The Sparrow Sings

The Facts on File Dictionary of Foreign Words and Phrases by Martin H. Manser

The Sparrow — Mon, 18 May 2009 20:41:00 GMT

The Facts on File Dictionary of Foreign Words and Phrases by Martin H. Manser
(Checkmark Books, 2002)

Have you ever been at a loss to find the mot juste when writing? The je ne sais quoi that will elevate your prose from common to cultivated? Do you simply enjoy being a pompous ass with a veneer of erudition? Then, you need The Facts on File Dictionary of Foreign Words and Phrases, mon ami.

I love this handy little volume. It works not only as a quick reference book in the heat of creative expression, but also as an enjoyable sit-down read. It is hugely diverting to find that jeunesse dorée refers to "the wealthy, sophisticated and fashionable young; originally applied to the wealthy, young counterrevolutionaries who combined to bring Robespierre's Reign of Terror to an end in France;" and then reflect on who might fit that bill today in America. Who will bring our current Reign of (Economic) Terror to an end in this century? Mental exercises such as these abound when reading Foreign Words and Phrases.

Most of the words and phrases in this book are French or Latin. While that is not surprising, what may be is that so many more familiar words whose origins I have never stopped to consider have rather exotic roots. Did you know that juggernaut is Hindi? Or that kismet is Turkish? Or that spritzer is German?

My only reservation about this book is that it lacks an easy index to help you find that mot juste. You almost have to know what foreign word you are seeking to make the book work for you. At least, that is the way it is in my edition; perhaps this has been remedied in later editions.

If you are a writer of any sort, or a simply an omnivorous logophile, you really ought not to go any longer without this invaluable resource. Go on, give yourself un bon cadeau!

Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray

The Sparrow — Mon, 18 May 2009 19:33:00 GMT

Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray
(Penguin Books, 2004)

I am currently re-reading Vanity Fair. It is one of those sprawling 19th century British novels that reminds you that many novels of that era used to be serialized in magazines -- and that the longer they could keep a story going, the more the authors got paid. Ol' Bill Thackeray must have made bank on this one -- my edition runs more than 800 pages. You might think this is a bad thing; but, that would only mean that you have not yet read Vanity Fair.

Scheming orphan, Becky Sharp, is one of the truly great creations in all of British Lit. She jumps off the page -- ungrateful, wicked, amoral, conniving, without conscience or qualms. Sounds lovely, right? But she is so vividly real, that her manipulative charms work on the reader (who, as Thackeray constantly reminds us, really ought to know better) just as they work on the hapless, feckless fools who surround Becky. Ah, Becky . . .

I was struck when I first read Vanity Fair with the idea that "Becky Sharp" could only work as a 19th century Briton. Transfer her to America, and she becomes irredeemably reprehensible. You see, Becky is smarter, quicker, more clever than anyone else; but, just because she was born into the lower class and is without any money, she is expected to lower her expectations in life and accept a working class marriage and life of respectable poverty. I guess that I am thoroughly American in my outlook, because I can see Becky's point of view. She would thrive in a culture that values initiative and promotes social mobility. Thwarted by birth from her due, Becky turns dark. She gets emeshed in a desperate dance to expand and improve her social circle -- but, for this reader at least, she never becomes completely unsympathetic. Or, as Becky herself muses at one point, with a sufficient income even she could have been respectable.

So, I confess, I like Becky Sharp. I do not love her, as I love Elizabeth Bennet. I would not trust her, as I trust Fanny Price. I can not approve of her, as I approve of Flora Poste. But, I sure as heck find her entertaining and charming.

The rest of the book is masterly as well. Thackeray clips along at a steady, energetic pace. Characters pop in and out -- some developed with the intricacy of Becky, many serving only to push along the plot. He writes mostly dialogue and pithy, satirical observations on the human scene -- without any of the tedious raptures of nature or philosophy that bog down far too many novels. You really cannot imagine 800 pages passing more smoothly or pleasantly than this.

I am only in the first chapters of this current re-read of VF. I imagine that, further in, I will have more to say. I shall post on this book again at a later date.

Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons

The Sparrow — Mon, 18 May 2009 19:27:00 GMT

Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons
(Penguin Books, 1938)

Have you ever wanted to "tidy up" the world about you? Do you have a penchant for cool rationality and find alternately amusing and disgusting emotional excess? Well then, you may just have a bit of Flora Poste in you -- and I think that's a good thing, indeed.

Stella Gibbons apparently wrote Cold Comfort Farm as a parody of intensely emotional and darkly passionate pastoral novels that were popular in early 20th century England. I had no idea of this the first few times I read CCF. I have never read D.H. Lawrence or Thomas Hardy, but, without Ms Gibbons's light, tempering, satirical touch, I doubt I would want to. I loathe the sort of overt narcissistic emotionalism that permeates and plagues society today, and I cannot imagine wishing to read about it during my leisure time. Life is too short. But, you need not be familiar with the novels under fire to enjoy thoroughly Cold Comfort Farm.

Flora Poste, orphaned at 19 and left in financial straits, decides to ignore her friend's hints that she ought to train for a job, and decides to impose upon relatives instead. She chooses distant cousins -- the Starkadders of Cold Comfort Farm in the delightfully named "Howling" -- because she senses that she can amuse herself by "tidying up" their presumably dreary, lurid, inward-gazing lives. Her instincts were correct, and we find the Starkadders even more decaying, primitive, dank and oppressive than we could have imagined.

There is creepy old Adam, who loves his cheerless cows but never notices when their limbs suddenly detach from their bodies; Amos, whose love of preaching damnation overshadows any vestige of Christian love; Elfine, whose untamed, poetry-writing ways will never win her a county marriage and ticket out of Cold Comfort; Rueben, who is suspicious of any and all who would steal the farm out from under him; Seth, over-sexed and under-brained; Judith, who broods constantly and yearns unhealthily for her youngest son; Urk, who has an unwholesome attachment to water voles; Aunt Ada Doom, who saw something nasty in the woodshed when she was two, and uses that as an excuse to reign over all of them with an emotional iron fist. Jerry Springer would have loved to have this dysfunctional lot on his erstwhile show.

But, you and I and Flora know that this is simply an unacceptable way to live. She descends upon them like a very bossy, manipulative angel of mercy -- dispassionately directing them all toward peace, happiness, and normal behavior. The burning question that I had when I read this book the first time is "Will she get her comeuppance?" Nosy little heroines usually do, you know. I'll leave that to you to find out.

The best thing about Cold Comfort Farm is the humor. It is a wonderfully funny book, with many quick, sharp asides directly from Ms Gibbons that are howlers. The pacing is quite fast -- no sooner does Flora arrive in her little room at the farm than she starts improving the Starkadders. Bumpity, bumpity, bump -- the author careens us toward the end at heartpounding speed; which, in after all, makes you feel a little cheated, as you would have liked a few more hassles for our intrepid heroine to prolong the magic and fun.

The only drawback to the book -- other than its brevity -- is that Ms Gibbons chose to set it in the near future. It was published in 1932, and the action takes place more than 14 years later (the fictional "Anglo-Nicaraguan wars of '46" are a telling reference). On one hand, this strange timewarp quality adds an unsettling charm to the story; on the other, though, it seems a bit out of place in such a level-headed, matter-of-fact book. Jane Austen never would have done that; and I think that, perhaps, Ms Gibbons ought not to have as well. A minor quibble -- what do you think?

"Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery," is the quote from Jane Austen's Mansfield Park that precedes the title page of Cold Comfort Farm. With such a credo, how could I not have loved this novel? The very fact that Flora Poste uses Austen novels, in part, as manuals for tidying up the Starkadders ensured my allegiance from the beginning. But, this book has merit enough to stand on its own -- and Flora Poste can certainly stand side-by-side, if not exactly with Elizabeth Bennet, then with Emma Woodhouse.

A Buffet of Buffoonery

The Sparrow — Thu, 14 Sep 2006 21:01:00 GMT

Have you ever come across something so heartbreakingly sincere, utterly preposterous, and frankly scary that you only wish your powers to magnify the absurdity were equal to the material at hand? How I wish there were a P.J. O'Rourke or Isabel Paterson or Stephen Cox to convey to you the pain-filled pleasure of perusing the Official Local Voters' Pamphlet for the Washington State primary elections coming up on September 19! Unfortunately, an examination of this parade of parlous pandering political parasites is left to me. Jason keeps looking at the options in brief segments, so as not to burn out his eyes with their unholy glare, and puts down the pamphlet each time with a sigh, a swear and a muttered, "I hate politicians."

But how can you hate Michael Goodspaceguy Nelson (the middle name is not in quotations, by the way)? He is a Democrat running for United States Senator. Most of his platform is about colonizing outer space. He calls our planet, "Spaceship Earth," for crying out loud. He has a blog (of course he does!) at Colonize Orbital Space. Space colonization is not his only issue though, he is also very concerned with ending unemployment. He writes: "Let us use our unemployed people! Unemployment is a huge waste! Our government should back its minimum wage by employing those who apply (including people with problems)." One presumes that "people with problems" should also, in his studied opinion, be employed in the most august branches of Federal government, like the Senate. But, you'll be begging for the wisdom and temperance of Mr. Goodspaceguy should your November election choice become this next candidate.

Mike the Mover (I'm not making this name up) has the wild, glinty-eyed stare of one of those people who would not have been picked up while hitchhiking even in the carefree, pre-serial killer-hype of the early 1960's. But, inside the mind of this apparently axe-wielding mountain man lives the soul of a poet. The first paragraph of his profile statement is in rhyme (or, perhaps, in rap):

Listen to the thunder, hear the Governor roar;
Mike the Mover's loose again, and knocking at the door!
Load up the cannon, call out the law,
'Cause it's the biggest calamity folks have ever saw.
Girls run and hide, brave men shiver,
Every time they think they hear the name of Mike the Mover.
Courtesy of Disney Productions 1958.

The libertarian inside of me appreciates his irreverence toward running for political office, but the concerned citizen next to her worries that maybe he's in earnest. Mike the Mover (MTM) then goes on to list his election year beefs. He wants Saddam Hussein put back in power. He cites an 1859 altercation between Great Britain and the U.S. over the killing of a pig on the San Juan Islands that nearly resulted in war (according to him), and he links that somehow to untreated waste water allegedly poured into the Straits of Juan de Fuca by Victoria, Canada. He then challenges Senator Ted Stevens of Alaska to a boxing match in Key Arena. He ends with what could be a
poignant plea for a missing child to contact his campaigning headquarters, or simply a weird non-sequitur.

Actually, Mike the Mover doesn't seem too bad. It's interesting to see someone sniping at Canada from the left side of the political spectrum. Our neighbors to the north are often mocked -- and often unjustly -- in U.S. libertarian and conservative circles for what is seen sometimes as their smug, tidy, whitebread socialism. But it's kind of refreshing to see them taken to task for environmental reasons -- whether legitimately or not. I'm not sure about putting Saddam back in power -- seems like a slap in the face to our fighting men and women -- but, I never thought he should have been removed from power in the first place (at least, not removed by us -- had the Iraqis removed him, then bless their freedom-loving, tyrant-disposing hearts). And, I would LOVE to see political differences settled once in a while by "three rounds of fisticuffs." Political rhetoric is a dead art -- no one seems to be able to talk in a meaningful and persuasive manner anymore -- so why not go mano a mano?

Mike the Mover would be a blessing compared to the next candidate listed, Mohammad H. Said. This guy's entire profile statement is a polemic against Israel. You know what would be truly exciting? A candidate named Mohammed (or any variation of that prophet's name) who didn't use the space granted on a voter information pamphlet to rail against Jewish people and the sovereign nation of Israel. I'm uncertain whether it is a glorious anthem to freedom or a frightening commentary on our times that someone can write their entire goal in seeking office as being dedicated to the dismantling of Israel and the implementation of a new state altogether. This guy probably would have done well not to submit a photograph for his profile, as I would be inclined to "profile" him, if you know what I mean.

Hong Tran is the fourth candidate listed on the two-page spread. She comes off as bland and innocuous, after the previous three stand-outs. Immediate withdrawal from Iraq . . . universal health care . . . clean environment . . . more money for social programs . . . yadda, yadda, yadda. Boring!

Maria Cantwell, our current senator, gets her own page, away from all the crazies. I'll be quite frank here and state that I find her quite annoying. Perhaps not as annoying as our senior senator, the dim-witted Patty Murray, former P.E. teacher and the consistent recipient of the dubious honor of being voted the least intelligent member of Congress by congressional staffers, but annoying nonetheless. She is very pro-abortion, which makes me sick to my stomach. I hope she loses her seat, but I doubt she will.

In comparison, the Republican candidates for Senate come off as dishwater dull as they are often purported to be by admittedly daffy, but always entertaining, Democrats. The front-runner, Mike McGavick, has a profile so riveting and inspiring you'll want to stand up and, well, stretch and yawn. Blah, blah, blah, too much partisanship, blah, blah, independent voice, blah, blah, new leadership, blah, blah, blah, common sense and civility. Man! Where's the promise to go at fisticuffs with Mike the Mover, should they both win their parties' primaries? "Sunday, Sunday, Sunday at the Key Arena! Come see the battle for Spokane to Seattle! It's Mike vs. Mike in the pennant for the Senate! Demoncrat vs. Repulican't! Be there or be taxed without representation!" Wouldn't that be GREAT?!

There are some bright spots in the other Republican's profiles, though. Gordon Allen Pross has written a convoluted essay on 100 people and 100 red headed Lincoln pennies somehow using a formulation for taxes with a 90% to 10% ratio that needs to be turned on its head. I read it with much confusion, though I was, admittedly, listening to "The Michael Medved Show" on my headphones at the same time. Maybe I should go back and give Mr. Pross my full attention. Or, maybe not. Life is, after all, rather short.

Jason's favorite candidate is William Edward Chovil, who looks like Anna Nicole Smith's departed billionaire husband. He has one of those things on his neck that indicates that he has lost his voice-box -- you know, the ones that people are always wearing in anti-smoking ads while inhaling a cigarette through them. This is not surprising to see, when you read in his profile that he is a follower of Ayn Rand (famous and joyful smoker) and, get this, John Galt (also a prodigious smoker, though a fictitious one). I think my husband likes Mr. Chovil's constant references to communism, since that is Jason's favorite epithet for just about everyone in government.

Warren E. Hanson looks like Greg's dad, Edward, from that late, great television show, Dharma and Greg. (Yes, I am a big fan -- shutty!) He echoes Mike the Mover by bringing up Victoria's dumping of untreated waste into U.S. waters, though he neglects to mention the crucial issue of the 1859 pig-slaughtering altercation that gives MTM's stance such historical resonance. He ends his statement of principles by assuring us of his excellent health (for his age, which I'm guessing is close to 150) and his physical strength. Could he be anticipating a bout with the formidable and feisty Mike the Mover? He lastly claims "no addictions" which might just give him the edge over MTM.

B. Barry Massoudi looks like a nice guy and wrote a sane statement of ideas and goals. He would probably get my vote, were I not already enamored with Brad Klippert. Please do not hold his name ("Brad" = ugh) against him. Brad Klippert is exactly the kind of man we need in the Senate. Yes, I said, "man." He also seems to have the brains necessary to bring the average Senatorial IQ representing the state of Washington up to normal levels (no easy task when partnered with Patty Murray). The only black mark against his name is when he states that he will work toward, "saving social security." How I wish someone had the testicular fortitude to declare Social Security immoral and unsupportable and recommend taking it behind the woodshed for a bullet to the stomach (its being without a brain, you see)! But, and this is a big issue with me, he has the endorsement of Human Life of Washington for being in complete agreement with their PAC's statement of beliefs. Plus, he at least gives lip service to those other areas of liberty: low taxes, property rights, free enterprise.

Our current Representative, Dave Reichert, is no one about whom I can get excited. I'll vote for him in November (he's running unopposed in the primary), because his presumed Democratic opponent, Darcy Burner, looks like a cipher and smells like one, too. Okay, sorry, the childhood addendum to the "Happy Birthday" song took over my insightful political commentary there. She's a "by-the-book" Democrat, without an original page in her ideological tome. Not that Dave Reichert is anything other than a smarmy Republiwimp, but I personally find the values of the Dems a bit more reprehensible than those of the Reps. It is mostly the full-throttle support for the wanton destruction of our littlest citizens partnered with the enslavement of taxpayers to a statist educational system for the children that aren't aborted that disgusts me most about the Dirty Dems. Sure enough, Ms. Burner is supported by the usual denizens of depravity, NARAL; the American Federation of Indoctrinators; village idiot, Patty Murray; and the evil troll woman herself, our illegitimate "governor," Christine Gregoire. With endorsements like those, who needs enemies? Of course, sadly, many in Washington would see these as positive supporters.

By far, the most exciting race in my opinion is that for Justice of the Supreme Court, Position No. 9 between Jeanette Burrage and Tom Chambers. I'll be voting for Ms. Burrage simply for this item brought up in her opponent's radio ad: [Ms. Burrage] is best known for once ordering female attorneys to wear skirts in her courtroom. I love that! It's little things like that that really riles up women's groups. "I should be able to wear hip-hugger jeans and a sports bra with a belt made of all my aborted babies around my waist into court if I want to. Ain't nobody going to stop me! I am a WO-MAN"

So, now my great dilemma is whether to ask for a Republican or Democrat ballot on September 19. I may have to abandon Brad Klippert simply to be able to give my vote to Mike the Mover. He is, after all, the only candidate who mentioned the dramatic near-miss pig-slaughtering war between the U.S. and Canada in his platform. You've got to respect a man who knows his history. Just don't give him a ride if you see him near the freeway on-ramp. (I think he's got an axe.)

A Shameless Plug

The Sparrow — Sat, 09 Sep 2006 17:20:00 GMT

Anyone familiar with "The Michael Medved Show" (which is conservative talk radio for people with brains in their heads) knows that every so often he promotes the work he has done for other venues over the radio. These promos are jovially called, "Shameless Plugs."

Well, I shall shamelessly borrow his phraseology and announce: Now it is time for a shameless plug.

I have a review of two books on Shakespeare in the October 2006 issue of Liberty Magazine. You can find it in the finer bookstores and truly classy newsstands across the country.

Here's a link, not to the reveiw, but to see the magazine cover: Liberty Magazine

That was a shameless plug. Stay tuned for more shameless plugs, right here on The Singing Sparrow.

Cicero

The Sparrow — Tue, 15 Aug 2006 09:04:00 GMT

About half-way through my reading of this book, I was talking with my husband, Jason, extolling this work and trying to explain how delightful an old dog I was finding its subject, Cicero. Except, you see, I was calling him "Kee-kare-roh," and that was driving Jason nuts.

"Look," he said sternly, "If you're going to keep talking to me, you need to stop saying his name like that. It's 'Sis-ser-oh.'"

"But Henry Beard said . . ."

"I know all about your 'Henry Beard' and his guide to pronouncing Latin correctly, and I don't care. In this age and time we call him 'Sis-ser-oh,' and I'm not going to listen to you any longer if you keep saying it the other way."

"May I still say, 'Kigh-Sahr'?" I meekly asked.

"No!" he thundered. "His name is 'See-zer,' understand?

It is intolerable not to live among those who adhere to the classic Latin pronunciations. I died a little that night.

Ah, but Cicero lives on, no matter how you pronounce his name. And he is quite the character. Anthony Everitt has written a conversational treatment of Rome's greatest politician that never alienates the reader. In fact, the thoughts, motivations, and actions of the movers and shakers living in the last days of the Roman republic are breathtakingly modern in this presentation. Mr. Everitt has inherited something of Ezekiel's gift in taking dry bones more than two thousand years in stillness and resurrecting them into a marvelous dance of words and history.

Mr. Everitt has chosen the most dramatic moment of ancient Roman history since the suckling of Romulus and Remus on that she-wolf (oh yes, I've seen the statue replica at Caesars' Palace in Las Vegas, and, yes, it is rather off-putting) with which to open his story. It is a scene which the modern reader believes he knows well: The now familiar conspirators are gathered to enact what they see as a last desperate measure to save the Republic from a despot. Caesar enters the Theater of Pompeius with nonchalance, holding in his hand an unread message passed to him at the entry way by a friend that begged him to be on his guard, for duplicity and murder were afoot. The conspirators attack, only one dagger making a fatal wound, but, as it is in these cases, one was enough. Caesar shields his lower half from embarrassing exposure in death and sinks to the ground, his last words of wonderment and accusation on his lips, "You too, my son?"

But, what the reader may not expect is the next turn of events: Brutus, to whom Caesar's words were spoken turns to the stunned gathering of Senators, brandishes his dagger, and cries out, surprisingly, to Cicero. He congratulates the stunned statesman with the recovery of freedom upon the death of the tyrant. As Mr. Everitt writes, "Hitherto scarcely able to believe his eyes, he could now scarcely believe his ears. It was almost as if the assassination had been staged especially for him -- as a particularly savage benefit performance" (p. 6). Marcus Tullius Cicero, famed orator and superannuated politician, whose days in the limelight seemed long past was suddenly held up as the symbol of Republican values and traditional liberties. Thus began the last stage of this remarkable life, as Cicero came back into public prominence when it was one of the most dangerous times in the history of Rome to assume such prominence.

"To understand Cicero's life," Mr. Everitt writes, "which spanned the first two thirds of the first century BC, it is necessary to picture the world in which he lived, and especially the nature of Roman politics" (p. 9). What follows is a remarkably lucid description of the structure of Roman government and the personalities inhabited therein. Cicero, we learn, was a relative newcomer to the scene of Roman politics, which was dominated in a large part by the optimates, the "best people" whose ancestors had filled the Senate since the founding days of the Republic. Cicero, though an outsider to the machine, quickly rose the rungs of influence by sheer skill and hard work; yet, despite his lack of political pedigree, he tended toward the conservative system that protected the interests of the patricians, instead of those of the plebs (whose supporters were known as the populares).

The biggest boon to a biographer is first-hand information about the subject, either from the subject's journals or letters. Too few of history's most illustrious characters have left behind such tantalizing material. Fortunately for Mr. Everitt, Cicero was one of those few. Preserved for over two thousand years has been his copious correspondence with his dear friend, Atticus. From these letters, as well as Cicero's published works and contemporary accounts, Mr. Everitt has culled the cream to bring the reader into the world of both the man and the public figure. And what a man! It is difficult not to be charmed by this fascinating Roman who is presented as urbane, insinuating, sardonic, and forthright -- a man who valued highly the good of the Republic, but always had an eye on which side his bread was buttered. To his friend, Cicero was free to comment on wide-ranging topics, both personal and national in scope. This contributes to an exceptionally thorough and free-wheeling portrait of the final years of Republicanism in Rome.

Cicero turns out to be the exemplifier of both the strengths and weaknesses of that ancient governmental structure. As Rome grew into an Empire, it outgrew its limited scope of government that Constitutionalists held so dear. There was no overriding voice of authority in Rome. There were co-equal Consuls and various groups that made up the Senate and regional governments, but, by law, there was no strong central figure to keep control over the ever-expanding boundary lines that were the result of conquest. When Caius Julius Caesar stepped forward with bold leadership and a vision of empire that united and constrained divided factions, Republicans like Cicero were alarmed. Much like the loose structure of the unwieldy empire, Cicero's talents were soon outgrown when politics as usual was swept away by civil wars and tenuous peace. For Cicero was a great compromiser and flatterer, able to convince opposing sides that he was in their corner. He practically invented politics as we understand it -- a combination of charm, personality, and persuasion. In the last years of his life, when he made an unmitigated stand against Caesar's successors, Cicero's silver tongue failed him, and he fell from favor and into danger.

One of my disappointments with this book was that Atticus, Cicero's life-long friend and correspondent, remains in the shadows. I found myself curious about this man who received a steady flow of letters from Cicero, both in the stateman's glory days and exiled days; who offered steadfast friendship when it might have been controversial or dangerous to do so; whose sister was married stormily to Cicero's brother, Quintus; who was wealthy and stayed that way though many landowners were robbed of their estates to pay governmental debts; and who, amazingly, survived the final, deadly proscription that cost Cicero his life, despite Atticus's close ties to the condemned politician.

Mr. Everitt has done an admirable job in bringing Cicero to life for the uninitiated but curious Roman historian. This author is currently working on a biography of Augustus, which promises to be another intriguing glimpse of a bigger-than-life personality in the context of his culture and times. I await its publication eagerly.

A Confederacy of Dunces

The Sparrow — Sat, 05 Aug 2006 00:35:00 GMT

It's pretty sweet when an author can find an introductory quote as gnarly and kick-ass as this one that John Kennedy Toole used to begin his novel, A Confederacy of Dunces:

When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him.
Jonathan Swift -- "Thoughts on Various Subjects, Moral and Diverting"

To use the great 18th century satirist and social commentator's words to introduce a novel so brilliantly satirical and pointedly critical of society was a stroke of genius that aptly foreshadows the upcoming romp with a singular character, Ignatius J. Reilly, and a whole host of seedy and undesirable cohorts.

For me, the test of a novel is in the characters. Plots and themes and settings mean nothing at all when paired with sub-par, lifeless creations. If a protagonist (or antagonist) stays with me, haunts me, forces me to consider his or her future long after I've turned the book's last page, then the author has used my time well. Ignatius Reilly was drawn in such a way by Toole that I could see him, hear him, and even smell him as he burped and belched his way through the pages, constantly struggling both with his recalcitrant valve and with every person who had the misfortune to cross his path. This was a worthwhile read, indeed.

Confederacy is set in New Orleans in the early 1960's. Ignatius is a thirty-year-old college graduate who lives with his widowed mother in reduced circumstances. He relishes their fringe status in society and whiles away his days scribbling grandiosities on Big Chief yellow tablets, wolfing down cakes, and drinking Dr. Nuts. His mother's opinion of him fluctuates between reverence and fear. Then, one day, their lives change forever when his mother crashes her car into a building. All of a sudden, Ignatius's lifestyle is put into jeopardy by dire financial straits, as his mother pledges to pay the property owner's damages in installments. Irene Reilly finds her backbone and insists that Ignatius find gainful employment and help her pay off the accident debt. The story is, therefore, the tale of what happens when an idiosyncratic crank with the sensibilities of medieval Europe is thrown into the vat of humanity that bubbles outside the realm of his particular Weltanshauung.

Toole parades a varied cast of characters before the reader. From the depths of New Orleans underworld, to the struggles of lower-middle class workers and retirees, to a terse marriage of the idle rich, Toole astounded me by his ability to give each creation a distinct history and personality and room to shine. Each individual introduced plays a vital part in the progression and denouement of the plot. No one is inconsequential or an accident. The artistry here is such that, without the reader's becoming aware, the parts played fit perfectly and the end is seamless, absurd and utterly, ironically logical. Given these characters and these situations, the end becomes a fait accompli that not only takes the reader by surprise, but leaves him nodding his head and saying, "Of course." To create that kind of inevitability without falling into triteness is one of the novel's great accomplishments.

Perhaps the novelist's greatest accomplishment, though, is Ignatius himself. His character is so polarizing that every reader must have one of three reactions:  they find him completely abhorrent; they find him riotously amusing; they find him intriguingly dumbfounding. My reaction was the latter. In fact, I find him much funnier in retrospect than I did in the actual reading, because he is so unlike anyone I'd ever seen created in fiction before. Again, though, his character is so completely developed that, once you accustom yourself to his unique worldview, his actions and conversation are entirely consistent. What an amazing act of writing! To imagine such a peculiar individual so entirely that he becomes a real, if unsettling, person is Toole's literary legacy.

It is difficult to say much more about this novel without rubbing away some of the magic of that first read. If you let yourself be swept up into this world, if you accept the author's terms and allow yourself to be carried along on the ride, I think you'll enjoy it. There is a lot in there that struck me as prescient, considering that Toole wrote this in the early 1960's. It was fun and fascinating, but not fluffy. There are a lot of prickles and irritations, but they made the journey more fulfilling for me. It struck me that this novel is rather moral. The struggle between good and evil is narrated in a less-dramatic form than we would have seen in a novel written a hundred years previously, because, even in the 1960's, those lines were beginning to blur. Ignatius, in particular, is morally ambiguous, but the author is not. The conclusions of the characters' stories are satisfying, because the deserving find reward and the undeserving find punishment.  This quirky tale will make you mourn the author's early death and limited output.

John Kennedy Toole must have been surrounded by dunces his entire life, for this work truly reveals a work of genius.

If you read the book, do you agree with me that Ignatius's favorite actress is Doris Day, with the circus-musical's being Billy Rose's Jumbo and the sophisticated comedy's being That Touch of Mink?

Test Entry

The Sparrow — Thu, 03 Aug 2006 22:24:00 GMT

I want to see how a new entry will look on this new blogging format.

This will be deleted when 'real' content is posted.

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