Coriolanus by William Shakespeare (Theatricum Botanicum)

By my count, I have seen 27 of Shakespeare’s plays live. That leaves me 11 to go. It will probably be more difficult to see those, as I am getting into the back catalogue. (Also not helpful is that the Utah Shakespeare Festival is doing the Henry VI plays this year and next, and, while my wife will be able to go, it’s not really feasible for the kids and myself to do so - it will probably be a while before they return to them. Possibly decades. Oh well.) Still, I have managed to add a few more obscure ones over the last few years. I also plan to see the plays I have seen again - the kids have only seen some, and will appreciate them differently as they get older as well. Shakespeare has something new to say each time - he never gets old.

Coriolanus is one of those rarely-performed plays. Every year, we check to see what the local colleges and small theaters are doing. But we also keep our eyes on a few others in Southern California. One of those is Theatricum Botanicum. This quirky outdoor theater has a habit of performing lesser-known works, along with their continually-running version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. A few years back, that included All’s Well That Ends Well, and Moliere’s The Imaginary Invalid. When I saw that Theatricum was doing Coriolanus, I knew we had to go see it.

Coriolanus is not a particularly well known play. Many are at least familiar with the name, however, because of Beethoven’s fantastic overture. (See below.) Coriolanus was written right after the great tragedies, and it does suffer a bit in comparison. The characters are less fully realized, the protagonist is unlikeable, and the theme fell a bit flat at the time. It is not Shakespeare’s finest play - but it still has a lot to offer.

First, what is this play about? Like Julius Caesar, the story is drawn from Plutarch’s Lives. As with the other, Coriolanus quotes Plutarch (as translated by Sir Thomas North) nearly verbatim in places - North’s language was plenty poetic. However, unlike Caesar, there was probably no real life Coriolanus, at least as described by Plutarch. By that time, Coriolanus was more of a legend in the vein of, say, Robin Hood. He served Plutarch’s purpose by serving as a counter-example to the Greek Alcibiades.

In the story, Coriolanus (real name: Caius Marcius) is a war hero of Rome back in the early days. Rome was a mere city-state at the time, in perpetual war with its immediate neighbors. The previous monarchy had been recently abolished, and Rome was ruled by the Consuls, joint rulers appointed by the Patrician aristocracy. Marcius wins a famous victory (despite questionable judgment), and is expected to be one of the next Consuls as a result. But he has to win the approval of the commoners - the Plebeians.

Therein lies the problem. Marcius (now dubbed “Coriolanus” - the site of his victory), hates the rabble, and thinks he shouldn’t have to kiss up to them. After all, he deserves what he gets - he has bled for Rome. Things do not go well. Although he gets the vote, his condescension sours many on him, and the newly appointed Tribunes (representatives of the Plebeians) stir up the people against him. A cool-headed Patrician, Menenius, is able to prevent a lynching, but with a promise that Coriolanus will appear in person for a proper trial on the charges of treason (for his threat to strip the Plebeians of their liberty.) Coriolanus is spared the death penalty, but is banished. He sulks off, eventually joining forces with Rome’s biggest rival, and leads an army to sack Rome.

He is persuaded to come to terms of peace by his mother, but is then killed by his rival.

That’s your basic plot. However, as is typical for Shakespeare, the real action is in the psychology.

Coriolanus, like many a tragic “hero,” is undone by his fatal flaw of pride and arrogance. (Hubris, to use the Greek term.) It isn’t difficult to see how Coriolanus became the way he is, though. His mother, Volumnia, is the dominating figure of the play. She has raised Coriolanus to be a war machine, eager for glory in battle, and full of pride. He is, so to speak, the perfect Spartan - which is not a compliment. Early in the play, an exchange involving Coriolanus’ wife Virgilia is telling. Little Marcius Junior has been seen tormenting (and eventually tearing apart with his teeth) butterflies. And Grandma says he is just like his dad. Isn’t that nice?

Because of this upbringing, Coriolanus cannot find empathy in himself. He obsesses over his honor, and his rights, and cannot see other perspectives. This is particularly obvious in his approach to the common people.

At this point, a little background is also helpful. (Special thanks to Isaac Asimov’s delightful book on Shakespeare for the information.)

The Plebeians weren’t just the underclass. At the time of the founding of the Roman republic, they were made up of the peoples that the city-state of Rome had conquered. The “true” Romans were the Patricians, and the others were the Plebeians - the ones who did the dirty work of growing the food, serving as foot soldiers, and other lower-status jobs. The Patricians literally depended on the Plebeians for survival, while resenting them as “inferior” foreigners. The Plebeians weren’t too thrilled about the state of things either. Under the monarchy, they enjoyed some degree of protection. Not so much in the early Republic, when the Patricians reserved for themselves virtually all of the economic and political rights. The Plebeians were expected to render military service without compensation for the damage caused by war or absence to their farms. If they couldn’t pay debts, they ended up as slaves.

This was not, shall we say, sustainable. The Plebeians rose up and demanded representation. Which they got, in the form of the Tribunes. This wasn’t true political equality, but it was a start, and the Roman Republic survived (as have many modern democracies) by granting political rights to a greater proportion of the people.

Coriolanus is not a fan of these reforms, to say the least. He complains (and is overheard) that by granting the Plebeians rights when they demand them, they have made a mistake. Better, in Coriolanus’ view, to have used force and violence to beat them into proper submission.

Shakespeare’s handling of this idea is fascinating. Coriolanus is believed to have been performed, not at the Globe, but at Blackfriars, which was a smaller theater. Crucially, ticket prices were high at Blackfriars, so the audience was exclusively aristocratic - no commoners to contend with. This was also around 1609 or so, when King James I was on the throne. Students of history will recall that James was a big proponent of the Divine Right of Kings.

So, Shakespeare writes a play to be heard by the nobility at a time when monarchical power was on the rise. And he writes...this. Sure, there are some mean jabs at the riff raff. But overall, the theme is a rather pointed jab at aristocratic arrogance and violent suppression of dissent. Shakespeare had some huevos.

In addition to his arrogance, Coriolanus suffers from a lack of self control, and a lack of an inner life of the mind. He reacts rather than think. He cannot control his mouth. He cannot see other perspectives at all. This makes him vulnerable to manipulation by his rival and enemy counterpart, Tullus. He is also manipulated by his mother. And also by the Tribunes, who know just how to push his buttons.

As I noted, this isn’t Shakespeare’s finest tragedy. But it actually has aged pretty well. (In many ways, better than The Merchant of Venice.) In fact, I think it resonates better in our time than in Shakespeare’s. While by his day, England was at least a fledgeling constitutional monarchy, it was far from the democratic nation it would later become. Or even the limited monarchy with significant freedoms it would become 80 years later after the Glorious Revolution. Shakespeare was looking ahead in many ways, as well as backwards to an earlier experiment in democratic government.

There are a few facets here that also seem particularly applicable to today. I think the recognition that the Patrician/Plebeian dispute was in part racially driven is interesting. In our own times, there is a common and egregious error made when speaking of our own political divisions: Trump voters are not the lower income classes. Rather, they are - statistically - above average in income, and, most importantly, overwhelmingly white. They are the Patricians of our nation, used to having  particular status and dominance, which they saw threatened by a black president and erosion of their privilege. And the Trump sorts are similar to Coriolanus, raging that they are not given the respect and status they believe they deserve by right of birth. Trump is no military hero. (He has succeeded at the American version though: he is rich. We worship money rather than glory.) However, like Coriolanus, he scoffs at protesters, and calls for violence to teach them gratitude. Rather than listen to the voices of the true Plebeians, they call to burn the political and social institutions to the ground in revenge. It’s something to think about.

Also thought provoking is a line near the very beginning of the play. The “First Citizen” is leading the rabble in a demand for the Patricians to share their grain hoards with the Plebeians. He seeks confirmation that they are united in their purpose:

You are all resolved rather to die than to famish?

This gets to the heart of it. Death by violence sucks. Death by starvation or privation is, if anything, worse. Particularly if you are watching your children die. Coriolanus fails to understand this. He figures he can just increase brutality until he gets submission. But humans will fight for their lives, and for the lives of their children. And the degree of brutality and hate necessary to keep them down will only increase, eventually to the breaking point. Our own Right Wing would do well to remember this, and seek rather the path of reconciliation.

I do want to mention a few lines. Coriolanus isn’t full of zingers like the best known plays. But it has some good lines. Unsurprisingly, in a tragedy, often the lines that stand out the most are the humorous ones. Unlike Richard II, which has zero comic relief, Coriolanus does have some moments of mirth.

One came fairly early in the play. Coriolanus’ mother and wife are talking about his imminent departure for the war. Mom is ecstatic: he will win more glory! Wife, not so much, as she is worried he might get himself killed. So, she decides not to leave the house until he returns safely. Mom retorts:

You would be another Penelope; yet, they say, all the yarn

She spun in Ulysses’ absence did but fill Ithaca full of moths.

My wife is a knitter (and a really good one.) I did give her a snarky glance at this line, though.

The second great humorous moment is at the opening of Act II, Scene III. The Tribunes have just finished their plot to stir up the crowd against Coriolanus. Three random citizens (Citizens One, Two, and Three) are joking about upcoming speech by Coriolanus as he tries to win their support.

First Citizen

Once, if he do require our voices, we ought not to deny him.

Second Citizen

We may, sir, if we will.

Third Citizen

We have power in ourselves to do it, but it is a

power that we have no power to do; for if he show us

his wounds and tell us his deeds, we are to put our

tongues into those wounds and speak for them; so, if

he tell us his noble deeds, we must also tell him

our noble acceptance of them. Ingratitude is

monstrous, and for the multitude to be ingrateful,

were to make a monster of the multitude: of the

which we being members, should bring ourselves to be

monstrous members.

First Citizen

And to make us no better thought of, a little help

will serve; for once we stood up about the corn, he

himself stuck not to call us the many-headed multitude.

Third Citizen

We have been called so of many; not that our heads

are some brown, some black, some auburn, some bald,

but that our wits are so diversely coloured: and

truly I think if all our wits were to issue out of

one skull, they would fly east, west, north, south,

and their consent of one direct way should be at

once to all the points o' the compass.

Second Citizen

Think you so? Which way do you judge my wit would

Fly?

Third Citizen

Nay, your wit will not so soon out as another man's

Will; 'tis strongly wedged up in a block-head, but

if it were at liberty, 'twould, sure, southward.

I certainly snorted at this one. But take a second look. Shakespeare’s “fools” are never as foolish as they might seem. These commoners are far more self aware than Coriolanus. They actually speak pretty knowledgeably about the interaction of sentiment and duty, of custom and its breaches. They know that if Coriolanus plays his part: talks of his sacrifices for Rome, shows his scars, and asks nicely for support, they would be breaching etiquette to refuse. They also are keenly aware of his condescending attitude, though, and consider alternatives. Again, unlike Coriolanus, they are also aware of the weakness: they don’t coordinate and act together all that well.

Plus, as is well proven by research, puns are associated with intelligence - and this trio comes up with three good ones. (Or bad ones, take your pick…) Shakespeare, arguably the greatest writer in the English language (or any language perhaps) in history, was a fantastic punner, and given his love for puns, placing them in the mouths of the commoners was a sign of his respect. And that “blockhead” one. Dang, that’s good.

It is worth mentioning a bit about the production. Theatricum is a mostly professional group, with at least half of the actors in any production members of the Actors’ Equity Association. However, their stuff always feels a bit quirky, rather than slick and mainstream. (Particularly intriguing was their version of All’s Well That Ends Well where they cast African Americans as the aristocrats, and whites as the servants. Since the play is about a cross-class romance and “bed-trick,” this made for some uncomfortable and thus perceptive frisson.)

This production was no exception. The theater is outdoors, and makes use of the topography of the canyon. In this case, various members of the large cast ended up on the roofs of the buildings - including the sound booth - and occupied the space all around the audience. It did make one feel in the middle of the battles, and also part of the Plebeian multitude.

As usual, the cast was excellent; professional, emotive, loud enough for the venue, and invested in the characters.

I specifically want to give props to certain characters. David De Santos was outstanding in the title role. His was not a sympathetic character, but he inhabited it in a highly believable way. His was no caricature, but a real - if flawed - human. I loved his rage and pride. I think the term “brutally handsome” applies here as well. 

 David De Santos as Coriolanus

(Publicity photos by Ian Flanders)

Opposite De Santos, as the leader of the rival tribe, was Max Lawrence, a regular at Theatricum, who showed real chemistry with De Santos. The two of them are mortal enemies, frenemies, and worthy foes in the militaristic tradition. It was easy to see both as the sorts that would inspire their troops on the battlefield.

Max Lawrence (center) as Tullus Aufidius

Ellen Geer played Volumnia, Coriolanus’ mother. And she owned the part and the stage whenever she was on it. Between the creepy Oedipal stuff and the malicious edge, she made sure the audience knew she was the fulcrum on which the play turned. 

 Ellen Geer as Volumnia and Michelle Wicklas as Virgilia

The two Tribunes, played by Tim Halligan and Alan Blumenfeld, were also perfectly cast. As petty demagogues, playing at populism while failing to anticipate its risks, they had the proper snide and unctious vibe. I felt like I knew them: you find their sort in every HOA or small town city council. (Blumenfeld was phenomenal last year as Shylock - I could watch him in any part.) 

 Tim Hallihan (left) as Junius Brutus and Alan Blumenfeld (center) as Sicinius Velutus

One final actor deserves special credit. Melora Marshall played the moderate politician Menenius. She has been in every Theatricum production we have seen, playing a rather astonishing variety of parts. In this one, the part has been switched to a female part. However, in past productions, she has played a male part with such veracity that my kids were fooled. In another, she filled in as an understudy, and I couldn’t imagine a better job. Seriously, I would pay to see her in anything. Humorous or serious, small part or large, male or female. She is simply a good actor who can command the stage in any role. 

 Melora Marshall (center) as Menenius

Coriolanus runs the rest of the summer, and I highly recommend seeing it if you get a chance.

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For those who care, Shakespeare plays I have seen live at least once:

Henry IV Part 1, Henry IV Part 2, Henry V, Richard II, Richard III, Pericles, Coriolanus, Hamlet, Julius Caesar, King Lear, Macbeth, Othello, Romeo and Juliet, All’s Well That Ends Well, As You Like It, Comedy of Errors, Love’s Labour’s Lost, Merchant of Venice, Merry Wives of Windsor, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Much Ado About Nothing, The Taming of the Shrew, The Tempest, Twelfth Night, The Two Gentlemen of Verona, and A Winter’s Tale.

Still to go:

Henry VI Part 1, Henry VI Part 2, Henry VI Part 3, Henry VIII, King John, Measure for Measure (I’ve at least read this one…), Antony and Cleopatra, Cymbeline, Timon of Athens, Titus Andronicus, and Troilus and Cressida.  

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Beethoven for the win. This was actually written for Heinrich Joseph von Collin's version of the story, not Shakespeare's. But few if any care about Collin's version. The harmonic language in Beethoven's version is fascinating - particularly in the middle section, which departs from the root key in a long digression which is only brought back to the center by creative and unexpected paths. Enjoy. 

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Also, Cole Porter gives a mention to this play…

Wisdom Versus Theonomy: An Example From My Experience

I have written over the last couple of years several posts on the topics of the Culture Wars™ and the interpretation of scripture. You can even go back to a post I consider one of my best: What I Mean By “Fundamentalism.” From Domestic Violence to human sexuality, I believe there is a foundational problem at the heart: American Evangelicals and Fundamentalists (increasingly indistinguishable) have a toxic and harmful approach to the bible.

Theonomy. Which in essence is treating the bible like an infallible rule book - a Torah for our times.

With the theonomic approach, the bible is weaponized - used to harm people. It is wielded primarily against modern ideas and discoveries, whether in science or in human rights. And it is wielded consistently against certain types of people: the most vulnerable. It is used to keep women and minorities “in their place.” It is used by powerful (usually white) men to exert control. It is used to keep cultural change of all kinds, but particularly the egalitarian view of human rights, at bay. (I’d love to write a whole post about this.) Not only does the theonomic approach result in this sort of weaponization, the more committed a group or denomination is to theonomy, the more retrograde and abusive it will be. (See, for example, the cultic groups my wife and I were raised in.)

In contrast, I believe that the bible is a deeply human book, rooted in the times in which its books were written, expressing multiple (and conflicting) viewpoints, messy and beautiful at the same time, and absolutely terrible as a rule book. Peter Enns (who deserves tremendous credit for essentially “saving” the bible for me) suggests an alternative: The bible is a book of wisdom.

In this post, I want to explore an example of the difference between treating the bible as a rulebook, and treating it as a book of wisdom.

Let’s talk about Titus 2 and gender roles.

***

One of my least favorite “proof texts” is the following (KJV, because that is the one that is preferred by most Theonomists):

But speak thou the things which become sound doctrine:

That the aged men be sober, grave, temperate, sound in faith, in charity, in patience.

The aged women likewise, that they be in behaviour as becometh holiness, not false accusers, not given to much wine, teachers of good things;

That they may teach the young women to be sober, to love their husbands, to love their children,

To be discreet, chaste, keepers at home, good, obedient to their own husbands, that the word of God be not blasphemed.

Much, much hay has been made of “keepers at home,” and what it means. You have whole organizations centered on being “Titus 2 Women,” and a movement (in which my wife and I spent time in our teens) focused on keeping women out of the workforce and in the home as full time wives and mothers. (More about this later.)

The reason for this, in my opinion, is a misuse of scripture - an approach which is guaranteed to result in imposing the culture of the past on people in the present.

***

The Theonomic Approach

Here is how the Theonomist looks at the question:

In the nearly 70 years since the 1950s, there has been a significant shift in culture. Previously (in their view), women - at least white, middle class women - did not work outside the home. Rather, the husband was the sole breadwinner, and the wife devoted herself to domestic duties: childcare, housework, entertaining, and so on.

A variety of things led to a change. Feminism insisted that men and women were equal, and that women were thus entitled to political, social, and economic equality. It was thus unjust to relegate women to unpaid (and often undesirable) domestic duties, making them dependent on males for their very survival.

Economic changes returned our society to how it has been for most of human existence: both spouses need to work in order to provide sufficient income in most cases. Only the select men with above-average income plus benefits can afford to have a wife out of the workforce. (This has, of course, been the state of affairs for low income women throughout history. And particularly for non-white women in the United States.)

In any case, the Theonomist sees change, and decides to look at the bible to arbitrate between the past and the present.

The Theonomist then examines the bible looking for a rule. What is God’s will for women? Is it to work outside the home or not? VOILA! Titus 2 and a wonderful catchphrase: “Keepers at Home.” This has the wonderful advantage of requiring no historical context, and can be wielded as a weapon against modernity and cultural change. As a bonus, it reinforces their view of middle class (and white) people as more godly.  It’s perfect!

Problems with the Theonomic approach

Right at the outset, a problem appears: the rule only “works” for a very limited class of people. Namely, those with enough money to survive on one income.

The Theonomist cares not. Reality, and whether something “works” is irrelevant. We obey God rather than culture, and if the bible says it, then it is truth, reality be damned.

Therefore, those who follow the “rule” - families who live on one income while the wife stays home full time - are now “godly” or living the “biblical” lifestyle. And those who don’t are “evil” and “godless” and “giving in to culture.”

How big of a problem is this? Well, it pretty much excludes low income people from “godliness.” It also excludes, for example, African American slaves, who had no choice to even set up households, let alone one where the man earns the bread and the woman stays at home. (I believe this is a feature, not a bug, by the way. One of the reasons why “traditional” gender roles are popular is that they make wealthier whites the “godly” people, while relegating the poor, and brown-skinned people to a subhuman, “ungodly” status.)

This also defines “godliness” as something that is unavailable to most people worldwide - a non-working wife is a luxury that most people around the world do not have, and most people in history have not had. It has historically been available only to the rich and privileged. Thus, the great colonial powers get to feel more “godly” than everyone else.

In a nutshell, the Theonomic approach fails the test of universality. It can only be considered normative if you equate wealth and privilege with “godliness.” 

 This is a significant part of what the Culture Wars(TM) are about...

The Wisdom Approach

Here is how I believe the Book of Wisdom approach would look at Titus 2. First, you have to read the entire book. (It’s short - it will take you only a few minutes.) The author (whether you believe it was St. Paul or not) is addressing a specific problem, in a specific place, at a specific time in history. If you don’t take that into account, you miss the point.

Clearly, the Cretans were behaving badly. Getting into pointless arguments, forcing purity rules on others, getting drunk, and making a bad name for themselves among the non-Christians of their society. Hmm, that actually sounds pretty relevant today. But not the way Theonomists think.

The author therefore has some instructions about how to fix the problem. Focus on good doctrine, stop arguing about rules, but focus on living upright and kind lives. Do good things, stop quarreling and - I think this is the most important part: behave in a way that gives Christians a good, rather than bad, reputation.

All those admonitions as to how to behave are connected to that central idea. Don’t get a reputation for having out-of-control, drunken, disruptive members. Don’t get a reputation for quarreling with the authorities and your neighbors. (Wow, modern Evangelicals don’t believe that one anymore. At all.) Young women should not stand out for the wrong reasons, but should be doing good works within the cultural framework they are in.

Now, just a word here: “keepers at home” is a terrible translation, and like most terrible translations, politically motivated. Better ones I have seen are more along the lines of “managing their own households” - something implying not a withdrawal from earning income, but one of minding their own business and finding productive work.

I am reminded of II Thessalonians 3:11-12, where busybodies are urged to mind their own business...and get a job. I think the two passages relate to each other - there is the common theme of staying out of other people’s business, not being disruptive, and finding whatever good work is available in your situation and doing it.

So, Theonomic Approach: Q. “Should women work outside the home?” A. [usually] “No.”

Wisdom Approach: Q. “What wisdom about how we should live in our culture can we find in this passage?” A. “Don’t cause trouble, quarrel, force rules on others, fight with your neighbors, and bring disrepute to Christ. Instead, find good things to do and do them.”

Huge difference.

***

How this might apply to our own times

I have thought about this quite a bit, because of how my wife and I have experienced this. You can read a bit about Amanda’s miserable experience in Jonathan Lindvall’s cultic home group if you like. Unfortunately, that was not the end of her difficulties regarding her career. Certain extended family has never been okay with her decision to work outside the home, and she has taken a lot of disdain and shaming for doing so. Never mind that the two of us determined that splitting the breadwinning and household/childcare duties was better for us and our family - God clearly said that women were to be “keepers at home,” and anything less than that was sinning. The bible was weaponized against us.

I believe this was totally a unnecessary conclusion to draw from scripture - but it is the most likely result from the Theonomic approach. Alas, this wasn’t just an academic theological argument. It involved our real lives, and the unnecessary tension caused by it irreparably damaged relationships.

So I want to look at this in light of our own culture and times. Rather than looking to Titus 2 for a weapon to use against Feminism and women who work outside the home, what if we instead looked at the bigger, wisdom-based picture?

Let me say at the outset that I am NOT saying that there is anything wrong with stay-at-home moms. We all make choices for our families based on our individual circumstances, and I have no interest in getting all judgy about your particular choices. I assume that you made them for good reasons personal to you. (My one pushback here is that I wish stay-at-home moms were more honest about the fact that this option is only available to them because of their privilege.)

But.

I think one of the more poisonous things about Evangelical/Fundamentalist subculture is an idol-worship of stay-at-home moms - and by implication, idol-worship of men with wealth. A woman’s “godliness” - indeed her worth - is dependent upon her husband’s income. It ties one’s spiritual status to one’s ability (and willingness in some cases) to comply with 1950s white middle-class cultural preferences. This is, I believe, wrong. And also, I believe it violates the spirit of Titus 2.

After years of having stay-at-home moms look down their noses at Amanda for having a career, say snarky and passive-aggressive things to her whenever her job comes up, and living with damaged family relationships because of this issue - I have the following to say:

Many (not all) stay-at-home moms would be better following the wisdom of Titus 2 if they were to stop meddling in other people’s families, get off their butts, and go get a job. Then they wouldn’t have time to bother people who do things differently.

I firmly believe that, if the author of Titus were to walk into our modern Evangelical subculture, that would be the advice. Stop quarrelling with those outside your subculture, stop this Culture War™ nonsense, stop fighting about purity rules and gender roles and otherwise disgracing our faith. Instead, go get a job. Find something useful and good to do that will take all that extra time off your hands. Something that will cause those outside your tribe to see your good works and praise God.

That is how the Wisdom Approach might look at Titus.

***

This is just one example, from a limited area. However, I can think of a number of other areas in which the Theonomic Approach is leading to terrible and cruel results. I already mentioned the question of divorce. Rather than trying to compile comprehensive rules about when one can and cannot divorce, the wisdom approach would take into account our modern realization that women aren’t congenitally inferior, and are not the chattel of men. Then we can discuss how to protect the abused, not send them back for more abuse.

Instead of trying to squeeze a literalist interpretation of Genesis into our public schools, perhaps we might embrace the insights of science as part of God’s wisdom - and take seriously the spiritual truths from the creation story instead. Rather than spending endless time and effort trying to decide exactly what we can and cannot do with our genitals, we might acknowledge the role of misogyny in sexual taboos, and look for wisdom for how to use our bodies in loving, not violent or hurtful ways. Instead of arguing about exactly what women should be “permitted” by men to do in the church, family, and society, we might each of us focus on how we can use our gifts for the benefit of all - and encourage others to do so. Instead of picking fights with our neighbors about why we can’t serve them, or which holidays matter most, maybe we could spend our time in loving our neighbors and bringing honor to our faith through our good deeds.

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Oh, and one more since I wrote most of this: Jefferson Beauregard Sessions weaponizing Romans 13 to justify separating children from their families, criminalizing those who seek asylum in our country, and forcing them to choose between losing their children, and withdrawing their request for refuge.

Hey, notice that it isn’t the wealthy whites this is directed against? Of course not. The Theonomists always weaponize scripture against the vulnerable. That’s the whole point. To quote The Bard:

But then I sigh and, with a piece of scripture,

Tell them that God bids us do good for evil;

And thus I clothe my naked villainy

With odd old ends stolen out of Holy Writ,

And seem a saint when most I play the devil.

(Richard III - as he commissions a pair of murders to slaughter children…)

Sovereign by C. J. Sansom

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

This is book number three of Sansom’s Matthew Shardlake series of murder mysteries set in the days of Henry VIII. As with the previous ones, they are filled with political intrigue, exhaustively researched, and full of authentic detail. The previous installments are:

Dissolution

Dark Fire

I was introduced to these books by a legal colleague for obvious reasons: we both write for our local Bar Association magazine, we both read interesting books, and Matthew Shardlake is a lawyer who lives a much more exciting and terrifying life than we ever wish to. More recently, a friend and fellow blogger took my suggestion and wrote about them herself.

This third book centers around several real-life events, specifically Henry’s Northern Progress, his marriage to Catherine Howard, and her subsequent execution for adultery. Shardlake is manipulated by Archbishop Cramner into accepting a rather unpleasant job: making sure an accused traitor is kept alive until he can be transported to the Tower of London and tortured. This is in addition to his more pleasant job of sorting through the local justice petitions to be presented to the king, along with a respected local lawyer. Come to think of it, this last job IS kind of a dream job in a way. Kind of like the 16th Century version of clerking for a judge...a really powerful one...but with small claims cases. Yeah, I think that would be great. Except for the chance of getting whacked that came with about any job back then. Oh well.

So, what was the Northern Progress? Heck, what even IS a “Royal Progress?” I’ll admit my knowledge was a bit sketchy here, despite my early exposure to John Bunyan’s most famous work. A “Progress” is certainly not a minor affair. More like a tour by a king and a few thousand of his followers, servants, and soldiers. In this case, the Northern Progress was intended to awe and cow the mostly Catholic northern provinces in England out of their plans to rebel. Henry packed up a huge hoard, and went north, visiting York, among other places. The bulk of the book is set in York, and concerns a nascent rebellion and its fallout.

A couple of interesting things come to mind in this connection. First, I hadn’t really connected the idea of the Royal Progress with Pilgrim’s Progress. Now, I have to wonder if Bunyan wasn’t making an interesting point. A king touring his realm is a Progress. But for Bunyan, who was too radical even for the Puritans, the idea of an everyman’s journey to paradise warranting the term “Progress” must have been part and parcel of his anti establishment beliefs. Pretty radical. Which might have contributed to his unpopularity with the powers that were.  

Secondly, the nightmare of logistics surrounding celebrities apparently have always been a problem. This rock star could behead you, obviously, but other than that...this had a lot in common with Woodstock. Insufficient provisions for sanitation, problems with food supply, threatening weather, prostitution, and so on.

Sansom is at his best describing the reality of these conditions. Like a good lawyer (and Samson was one before hitting it big with his writing), he envisions the downsides of everything. As with his descriptions of London, he unfailingly finds the stink.

Set in this crazy setting is a real-life controversy. As anyone who knows his or her history (or his or her Shakespeare), knows: Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. The number one cause of death for royalty often seems to be assassination, and deposition is always just one error away. Henry had managed to quash one Northern rebellion, and didn’t want to risk another. It didn’t help, of course, that his father (Henry VII), had a rather tenuous claim to the crown in the first place. After Richard III was killed, the succession was kind of up for grabs until Henry VII enforced his claim with violence. (And murder of most of his competition. There is some evidence that it was Henry, not Richard, who murdered the princes in the tower. It would certainly help his case.) But, it should not be forgotten, Henry VII was most directly descended from the previous dynasty not in his own right, but because he married into the line. So, in a just world, his wife should have been queen. Henry’s claim was as the heir of an illegitimate son of John of Gaunt (see Richard II…) on the Lancaster side of the War of the Roses. Henry VII’s wife Elizabeth, was on the York side. So he could claim to unite them. And he had a really big, badass army. Which was pretty much the deciding factor.

Then add in this: there was a claim that Henry’s wife’s father was actually illegitimate, the son of a no-name archer, and Richard of York’s wife Cecily. This theory is what drives the book.

I mention all this, not just because it is key to the plot, but because we lawyers find the whole inheritance rules fascinating. (You have insomnia? Ask a lawyer to explain the Rule Against Perpetuities…)

Anyway, the would-be rebels have documentation of the alleged truth of this claim, which would arguably render Henry VIII an illegitimate king, and install a rival from another branch of the family, who happens to be...strongly Catholic. You can guess where this is going.

Shardlake and his able (and part Jewish - in an era when the Jews had been evicted from England) assistant, Jack Barak, are asked to investigate a suspicious death, find a box with this documentation, which is then stolen from them by an unknown personage, and they are embroiled in a political maelstrom once again.

In this world, politics and religion have become inseparable. To be in favor of protestantism, one must support Henry. To oppose him is to embrace Catholicism. Unless one is a true dissenter, in which case, expect to be tortured and executed by both sides. Oh, and the strange bedfellows. The Northerners attempted an alliance with Scotland, which was torn between the Catholics and the Presbyterians (which hated the Church of England), so even making an alliance was a political decision for Scotland…

In our own era too, religion has become bound up with politics, which is why I, like Shardlake, find myself outside of any one camp these days. At least in our days, so far, this isn’t a life or death situation. What seems more likely is that the branch of religion that has aligned itself with Donald Trump is going to lose the next generation or two for the most part.

Which leads me to this: in this book, we see the old, obese, vindictive Henry VIII. Not the young, handsome, and politically astute. His political skills, like his physical (and sexual) prowess, have faded, and all he has left is power and brutality. There is some historical truth here. Certainly, Henry was bloody. As I pointed out regarding the first book in the series, over the course of his reign, Henry VIII killed one in forty of his subjects for political reasons. In our modern US, that would mean a murder of 7.2 million people. More than the population of a majority of our states. I’m glad not to live in those times.

But what does strike me here is the unpleasant parallels between our current political era. Trump is no Henry VIII. But he would certainly fit in to the Tudor Era as an egotistical, petty, vindictive narcissistic sociopath. The sort of people kings tend to be. Although I believe he is far too incompetent at anything other than demagoguery to actually succeed in those times, you can tell he craves it. He craves the fawning. He craves the power to silence those who disagree. And he governs based on patronage just like the old kings. This doesn’t work so well in the 21st Century

This leads me to what I think is the central quote of the book. Shardlake and Barak are discussing the political (and religious) implications if the king were proven to be illegitimate.

“God speaking through the King’s voice,” Barak shook his head. “That has always seemed to me as stupid an idea as that he speaks through the Pope’s”

And thus we have much of human history. The insistence that God speaks through certain privileged humans. Not just in Catholicism. Not just in the days of Church and State being combined. We see it today in the way that particular interpretations are used as weapons against vulnerable people around the world - and to remove dissenters who point out the evil that is being done.

I won’t get into the plot any further than this. I will say that I smoked out the major plot twist at the end about halfway through the book. But it was satisfying when it finally came to full light. (Hey, I was raised on Agatha Christie. And I’m still not as good as my wife at this…)

A thoroughly satisfying book, well above average in both the historical fiction and murder mystery genres.

Brian's Return by Gary Paulsen

 Source of book: Audiobook from the library (but we own this too.)

This book is number four (of five) in the Hatchet series. The rest are reviewed below:

Hatchet

The River

Brian’s Winter

I first heard Hatchet as an audiobook when I was in my late teens. I read it to the kids first, then we listened to the rest in audiobook form. The original book is a true classic. The River was pretty good, but I thought Brian’s Winter was a better (and alternate) continuation of the story. 

I will confess I was a bit disappointed by Brian’s Return. It picks up the story after Brian’s Winter with Brian trying to reintegrate into school and society after nearly a year in the wilderness. It does not go well. A bully attacks him over a girl (who he isn’t even dating), and Brian reacts as he would to a dangerous animal, seriously injuring the bully. This leads to him landing in counseling. As part of this process, he is introduced to Shakespeare, and also told that he would benefit from going back to the wilderness periodically. In Brian’s case, that means he essentially decides he is going back there - and staying this time.

This is where I have a bit of a problem with the direction taken by the series. Paulsen’s afterword makes it clear that Brian is Paulsen in many ways, and Paulsen himself did live mostly in the wilderness for years, until health issues forced him to live closer to civilization. So I get the personal aspect of the desire to return to nature. Honestly, I too love the wilderness (in reasonable doses), but I also realize that isolation like that works for very few people. We are a social species, and lack of human contact isn’t particularly healthy for individuals, and it ultimately precludes the development that makes us human, rather than just smart animals.

Paulsen also never addresses the fact that even a social form of hunting and gathering would require the human species to be one percent or less of the population we have, which is, for obvious reasons, a serious moral problem.

So, this kind of bothered me. Maybe the final book resolves the issue, but I found it unsatisfying to think that the only option was complete isolation from society and near-complete isolation from technology. This general philosophy was all too common in the Fundie circles (although they generally envisioned an early agricultural, rather than hunter-gatherer society as ideal.) Both share a disdain for urban living - and thus urban humanity - which again poses a myriad of ethical and practical questions.

There are some good parts to the book, though. It is nice to see a counselor portrayed as neither the all-knowing savior of the protagonist nor as a bumbling fool, but as an interesting human in his own right. Paulsen is still amazing in describing techniques, and in recounting moments from his own experience: in this book, encounters with a deer and a bear. I also appreciated the episode near the end when he encounters the old woodsman, who speaks his particular language. The writing is good. The problem is in the conception, which seems uncharacteristically naive for Paulsen.

We listened to this on the same trip as The Call of the Wild, which made an interesting pairing. Two authors familiar with the unforgiving laws of nature, as well as the things necessary for survival. Both stories about going feral and returning to instinct. It turns out to be a bit more convincing in the case of the dog.

The Call of the Wild by Jack London

Source of book: Audiobook from the library (but I own this too.)

As part of our quest to visit the western National Parks, we take a longer camping or road trip each year. To get me through the miles, particularly when I am towing our trailer, we listen to audiobooks. I try to keep a good balance between kids books, and classics.

Earlier this year, a friend brought a book of “campfire stories” along, and had me read them on cool evenings around the campfire. One of those was Jack London’s “To Build a Fire,” a classic of the implacability of nature to man’s folly. Having read that, I decided it was probably a good time to listen to London’s best known work, The Call of the Wild. 

London was perhaps the best known of the naturalist writers of the early 20th Century. His novels and stories portray a highly Darwinistic view of nature, devoid of sympathy, governed by survival of the fittest, and ruled by instinct. London was not wrong about this. Nature is cruel. Well, not “cruel” in the moral sense. As London also noted, mankind is the only creature that kills and hurts for fun. In fact, this is one of the great contrasts in London’s writing. Nature is Darwinistic. Mankind is capable of a difference, both good and bad. Mankind engages in senseless cruelty. Mankind fails or refuses to acknowledge the laws of nature, and finds himself dead as a result. But mankind is also capable of genuine love and goodness.

All of the above is on full display in The Call of the Wild.

The basic story is pretty simple. Buck, a large and magnificent dog of mixed heritage, is stolen from his owner in the Santa Clara Valley, and sold north to work as a sled dog in the Yukon, during the gold rush. London knew this area pretty well, having prospected a bit himself. Buck first works for a government dispatcher running mail between outposts. He defeats the current lead dog, and becomes the leader. After that, he works for a different official carrying heavy loads. However, a season of running wears him out, and he is sold along with the rest of the team near the end of the season. Unfortunately, he is purchased by a naive couple and her brother who set out for the Yukon to look for gold. Overweight, underprepared, and too late in the season, they set out, only to reach utter disaster at the hands of relentless Nature. Fortunately for Buck, he is taken in by John Thornton, who shows him the first real love he has had in a long time. After a few memorable episodes, Buck finds himself growing wilder with time, and reverting to his roots as a wolf. When Thornton and his partners are slaughtered by Native Americans, Buck’s last tie to civilization is broken, and he becomes fully wild.

I read this book (and its companion, White Fang - which we didn’t get to on this trip) back in my teens. I suspect a lot of people did experience it at that age, either as as school assignment or just because it is one of the books you read in your teens. In any case, I read White Fang first, which gave me a different perspective on the two books. In some ways, The Call of the Wild seemed to be a lesser book. It was shorter, and the “growing wild” idea didn’t appeal much to me at the time.

Rereading it, though, by itself, I think I appreciate better what London was trying to do. The short length actually means London wrote concisely, and created a perfectly balanced and tautly written tale. I was struck this time by the parallel structure, the sense of direction in the narrative, and way that every detail matters.

I like long books just fine. I mean, Anthony Trollope and Henry James, right? But there is something to be said for disciplined writing of shorter narratives too. I have always loved short stories for this reason.

Last time I read this, I think I missed the way the incidents are parallels throughout. The opening theft and the final wilding after the massacre. The powerlessness of the beginning with the newfound power at the end. The contrast of the dispatchers and their innate knowledge of the rhythms of nature, and the arrogant prospectors who are broken by nature. The cruelty of the man in the red sweater who breaks Buck to servitude, and the kindness of Thornton, who, while he keeps Buck from going completely feral, also aids the transition by his own closeness to nature. The middle episode of running heavy loads transitions from Buck’s rising action to leadership to his increasing break with civilization. There is a lot of craft in the plotting and writing.

Other observations: I had forgotten how violent this book is. More accurately, I had forgotten how violent the humans are in this book. I recalled the animal violence well enough. Eat or be eaten, kill or be killed. The law of nature and all. But, perhaps because I remembered the violence better in White Fang, I forgot how much there is in The Call of the Wild. London seems to envision a good portion of humanity as animalistic at best, and brutal at worst. There are times when I agree with him. Not always, but sometimes. And more these days in the era of Trump.

Secondly, and this was no surprise, London is a bit racist. Not much of a surprise for 1903, of course. And also not a surprise for someone of that era who was strongly Darwinist. But this is a complex issue when it comes to London, as it is for Mark Twain, another person progressive for his era, yet with glaring blind spots. Both tended to view Native Americans as lesser - and London wrote a rather xenophobic diatribe on the peril of Chinese immigration. (This wasn’t that long after the Chinese Exclusion Act. The thing with London is that he was self-aware that racism itself has no rational basis, and noted that he suspected that his fears about China might turn out to be as silly as other “race fantasies.” Furthermore, like Twain, he wrote stories that humanized minorities more than his predecessors and contemporaries. Also complicating things was the fact that London believed strongly in determinism: that is, that environment determines behavior. He thus believed that poverty caused crime, for example, and that abused children grow up to be abusers. Because of this, he advocated for socialism, on the grounds that good outcomes required equal starting points, a point that later Civil Rights Activists would adopt as their own.

I find Jack London to be best in small doses. The brutally naturalistic viewpoint can be a bit overwhelming at times, and you kind of want to see some decent humans after a while. Although, to be honest, they can be in short supply in literature - and sometimes in real life too. But London does make you think. He is certainly an antidote to the sort of nature-worshipping story that views animals as if they were fuzzy little humans, and not living according to Nature’s laws. Never forget that that snuggly, purry cat you love will heartlessly slaughter and eat rodents and birds. I find nature to be beautiful, but it is also deadly and cruel if one fails to respect it. Perhaps London’s most unique contribution to the literature, then, is to write animals that think like animals. Buck isn’t just a human who can’t really talk. Rather, he acts according to instinct, according to nature, and according to his circumstances. And yet, he is a sympathetic and nuanced character; and one of the finest animal characters in literature.

In re-reading this, with the kids, I was reminded that London was an excellent writer, whether or not you agree with his philosophy or not.

***

A side note: I am (as regular readers will know), an avid hiker. The kids and I put on about 120 miles or so a year together, and I often get more than that in. One of the things that stuck with me from reading Jack London was that nature can be unpredictable - so always leave a margin for error and the unexpected, and hike prepared. Thus, we always hike with snacks, a first aid kit, and windbreakers. I have assisted other, less prepared hikers numerous times. Be prepared, be safe, stay alive.

Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

My kids love the Neil Gaiman we have listened to previously. Which is to say, my kids love creepy stories, and have a high tolerance for horror. Here are our previous Gaiman selections:

Coraline

Good Omens (with Terry Pratchett)

The Graveyard Book

M is for Magic

Odd And The Frost Giants

One thing I should mention at the outset about Neverwhere, is that, unlike the others, Neverwhere isn’t really a kids book. (Arguably, Good Omens isn’t either. But that book is less terrifying and more humorous, because Terry Pratchett…) That means that it contains some pretty scary and violent moments - little kids will probably have an issue here. And also a fair share of garden-variety vulgarity and profanity. Your approach to this sort of stuff with your kids may vary from mine. (For what it is worth, I am bothered much more by racial slurs, which you find readily in older literature - including children’s literature - than by crass references to bodily functions, extremely hot punishment, and how you get there.) There are also some non-graphic sexual references (the main character is definitely having sex with his fiancee.)

What Neverwhere is, however, is Gaiman’s first real novel (he started with graphic novels), which he based on a TV series he also wrote. The characters are the same, but the story is expanded. It is more or less in the horror genre, and certainly shows all the typical themes that Gaiman continues to work with. Realism with a supernatural element (not exactly magical realism, but a close cousin), lonely and isolated characters, a hidden world hiding in plain sight alongside the “real” one, and a generally Gothic and macabre vibe.

In an opening that O Henry would approve, young businessman Richard Mayhew is running late to a dinner with his fiancee and her famous boss, when a girl appears on the sidewalk, bleeding badly, and asking for help - and that the police not be called. To the horror and disapproval of his fiancee - and against his better judgment - he takes the girl, who calls herself “Door,” back to his apartment. Soon after, two rather Victorian gentlemen gangster sorts calling themselves Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar show up, and attempt to shake him down for the girl. And then things start to get really weird really fast.

First, Richard must summon a mysterious figure, the Marquis de Carabas, who takes Door with him as they both vanish. Then, Richard discovers that he apparently no longer exists. Nobody remembers him, and his flat is being rented to strangers. He has to find his way to “London Underground” to find Door and try to get his life back. Once there, he finds he is caught up in running from a plot to murder Door (having dispatched her family already), which appears to involve very powerful and mysterious forces. Richard, the Marquis, Door, and a badass female bodyguard, Hunter, set out on the quest for the truth and safety.

This being Gaiman, naturally, assassins figure prominently. And nobody is quite who they seem. Along the way, there are a bunch of memorable, fascinating characters that inhabit an equally imaginative world. Gaiman also combines, as usual, suspenseful plotting with good characterization (within the confines of the genre), and solid writing. There is plenty of social satire as well. The Western financial world gets skewered, as do upwardly mobile sorts who grasp at wealth and prestige. London Underground consists of all the people who fall between the cracks, and Gaiman makes them sympathetic and human - if thoroughly rough and tumble. Richard’s experience is that of falling through the cracks – becoming invisible to society. It happens to him – and could happen to us – more easily than we think.

This book is also a confirmation of the axiom that Neil Gaiman should always narrate his own audiobooks. His smooth and slightly sinister voice fits his writing perfectly.

As I noted above, unless you have kids like mine, probably be cautious. The violence is pretty nasty, the language might be an issue, and it is a scary book. On the other hand, for teens who like terror, Gaiman’s writing is above average, and his books have a certain moral heft to them which transcends the genres he writes in. We have really enjoyed them over the last few years. 

 Illustration by Chris Riddell. Richard and the Marquis

 Croup and Vandemar.

Caesar's Last Breath by Sam Kean

Source of book: I own this.

Some people line up overnight for the latest smart phone. Other people - like me - get giddy whenever a favorite author releases a new book. I’m a pop-science fan. (Okay, a science fan too.) So, every time Mary Roach, for example, writes something, I am all over it.

One of my favorites is Sam Kean. Sadly, it has been a while since his last book, so I haven’t gotten my fix in three years. Fortunately, my wife got me his new book for Christmas. Here are my reviews of Kean’s other books.

The Disappearing Spoon

The Tale of the Dueling Neurosurgeons

The Violinist’s Thumb

Caesar’s Last Breath is about gases. Encompassed in that topic are history, medicine, as well as the science you would expect. As I have noted, Kean’s style - his strong point - is to write stories. You remember the science because it relates to people. And you remember the people because of the science. In this book, he opens with the assassination of Julius Caesar, then speculates about whether he (and you and me) have inhaled the same molecules that he breathed out. Well, “speculate” is entirely the wrong word. He does that math in detail. (The answer: statistically, you would inhale one molecule on average that Caesar breathed out with each and every breath you take.)

After this introduction, Kean looks at a number of gases found in our atmosphere in light of the past, present, and future, using a combination of stories and science. The first section is about the history of the earth’s atmosphere. That part is pretty fascinating, particularly if - like me - you missed out on too much of mainstream science as a kid. We are on at least our fourth atmosphere here on earth, and the history is really fun. The second part is about humans and the atmosphere. The final part is about the effect we humans have had on the atmosphere. Some parts are depressing, particularly our ongoing contributions to carbon dioxide. But you also get crazy stories, like that of Harry Truman (not the president - a crazy old coot who lived on the flanks of Mt. Saint Helens…) And of the Montgolfier brothers (pioneers of balloon flight), Alfred Nobel, and so many more.

I could go on with fun anecdotes and cool scientific facts, but Kean tells it better anyway.

A few things are worth mentioning, though. First is that we seriously underestimate gases. At sea level, atmospheric pressure is 14.7 pounds per square inch. Not that much - bicycle tires are inflated to a far greater pressure. But that’s a whole ton of weight on every square foot - 20 tons pressing on your body. We don’t even notice, of course, but it is there.

On a related note, it is tough to fathom just how tiny molecules are - and how many of them there are. Sure, we memorize Avogadro's Number in high school. (6.022 x 10²³, in case you didn’t remember it…) But exponents are hard to translate to reality. The numbers are too big.

Kean uses an interesting technique. At the beginning of each section, he gives the chemical formula for each molecule he will discuss (say, nitrogen - N₂, or nitrous oxide - N₂O), then indicates how many molecules you inhale with each breath. This is completely astounding.

Are you familiar with acetylene? (C₂H₂)  It’s a fuel for flame welding torches. It is a negligible proportion of air: at most 0.0001 parts per million. Undetectable for practical purposes. Medically insignificant. And yet. Each breath contains a billion molecules of acetylene. Say what?! As they say, the poison is in the dose, and the numbers this book contains are pretty good evidence of that.

There are two other references that tickled me. One was to William McGonagall, arguably the worst poet ever. And also referenced in Terry Pratchett’s The Wee Free Men. McGonagall comes into the book because of his poem on the Tay Bridge Disaster, which was related to defects in the iron - hence a discussion of gas metallurgy.  

The final bit that I found fascinating is the explanation of the workings of the “flame refrigerator” - aka the absorption fridge. You may or may not be familiar with these. Most of our modern refrigerators (and air conditioners) use a heat pump to compress and condense a refrigerant (this is also discussed in the book.) However, there is an alternative method, which was developed by Leo Szilard and...Albert Einstein. It uses liquid and gas to accomplish the same thing, but using less toxic materials than those used by heat pumps at the time. (This was before freons were invented.) I think Kean gets one detail wrong about these. He claims that these never made it into homes - but that isn’t quite true. Kean is correct that the heat pump is more efficient and more powerful, and that this is why our homes today use them. But those of us with rural ancestors know that in places where there was no electricity, these - which run off of propane or natural gas - were in common use. I suspect Kean is from the east coast, not from, say, rural Montana.

And, today, they are ubiquitous in recreational vehicles - my trailer has one. That’s why I have refrigeration when boondocking. A little propane flame - heat - makes cold. It’s amazing.

Anyway, this book is quite fascinating, well written, and informative. Let’s hope Kean doesn’t take three years writing his next one.