P is for Plague

April A-to-Z: must-read books

The Stand (1978)

By Stephen King

(1947-) Maine

Most King fans I know call this book his best. I concur. I’ve read most of his work up until 2003 or so and only the Dark Tower series compares. This story grabs you from the very beginning with all kinds of tension and never relents, pulling in a host of interesting characters with compelling problems and developing into an epic struggle of good versus evil.

The achievement here, I find, is that the plot, having intimately to do with the entire planet earth, is hugely ambitious. That’s an awfully big “set” for an author to build in his head and yet King succeeds. He transports the reader to a very intricate place, difficult even to conceive, and makes it very real. Bravo.

And I must tip my hat for the trick play he perpetrated, for which he laid the bait at the close of chapter 62!

This is a must-read for anyone with a penchant for dystopian stories.

A passage:

     “So I say with more money in circulation you’d be—“

     “Better turn off your pumps, Hap,” Stu said mildly.

     “The Pumps? What?”

     Norm Bruett had turned to look out the window. “Christ on a pony,” he said.

     Stu got out of his chair, leaned over Tommy Wannamaker and Hank Carmichael, and flicked off all eight switches at once, four with each hand. So he was the only one who didn’t see the Chev as it hit the gas pumps on the upper island and sheared them off.

     It plowed into them with a slowness that seemed implacable and somehow grand. Tommy Wannamaker swore in the Indian Head the next day that the taillights never flashed once. The Chevy just kept coming at a steady fifteen or so, like the pace car in the Tournament of Roses parade. The undercarriage screeched over the concrete island, and when the wheels hit it everyone but Stu saw the driver’s head swing limply forward and strike the windshield, starring the glass.

O is for Omnipotence

April A-to-Z: must-read books

Under Satan’s Sun (1926)

By Georges Bernanos

(1888-1948) France

In hindsight, why the hell (yes, hell; it’s appropriate here) did I unthinkingly include this book in my plan for this exercise? It was an extremely profound read but truthfully, I’m sure I didn’t understand much , or perhaps even most, of it and it is a must-read, by my accounting, only for small minorities of readers. Oh well. ‘O’ is a difficult slot to fill. We are stuck with it so, what the heck? Watch me struggle! I’m okay with that. Here goes:

Here is what I wrote on this blog in October 2007 following my first and only reading:

Under Satan’s Sun (1926) by Georges Bernanos, translated by J.C. Whitehouse. It’s very deep. I read it slowly, painstakingly, and still much of it went over my head. I believe I understand what he’s suggesting though. It concerns God, Satan and humanity and it’s clearly an honest interpretation of the divine landscape. And what it suggests is entirely shocking. Makes Da Vinci Code look like Curious George.

Now here is what I did not say (warning: spoiler alert. I have tried not to include any spoilage of—or even reference to—plot this month but Under Satan’s Sun strikes me as such an academic experience, I feel the plot is not overly relevant though this is admittedly a subjective opinion!):

Bernanos was clearly a poet of significant success in terms of grasping the human mind. He is also touted a devout Catholic and a gifted student of Catholicism. That said, Catholics, as with any tribe, religious or otherwise, cannot be expected to easily let go their claim to an esteemed member should he go astray, or otherwise evolve beyond the tribe. So where his true loyalties lay, at the time of this writing, if anywhere at all, I would not make assumptions.

It is said that one needs to thoroughly understand Catholic doctrine in order to properly grasp the intended messages in this book. That may be a perfectly valid point. Personally, I parted from Catholicism when faced with the Confirmation ritual choice at age thirteen. It is said that the meat of this book is in the question: What would happen if a proper saint appeared in the post-modern era? I don’t remember connecting much to that idea.

What totally intrigued me was my perception that the very basic nature of “God” and “Satan” were being called into question. And I admit: Perhaps Bernanos meant nothing of the sort. Or perhaps he meant precisely that but without expecting anyone to necessarily get it. For I’m reminded of this painting by Michael Pacher (c1975) which was recently pointed out to me by a young associate who was intrigued by the funny idea of a face on one’s bum. I was instead intrigued that the image garnered endless internet comments from Christians who were delighted that dumb ol’ Satan had been tricked into holding the Bishop’s (or whatever his rank is) scriptures for him. I find that point of view adorable and would bet any money the painter intended nothing remotely so goofy as that, regardless what currently-approved version of a Christian story might actually support that scenario. No. When I look at this painting I see something far more sinister going on; something far more worth painting. My point is: tribal addiction invites a conceit which blinds us to all but what we wish to see, no matter how lame.

I believe Satan’s Sun was written with much subtlety in the storytelling but with none in the writing. It is written fully in the tell style, not show, and rightfully so as the greatest usefulness lies in Bernanos’ exploration of the mind. Thus he leads us directly in to the consciousness of the character. There is simply great stuff for the reader to explore this way.

I suggest that this is a must-read for those with a fascination for the human mind or for Christian theory or for the concept of a superpower, or superpowers in the universe, divine or otherwise. 

Some passages which were of magnificent comfort and consolidation to me:

No one ever discovers the depths of his own loneliness.

The human mind is constantly varying the shape and curve of its wings, attacking the air from every angle, from positive to negative, and yet never learns how to fly.

The simplest emotions are born and grow in impenetrable darkness, attracting and repelling each other like thunderclouds in accordance with secret affinities. All we see on the surface of the darkness is the brief flashes of the inaccessible storm. That's why the best psychological hypothesis can perhaps throw some light on the past but can never tell us what the future may hold. And, like many other conjectures, they merely hide a mystery that our minds find intolerable even to contemplate.

Will each of us, if he turns his head, see behind him his shadow, his double, the beast that resembles him, silently watching him?

And he also knew what man really is: a grown up child, full of vice and boredom.

What does the truth matter? Haven't we mothers all given our sons a taste for lies? Lies which from the cradle upwards lull them, reassure them, send them to sleep.

For the first time he contemplated, lovelessly but with pity, the lamentable human flock, born to graze and die.

N is for Narnia

April A-to-Z: must-read books

The Chronicles of Narnia (1949-1954)

By C. S. Lewis

(1898-1963) England

Nearly every reader I talk to remembers these books from their elementary school days and loved them. Do your kids a favour: Encourage them not to see the movies until they’ve had the opportunity to read the books. Novels are such a richer experience than movies because our imaginations can reach so much further than an image on a screen can. Let the jeopardy do its job in the books; let it create the tension it is supposed to, as it only can when free of spoilage of the plot. Then let the movie supplement the book afterwards! 

It seems to me that there are two main brands of kid magic you can find in books and Lewis’ approach to fantasy, unlike that of his friend, Tolkien, is dedicated to both: It’s got the magic of imagination and limitless possibility in a world of rich creation. And it has the kid magic which happens when kids transcend the normal boundaries of childhood by taking on serious circumstances, rife with adult jeopardy, where the plot conspires to block adults from coming to the rescue. That is a magic that I forgot existed through all my adult life, until I was forced to read youth books again in the scope of school volunteer work.

I re-read one of these books as an adult, judging it would serve well in a writing exercise of my own design. I turned The Horse and His Boy into a poem, in pursuit of the idea that my own unfinished epic fantasy novel, begun a long time ago in over-ambitious and naïve manner and subsequently abandoned, might finally come to life in the form of an epic poem (the exercise was successful but the adaptation of my own novel still lingers on the back burner). In the course of that exercise I was stunned to see Lewis’s Christian agenda and bigotry toward Arabs so obvious; stuff I certainly never caught as a kid.

My advice is: Don’t let this deter you or your kids from experiencing these delightful stories. Wait until they’ve read the books and then ask them whether they identified such agendas, and use it as a parenting opportunity.

Times have changed and kids may be more aware of diverse cultures than I was, and thus I may be wrong, but my guess is that they will experience the simple joys of the stories without falling prey to the politics.

These are must-read books for every young person, and probably, sixty-five years later, still available in every library.

A passage from The Horse and His Boy:

…there was a great splash and he found his mouth half full of salt water. The shining thing had been a long inlet of the sea. Both horses were swimming and the water was up to Shasta’s knees. There was an angry roaring behind them and looking back Shasta saw a great, shaggy, and terrible shape crouched on the water’s edge; but only one. “We must have shaken off the other lion,” he thought.

   The Lion apparently did not think its prey worth a wetting; at any rate it made no attempt to take the water in pursuit. The two horses, side by side, were now well out into the middle of the creek and the opposite shore could be clearly seen. The Tarkaan had not yet spoken a word. “But he will,” thought Shasta. “As soon as we have landed. What am I to say? I must begin thinking out a story.”

   Then suddenly, two voices spoke at his side.

   “Oh, I am so tired,” said the one. “Hold your tongue Hwin, and don’t be a fool,” said the other.

   “I’m dreaming,” thought Shasta. “I could have sworn that other horse spoke.”

   “Soon the horses were no longer swimming but walking and soon with a great sound of water running off their sides and tails and with a great crunching of pebbles under eight hoofs, they came out on the farther beach of the inlet. The Tarkaan, to Shasta’s surprise, showed no wish to ask questions. He did not even look at Shasta but seemed anxious to urge his horse straight on. Bree, however, at once shouldered himself in the other horse’s way.

   “Broo-hoo-haw!” he snorted. “Steady there! I heard you, I did. There’s no good pretending, Ma’am. I heard you. You’re a Talking Horse, a Narnian horse like me.”

   “What’s it got to do with you if she is?” said the strange rider fiercely, laying hand on sword-hilt. But the voice in which the words were spoken had already told Shasta something.

   “Why, it’s only a girl!” he exclaimed.

   “And what business is it of yours if I am only a girl?” snapped the stranger.  You’re probably only a boy: a rude common little boy – a slave probably, who’s stolen his master’s horse.”

The Magician’s Nephew (1955)

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (1950)

The Horse and His Boy (1954)

Prince Caspian (1951)

The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (1952)

The Silver Chair (1953)

The Last Battle (1956)

M is for Mysticism

April A-to-Z: must-read books

The Morning of the Magicians (1960)

By Louis Pauwels (1920-1997)

and Jacques Bergier (1912-1978)

France

I’m a little pissed off with myself for putting this book on the list this month. It needs to be here to satisfy the purpose of this year’s A-to-Z project, but it’s hard to know what the heck to say about it.

To me, Morning of the Magicians is a great collection of historic testimony, presented in such a way that it invites contemplation of many different forms.

The greatest impact that the book made on me was in the realization that so many phenomena, while largely understood today, would have been interpreted as mystical or supernatural (or simply not believed) when (or if) witnessed in past ages—and that the scientists of today have still not explained everything. Thus, quite logically, I must not entirely dismiss all contemporary claims of mystical/supernatural/fantastic natures as certain fiction, as science may still one day discover their validity and mundane causality. It marks a significant growth in my own manner of logical and philosophical exploration.

What makes the work so useful and prone to trustworthiness in that Pauwels and Bergier were Physicists and were plainly courageous enough to explore the cracks in their own work; in essence to hinder their own reputation in pursuit of knowledge, and that is a noble sacrifice.

No matter what sorts of ideas intrigue you in your own journey, you will find some good stuff in these pages! This is a must-read book for anyone who would rather develop their brain than watch TV.

Some observations:

In a generalized and wide ranging overview of the occult or paranormal, the book presents a collection of "raw material for speculation of the most outlandish order", discussing conspiracy theories, ancient prophecies, alchemical transmutation, a giant race that once ruled the Earth, and the Nazca Lines.

Adams, Deborah (2009). Review of "The Morning of the Magicians"

It also includes speculations such as German occultism and supernatural phenomena conspiracy theory that the Vril Society and the Thule Society were the philosophical precursors to the Nazi party.

Hodapp, Christopher; Alice Von Kannon (31 March 2008). "18". Conspiracy Theories & Secret Societies For Dummies

Some brief passages from which I took much comfort in:

Human consciousness is like an iceberg floating on the ocean: the greater part is beneath the water.

Psychology in depth has shown that a man's apparently rational actions are in reality governed by forces of which he himself knows nothing, or which are closely linked with a symbolism having nothing in common with ordinary everyday logic.

Deep down in ourselves our dreams are never completely effaced, any more than the stars are when daylight returns. They continue to shine, as it were, behind our feelings, our thoughts and our acts.

There are no governments, only limited liability companies, with humanity as their capital, whose mission is not to make history, but to express the various aspects of historic fatality.

When all American families possess two cars, they will then have to buy a third. When the market for television sets is saturated, motor-cars will then have to be equipped with them.

It is not cracked mirrors that bring bad luck, but cracked brains.

Love and Loss

April A-to-Z: must-read books

The Screaming Room (1987)

By Barbara Peabody

USA

A superior novelist has a good sense of the emotional landscape of their work and takes the reader on a balanced ride, alternately building then dissipating tensions. This book is instead a roller coaster with far more downs than ups. There is no balance here because this was not written by a superior novelist, but by an inexperienced writer; a mother whose child has succumbed to AIDS. This is in fact her diary.

This happened some years ago, when AIDS was new to North America, not well understood, and generally received as a death sentence. The story is told with fearless explicit honesty.

I grew to love these people and was deeply hurt by their experience. For a couple weeks after reading it I had to regularly remind myself that I had not actually known these people; that they were not counted among my friends and loved ones. And yet, I will never forget them.

Nothing I can say could oversell this book’s impact. It’s emotionally devastating; so much that perhaps I should not even recommend it. And yet I do and without hesitation. For all the hurt there is a great reward which is hard to express. I think my capacity for empathy was greatly nurtured from this experience and that is a precious thing in a world that needs so much more of it would we survive this species' reckless adolescence.

This is a must-read book for anyone with a heart.

K is for Krishna

April A-to-Z: must-read books

Bhagavad Gita and its Message (1995)

By Sri Aurobindo

(1872-1950) India

Aurobindo Ghose was an Indian nationalist raised for significant periods in England before revolting against their occupation of his homeland—through passive resistance in public, but privately in militant form. While jailed for prosecution in connection with a failed assassination attempt (for which he was eventually acquitted) he made that greatest use of solitude which brings about revelation and enlightenment.

As a guru and yogi, he built an ashram which exists today as an intentional community; one which attempts to guide its population according to its founder’s teachings.

For a long time I wished to visit Auroville because the messages which I gleaned from Aurobindo resembled my own understandings about life, humanity and evolution more closely than those of any religion or philosophy I’d ever heard, and at that time I yearned for the companionship of those with like minds.

Reading his English interpretation and treatment of Hindu holy book Bhagavad Gita was a thrilling emotional experience because I read things which I had been experiencing but which I had never spoke or written of to anyone, nor ever read or heard about before. I finally had some affirmation; some evidence that I was not entirely alone, even if the source was more than two thousand years old and its translator dead (or rather, he left his body, according to followers) for more than fifty years. The book however, had just been published in 1995, finally edited posthumously from a great volume of drafts.

If you have ever redefined for yourself, the nature of truth; ever been so humble as to abandon all your beliefs, knowing they had to be flawed, and started all over again; ever came to regard causality and perspective with a new reverence, ever pondered the prevalence of illusion in society and in your own mind, ever looked inward with great courage; ever been so staggered; knocked off your feet, by the miracle of your own existence – any of these experiences… then this book, and possibly other treatments of the Gita, are a must-read.

Some short passages which moved me very deeply:

While the actions are being entirely done by the modes of nature, he who's self is bewildered by egoism thinks that it is his "I" which is doing them.

The mind is restless and very difficult to restrain; but it may be controlled by constant practice and non-attachment

When thy intelligence shall cross beyond the whirl of delusion, then shalt thou become indifferent to scripture heard or that which thou hast yet to hear.

The sages who have united their reason and will with the divine renounce the fruit which action yields and, liberated from the bondage of birth, they reach the states beyond misery.

The enlightened man does not mourn either for the living or the dead.

J is for Joy

April A-to-Z: must-read books

14,000 things to be happy about (1990)

By Barbara Ann Kipfer

(1954-) USA

No plot, no characters, no themes, no chapters, no conflict, no dialogue, no metaphors, no climax, no rising and falling tensions, no point of view, no flashbacks, no foreshadowing. Only a single list of things… 612 pages long.

Doesn’t that sound like the pet project of a stay-at-home mom? Interestingly, Kipfer has a Ph.D. in Linguistics and works on research projects involving dictionary use in artificial intelligence.

But how does one perpetrate literary criticism upon such a thing? It’s so generic that it invites every reader’s unique interpretation (I guess that’s true of any book, strictly speaking).

Here’s my take:

Within the list there are things:

we can be grateful for,

delicious things,

pretty things,

quirky things,

comfy cozy things,

things we can be proud of,

inspiring thoughts,

little every day things,

celebratory things,

surprisingly subtle little details,

things that never occurred to you,

and things that make you say, what the—huh?

Okay, so maybe there are some themes.

This book is a must-read for any middle-class North American who is feeling like life is not what it should be; or not treating you well.

There’s a little magic as you get into the rhythm of the list. A little window opens up and lets the sunshine in, and you start to feel pretty grateful; pretty lucky, to have such a life of privilege and human magic. It reminds us to appreciate the little things.

Perhaps the great usefulness lies in reading things and having to ask, why would that make me happy? And as you figure out why, you’re reminded that we have so many reasons to be happy, and that they eclipse our reasons not to be. And these are great reminders.

Warning: if you are a foodie like me, do not read on an empty stomach or you are in for a little torture.

A passage:

• A stream of consciousness list
• pajamas at breakfast
• reed-fringed lagoons
• seeing the moon rise  
• the feel of a rug under bare feet
• sweet fresh corn and tender baby green lima beans drenched in cream
• the “snuggle right in” feeling
• a lake catching the last flecks of sunlight coming in over the pines
• the position of your head as you bite into a taco
• shadows cast by shutters against shiny white walls
• a small music box that plays The Blue Danube and a tune from La Traviata
• moderation
• starting to make things happen
• a baby’s first tooth…

I is for INGSOC

April A-to-Z: must-read books

Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949)

By George Orwell

(1903-1950) England

Doublethink… “War is Peace”… “Freedom is Slavery”… “Ignorance is strength”… “Who controls the past controls the future”… “Big Brother is Watching You”… telescreens… The Ministry of Truth… fictionalized history… the melding of super-states…

Orwell describes lives of absurd charade and control systems which contemporary thinking people realize so closely mimic our genuine living experience. We seem to know it and yet we don’t even dream of putting a stop to it. We seem to know that these principles have always dominated the world’s civilizations; monuments of heartless greed. Perhaps we just can’t imagine what good would come from revolution; how would the new power manage not to resemble the old? Or is it just that we are far too cozy to consider the discomforts of revolt – happy enough with our middle-tier slavery thanks to the under-appreciated luxuries bought for us from our bottom-tier machine slaves, and from the not-yet depleted boon of our unsustainable rape of nature’s resources and from exploitative global economics?

I read 1984 as an early-adolescent about the same time I read Fahrenheit 451 and The Running Man and only interpreted them as fascinating stories. I did not appreciate their cautionary relevance. Oddly though, my unconscious would not let me forget them. For many years following I constantly dreamed long epic dreams where I was fleeing the authorities in futuristic worlds where I sensed that everyone but I had gone insane. And I only interpreted them as interesting dreams. But those dreams kept these books, and similar others, in the back of my mind.

It seems to me now, that all Orwell had to do was take away the temporary comforts of exploitation and the environment of Nineteen Eighty-Four is precisely the mathematical forecast of our evolution of society. I think that his dystopian circumstances only look absurd because the suffering has been made appreciable with the material bleakness of their lives. How different is Orwell’s absurdity, in principle, from that of our own reality?

This book is a must-read for anyone who cares about their grandchildren, or someone else's.

Some praise for Orwell and Nineteen Eighty-Four which I find particularly interesting:

“Orwell’s Courage and Integrity shine from every page”—Daily Telegraph

“Orwell described the compromised lives we recognize as our own”—Andrew Motion, Observer

“He saw through everything because he could also see through himself. Many writers and journalists have tried to imitate his particular kind of clarity without processing anything like his moral authority”—Peter Ackroyd, The Times

“A writer who can – and must – be rediscovered with every age”—Irish Times

A passage:

   It was even possible, at moments, to switch one’s hatred this way or that by a voluntary act. Suddenly, by the sort of voluntary effort with which one wrenches one’s head away from the pillow in a nightmare, Winston succeeded in transferring his hatred from the face on the screen to the dark-haired girl behind him. Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind. He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon. He would tie her naked to a stake and shoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian. He would ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax. Better than before, moreover, he realized why it was he hated her. He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so, because round her sweet supple waist, which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there was only the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.

   The Hate rose to its climax. The voice of Goldstein had become an actual sheep’s bleat, and for an instant the face changed into that of a sheep. Then the sheep-face melted into the figure of a Eurasian soldier who seemed to be advancing , huge and terrible, his sub-machine-gun roaring, and seeming to spring out of the surface of the screen, so that some of the people in the front row actually flinched backwards in their seats.

H is for Heroes

April A-to-Z: must-read books

The Hobbit (1937)

By J. R. R. Tolkien

(1892-1973) England

I can’t imagine there’s anything left to say about Tolkien’s epic saga, comprised of The Hobbit, and the six books (traditionally published in pairs) which make up The Lord of the Rings story.

There is something timelessly wholesome in reading Tolkien. If R. L. Stevenson can be regarded a grandfather of pirate lore then Tolkien is certainly the grand master of fantasy. His vision of Elven, Dwarven and Hobbit cultures have ever remained the staple interpretations; a mythology model from which thousands of subsequent authors begin.

There is a marvelous magical potential inherent in these works as a whole: One reads The Hobbit; a perfect simple adventure quest story, as a pre-teen or young teen, and then Lord of the Rings; complex and multi-themed, as a young adult. They are then forever more re-readable and forever unite the reader’s childhood and adult perspectives. Let’s face it, there is a childish component to fantasy and imagination (however noble they may be), and like Bradbury, Tolkien is a valuable agent to adults endeavoring to keep that childhood link alive.

The Hobbit is a must-read for any young person (or young-at-heart) with any love at all for fantasy-adventure, or who has yet to discover that love!

A passage:

   “Moon-letters are rune-letters, but you cannot see them,” said Elrond, “not when you look straight at them. They can only be seen when the moon shines behind them, and what is more, with the more cunning sort it must be a moon of the same shape and season as the day when they were written. The dwarves invented them and wrote them with silver pens, as your friends could tell you. These must have been written on a mid-summer’s eve , in a crescent moon, a long while ago.”

   “What do they say,” asked Gandalf and Thorin together, a bit vexed perhaps that even Elrond should have found this out first, though really there had not been a chance before, and there would not have been another until goodness knows when.

   “Stand by the gray stone when the thrush knocks,” read Elrond, “and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the key-hole.”

   “Durin, Durin!” said Thorin. “He was the father of the fathers of the first race of Dwarves, the Long-Beards, and my first ancestor: I am his heir.”

   “Then what is Durin’s Day?” asked Elrond.

   “The first day of the Dwarves’ new year,” said Thorin, “is as all should know the first day of the last moon of Autumn on the threshold of Winter. We still call it Durin’s Day when the last moon of Autumn and the sun are in the sky together. But this will not help us much, I fear, for it passes our skill in these days to guess when such a time will come again.”

   “That remains to be seen,” said Gandalf. “Is there any more writing?”

   “None to be seen by this moon,” said Elrond, and he gave the map back to Thorin; and then they went down to the water to see the elves dance and sing upon the midsummer’s eve.

G is for Gunslinger

April A-to-Z: must-read books

The Dark Tower Series (1982-2012)

By Steven King

(1947-) Maine

The man in black fled across the desert and the gunslinger followed.

Steven King wrote these twelve words in response to Robert Browning’s nineteenth century poem, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came. At the time he had very little idea where he was going with it, except that, in his own words: “it was time to stop goofing around with a pick and shovel and get behind the controls of one big great god a’mighty steamshovel, a sense that it was time to try and dig something big out of the sand…” And so begins the novel, The Gunslinger.

More than twenty years later, after publishing more than two dozen books; seven from the Dark Tower series spaced patiently among them, King brought that project to resolution with the series’ title novel, The Dark Tower (2004), satisfied that it indeed would suffice as his personal magnum opus.

That initial ambition surprises me though, as it came on the heels of his epic Lord of the Rings-inspired novel, The Stand, which remains one of my favourite reading experiences of all time. But King was ambitious. His earliest works swiftly progress in scope, complexity and impact. He knew the Gunslinger idea was special and I think he didn’t want to conclude it before he’d realized more of his potential as a storyteller.

Somehow, as a reader, I attended the same wavelength. While The Stand hooked me as a constant King reader, I knew to leave the Dark Tower stuff alone for the time being. And in fact The Stand reading experience was never repeated, and as the things I cherished; King’s particular sensibilities, sense of humour and courageous imagination were no longer enough to defeat the slightly formulaic familiarity which his novels began to impart on me, I turned to The Gunslinger and the Dark Tower series as my fond farewell to the Steven King experience and my last attempt to re-experience the epic wonder of The Stand. Appropriately, I have not read them in succession but over the course of four years, interspersed with other (non-King) books and series of books. It's a delightful reading experience which I'm in no hurry to leave behind.

Though King is hailed as a horror writer, and purveyor of particularly creepy offerings (mostly by non-King-readers, it seems to me), I think you’ll find that fantasy, sci-fi and western elements are all more prevalent here than horror. The story's landscapes transcend time and space, and span the physical and metaphysical, thus different books have different flavours, but are strongly unified by hero characters of great depth.

I’m about to begin book seven, The Dark Tower, after which, I will decide whether to append the experience with his late and presumably optional addition, The Wind Through the Keyhole (2012).

These books are a must-read for any speculative fiction lover. And don’t fret; they’re not too scary!

A passage from The Gunslinger (1982):

“You asleep?”  the gunslinger asked.

“No.”

“Did you understand what I told you?”

“Understand it?” the boy asked, with cautious scorn. “Understand it? Are you kidding?”

“No.” But the gunslinger felt defensive. He had never told anyone about his coming of age before. Of course, the hawk had been a perfectly acceptable weapon, yet it had been a trick too. And a betrayal. The first of many: Am I ready to throw this boy at the man in black?

“I understood it,” the boy said. “It was a game, wasn’t it? Do grown men always have to play games? Does everything have to be an excuse for another kind of game? Do any men grow up or do they only come of age?”

“You don’t know everything,” the gunslinger said, trying to hold his slow anger.

“No. But I know what I am to you.”

“And what is that?” the gunslinger asked tightly.

“A poker chip.”

The gunslinger felt an urge to find a rock and brain the boy. Instead, he held his tongue.

“Go to sleep,” he said. “Boys need their sleep.”

And in his mind he heard Marten’s echo: Go and find your hand.

He sat stiffly in the darkness, stunned with horror and terrified (for the first time in his existence; of anything) of the self-loathing that might come.

The Gunslinger (1982)

The Drawing of the Three (1987)

The Waste Lands (1991)

Wizard and Glass (1997)

Wolves of the Calla (2003)

Song of Susannah (2004)

The Dark Tower (2004)

The Wind Through the Keyhole (2012)

F is for Family

April A-to-Z: must-read books

A Wolf at the Table (2008)

By Augusten Burroughs

(1965-) Pennsylvania

This is a memoir concerning a father-son relationship. How odd then, the cover image: a fork, curled like a claw, bathed in red light. And the peculiar mood at the outset. A reader is inclined to think they’ve stumbled on a werewolf tale. I was skeptical at first, that this was genuine autobiography.

But of course there are men of extreme personalities in the world, and why shouldn’t some of them have been fathers? And why wouldn’t the son of such a man, growing up in strange circumstances, be inclined toward the inwardness, escape and contemplation which would serve him in, and propel him toward, the art of writing.

This book was deeply compelling as it triggered much empathy in me, and it’s conclusion, so subtle but so powerful.

This book is a must-read for anyone who can shed a tear for another, and be grateful for that.

A passage:

   I pulled on the hem of his jacket, his sleeve. I grabbed his cold fingers and yanked them. I said, “Pick me up, pick me up!” Melting snow fell from his cap onto my neck and slid down my back, and this made me screech and laugh and jump in place. My father winced and complained, “Hush, that sound hurts my ears.”

   “Pick me up!” He never did but I said it anyway.

   “Damn it son, please.”

   “I backed away, still fidgeting and twitching with excitement. “Okay,” I said, and allowed him to walk into the house unmolested. Was he heading for the kitchen? Or the living room? I ran ahead of him, tearing across the floor. I made it to his destination long before he did. I hopped in place, up and down, up and down. I just could not stand it!

   Finally, when he reached the kitchen or the dining room table, I hugged him. And then those arms of his slid down between us, prying me away.

   It made me giggle. “You’re tickling me!” I shouted.

   I always managed to hang on a little bit longer.

   I always won!

   It was our game and I loved it. Me against the armsandhands to get to him, his solid core part, the middle, the him.

E is for Escape

April A-to-Z: must-read books

The Long Walk (1956)

By Slavomir Rawicz

(1915-2004) Poland

I was a suburban adolescent when I read this tale of Siberian prison camp denizens dreaming of escape. Since then it has become unclear whether this constitutes a true story or not. Doubts have been raised and answers have been given. I don’t personally give a hoot to what degree the chain of events described in The Long Walk align to an actual sequence of experiences or who it was who truly experienced them.

There is undoubtedly fiction in all true stories as there is fiction in real life itself. And in the pages of all fiction there are no doubt truths.  All stories are an assemblage of components of reality.

Regardless, this book is an unforgettable testament to the desperate human struggle for freedom and survival. It is a must-read for anyone who feels like dropped cell-phone calls, rush-hour traffic or unreliable internet represent hardship.

A Passage:

   It was about nine o’clock one bleak November day that the key rattled in the heavy lock of my cell in the Lubyanka Prison and the two broad-shouldered guards marched purposefully in. I had been walking slowly around, left hand in the now characteristic prisoner’s attitude of supporting the top of the issue trousers, which Russian ingenuity supplied without buttons or even string on the quite reasonable assumption that a man preoccupied with keeping up his pants would be severely handicapped in attempting to escape. I had stopped pacing at the sound of the door opening and was standing against the far wall when they came in. One stood near the door, the other took two or three strides in. “Come,” he said. “Get moving.”

   For me this day—twelve months after my arrest in Pinsk on November 19^th, 1939—was to be important. I was being marched off to my trial before the Soviet Supreme Court. Here in Moscow, shambling through the echoing narrow corridors of the Lubyanka between my two guards, I was a man almost shorn of identity, ill-fed, abysmally lonely, trying to keep alive some spark of resistance in the dank prison atmosphere of studied official loathing and suspicion of me. Just a year before, when the Russian security men walked into the welcome-home party my mother had arranged for me in the family house at Pinsk, I was Lieutenant Rawicz of the Polish Cavalry, aged twenty-four, slim and smart in my well-tailored uniform and whipcord breeches and shining riding boots. My condition now was a tribute to the unflagging brutalities and the expert subtleties of NKVD (Soviet Secret Police) interrogators at Minsk and Kharkov. No prisoner can forget Kharkov. In pain and filth and degradation they try to turn a man into a whimpering beast.