A Winter's Love by Madeleine L'Engle

Source of book: Borrowed from the library.

I doubt I would ever have discovered this book if it had not been for a law school classmate who read it and liked it. To be honest, we have both swapped book ideas enough that we each can whine that our book lists - too long already - have been impacted by the other.

I have, however, read other books by Madeleine L’Engle - her young adult science fiction series. You can read my thoughts on A Wrinkle In Time and A Wind in the Door if you like. A Winter’s Love, in contrast, is neither science fiction nor aimed at children or young adults. It is a straightforward, realistic, literary novel for adults.

L’Engle actually started out by writing books for adults. These did not sell all that well, however, and she had determined that if she didn’t have a real success, she would quit writing at age 40. Soon after making this decision, she had the idea for A Wrinkle In Time, managed to talk a publisher into giving it a shot, and had a bestseller on her hands.

That was in 1959. Two years prior, she wrote A Winter’s Love. After reading her basic biographical information, it is clear that this book contained some elements taken from L’Engle’s childhood. Her father suffered from some combination of damage from mustard gas in World War One and alcoholism (much like one of my great-grandfathers); a condition which led to them living for a time in the French Alps. 

A Winter’s Love is set in the aftermath of World War Two, rather later than the time period L’Engle would live in the French Alps. Rather than an illness, the reason for the winter sabbatical is that the father, Courtney, has lost his job as a professor at a New York university. He has essentially been forced out by the new guy, a trendy writer who finds Courtney to be too old fashioned. The sabbatical had been planned, but now it isn’t fun, but one where the future is doubtful, and the family greatly strained.

The mother, Emily, is the main focus of the story. She met and married Courtney when she was his student. They had two daughters together, but the younger one died at age 8, a tragedy that caused Courtney to withdraw inside himself for a time. Later, they would have another child together unexpectedly, leaving them with a teenager and a youngish child. Now, with the lost job, Courtney has withdrawn again, and is trying desperately to regain his sense of manhood. Emily is devastated by the loss of connection, and unsure what she wants from life.

The older daughter, Virginia, is close friends with Mimi Oppenheimer, a friend who has been essentially adopted by Virginia’s family. (This parallels the adoption of Maria by L’Engle and her husband after Maria’s parents died.) The youngest child, Connie, is a pretty typical - that is to say demanding - little kid.

Already, the setup is stressful: living in a cheap chateau, with a busybody (and kind of nasty) landlady, Mimi’s tales of her parents’ free-love lifestyle, and the tubercular and alcoholic Gertrude living down the street with her mountain guide boyfriend Kaarlo.

But then, an old friend of Emily and Courtney turns up. Abe is now a widower (and later divorcee) with a teen son, Sam. There is a mild love triangle there, as Virginia is smitten with Sam, who prefers Mimi. There is some harmless frisson here, but everyone is young and decent, so nothing worse than a little angst. Much more serious is the fact that Abe and Emily have been in love for a long time, even though neither of them admitted it even to themselves before. But Abe makes the move, and Emily responds.

It is fair to say that they have an affair. It isn’t fully physical, even though at different points they want it to be. (Just not exactly at the same time.) It is, however, emotional and passionate, with a bit of mild touching and kissing. It is also morally troubling to Emily in particular, and much of the book is devoted to her own struggle to choose a path, and reconcile that path with her values.

A subplot in the book revolves around anti-semitism. Gertrude met Kaarlo when both were in the French Resistance against the Nazis. Gertrude has a past and a good story to tell, but she is also badly damaged by her experiences. Her late husband haunts her, and she feels guilty that the uber-healthy and strong Kaarlo is “wasting” himself on tubercular her. The landlady, in contrast, collaborated with the Nazis, and takes out some of her guilt on others by causing trouble and being nasty.

Anti-semitism rears its head first, however, at a dance. Sam invites his friend “Beanie” along, so that there will be a guy for Virginia - and so Mimi and Sam can be a couple. Beanie drops a casually anti-semitic comment about Mimi to Virginia (while Sam and Virginia are dancing), which causes Virginia to stalk out on him. Later, Virginia and Mimi catch sight of Abe and Emily kissing, which basically finishes the job of tearing Virginia’s world apart. And yet, she will not tell her parents what she saw.

Obviously, things are a mess at this point, and they get worse. But L’Engle forces her characters to work through their problems and find a way. It is obvious from the start that the affair is doomed. It is clear enough that Courtney cannot succeed as an academic writer, and so he will have to take a less prestigious job in Indiana, thus taking Emily away from the world she knows - and Abe. It is also pretty obvious that Emily will not be willing to leave Courtney or take his children from him. So this obviously cannot be more than a temporary fling - a winter’s love, so to speak.

So much for the plot. What drives this book is the characterization. It is filled with flawed, imperfect, complex people. It is difficult to either love or hate anyone in it. Okay, except perhaps for Sam and Mimi, who are endearingly sweet in a teenaged way. They too will part after the winter, but one can hold out hope that they might end up together in the long run. And if not, they will part friends.

I myself sympathised with Courtney. I too have had the stress of an uncertain financial future. It wasn’t always easy finding a sense of manhood in a marriage where my wife’s job has always been our source of health insurance - and thus less expendible than mine. She never resented it, but I felt from time to time that I was somehow failing as a man. She didn’t feel that way, but I expected her to. That was a learning process. I also have Courtney’s unfortunate tendency to withdraw when I feel like a failure. So I got how he felt.

Emily too is interesting. She is upright to the point of rigidity, appearing perfect to everyone except herself (and her family, perhaps), which is why she struggles so much to discover she isn’t nearly as good as she wants to think she is. She also is discovering that her black and white world isn’t working for her. L’Engle never really resolves Emily’s feelings either. There is no epiphany, no happy ending for Emily. She will lose something no matter what choice she makes. But L’Engle also doesn’t make this a catastrophe. It is an event. An affair. A winter’s love. It is part of Emily, and who she is. Part of the dynamic here is that Courtney knows even if he doesn’t know the details. He too has a decision, and he admits that if she cheated, it won’t be the end of him - or his love for her. I can very much understand this in the emotional sense. (Not that I have personal experience here or anything.)

The handling of Virginia is interesting as well. She has her teen moments, and they ring true. Again, complexity. Virginia is furious at the discovery that her parents aren’t perfect, and yet she can’t truly hate them either. The relationship dynamics are fascinating - and better written than many books involving teens and parents.

I could go on with more, but I’ll end with that. I found it a compelling read because of the psychological complexity.

I do want to mention a few quotes, however, that I found interesting. Emily and Courtney are what we might call “liberal” or “progressive” by today’s standards. That is, they are opposed to racism, well read and educated, urban, sophisticated, and so on. I mention “today’s standards” because in a bygone era (perhaps even my childhood), this wasn’t a “liberal” thing at all - it was still to be found on the Right. In the setting of the book, however, there is definitely a gap between the “liberals” like Courtney and Emily, and the casual anti-semites, which are linked to racists in America.

I bring this up in part because some of the more fascinating conversations in the book are between Virginia and various adults on the topic of racism. Virginia is in a tough situation, because she kind of likes some things about Beanie, and she doesn’t want to just exclude him from all activities (which makes it hard on Sam, and there are only a few young people anyway, so you get what you get.) One of these conversations is between Emily and Virginia, but references prior conversations with Courtney as well. One question is exactly what Jews are. Being “Jewish” isn’t really being a race (particularly by 1950s definitions), but it isn’t merely a religion either. So what is it about being a “minority” of some sort? How does that happen. Courtney makes the observation that all prejudice against minorities is similar. It isn’t about who the minority is, but about the prejudice of those who are prejudiced. Courtney himself feels in a minority because he cares about “education and books and music and things,” as Virginia puts it. I kind of agree with that. I certainly feel part of a minority for that reason. I feel it particularly acutely living in a town with a lot of people who do not care about those things. (To be fair, there are many that do.) But also, that was one reason that I felt out of sync with my own religion for so long. There is an increasing hostility toward education and thought and reading and music and art and the whole thing - we are painted as “elitists” now, for valuing those things.

Later in the book, Virginia discusses Beanie with Gertrude. A very interesting exchange occurs:

“He’s still pretty young, isn’t he, Vee?”

“Oh no. I think he’s a couple of years older than I am.”

Gertrude smiled again. “Quite grown-up, then. But I think he’s still young enough to change, don’t you?”

“Are people apt to?”

“You know, Virginia,” Gertrude said, suddenly serious, “before the war I was quite thoughtlessly anti-Semitic in a casual way.”

“You, Madame de Croisnois??

“Yes. Of the ‘some of my best friends are Jews’ school.”

I wasn’t expecting that. I somehow thought that “some of my best friends are [black, gay, etc.]” was a more modern term - even if the sentiment likely wasn’t. But there it is. And as true then as now.

One final quote is worth mentioning. Virginia and Emily end up in a conversation about poetry (Virginia writes it), and it veers in an interesting direction.

“We’ve been studying atoms in chemistry this year, too,” Virginia said, “and they kind of fascinate me. And God. God is so tremendously exciting, mother. He’s so much bigger, so much more -- more enormous -- than most churches let Him be. When you look at the mountains -- or when you look at the stars and think how many of them probably have planets with life on them -- and maybe life entirely different from ours --- Mother, why do people all the time try to pull God down so He’s small enough to be understood?”

Emily stood up and put her hands on Virginia’s shoulders. “I suppose because most people are afraid of what they can’t understand.”

Damn. Mic drop. This is a huge reason why I am not comfortable in my church tradition any longer. Their concept of God has to be reduced to an 19th Century theological dogma based on a particular approach to a beautiful but complicated and messy ancient text. It has to be perfectly clear, perfectly rigid, and completely understood by them. Anything bigger than that has to be crushed. This passage also ties in with both Emily and Virginia struggling with the reality of shades of grey that are intruding on their black and white conception of the world, people, and morality.

I wasn’t sure whether I was going to like this book - but I trust my classmate’s judgment in certain things. I was not disappointed. This was a better than average book, and I find I am still thinking about it after finishing it.

Little Shop of Horrors (Musical version) by Alan Menken and Howard Ashman

Last time a local theater did Little Shop of Horrors, we wanted to attend, but even the extra performances sold out before we could get a block of tickets large enough for our tribe. Thus, when Stars decided to include this musical in their season, certain of my kids were insistent that we had to go see it.

The plot is simple: Seymour is an awkward orphan working at Mushnik’s Skid Row Florists, pining after his tacky blonde co-worker, Audrey. While shopping the wholesale flower district during a solar eclipse, Seymour discovers an unusual plant - a kind of fly trap - which he brings back to the shop and names “Audrey II.” The plant appears sickly, until an accidental thorn prick leads Seymour to discover that the plant needs blood to survive.

Audrey II brings attention to the shop, which prospers. But there is a cost. As Audrey II grows, it starts to talk - and demand fresh human meat. Seymour starts with the sadistic dentist, Orin (also Audrey’s abusive boyfriend), after he accidentally asphyxiates himself with laughing gas. But Audrey II remains hungry, and the body count grows.

Alan Menken is well known for his music written for animated films during the Disney Renaissance, initially in collaboration with Howard Ashman (before Ashman’s death from AIDS in 1991). The songs from Aladdin, The Little Mermaid, and Beauty and the Beast remain popular - with good reason. However, Menken and Ashman wrote together for Broadway before that. Little Shop of Horrors is their best known musical from that period. The musical version was based loosely on the original 1960 film of the same name. Later, Frank Oz would direct a new film version, based on the musical.

The tunes are in the style of the 1960s - specifically early Motown, doo-wop, and pop-rock. Three street urchin girls serve as the chorus, narrating events and commenting on the action. The three vocalists (Lisa Ramos, Lizzy Lake, and Aubrie Calloway) chosen for this production were strong. As the voices of Audrey and Audrey II, respectively, Erica Kimmel and Kenneth Whitchard were excellent. Zachary Gonzalez (Seymour), Nate Logan (Mr. Mushnick), and Peter De Keles (Orin and multiple other parts) filled out the cast. I particularly want to express my appreciation for the live band. I know that cost and space limitations have made live musicians all too rare these days, so it was delightful to experience the magic this time. Brock Christian, Cody Greenwell, Brad Briscoe, Jeff Ardray, and Adam Clements, you guys were great - a really tight group for this show. I’ve played musical theater, and it’s a tough and often thankless job, so here is a thanks from me.

I also should note that the puppetry necessary to bring Audrey II to life was well done. The movements of the plant fit the vocal stylings of Whitchard perfectly.

My kids, in case you wondered, really enjoyed the show. Although Lillian did hide her face a few times during the scary stuff. Cora, who is hard to impress, laughed the whole way through. My kids do have a dark sense of humor.

Alas, this show has run its course. However, I do encourage Bakersfield locals to check out the local arts, theater, and music scene. There are plenty of fun shows planned for this year. 

 Lisa Ramos, Lizzy Lake, Zachary Gonzalez, and Aubrie Calloway

Stars promotional photo.

This Thing We Call Literature by Arthur Krystal

Source of book: Kindle

I don’t read many books on electronic media, I will admit. I like the feel, smell, and general sensation of a book in my hands. However, there are some cases when electronic media works well. For obscure books that are in the public domain, this is often the only realistic way of reading them. I also find that if I have to wait in court, I already have my tablet with me, and can sneak a read. So I read a few of these that way.

In this case, my brother-in-law (who has supplied me with several intriguing books in the past) got this for me - in Kindle format. So I went with it.

This Thing We Call Literature is a collection of essays by Arthur Krystal, a critic and screenwriter best known for his work in The New Yorker and the New York Review of Books. About the only other factoid I found quickly was that his grandparents died in the Holocaust. (This is relevant in connection with one of the essays - on Erich Auerbach.)

This collection of essays come from a variety of sources - these were mostly for various magazines over the last couple decades. The author apologizes at the outset for the fact that there is some overlap between each, which makes for a certain degree of repetition in themes. This isn’t particularly problematic in light of the fact that the collection is short, and Kristal isn’t given to wordiness. Each essay is tight and self-contained. I think I had run across at least one of his articles in The New Yorker at some point or another - probably the one on Fitzgerald from 2009.

The theme that ties the collection together is the question of what exactly makes a work “literature.” To a degree, Justice Potter Stewart’s line about obscenity, usually shortened to “I know it when I see it,” is the applicable test. But there is more to it than that. Throughout the course of the book, Krystal takes on a few modern trends in literary criticism, specifically Literary Theory, and the trend toward “democratization” - that is, that all works are “literature.” (Regarding the former, the two best things on Literary Theory that I have read have been David Foster Wallace’s essay and Ron Rosenbaum’s The Shakespeare Wars.) Krystal is a conservative (some might say reactionary), so his position on both of these trends is “I’m agin’ ‘em.” Well, more or less. His position is perhaps a bit more nuanced than that, but the bottom line is that Krystal believes that literature is a higher form of art, that there is a true canon of literature, and that the idea of both of those is worth defending vigorously.

In general, I tend to agree with Krystal on this. I think he makes many good points. I did, however, find some of his rhetoric (and particularly tone) to be a bit off-putting. He does sound from time to time like a cantankerous old man, and his acknowledgement of the whiteness and maleness of the Western canon isn’t followed up by any ideas on how to take a more globalist and egalitarian approach to the canon.

That quibble aside, let me hit on some of the key ideas.

First, I do absolutely agree in a distinction between literature and genre fiction. Krystal has no problem per se with genre - a point he makes clear - but he objects to including true genre fiction in the category of literature. Genre is written with its own rules (often specific to the genre), and to fulfil specific expectations. Literature is written with different - and higher expectations. It has the goal of telling us the truth about the human condition in some way. And, as the author puts it, “[A]uthors rely more on accuracy of characterization than on the events that their characters react to. It’s what separates great novels from merely good or pleasurable ones. It’s the difference between Anna Karenina and Bridget Jones.”

I must agree with this part wholeheartedly. My very favorite novelists are fantastic because they are so very good at characterization. (In case you wondered: Anthony Trollope, Jane Austen, George Eliot, and Henry James come to mind immediately when I think of outstanding characterization.)

When it comes to the authors at each end of the spectrum, Krystal is obviously correct. Nobody should confuse Clive Cussler with Nathaniel Hawthorne. I do take issue with some of his other choices, however. He lumps Pearl Buck and Ursula Le Guin with genre, which I think is a bit unfair. By his own litmus test, they at least aim for writing literature, and I have found their works to indeed tell the truth about the human condition using compelling characterization. Perhaps I would modify his claim by noting that it is not only possible to write literature when writing genre, but that many have done it since the first novel was written.

Again, I grant Krystal’s fundamental point, that most genre novels are not literature. And this includes the good (but not great) ones. There are indeed well written, thoroughly enjoyable genre works that are also clearly not literature. But I think there is some overlap at the very top of some genres - and that Krystal’s own test explains why.

One of the best essays in this collection is “A Sad Road to Everything.” Krystal expands on his theme that literature is, above all, about ideas and truth. One of his laments about the modern state of literature and literary ideas is that we have little in the way of vibrant ideas to discuss anymore. In the aftermath of postmodernism, which certainly had its place, but didn’t give way to a subsequent movement - at least that is readily apparent at this moment - literature itself seems to have lost its way as well. In a later chapter, Krystal looks at the decline of philosophy and its connection to a decline in literature. At the beginning of the essay, Krystal notes the tension that exists in human civilization between freedom and order. You need the order to protect freedom, but the order interferes with that freedom, and so on. Literature has always explored this greater tension, whether in the Greek Tragedies or in the Novel of Manners. On a national scale or the personal one, this tension continues to define our experiences.

Krystal also notes that, to anyone who thinks, there is something both very right and very wrong about life. Literature helps us make sense of that paradox.

I absolutely must mention a Tom Waits quote from this chapter, which made me laugh.

“The world is a hellish place, and bad writing is destroying the quality of our suffering.”

Also fascinating was the chapter on Erich Auerbach, who may be the best known writer on comparative literature. Auerbach was essentially exiled from Nazi Germany as a Jew, and wrote his masterpiece, Mimesis, while in Istanbul. I confess I wasn’t that familiar with Mimesis, but am tempted to give it a try, even though it is quite the heavy tome. As Krystal says about it, “For many critics, Auerbach, in recapitulating Western literature from Homer to Virginia Woolf, wasn’t just shaking his fist at the forces that drove him into exile; he was, in effect, building the very thing the Nazis wished to tear down. In light of the modern nexus between a revitalized ethno-nationalism and the celebration of ignorance, this seems more important than ever.

There are a few more quotes that were quite good. The first is a set, from a chapter on lists in literature:

“What list, after all, is complete or completely true? You’d need to have access to the mind of God to answer that question, and God, I’m afraid, is not on everyone’s list of things that are complete or completely true.”

“That said, there is something reassuring about a list, a precision and formality that makes us think we’ve got a handle on things. Isn’t every list in reality a ceremonial flourish against amnesia and chaos?”

I also have to mention this quote from F. Scott Fitzgerald:

“Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside of you - like music to the musician or Marxism to the Communist - or else it is nothing, an empty, formalized bore, around which pedants can easily drone their notes and explanations.”

I am clearly in the first camp.

There is quite a lot to think about in this collection of essays, at least if you love and care about literature. I am perhaps unusual in that I read more of the Western canon than genre over the years. I also have been making a concerted attempt in the last several to read more modern works - and more outside of the white, male, Western box. Ultimately, what makes literature what it is is that something that is truly timeless. Sure, every work is a product of its time and place, and understanding those factors can aid in understanding the work and its meaning. But the very best works will always resonate with those who think and feel and care.

This book is definitely worth reading. Alternately, you can find the individual essays in their original context with a web search.

***

Obviously, we need some Tom Waits.

Fossil Beds of Oregon and Idaho

This post is part of my series on the National Park System. One of my goals while the kids are still at home is to visit as many of the National Parks and Monuments in the Western United States as we can.

Last summer, on our epic trip to see the solar eclipse, we saw Great Basin National Park on the way up. We also hit a couple of interesting national monuments related to fossils.

The western United States is well known for its many fossil sites. The reason for this is pretty simple: it is dry. The desert nature of much of the American West has meant that there are large areas without forests, prone to flash flooding and thus erosion. This, combined with the fact that the climate was wetter in the past, has meant that fossils were formed, but are now uncovered and visible. More likely than not, plenty of other places on our planet have fossils that will never be discovered because they are buried too deep for erosion. (At least in anything close to our lifetimes - another billion years, and who knows?) These same factors have made it much easier to study geology: things aren’t buried in forests and sediment.

Once I decided on eastern Oregon for our eclipse viewing, it was pretty easy to see that there were some obvious destinations we could add in. First, Great Basin, since it was pretty much on the way there. If we went through Great Basin, then it would be right on the way to hit Hagerman Fossil Beds - at least a short visit.

Our eclipse site was just a couple hours or so from John Day Fossil Beds, which looked worth a more extended visit. We found a campsite in the mountains to the west of the monument (important during the summer heat), and set aside a couple days to explore it.

Hagerman Fossil Beds National Monument

Hagerman isn’t a bit monument, and you can’t see the fossils in the ground without a dig permit. You can drive through the monument, which is on the west bank of the Snake River east of Boise. The grass-covered bluffs are quite pretty. You can see some of the covered wagon tracks of the Oregon Trail still there over a hundred years later. (Nobody died of dysentery, fortunately…)

Other than these picturesque views, you have to go to the visitor’s center for a short movie on the history. And bones, of course.

Hagerman’s fossils are from the Cenozoic Era - the age of mammals. Specifically, they are from the Pliocene, roughly between two and six million years ago. That’s pretty recent in geological time, but also well before the Pleistocene, with its iconic wooly mammoths and sabertooth cats (fossils from which are preserved at the La Brea Tar Pits in Los Angeles - one of my haunts as a kid.)

The Pliocene had plenty of interesting creatures though. Most notable at Hagerman is the hagerman horse, the first true one-toed horse. It isn’t just the specific creatures, though. It is the fact that Hagerman contains a great variety of fossils, enough to enable fairly good reconstruction of the ecosystem. Also giant otters, which I find cool.

You can see Hagerman in a couple hours easily, and the docents are more than willing to show you around the pictures and bones and reference materials. 

 Hagerman Horse

 Mastodon skull

John Day Fossil Beds

In contrast to Hagerman, which is compact and centralized, John Day Fossil Beds is divided into three units representing just a tiny portion of an absolutely gigantic fossil formation. The formation spreads across much of eastern Oregon, and is bigger than several New England states put together. Some of that is private land, some is BLM and other government holdings. But the three units are specifically protected as a national monument. If you want to see all three units (Clarno, Sheep Rock, and Painted Hills) take roughly two hours of driving just to go between them. Yes, that’s a lot of driving. But it is also extraordinarily beautiful backcountry on twisty, steep roads. We even took the truck on some one-lane gravel roads (which are clearly marked - you won’t get lost) and saw some canyons, hidden valleys with little ranches tucked back there, and more. It’s a beautiful place.

Like Hagerman, John Day Fossil Beds is all about the Cenozoic Era. However, because the elevations are more varied, John Day spans most of the Era, from 66 million to about 3 million years ago. That’s pretty nearly the entire age of Mammals. This was enough time for the climate to change dramatically as the Cascade Mountains rose in the west, blocking the rainfall. It went from jungle to redwood forest to oak forest to grassland, and eventually to its current desert.

The means of fossil preservation varied with time as well. Many of the best preserved fossils are from lahars - lava ash mud flows. Those are pretty nasty in person, clearly, but are fantastic for preserving fossils. Particularly those of the delicate parts plants, which don’t always survive sedimentation well. Leaf fossils abound, and are amazingly preserved - you can see them right there on one of the hikes. Leaf fossils are also preserved at the bottom of ancient ponds - more about those later.

There are also lots mammal fossils, from some pretty big and gnarly bears, to the early ancestors of both cats and dogs, back when they were bearcats. Also brontotheres, early horses and deer, and innumerable rodent-like critters. Also four inch cicadas and other insects, which aren’t always preserved well.

It is kind of interesting to see the progression from the older animals to the younger. There is definitely a progression toward modern species as you go.

The plants are likewise fascinating: you can definitely recognize modern flowering plants and pick out modern “types,” if you will. Oaks, elms, birch, redwoods, ferns, and more. But, they aren’t quite right. There are enough differences that the trained eye can see that they are not the exact same species we have now.

The “Dawn Sequoia” is an interesting example. There are innumerable fossils of this - apparently it was widespread in the area. Dawn sequoias are clearly related to modern redwoods and sequoias, but there is a significant difference: they were deciduous. There is a non-extinct example of this in China, a living relative of the dawn sequoia but not identical, but it has been long gone from North America for quite some time.

I mention this plant not just because I love redwoods and sequoias, but because I now possess some of these fossils. There is a high school in a small town that lets you (for a donation) borrow a hand trowel and dig in the hill behind the school. It is a series of sandstone layers with sediment in between, which makes for easy digging. The layers are from an ancient shallow lake. It was fun to bring out rocks and split the layers to find clear leaf or stick fossils in between. I am so glad the ranger recommended this and that we found time to do it.

The Sheep Rock unit is the one with the visitor’s center, and it is a good place to start, with videos about the formation of the fossils, their discovery, and the human history of the area. It also has a great collection of fossils on display. (Many others are located in museums around the United States - I saw a good one at the Los Angeles Natural History Museum recently - and one from Hagerman too.) This is the place to hike to see some mammal fossils in situ. There is also a preserved ranch that is quite pretty.

The Painted Hills unit is more of a scenic experience than a fossil experience. The titular hills are indeed beautiful. (If not for the ever-present wildfire smoke when we were there, I expect I could have gotten some spectacular pictures.) Created by layers of volcanic ash, they to contain fossils, but none are visible to visitors.

The Clarno unit is the most remote, pretty far from anywhere, and accessible only by a long, twisty, scenic road. Not that this is a bad thing - it is a beautiful drive. We made a loop out of it, cutting through a rarely driven back road. The big attraction at Clarno is the remains of a lahar - a hot, wet ashflow that preserved whole ecosystems of plants. Along the trail, you can see leaf and branch prints, petrified wood, and more. These are fossils you can see without barriers, without plexiglass, and in most cases without labels. You have to keep your eyes open, but they are all around. I imagine someone first saw these and felt like they had walked into Aladdin's cave.

John Day Fossil Beds is a bit out of the way, in a forgotten part of the backcountry. But it is definitely worth a visit. I imagine that last year’s eclipse raised its profile, as it was in the path of totality, but visitation will probably go back to being light this year. 

 Sheep Rock

 Rock formation of the Clarno Unit

 One of the many fossils visible from the trail.

 Petrified logs.

 Fossils I dug up.

The Painted Hills Unit. Sadly, a lot of smoke from the wildfires a hundred miles north.

English Idyls and Other Poems by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Source of book: I own a complete collection of Tennyson’s poetry

Along with the general decline of interest in poetry has come a certain disdain for poets of the Romantic and Victorian Eras, of which Tennyson is one of the greatest. Perhaps it is the unabashed emotion, the love of beauty, the optimism? If it were merely an objection to the sexism and colonialism of the era, then other genres should have suffered too, and yet the novels are not so roundly mocked as the poetry. This is all a real shame, as some of the most beautiful, evocative, and perceptive poetry in the English language was written during the 19th Century.

Since I have the complete Tennyson (in a Modern Library hardback), I have been reading the poems roughly in order. I skipped the juvenalia, and started with the 1833 collection that made his reputation. Later, in 1842, Tennyson issued the first collection along with a new collection in a two-part Poems. It is the second half of that collection that forms the subject of this review.

As I alluded to above, reading Tennyson is, well, complicated. He was a man of his time. But also one who transcended his time. He was, perhaps by his nature, a conservative. At least in many ways. But he also was troubled by his times too, and to put him down as another jingoist and sexist Victorian is an oversimplification. In his religion too, he was...complicated. So many of his poems seem an affirmation of the typical Christian doctrines of his time and place, but he also expressed some fairly shocking sentiments about religion. I find that this actually fits well. Artists - particularly poets - live in the spaces in between. They deal with a part of life that cannot be easily divided into black and white. Poets speak of a reality that is more felt than seen, and truth that is more true because it is evoked, not stated outright. Tennyson struggled with debilitating depression for his entire life, and felt his personal tragedies deeply. It is only one who could feel and hurt as he did who could really grasp the truth in his line, “"There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds." That line comes from In Memoriam, his long lament for the death of his close friend.

So, for me, even as I wince at some of his lines, I find I am carried along in the beauty of his language, and recognize him as a true kindred spirit speaking across a century and a half.

The collection starts off with a series of what he terms “English Idyls.” These are narrative poems in blank verse, many on historical themes. After a brief introduction where the narrator (not necessarily, but possibly Tennyson himself) discusses the old versus the new with some friends. Eventually, he is coaxed into sharing his own tribute to the old days - namely, an epic poem about King Arthur. The result is “Morte D’Arthur,” which would eventually become the closing section of Idylls of the King. I still haven’t read all of Idylls yet, and it has been some years since I read any of it. (This is a shame, because I have a gorgeous hardback of Idylls. I have, however, read Malory’s version...) The language is just so gorgeous, it is hard to even describe it. It is just such that when you read it (as when you read or hear Shakespeare), you just feel the music of the poetry. I’ll quote just a bit of it - one of my favorite passages.

And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge:

"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,

And God fulfils Himself in many ways,

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

I have lived my life, and that which I have done

May He within Himself make pure! but thou,

If thou shouldst never see my face again,

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer

Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice

Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

For what are men better than sheep or goats

That nourish a blind life within the brain,

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer

Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

For so the whole round earth is every way

Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

But now farewell. I am going a long way

With these thou seëst—if indeed I go—

(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)

To the island-valley of Avilion;

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,

Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies

Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns

And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,

Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

Read that out loud. Let the words wash over you. And then re-read it, focusing on what an epic deathbed statement it really is. Arthur accepts the changing of the world, and releases his power with that combination of faith and doubt that characterizes the best of Tennyson.

(I was also reminded that books like The Buried Giant, which I just read, or A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court) make so much more sense if you have read the original Arthurian legends.)

“Morte D’Arthur” wasn’t the only poem in this collection that I had read before. In fact, there were a good number that are familiar enough that most of us have read them before in high school, college, and I hope in the years since. (Yeah, it’s depressing how many people haven’t really read poetry after graduation.)

One of those old friends was “Locksley Hall.” I read the whole thing in High School - we had to read excerpts, but I tend to like reading things in context. The plot is pretty simple. The young man returns to Locksley Hall, his college, and muses on his life. In particular, the woman that rejected him. The poem thus combines optimism for the future with the pain and bitterness of loss. Along the way, the poet condemns the materialism and classism that led to his rejection, and yet hopes that mankind will find a better way someday.

The poem is in rhymed couplets, in rather long lines of 15 syllables - really two sets of iambic tetrameter spliced together. If one were to split the lines, there would be a feminine ending on the first half, and a masculine ending on the second.

The poem is most famous, I suppose, for the line:

In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

And thus, the poet commences a conversation with his former beloved. He recalls the joy of their love. But boy, does it turn bitter. Tennyson doesn’t shy away from the ugly side of his nature.

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung,

Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue!

Is it well to wish thee happy?—having known me—to decline

On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine!

Yet it shall be; thou shalt lower to his level day by day,

What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay.

As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown,

And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force,

Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

What is this? his eyes are heavy; think not they are glazed with wine.

Go to him, it is thy duty, kiss him, take his hand in thine.

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought:

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought.

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand—

Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand!

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace,

Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace.

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth!

Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth!

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule!

Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool!

It goes on for a good while, as he imagines her life to a dull fool. Tennyson also rails at the fact that wealth is all the world cares for. He isn’t wrong, alas. But then, he turns to a more optimistic tone, speaking of his youthful idealism for the future. In his vision, he foresees a league of nations, a decline (and eventual end) of war, the triumph of reason over hate, and a more egalitarian future. Alas, he also says some condescending things about non-whites, and (in his passion against the faithless Amy) some insulting things about women. Sour notes in an otherwise beautiful and emotionally perceptive poem. Tennyson (who wasn’t that old, actually) intentionally wrote to describe youthful passions, good and bad, so perhaps one shouldn’t confuse the narrator with the poet.

One more line is so good that I have to quote it. Also, I recognized it as the source of the title from a rather good book I read last year.

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range,

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

Again, as I have so many times when reading Tennyson, I marveled at the music inherent in this line. It sings, it lives. Every word has both meaning in itself and in its context - it’s place in the constellation of sounds as the line rushes on.

The next poem intrigued me both because of its theme and because the person to whom it was dedicated was unnamed. Subsequent research indicated that it was probably a reference to Keats - whose scandalous (by Victorian standards) love letters were published after his death. It is even more true in our own age, when to be a celebrity of any sort means to have all one’s skeletons exposed.

To ——

After Reading a Life and Letters

‘Cursed be he that moves my bones.’

Shakespeare’s Epitaph.

YOU might have won the Poet’s name,

    If such be worth the winning now,

    And gain’d a laurel for your brow

Of sounder leaf than I can claim;

But you have made the wiser choice,

    A life that moves to gracious ends

    Thro’ troops of unrecording friends,

A deedful life, a silent voice:

And you have miss’d the irreverent doom

    Of those that wear the Poet’s crown;

    Hereafter, neither knave nor clown

Shall hold their orgies at your tomb.

For now the Poet cannot die,

    Nor leave his music as of old,

    But round him ere he scarce be cold

Begins the scandal and the cry:

‘Proclaim the faults he would not show;

    Break lock and seal: betray the trust;

    Keep nothing sacred: ’tis but just

The many-headed beast should know.’

Ah, shameless! for he did but sing

    A song that pleased us from its worth;

    No public life was his on earth,

No blazon’d statesman he, nor king.

He gave the people of his best;

    His worst he kept, his best he gave.

    My Shakespeare’s curse on clown and knave

Who will not let his ashes rest!

Who make it seem more sweet to be

    The little life of bank and brier,

    The bird that pipes his lone desire

And dies unheard within his tree,

Than he that warbles long and loud

    And drops at Glory’s temple-gates,

    For whom the carrion vulture waits

To tear his heart before the crowd!

Again, Tennyson wears his heart on his sleeve, and says exactly what he thinks. A kindred spirit indeed.

I also wanted to quote what might be Tennyson’s shortest poem. It is pretty nice - but I quote it here primarily because it was the first Tennyson poem I read to my very small kids over a decade ago. It was the perfect illustration of the poetic art, from rhyme to meter to the use of repeated sounds to evoke a picture.

The Eagle

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

                                                

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt he falls.

I want to end this with what I have to say is on my list of 10 favorite poems. I swear I have re-read this at least once a year since I started this blog. (And numerous times before that.) It really encapsulates a lot of my own feelings - and more and more as I have gone from youth to middle age. Sure, I am not burdened with a kingdom (and I definitely would prefer to have my lovely bride accompany me on any and all adventures), but I too know my time is limited. I really have no desire to waste it, particularly in trying to change people who have no incentive to change. I have indeed shaken the dust off my feet the last few years, to use another great line. Anyway, enjoy.

Ulysses

It little profits that an idle king,

By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole

Unequal laws unto a savage race,

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink

Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those

That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and known; cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;

And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'

Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades

For ever and forever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!

As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life

Were all too little, and of one to me

Little remains: but every hour is saved

From that eternal silence, something more,

A bringer of new things; and vile it were

For some three suns to store and hoard myself,

And this gray spirit yearning in desire

To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

         This is my son, mine own Telemachus,

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild

A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees

Subdue them to the useful and the good.

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere

Of common duties, decent not to fail

In offices of tenderness, and pay

Meet adoration to my household gods,

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

         There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,

Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—

That ever with a frolic welcome took

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed

Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;

Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

'T is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

I really could analyze nearly every line. But why? A poem like that can stand without comment, as a monument to internal truth, and the drive I feel to live while I am alive. 

***

Not sure why “idylls / idyls” is spelled differently. I tried to find something online, and it appears to have been spelled both ways. If anyone has a guess, let me know…

Scurvy by Stephen Bown

Source of book: Borrowed from the Library

Scurvy: How a Surgeon, a Mariner, and a Gentleman Solved the Greatest Medical Mystery of the Age of Sail is exactly what it sounds like: a tale of the discovery and implementation of the cure for a baffling and deadly disease.

From our 21st Century perspective, it is easy to think of scurvy as a really easy disease to cure. Why didn’t people figure out how to cure it sooner? Well, lots of reasons, as this book points out. 

First, let’s look at the carnage. The Age of Sale lasted roughly from time that transoceanic voyages became practical and common through the invention of steam-powered watercraft. During that time - 400ish years - the death toll from scurvy is believed to have been in excess of two million sailors. That’s a lot. In fact, it is more than the deaths from combat, shipwreck, storms, and all other diseases. Combined. In fact, that is more than all of the combat deaths in the history of the United States - including both sides of the Civil War. That’s a lot of bodies.

As this book makes clear, there are a number of reasons why it took hundreds of years to finally understand the disease, and significant impediments to gaining definitive knowledge.

As we now know, scurvy is a disease caused by deficiency of Vitamin C - ascorbic acid. (The name itself is a contraction of “antiscorbutic” - anti-scurvy.) Most animals can create their own ascorbic acid - but humans cannot. Neither can guinea pigs, which is one reason that they became popular for animal testing. On long sea voyages, without fresh food, this deficiency would cause the breakdown of the connective tissue of the body. Basically, people fall to pieces, crumble to sludge, without this necessary nutrient.

One of the most interesting things about the history of scurvy is that the cure was actually discovered multiple times...then “forgotten” by those who came afterward. The most crazy example of this is that back in 1601, Sir James Lancaster proved that lemon juice prevented scurvy - and the British Merchant Marine believed him and adopted his recommendations. For a while. Likewise, the Dutch merchants used lemon juice as well. But the navies, which at the time tended to say near port, thought themselves above the lowly merchants. And anyway, while merchant vessels could carry a lot of supplies and stop in to port along the way, the navy had few similar options.

Eventually, the cure was forgotten, and not rediscovered until right before the Napoleonic Wars.

There were several inherent obstacles to the discovery and adoption of a cure. Some of these were problematic because of the specifics of the disease. Scurvy can mimic a lot of other diseases that were common at the time, and thus, it took a while before it was recognized as a single disease, rather than a constellation of symptoms which might have been other illnesses. Likewise, because of the generally poor nutrition of the lower classes, scurvy tended to afflict the common sailors before the officers. This meant that other factors were naturally suspected, such as the overcrowded conditions below decks, the generally poor food supplies, infectious diseases (which would come aboard the same way gaol fevers would), and other class-based causes.

There were also scientific reasons scurvy was difficult to pin down. We can test for potency these days, but that wasn’t the case back then. Different citrus fruits have differing amounts of ascorbic acid - as do other fresh fruits and vegetables. And this differs too based on freshness, preparation, and source. So there were a ton of variables which were difficult to account for. Likewise, in the human subjects, there were variables such as whether they had been at sea recently (and thus already pre-scorbutic), whether there were other health issues, how good nutrition was at home, and so on. These all tended to make it difficult to pin down the cause and the cure.

But perhaps the greatest obstacle was philosophic. The medicine of the day was in thrall to an erroneous belief: the “humour” theory of disease. There were four “humours”: blood, black bile, yellow bile, and phlegm - and all disease was an imbalance of these fluids. This was, to put a fine point on it, utter baloney. But that wouldn’t be known for many years.

The reason that this was a problem was that it required, as the author puts it, “great philosophical backflips and other mental acrobatics in a vain attempt to reconcile common sense with their theoretical constructs.” And, on a related note, it meant that practical experimental evidence was disregarded if it couldn’t be made to fit the theory.

Yes, that is a problem. It was a problem then, and it is a problem now. (Regular readers will know that this is one of my biggest beefs with American Evangelicalism’s approach to, well, everything. The theory always trumps reality or experience. Thus, there is no way to learn anything - everything is already known.) This was a big reason that the navies didn’t listen to the mere merchants. After all, their success in preventing scurvy was merely experimental, not based on intellectual theory. It took irrefutable evidence to topple the theory, and in the meantime, millions died.

In a weird moment, I ran across another bizarre theory in this book - one that was all too familiar. It was this idea of acid and alkaline balance. Because scurvy was (in this theory) either acid or alkaline, depending on the symptom, treatments varied. While one particular acid could have cured it, not all acids are equal. Thus, advocating for vinegar, sour wine, or - I am not making this up - “oil of vitriol” - that is, sulfuric acid - as a cure wouldn’t be effective, even though lemon juice would be. I mention this because as part of my childhood, we cycled through some scientifically ludicrous “alternative medicine” approaches to nutrition. Most were pretty harmless, although annoying. But this idea of classifying foods as acid or alkaline (often in ways that were contrary to the actual facts) and using that to treat disease was neither some ancient “wisdom” nor science. It was a faddish 18th Century piece of malarkey.

One thing that really struck me in this connection was the reason that the ancient Greek and Roman writings were considered authoritative in medicine. These days, we tend to (usually correctly) assume that more recent - and better controlled and designed - studies tend to be more accurate, and that the more modern, the more likely something is to be correct. In the past, the opposite was often true. In this case, the Greeks and Romans were revered on the theory that mankind has been degenerating since the Fall, and thus the older minds were less clouded and more brilliant. Sad to say, this ridiculous idea (which flies in the face of the evidence - and that includes morality too) remains current in certain religious circles. I have literally heard stuff like “imagine what the ancients could have done with their brilliant minds and our technology” and “we should trust the superior wisdom of the past and [fill in morally abhorrent thing here.]” There is nothing magic about the past, or the people of the past. Sometimes they were right. Often not.

By the way, it wasn’t just the “science” of the day that was problematic. Then, as now, there was a tendency to blame the victims of disease. Many dismissed sailors as morally degenerate, and scurvy merely as divine disfavor displayed against them. And of course, no sense in trying to cure a disease caused by divine disfavor - particularly if it afflicts people who you consider inferior. Hmm, I can think of another disease that got this treatment.

Eventually, three persons managed to get the treatment right - and it took the efforts of all three to do so.

The first was the surgeon, James Lind. He did the first truly controlled experiment in this area, discovering that lemon juice was effective in treating and preventing scurvy. Unfortunately, Lind never did shake the “humours” explanation, and so failed to make a coherent case for why it worked. Lind’s writings, however, would eventually influence others.

Captain James Cook was the next important figure. Working off of Lind’s recommendations, he brought citrus along on his voyages, and made sure to take on fresh vegetables whenever possible. He thus kept scurvy to a minimum during his famous voyages. Alas for Cook, he became mentally erratic on his last voyage, and managed to get himself into a deadly conflict in the Hawaiian Islands, and was killed. Thus, his effective technique never had an effective advocate.

The last was the aristocrat Gilbert Blane. He took the foundation laid by Lind’s experiments and Cook’s experiences, and used his influence to make the use of citrus the official policy of the British Navy, thus saving millions of additional lives, and contributing significantly to world history. (More on this below.)

Blane was successful, in part, because he drew a seemingly obvious connection that the British bureaucrats running the navy didn’t seem to grasp:

Scurvy wasn’t just costing “expendable” lives. It was causing the loss of expensive ships, and endangering national security.

Yeah, that sounds pretty callous. And it is. Because Naval policy was darn calloused. Ships would be stuffed with twice the number of necessary men, because it was assumed that half would be lost to scurvy over the course of the voyage. That’s pretty appalling. And horribly inefficient, as Blane pointed out. The loss of skilled sailors was leading to the sinking of ships and bad results all around. Furthermore, Britain would struggle to defend her vulnerable homeland if she couldn’t keep ships in the necessary places to prevent an invasion. It was by this calculation that Blane was able to convince the Navy bosses that it was worth the expense of keeping citrus (and concentrated citrus juice) in ready supply on board their ships.

Unsurprisingly, this change paid off. Suddenly, Britain had an immediate advantage over her foes: she could stay afloat longer, and could field more experienced and skilled sailors and gunners.

The author contrasts two wars with different results as an illustration of the difference. In the American Revolution, scurvy was a significant reason why England struggled to supply its troops - and prevent the Spanish and French from lending aid and sending troops. We have this American myth that the Revolution was a bunch of farmers with pitchforks throwing off the yoke of the most powerful nation on earth. That’s not really true. We were led by our own aristocratic class, and significantly aided by other superpowers who had a vested interest in keeping England occupied.

The contrast, however, is in the wars against Napoleon a few decades later, when England’s newfound ability to avoid scurvy led to its successful blockade of French and Spanish ports. This kept those sailors unable to practice at sea. But it also kept Napoleon from being able to launch an invasion of the British Isles - which probably would have been successful if he had put his superior army on the ground. (By Waterloo, England had been able to increase and train its army - because of the delay France suffered in invading. Not unlike the Battle of Britain in World War II…)

One final quote from Gilbert Blane regarding the cure of scurvy is apropos.

“There is not probably to be found in the whole range of human affairs a finer illustration of the practical benefits of progressive knowledge in promoting the great interests of mankind: so that science, while it lends an aid, also sheds a grace and dignity over the useful arts: nor can there be a more striking proof of the maxim, that humanity, like every other virtue, is the best policy.”

Two things stand out here. First is the love for science and progressive knowledge as used to benefit mankind. The second is that “humanity,” in the sense of “being humane,” isn’t just morally good - it is good public policy too. If saving impoverished sailors from death for moral reasons wasn’t enough, one could do it because of the good it brought to the nation as a whole.

If you want to understand the frustration that many of us who think and read and learn have with the current state of the Right in America, this is a good place to start. Some of us still believe that science isn’t a vast conspiracy - but it often is and should be a benefit to mankind. We also believe that humane public policy is ultimately beneficial. We all benefit from a healthy, educated, employed population. And we all suffer when we refuse (usually with fiscal objections) to invest in education, health care - and humane policies in general.

***

I couldn’t find a place to put it in the main review, but I did have to mention that The War of Jenkins’ Ear gets a mention in this book. War usually sucks - and this one is no exception. But that is the coolest name for a war that I can think of.