’d only wanted the general story or events of consequence, I could read the introductory chapters and then skip ahead to Picard’s trial.

Rough start but a promising ending. I intend on reading through the A Time To series, but not immediately.

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La Belle France

Posted on August 3, 2010 by smellincoffee

La Belle France: a Short History
© 2005 Alistair Horne
485 pages

I have rarely enjoyed any book as much as La Belle France, a quick sprint through French history that begins in the Roman era. Initially focusing on a small town named Paris on an island in the middle of the Seine, Horne moves swiftly through hundreds of years of kings, riots, and wars to end in the early 1990s with the election of Jacques Chiraq.  Horne is obviously affectionate toward his subject, at the beginning musings on his native England and France’s conjoined destinies. I’ve not encountered a general survey of French history since my freshman days, and this thoroughly delighted me. Horne’s narrative is a genuine story, one that grows increasingly detailed as he approaches the modern era. Horne is ever-present, and frequently employs anecdotes about France during his periods of visiting it. His voice betrays a slight bias toward strong leaders and orderly reform, wringing his hands regarding mass action like revolutions, prolonged strikes, and student protests. This bias doesn’t show up until the book hits the 19th century. His focus is also only on France proper: Canada, Algeria, and France’s problems in Vietnam get scant attention.

Horne covers  thousands of years in only a little over four hundred pages, moving quickly through the centuries. From time to time he pauses to reflect on France’s course, making the book an efficient read for someone who needs a “big picture” approach. I checked this book out for such an approach, thinking it would help me during what was intended to be a French-themed week (the week of 14 June). It still informed my reading of Citizens, Horne’s general story allowing me to bring Schama’s many details into focus. Overall I think the book a solid hit: easily one of the most readable and entertaining general histories I’ve yet read.  I want to read more of the author, and was particularly interested in his book on the Commune of Paris until I saw in here that he focused chiefly on its bloodshed. The Seven Ages of Paris will probably be my next Horne read.

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Teaser Tuesday (3-8)

Posted on August 3, 2010 by smellincoffee

Teasing? On a Tuesday?  But of course. From ShouldBeReading.

Together with the carrier-pigeon, the rat was to become the most fabled animal of the siege of Paris, and from December on a good rat-hunt was one of the principle activities of the National Guard, although the number actually consumed quite relatively few. The elaborate sauces required to make a rodent palatable meant that rats were essentially a rich man’s dish; hence the famous menus of the Jockey Club, featuring such delicacies as salmi de rats and “rat pie”.

(p.278, La Belle France. Alistair Horne commenting on the siege of Paris by Bismarck’s Prussian army in late 1871.)

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Captive Queen

Posted on July 31, 2010 by smellincoffee


Captive Queen: A Novel of Eleanor of Aquitaine
© 2010 Alison Weir
478 pages

My life, when it is written, will read better than it lived. Henry Fitz-Empress, first Plantagenet, a king at twenty-one, the ablest soldier of an able time. He led men well, he cared for justice when he could and ruled, for thirty years, a state as great as Charlemagne’s. He married out of love, a woman out of legend. Not in Alexandria, or Rome, or Camelot has there been such a queen. (Peter O’Toole as Henry II, The Lion in Winter)


In my youth there were only a handful of English monarchs I could reliably name: George III, the “bad guy” in my elementary history texts; the latter Tudors, chiefly Elizabeth and Henry VIII (who I knew for his many wives); Richard I and John from Robin Hood fame; and  their father, Henry II, whose bitter feud with his captivating wife Eleanor and their children fascinated me early on. 

Although I approached Captive Queen thinking it a biographical novel of Eleanor of Aquitaine, it opens with her spotting young Henry Fitz-Empress for the first time as his father Geoffry pays homage to her husband, French king Louis VII.  The two are immediately swept up by the other, and the rest of the book is their stage:  although Weir’s principle character is Eleanor, Henry is by no means a mere supporting character. They are both strong, willful, and wily: they arrange Eleanor to be freed from her marriage from Louis and immediately forge a “marriage of lions”. 
Eleanor brings with her the whole of Aquitaine, a substantial portion of France as modern readers know it. Together with the lands from Henry’s own Norman legacy and his newly-claimed English throne, these two lions have a domain that rivals any in Europe — but a mighty nation led by two ferocious partners is not to be, as Eleanor soon discovers. Her heavy-handed, domineering husband rides roughshod over her rights as the Duchess of Aquitaine, and her place at his side in council is lost to the quiet Thomas Becket. Henry’s imperiousness lasts his whole life, leading to constant feuds with his children and Eleanor. Their brood of children — including the aforementioned Richard the Lion-Hearted and John, who is most famous for losing to his barons — are as willful and self-interested as their parents, and their family feuds lead to war in both England and Europe. 
Captive Queen has drama a-plenty, some of it agonizing. Weir’s narrative makes clear that Eleanor and Henry are passionate for one another, wholly captivated by the other in both love and hatred — but underneath that passion is a long-running, genuine affection for the other so that they both yearn for reconciliation even when sincerely wishing to never see the other again. The relationship between these two dynamic individuals is one of the book’s strongest selling points, although it started off a little weak: in the beginning, I thought Weir may have intended this book toward readers who prefer supermarket romances, such was the emphasis on Henry and Eleanor going at each other like rabbits. Happily for me, the book picked up steam with the introduction of Thomas Becket, the troublesome priest who makes Henry’s life so difficult when he is promoted from the king’s bosom buddy and chancellor to the Archbishop of Canterbury. The resulting drama gives Weir ample opportunity to enthrall readers, and the book remains solid from that point on. It ends neatly, with Eleanor on her deathbed reflecting over the glory and tragedy of her and Henry’s combined life together — and the legacy they leave behind.
Captive Queen lives up to the expectations I had of Weir following The Lady Elizabeth. Though slow to get started Weir provided a romping read through some of England’s more interesting years. Her notes at the end of the book explain to the reader how she interpreted or took liberties historical facts, and delighted me by confirming that parts of the novel were inspired by The Lion in Winter and Becket, both of which were continually in my mind while reading this: her approach to Henry and Eleanor reminded me strongly of Lion in Winter‘s, and she states that she wanted to explore the relationship between these two not just over one explosive winter, but throughout their shared lives.

Related:
  • Becket, in which Peter O’Toole gives a hilarious rendition of Henry II despite the fact that the movie is about the bitter demise of a friendship. Eleanor plays no significant role except to knit and chide Henry about his closeness with Becket, but it’s one of my favorite movies. 
  • The Lion In Winter, in which O’Toole is again Henry II — this time, an older, angry, and despairing king anguished by his sons’ perpetual treachery. Katherine Hepburn plays Eleanor, and the two bounce off one another splendidly. The intro quote links to one of the more pivotal moments of the scene. 
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This Week at the Library (28/7)

Posted on July 28, 2010 by smellincoffee

This week…

  • Dynasty of Evil, Drew Karpyshyn concludes the Darth Bane trilogy on a short but fitting note, as both Bane and his apprentice prepare for a confrontation that will decide the future course of the Sith while the Dark Lord is hunted by a princess intent on revenge. 
  • The Buried Age by Christopher L. Bennett was a highlight, bridging Michael Jan Friedman’s Stargazer series and The Next Generation. Following the loss of his ship Stargazer, Picard pursues a doctorate in archaeology but is soon involved in a historical mystery of galactic proportions. Bennett offers a book robust with Trek references, intense character drama, and a  fascinating sci-fi plot.
  • I finally finished Simon Schama’s Citizens, a narrative approach to the French revolution that reconsiders the usual ideas about its origins and development.

Upcoming Reads:

  • Finishing up La Belle France by Alistair Horne
  • The Captive Queen, Alison Weir; biographical novel of Eleanor of Aquitaine. 
  • To the Indies, C.S. Forester. I may or may not prepare to bid farewell to Forester’s Hornblower series: this is the only Hornblower novel/collection I’ve not yet read. 
  • Don’t Know Much About Mythology
  • The End of the Beginning, Harry Turtledove
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Citizens

Posted on July 28, 2010 by smellincoffee

Citizens: a Chronicle of the French Revolution
© 1989 Simon Schama
948 pages

Aux armes, citoyens,
Formez vos bataillons,
Marchons, marchons!
Qu’un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons!

Mon dieu, this was a read. My first mentor and first college-level history professor recommended this to me back in 2004, although its girth has intimidated me for years. (I’ve not yet read Gibbon for the same reason.) Out of persistent affection for my instructor and my newfound interest in popular movements and revolts, I braved Citizens and found it an engaging read which not only made good my ignorance of the Revolution, but forced me to reconsider what little I knew of it. Although it has loomed large over my imagination, enjoying it was only a matter of sitting down, opening it up, and reading the first few sentences.

The author purposely returns to a style of historical narrative that hinges on the actions of individuals and the importance of dramatic events, eschewing the more detached and analytical style of Marxist historians who see revolutions of the middle class against feudal orders as historical inevitabilities. I’m fairly comfortable with historical materialism, although not so devout a materialist that Schama’s focus on France’s individual situation, culture, and the effect of charismatic persons perturbed me. Schama frequently appears in the text as an individual (“I do not mean to say…”) when explaining the significant of an event to the reader. While I’ve been told this is  unprofessional for a historian, it does have the effect of reminding the reader that this is an individual opinion:  opinions can sound like absolute facts when stated  in the objective, authorial voice that is encouraged among historians.

Schama’s broad treatment of the Revolution reevaluates traditional accounts of the shakeup that place emphasis on France’s economic woes and see the outbreak of violence as unnecessary and tragic. He sees the failure of France’s monarchy as virtual suicide, while the opening  moves for reform practically institutionalized violence against the old regime. Schama’s most interesting observation for me was that far from being a government mired in the past, Louis XVI’s government was obsessed with modernity, and those who desired the government to change had opposing interests even when working together. Relatedly,  Schama’s idea that the Parlements found so much power in agitating against the government that even when the king and his ministers attempt to repair the ship of state, they blocked his attempts and forced failure fascinated me. Citizens shows well a nation’s descent into chaos, although two-thirds in the emphasis on individuals and particular events made it difficult for me to grasp the general story.

For a student of France and the Revolution, Citizens is a worthy read.

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