Taft by Ann Patchett

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

 

Sometimes, which audiobook I listen to depends on what is available at the time. In this case, I happened to think that maybe I should read another Ann Patchett book, and this one happened to be available. 

 

I previously read Commonwealth back in 2022, and thought it was well written and compelling, so I decided I would try to read one of her books every so often. 

 

Taft is definitely a very different book from Commonwealth, although it does share some commonalities. Patchett is excellent at writing nuanced, complex, and recognizable characters. They seem to come directly from life, no matter who they are. Also, like the other book, Taft is all about ordinary people in ordinary situations. Even the violence in this book is, sadly, all too common in 21st Century America, as are the mundane tragedies that follow the characters. 

 

For this book, Patchett took a bit of a risk: a white woman writing a story with a black man as the protagonist. 

 

I have been thinking about this a lot since starting the book, and it is a much-debated question. Who gets to write which stories? At one level, anyone should be able to write any story they wish, as long as they write it well, and honestly. A truly good author should be able to write about life, and life includes, well, other people of all kinds. A book without black people, or women, or LGBTQ people will be an incomplete picture, right? 

 

On the other hand, though, we all have our blind spots, so one might write about other people with caution. White men like me in particular have both blind spots about race and gender AND have been acculturated to see ourselves as the one objective, detached, normal human voice. The default, so to speak. 

 

Another issue is that white authors already have a structural advantage, so should they go hunting on other people’s territory, so to speak? 

 

For these reasons, it is easy to eye-roll about a white author telling a black story. And I will admit to feeling a bit of nebulous discomfort throughout the experience of this book. I would be curious to know what my black readers think of the book. 

 

The more I think about it, though, I think this is due to my own feelings about the issues I note above, rather than anything “wrong” or “off” with the book. The book is good, and at least from my perspective as a white guy, it handles the issues quite well. 

 

For example, the protagonist and the other black characters are fully realized, complex, nuanced, and recognizable. I was unable to see any stereotyping in their portrayal. They may be black, but they aren’t Black™, if you know what I mean.

 

And they also aren’t just white characters described as having dark skin. You know the type, the diverse group of characters that never experience racism, or if they do, it’s obvious bad people doing bad things stuff. 

 

Racism - and race relations - play a real role in the story, and also in the protagonist’s inner thought life. This is Memphis, after all, with all that means. Since the book is told in the first person (except for the “Taft” episodes - more about that later), we are inside his head most of the time. The thing is, at least from my limited perspective, Patchett does a great job with this. It feels real. 

 

Also appreciated is that this isn’t a “Magical Negro” book at all. The protagonist and his own journey and development is the important thing, and he definitely isn’t there to bring a white character to self-awareness. 

 

So, as far as I can think, nothing about this book is problematic, other than just the question about white authors and black characters. 

 

I will also repeat that Ann Patchett is all about everyday stories. While the book certainly makes some points about race relations, they happen organically, as part of observing the world through the protagonist’s eyes, not preaching or heavy-handed writing. She shows, and lets the reader observe. 

 

The book has a great opening line: “A white girl walked into the bar.” And that is how it starts. John Nickel is the manager of the bar. A former jazz drummer, he took on the job after his girlfriend Marian got pregnant. He had hoped that the steady job and responsible living would convince her to marry him, but their relationship deteriorated. Eventually, she left for Miami with their son Franklin. 

 

The girl that walks into the bar is Fay Taft, and she wants a job. John is somehow drawn to her (against his better judgment - she looks way too young), and gives her the job. 

 

Fay is hard working and competent, but her younger brother Carl is, well, a real piece of work. He is high most of the time, although he seems quiet enough. It isn’t until he starts dealing drugs inside the bar that things get really dangerous. 

 

None of this is Fay’s fault, though. 

 

As it turns out, Fay and Carl and their deeply depressed mother are living with the mother’s sister and brother-in-law in their ritzy neighborhood. Fay and Carl’s father died recently of a heart attack, and money was too short for them to survive on their own. 

 

Fay and Carl are traumatized, and want to get back to their eastern Tennessee hometown. 

 

Things get complicated, though, as Fay falls in love with John, who in turn makes poor decisions on several occasions. 

 

And there are other complications. John wants to see more of Franklin - he is really trying to be a good father, but the distance is difficult. 

 

Although we know Marian has a good reason to be mad at John - he screwed up and missed the birth of his child, not realizing Marian was in labor. But for years, she has punished him and pushed him away. 

 

She isn’t a bad person, though, just one with some issues. She is a hard-working nurse, having put herself through school with a young child (and with both financial and childcare help from John - he isn’t a bad guy either.) She does have family issues, which is probably what drives her to move away. 

 

Her parents initially disapproved of John - a drummer, really? - and at one point, John was nearly strangled by his sorta-mother-in-law. But they have come to love him, and he spends time with them regularly. There is also Marian’s little sister, Ruth, who was always in love with John, and thought Marian was crazy to have thrown him away. 

 

Yep, real life situations and dynamics. 

 

Interspersed with the main narrative are flashback-like episodes involving Fay and Carl’s father, who is referred to as “Taft” in the book. It isn’t all that clear whether these are real accounts of the past, leading up to Taft’s death; or whether they are all in John’s head. Is John just trying to fill the gaps? Or are these entirely plausible vignettes a true picture of life before the untimely death?

 

The book also sits with discomfort a lot. John and Fay never have an actual romantic relationship, although god knows Fay tries hard enough. But the idea of a nearly 40 year old man together with a 17, then 18 year old girl is a bit icky. And maybe even more so given our cultural baggage about black men and white women. (Which Patchett definitely explores.)

 

How much of Fay’s infatuation is her craving for a father-figure? How much of John’s fascination with both Fay and Carl is a displaced wish to be a more involved father? 

 

How much is John’s grief about having given up music for a son he rarely sees bound up in all the other feelings?

 

The story also ends, but doesn’t really resolve. There are so many questions about the future for all the characters. Where do they go from here? One could certainly see a sequel, but Patchett hasn’t written one, and this book (her second) is 32 years old, so I’m pretty sure one isn’t coming. 

 

I wouldn’t say this book is quite as excellent as Commonwealth, but it is definitely good and worth reading. I continue to love how skilled Patchett is at creating believable characters and situations, and making even fairly mundane plots compelling. 

 

The audiobook in this case was narrated by J. D. Jackson, who has won a number of awards. With one exception, he did a great job. I really felt like he was a great voice for this story, and added to the experience. 

 

The one flaw? It’s kind of amusing. In the introduction and outro to the audiobook, he refers to the author as Ann Pratchett - with an “R.” What is perhaps most surprising is that nobody seems to have caught it and edited it. When I first heard it, I wondered if somehow I had downloaded a book by a different author by mistake, but nope, it is in fact Patchett, without the “R.” 

 

 

Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare (Empty Space 2026)

I hadn’t realized that it has been a full decade since I last saw Julius Caesar. It feels like not that long ago, honestly, perhaps because it was the start of our family attending the Utah Shakespeare Festival together. (We didn’t go every year, but we have attended quite a few since then.) 

 

In retrospect, however, maybe I should have realized it has been a long time, since that year, my youngest was only age 5 and took advantage of the daycare for a couple of the plays. Including Julius Caesar. 

 

The problem (if it can be called that) with the USF version of Julius Caesar is that it was such a perfect production in every imaginable way that every subsequent version I see will inevitably be compared to that. Which isn’t really fair, of course. 

 

In particular, Paul Michael Sandberg was the most imposing, charismatic, and freaking dangerous Caesar I have ever seen - or perhaps could imagine. You could tell why the conspirators wanted him dead. And why the people lost their minds over him. 

 

Note: one of the more disappointing things about the Trump Era is that Americans apparently don’t need a first-rate demagogue. We settled for laughably stupid, incompetent, and embarrassing. He’s like Wilford Wiggins, grown up and fresh from his job at a 5th rate used car dealership, and still selling cut-rate scams. Couldn’t we have held out for someone of substance? 

 

I mention this in part because the set design in this production specifically referenced “Make Rome Great Again.” Caesar at least was a military hero, and by all accounts, competent in a number of areas. We get a reality show clown instead. Sigh.  

 

Anyway, about The Empty Space’s production, which, even without Paul Michael Sandberg, was excellent. 

 

As I noted, my youngest missed our last Caesar, so she accompanied me this time. 

 

The first thing I want to note about this particular production is that it was directed by local professor Mendy McMasters, who has a history of well-coached plays, both student productions and community versions. For this Julius Caesar, I was impressed by how well all of the actors projected, and how fluid their diction was. And this includes some young actors just getting started. Everything was clear and audible and sounded not only carefully prepared but natural. 

 

Second, in keeping with the “low budget” aesthetic that The Empty Space has leaned into for its two decades in our community, the set was sparse, even brutalist. All greys and concrete and fairly stark lighting. 

 

The costumes were what I would call more of an artistic expression than any particular setting in time. At the beginning, the royalists wore what I guess is kind of a nod to Roman aesthetics, but also more modern? By the end of the play, it was all-black with red berets - Che Guevara chic. Likewise, the conspirators were beige-ish at the beginning, but too ended in black. The world, in fact, turns black, if you will. 

 

Yellows and oranges dominated the colors of the plebeians. Also interesting was the liberal use of tattoos - I asked about it, and there wasn’t any particular meaning, just part of the look. 

 

This production included a bit of framing, with the cast opening the play with the question of “how do we tell the story of Caesar and Brutus?” as well as the greater questions of violence and war and morality. It was an echo of other Shakespeare plays - A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Henry V to name a couple - where the Chorus, so to speak, whether as a single narrator or a character or a group, directly addresses the audience. I thought it was quite effective, and fit the rest of the vision for the play. 

 

This play in particular turns on the performances of its main characters. In this case, Perrin Swanson (no relation, but we’d take him in a heartbeat) played Brutus, the “hero” of this play, to the extent one exists - a tragic hero to be sure. I’m not sure I have seen Perrin in an actual Shakespeare play before - but he sure has done everything else. And that includes directing, acting, set design, lights, sound. If you can imagine it, he probably has done it. 

 

Unsurprisingly, he gave a good turn in the lead role in this one, properly conflicted, with more than a bit of that stuffy self-righteousness that is Brutus’ calling card. In particular, his speech at Caesar’s funeral falls flat, as he tries to take the moral high ground unsuccessfully. Brutus just doesn’t see clearly, as he makes mistake after mistake, after mistake. Perrin made the lack of self-awareness feel genuine and pitiable. 

Cassius (Connor Deming) and Brutus (Perrin Swanson)

 

Opposite him, as the hot-headed and pissy Cassius, was Connor Deming. Deming has been in a number of plays over the past few years, starting with Bakersfield College productions. This is a serious lead role, and it was nice to see just how much he has grown as an actor. This was a superb job, with a lot of stage presence, beautiful and natural diction, and that lean and hungry look. 

 

To round out the central trio was Avery Gibson as Antony. I have loved watching her since I first saw her in Antigone, and I really think she is one of our best local actors in any role. Her speech at Caesar’s funeral was fantastic, highly persuasive, emotional, and manipulative as hell. A dangerous character played with a great edge. How much is Antony motivated by his real grief, and how much by his determination to “let slip the dogs of war”? Gibson walked the line on that, a delightfully nuanced performance, but one full of fury and danger. 

Antony (Avery Gibson)

 

Steve Evans, who also has been in everything over the years, brought gravitas as Caesar. 

 Julius Caesar (Steve Evans)

As I mentioned, from top to bottom, the cast was well prepared and did a good job. I’ll give special mention to Andi Kruszka as the Soothsayer, Auria Shamblin as Portia, Kamala Boeck (also a playwright!) as Calphurnia, and Tyler Espinoza as Decius as memorable in smaller roles. But I can’t think of a bad performance here. 

 Portia (Auria Shamblin)

Overall, it was an excellent production of a classic play, and well worth the modest price of a ticket. Unfortunately, this show has already completed its run, but there are others on tap for the rest of the season. 

 

 

The Waste Land, The Hollow Men, and Ash-Wednesday by T. S. Eliot

Source of book: I own this

 

Like many people of my age, I read “The Hollow Men” first in high school. I also, if I recall, read “The Waste Land” around the same time. For whatever reason, it didn’t speak to me quite the way the first poem did. 

 

I have read them since, although I haven’t blogged about them. I decided to revisit both poems, and add another that follows it in sequence in my particular hardback, “Ash-Wednesday.” Although each is different, I feel they are linked in Eliot’s grappling with the aftermath of World War One, and his turn toward a more religious-mystical writing style. 

 

One can draw a straight line between these poems in sequence through to the Four Quartets, which are, in my view, some of the finest poems ever written. 

 

I still consider “The Hollow Men” the best of this trio, but I found much to love in the other two. 

 

The Waste Land

 

This poem is packed full of literary and historical references, and takes some unpacking. Eliot himself left a bunch of notes, which are reproduced in my edition. It also is very modernist, with a free form, changes in perspective, fragmented narratives, varying styles, and a broad scope. 

 

Generally, it expresses the feeling that World War One shattered the world that had existed, leaving behind a moral and spiritual vacuum, shattered lives, and a lack of meaning. 

 

Because of the fragmentation, it is a bit tough to follow, and I re-read portions several times. Despite the fact that this poem is often considered Eliot’s best, I found it the weakest of the three, mostly because of a lack of coherence. The episodes seem disjointed and not always related to the others. 

 

This isn’t to say it isn’t good. It is a very good poem. Just not (to me at least) as compelling as the other two. 

 

There are some amazing lines, though. For example, the opening of the poem, with its unforgettable upending of the usual promise of spring. 

 

April is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers. 

 

One of the interesting choices Eliot makes is in the placement of the “-ing” verbs at the end of the line, blurring the boundary between the words’ use as verbs and as gerunds. 

 

The overall picture, which Eliot fleshes out more in what follows, is that winter kept everything hidden, forgotten, but the thaw revealed the emptiness - the dead bodies, the death, the horror of war. 

 

I was reminded a bit of Kazuo Ishiguro’s book, The Buried Giant. 

 

Later in this section, the author envisions the ghosts of the dead walking around London. 

 

Unreal city,

Under a brown fog of a winter dawn,

A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,

I had not thought death had undone so many.

Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,

And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. 

 

Another line in a later section echoes this thought. 

 

I think we are in rats’ alley

Where the dead men lost their bones.

 

And again, in a brief section entitled “Death by Water”:

 

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,

Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell

And the profit and loss.

                        A current under sea

Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell

He passed the stages of his age and youth

Entering the whirlpool.

                        Gentile or Jew

O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,

Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you. 

 

Definitely some beautiful writing in this poem, one worth revisiting. 

 

The Hollow Men

 

This poem is amazing in so many ways. And it has always seemed relevant to me. Our world is full of hollow men, stuffed men, with no substance beyond a lust for money and power. Trump is perhaps the best example - and we all knew it back in the 1980s and 90s, before the white Evangelicals who raised me forgot all about what they told kids like me about how Trump was the sort of evil vapid monster you became an atheist. 

 

(In retrospect, of course, they were wrong about atheism - in reality, atheists are, statistically speaking, more moral and empathetic than Evangelicals. Trump is and was evil not because of his lack of a belief in a god, but because he is a malignant narcissist who grew up rich and has never had to care about other people in his entire goddamn life.) 

 

Re-reading “The Hollow Men” for what has to be a dozen times sure feels like reading a description of MAGA and the emptiness that is left when you sell your soul for political power. It is a death within life, a spiritual dementia. 

 One of several incredible illustrations for the poem by Howard Penning. 

I found them on Creative Commons. 

The resemblance to Stephen Miller is uncanny - and fitting. 

I could easily quote the entire poem, but I’ll just hit the highlights. 

 

The opening, of course. 

 

We are the hollow men

We are the stuffed men

Leaning together

Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!

Our dried voices, when

We whisper together

Are quiet and meaningless

As wind in dry grass

Or rats’ feet over broken glass 

In our dry cellar

 

Shape without form, shade without color

Paralyzed force, gesture without motion;

 

Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom

Remember us - if at all - not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men.

 

There are images introduced here which recur throughout the poem: eyes, and the kingdom of the dead. 

 

The eyes are not here

There are no eyes here

In this valley of dying stars 

In this hollow valley

This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

 

And this:

 

Sightless, unless

The eyes reappear

As the perpetual star

Multifoliate rose

Of death’s twilight kingdom

The hope only

Of empty men.

 

As the poem speeds toward its end, as the wheels seem to come off, Eliot gives new lyrics to the old nursery rhyme, “Here we go ‘round the mulberry bush,” first with the desert imagery of a prickly pear, and finally one of the bleakest yet most memorable endings ever written. 

 

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

 

Ash-Wednesday

 

I will admit, I hadn’t read this poem before. It is a gem as well, and one I think I will need to return to. 

 

I was raised non-denominational Evangelical - a very American sort of religion, honestly - and never really did the liturgy or the religious calendar. That stuff was popish idolatry or something, I guess.

 

Still, I learned parts of the liturgy as the result of being a classical musician. And I learned about the events on the Catholic/Episcopal calendar from from friends from other traditions, particularly as an adult. 

 

I have not myself celebrated Ash Wednesday, but I do find the idea of a season of repentance and reflection to be a beautiful thing. 

 

Eliot wrote this poem around 1927 (it was published in 1930), during the process of his conversion to the Anglican faith. As such, it is filled with religious ideas, and documents a sort of process wherein an atheist (like Eliot was) finds faith. It’s…complicated. 

 

For me, as a person raised in a faith tradition, but who was forced out because I spoke out against the new messiah (the orange one…), and who has subsequently come to understand the way white supremacy and misogyny are inseparable from that tradition, poems like this touch a cord. I won’t say I am exactly deconverted, but I’m also not not deconverted. Religion is complicated for me.  

 

Conversion narratives may feel like the opposite direction, but they also live in that liminal space where I think true faith resides. The region of doubt, of questioning, of seeking truth wherever that path leads. 

 

I also find that Eliot’s writings on faith feel genuine, and also hard-won. This isn’t the cheap or inherited faith, but a true resonance of the soul. 

 

The poem starts with a quote from Calvalcanti, a friend of Dante, in a poem about dying, and builds from there into a renunciation of the values of the world and a look toward the possibility of salvation. 

 

Several lines stood out to me, including the beginning. 

 

Because I do not hope to turn again

Because I do not hope

Because I do not hope to turn

Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope

I no longer strive to strive toward such things

(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)

Why should I mourn

The vanished power of that usual reign?

 

Honestly, the first section is so good with the music and rhythm of the words that I read it over again for the beauty. 

 

The second section addresses the Virgin Mary, and includes a poem-within-the-poem with lines half as long as the main body. It is worth quoting.

 

Lady of silences

Calm and distressed

Torn and most whole

Rose of memory

Rose of forgetfulness

Exhausted and life-giving

Worried reposeful

The single Rose 

Is now the garden

Where all loves end

Terminate torment

Of love unsatisfied

The greater torment

Of love satisfied

End of the endless

Journey to no end

Conclusion of all that

Is inconclusible

Speech without word and

Word of no speech

Grace to the Mother

For the Garden 

Where all love ends.

 

Paradox is so central both to poetry and to spirituality. 

 

The third section has a lot of repetition, as it describes the journey - and the struggle - in terms of a spiral staircase. Many of the words are repeated, giving a sense of the repetition of steps, of the turning back on itself. 

 

Here is an example:

 

At the first turning of the second stair

I turned and saw below

The same shape twisted on the baninster

Under the vapour of the fetid air

Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears

The deceitful face of hope and despair. 

 

Later, as the monsters give way to sweeter visions, that motif of “hope and despair” is transformed. 

 

Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair

Climbing the third stair. 

 

The fourth section has this beautiful passage:

 

Here are the years that walk between, bearing

Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring

One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing

 

White light folded, sheathed about her, folded. 

 

Again, the similar use of “-ing” verbs as in “The Waste Land.”

 

The opening of the fifth section is amazing for its use of alliteration and repetition. 

 

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent

If the unheard, unspoken

Word is unspoken, unheard;

Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,

The Word without a word, the Word within

The Word without a word, the Word within

The world and for the world;

And the light shone in darkness and 

Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled

About the center of the silent Word. 

 

Those of us raised in the Christian tradition will recognize the opening of the Gospel of John there. But Eliot transforms and reimagines it. 

 

The final part parallels the first, references the middle sections, and ultimately sees the “turning” not as death or loss, but rebirth, and flight. 

 

Although I do not hope to turn again

Although I do not hope

Although I do not hope to turn

 

Wavering between the profit and the loss

In this brief transit where the dreams cross

The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying

(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things

From the wide window towards the granite shore

The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying

Unbroken wings.

 

I found this poem to be unexpectedly beautiful, and felt fitting for the time of life and complexity I am in. All three of these poems were excellent, and reminded me again of why I love Eliot. 

The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler

Source of book: I own this

 

This book ended up being the choice for both of my book clubs. Our local in-person one read it for last month, but I was unable to attend due to a concert. (This spring has been insanity - I said yes to a lot of gigs, and have been pretty busy on weekends.) We also picked it for my online club - three of us read and discuss at our own pace. 

 

I read The Big Sleep last year, so it was interesting to compare the two books. The first one was an early work, while The Long Goodbye was a later one. There is definitely plenty of contrast between the two. 

 

First is the climatic setting. The Big Sleep is all about the winter rain. It feels like it rains constantly, in that southern California way. In contrast, The Long Goodbye occurs in a humid, smoggy summer, the kind that I remember from my childhood.

 

In addition, this book mostly takes place in the San Fernando Valley, which is where I grew up, so it felt even more familiar than the central Los Angeles setting of The Big Sleep. Specifically, it is set in and around Encino, although time has sure changed things about the area. 

 

[For those who care, “Sepulveda Canyon” is referenced several times. This is now where the infamous Interstate 405 goes through the pass, but back then, it was relatively rural, and could very well have had a shady alcohol “rehab” place tucked up in the hills. Likewise, the area around the Encino Reservoir no longer has large lots - it’s pretty built up - but is still hella expensive.]

 

The book is also longer than the other books Chandler wrote, and I think it was for good reason. The Big Sleep is classic Philip Marlowe detective noir - straight up and to the point. Marlowe avoids emotional entanglement, acts with confidence, and solves his case. 

 

The Long Goodbye feels different. This is an older Marlowe, more jaded but also less sure of himself and his business. We see so much more of him as a human. The writing is far more introspective. No shade on the earlier novels, but this one is closer to literary fiction. 

 

Don’t get me wrong: this is still detective noir, and if you want a banger of a mystery and the usual gumshoe investigation, shady characters, dangerous women, dissipated men, and the rest, it is all very much there in this book. 

 

But there is a thoughtfulness in the book too, and I think we see a lot more of Chandler himself showing through. 

 

I find it interesting that some critics considered it an inferior book, but I don’t see that at all. The social criticism, inner life, and more nuanced situations make for a stronger - and deeper - book. 

 

Also, this book has rightly raised some questions about Chandler’s sexuality, due to its homoerotic undertones and autobiographical elements. Indeed, all of Chandler’s books have homosexual elements, overt and covert. And also plenty of homophobia. 

 

What do we make of Chandler? He married a woman nearly two decades older than himself, and the relationship was reputed to be more platonic than not. He didn’t have any documented relationships with men, but even during his lifetime there was talk. Was his a lavender marriage? Was he an asexual? (That’s also plausible, given how he writes about sex.) 

 

What I can say pretty confidently is that he does not write like an allosexual heterosexual. At all. More like someone cosplaying what he thinks heterosexuality looks like. 

 

Before I jump into the book itself, I also want to note that all of Chandler’s books show their age when it comes to stereotypes. The casual racism and sexism (and the homophobia mentioned above) is jarring, even though it was common at the time. Perhaps the Asian stereotypes feel the most out of place, because anti-black racism and misogyny are on the rise in the Trump era, and so feel more familiar. 

 

So, as with any book, recognize the bad, embrace the good, and be aware that our own blind spots aren’t visible to us, but will be to subsequent generations.

 

On the far better side, Chandler’s books - particularly this one - illuminate just how horrible the ultra-rich are. Wealth corrupts the soul - one of the key teachings of Christ, by the way - and love of money is the root of pretty much every evil. It is no accident that the ultra-rich gravitated to Jeffrey Epstein and the rape of young children. That’s what obscene riches create. Every time.  

 

The book has plenty of social commentary about crooked cops, economic inequality and the way it perverts justice, materialism, and the illusion of the American Dream. Classic 1950s stuff. 

 

Now, about the story. It starts with a crazy scene. Marlowe discovers a drunk-out-of-his-mind man outside a club. He notices a huge scar on the man’s face, and is somehow drawn to him, so he takes him home to sleep it off. 

 

Yeah, this already seems to have some gay undertones to it, right? Anyway, this man, Terry Lennox, is one of two characters in this book that have some autobiographical elements. Like Terry, Chandler had a big drinking problem, periodically blackout binge drinking and nearly killing himself. 

 

Anyway, the two men become casual friends, meeting for drinks occasionally. 

 

But then, one night, Terry shows up at Marlowe’s house, and asks him to drive him to Mexico. Marlowe, in what has to be terrible judgment - or perhaps being in love? - does so, but refuses to hear any story, because he doesn’t want to be an accessory if something bad went down.

 

When he returns, he discovers that Lennox’s wife has been brutally murdered, Lennox is the suspect, and that the police think he was an accessory. 

 

Well, what they really want is for him to give his information so they can find Lennox. 

 

Again, inexplicably, Marlowe refuses to talk, spends some time in jail, and is only released because the victim’s father pulls strings. 

 

Again, everything makes a lot more sense if Marlowe is in love with Terry. 

 

So anyway, word then comes that Lennox has committed suicide in Mexico, leaving behind a written confession. 

 

But Marlowe isn’t convinced that Terry did the crime, and also suspects that the “suicide” was either a murder or a fake. And so, he proceeds to do his own investigation into the situation. 

 

Meanwhile, he is also approached by a New York publishing agent, who has a pulp writer, Roger Wade, who needs to finish his promised book, but keeps falling off the wagon and doing crazy things. Hey, the other character based on Chandler!

 

Although Marlowe initially refuses the assignment, he eventually accepts after he meets Eileen, Roger’s beautiful wife. 

 

And, it turns out that all these people know each other: Lennox, his wife, her rich father, her sister and husband, the Wades. With the exception of the reclusive multi-millionaire father (a type that appears in multiple Chandler books), they all party together. (And the parties are damn tedious. Amazing descriptive writing - one suspects Chandler sat through a lot of these terrible parties.) 

 

Oh, and there are more of the usual characters. A gangster named Mendy Menendez, who seems to be connected to Terry. Various crooked and violent cops. Marlowe’s old buddy from the LAPD, Bernie. A creepy bodyguard (and possible boyfriend) for Roger. Doctors pushing quack cures and alcohol treatment. Doctors pushing illicit pills. And, of course, don’t ever trust any woman in a Chandler book. 

 

I won’t go any further with the plot, because, well, that’s part of the fun, right? It’s a good story, the twists don’t come out of nowhere, but are still surprising and satisfying. I thought it was a fun read. If you like detective noir, this is a good one. But also, it is a bit slower paced than other Chandler books - and there is a lot more introspection, which I like. 

 

With that, let’s look at some lines, because Chandler is all about the zingers, right?

 

The girl gave him a look which ought to have stuck at least four inches out of his back. 

 

My wife can give those looks. Generally not to me, but to guys who definitely deserve it.

 

In one of the weirdest passages, there is this reminder that some things have really changed over the years:

 

It was the week after Thanksgiving when I saw him again. The stores along Hollywood Boulevard were already beginning to fill up with overpriced Christmas junk, and the daily papers were beginning to scream about how terrible it would be if you didn’t get your Christmas shopping done early.

 

Wait, WHAT? These days, Christmas crap is in the stores by August, and the music starts playing everywhere after Halloween. We could only wish that it held off until the week after Thanksgiving. 

 

“I’m rich. Who the hell wants to be happy?”

 

And this line from a lawyer:

 

“You had to play the big scene,” he said coldly. “Stand on your rights, talk about the law. How ingenuous can a man get, Marlowe? A man like you who is supposed to know his way around. The law isn’t justice. It’s a very imperfect mechanism. If you press exactly the right buttons and are also lucky, justice might show up in the answer. A mechanism is all the law was ever intended to be.”

 

As a lawyer myself, I agree with that. The thing is, like democracy, as imperfect as it is, it beats the alternatives. 

 

Guys with a hundred million dollars live a peculiar life, behind a screen of servants, bodyguards, secretaries, lawyers, and tame executives. Presumably they eat, sleep, get their hair cut, and wear clothes. But you never know for sure. 

 

Yep. No contact with ordinary people except as employees. That’s part of what corrupts the soul. 

 

He hung up in my ear. I replaced the phone thinking that an honest cop with a bad conscience always acts tough. So does a dishonest cop. So does almost anyone, including me. 

 

Some of Chandler’s descriptions are so over-the-top they are good. 

 

Inside was a small and ugly reception room, but the ugliness was deliberate and expensive. The furniture was scarlet and dark green, the walls were a flat brunswick green, and the pictures hung on them were framed in a green about three shades darker than that. The pictures were guys in red coats on big horses that were just crazy to jump over high fences. There were two frameless mirrors tinted a slight but disgusting shade of rose pink. The magazines on the table of polished primavera were of the latest issue and each one was enclosed in a clear plastic cover. The fellow who decorated that room was not a man to let colors scare him. He probably wore a pimento shirt, mulberry slacks, zebra shoes, and vermilion drawers with his initials on them in a nice Mandarin orange.

 

I mean, your eyes hurt just reading that, right?

 

“The file you mention is top secret. In no circumstances must any confidential information be disclosed to outsiders. I’ll get it at once.” 

 

And this line, from a Jewish character:

 

“Well I ain’t a Christian, and I’m not knocking Christians, you understand. But with me it’s real. I don’t just say it. I do it.” 

 

She had that fine-drawn intense look that is sometimes neurotic, sometimes sex-hungry, and sometimes just the result of drastic dieting.

 

“He had a gun,” I said. “In Mexico that might be enough excuse for some jittery cop to pour lead into him. Plenty of American police have done their killings the same way - some of them through doors that didn’t open fast enough to suit them.” 

 

When he opened the door the buzz from the living room exploded into our faces. It seemed louder than before, if possible. About two drinks louder. 

 

“That’s the difference between crime and business. For business you gotta have capital. Sometimes I think it’s the only difference.”

 

“There ain’t no clean way to make a hundred million bucks. Maybe the head man thinks his hands are clean but somewhere along the line guys got pushed to the wall, nice little businesses got the ground cut from under them and had to sell out for nickels, decent people lost their jobs, stocks got rigged on the market, proxies got bought up like a pennyweight of old gold, and the five per centers and the big law firms got paid hundred-grand fees for beating some law the people wanted but the rich guys didn’t, on account of it cut into their profits. Big money and big power gets used wrong. It’s the system.” 

 

I have to mention a baseball reference. If you know, you know.

 

Back in my dog house on the sixth floor of the Cahuenga Building I went through my regular double play with the morning mail. Mail slot to desk to wastebasket, Tinker to Evers to Chance. 

 

And this bit from the cynical Marlowe to his cop friend:

 

“Sure, shut me up. I’m just a private citizen. Get off it, Bernie. We don’t have mobs and crime syndicates and goon squads because we have crooked politicians and their stooges in the City Hall and the legislatures. Crime isn’t a disease, it’s a symptom. Cops are like a doctor that gives you aspirin for a brain tumor, except that the cop would rather cure it with a blackjack. We’re a big rough rich wild people and crime is the price we pay for it, and organized crime is the price we pay for organization. We’ll have it with us a long time. Organized crime is just the dirty side of the sharp dollar.” 

 

There you go, a bit of the flavor of the book. Classic noir. 

Pyramids by Terry Pratchett

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

 

Another long camping trip, another Terry Pratchett audiobook. A tradition since 2015! We have listened to quite a few of them over the years. The complete list is at the end of this post, and you can also find links in the various indexes on this site.

 I love these old 1980s covers. So over-the-top.

 

Pyramids is the first in the “Ancient Civilizations” series, which consists of this novel, Small Gods - which is one of the best books Pratchett ever wrote - and a short story, “Death and What Comes Next.” Again, Small Gods is a brilliant, fantastic, perceptive book, and one that I think everyone should read.

 

Pyramids came first by a few years, and shows some of the strains of thought that Pratchett would develop far more in Small Gods, from his perceptive critiques of religion and philosophy to his ideas about the possible afterlives. As such, it is as entertaining as a Discworld book should be, and thought-provoking like all of Pratchett’s books, but perhaps not as jaw-droppingly amazing as the sequel would be. It does, however, seem relevant on multiple points today, including the ludicrousness of “preemptive” war. 

 

As the title suggests, the book is set in the Discworld equivalent of Ancient Egypt, the ludicrously punny Djelibeybi. It too is dependent on a flooding river, and stands between two other larger countries as a buffer. 

 

It also has a panoply of gods, who, because this is Discworld, actually exist (so long as someone believes in them), but are best kept out of everyday life, because they just muck everything up. 

 

The hero of the story is Teppic (short for Teppicymon XXVIII, Lord of the Heavens, Charioteer of the Wagon of the Sun, Steersman of the Barque of the Sun, Guardian of the Secret Knowledge, Lord of the Horizon, Keeper of the Way, the Flail of Mercy, the High-Born One, the Never-Dying King), a young man coming of age. And yes, that absurd series of titles is played to great humorous effect in the book. 

 

Not all is well in Djelibeybi. The building of pyramids is a very expensive endeavor, and it has bankrupted the kingdom. 

 

“The only curse they could afford to put on a tomb these days was “Bugger Off.”” 

 

So, Teppic is sent off to learn a trade. His maternal uncle, Vert, convinces the royal parents to send him to train as an assassin - Discworld assassins have their own guild and university program - like his uncle. 

 

Teppic actually finds all of this a lot more fun than sitting around Djelibeybi as a royal heir. 

 

But, problems find him in Ankh-Morpork too. His dad, who occasionally imagines himself as a seagull, has an episode in which he attempts to fly like one, with predictable gravitational results, and Teppic finds he has a kingdom to rule. 

 

It does not go well. The high priest, Dios, who is older than anyone can remember, believes in tradition. Which includes the tradition that Dios is the one who actually rules the country. 

 

Let’s see, what else happens in this book that I can reveal without too many spoilers?

 

Oh yes. It seems pyramids are actually spacetime devices that have to occasionally flare off the excess built-up time, or things go wrong in Djelibeybi. When Teppicymon XXVII does his seagull impression, the greatest pyramid of all is constructed using mystical methods. This is done by the engineering firm of Ptaclusp. Which consists of Ptaclusp and his two sons, IIa and IIb. (And yes, in fact, this does lead to a bunch of Hamlet puns. This is Pratchett, after all…) 

 

Anyway, the giant pyramid is too powerful, and ends up twisting spacetime by 90 degrees, separating it from the rest of Discworld, and causing all kinds of trouble. Including all of those thoroughly inconvenient gods showing up in person. 

 

Meanwhile, Teppic finally has enough with Dios making terrible decisions on his behalf when a beautiful “handmaid” (yes, that’s a Margaret Atwood reference), Ptraci, refuses to be buried with XXVII in his pyramid, and runs afoul of Dios’ death decree. 

 

So, he puts on his assassin’s gear, and smuggles her out of the prison. 

 

From there, we get an extended stop in Ephebe, the Discworld equivalent of Ancient Greece, filled with philosophy, science, and general silliness. (Ephebe will play a role in Small Gods as well.) And also, the world’s greatest mathematician, who happens to be an ill-tempered camel (aren’t they all?) named You Bastard. 

 

How will Teppic get things straightened out? Does he really have to rule this kingdom? And will XXVII ever be allowed to rest in peace? 

 

How many jokes about Greek mythology can fit in one book? (My youngest is reading the Iliad and Odyssey right now, and snorted her way through this book.) 

 

What I can say without risk of spoiling anything is that the journey will be fun, hilarious, but also seriously thoughtful. And that there will be a lot of terrible puns and jokes and cultural references. I mean, a book that parodies Ancient Egypt, particle physics, and philosophy? You bet!

 

I am availing myself once again of the interwebs to find the quotes that I can’t write down while driving. 

 

“Mere animals couldn’t possibly manage to act like this. You need to be a human being to be really stupid.” 

 

Exactly right. So why do we say “acting like an animal” when humans are acting evil in a way animals never do? 

 

“People needed to believe in gods, if only because it was so hard to believe in people.” 

 

Yeah, that one is true too.

 

“The fact is that camels are far more intelligent than dolphins. They are so much brighter that they soon realized that the most prudent thing any intelligent animal can do, if it would prefer its descendants not to spend a lot of time on a slab with electrodes clamped to their brains or sticking mines on the bottom of ships or being patronized rigid by zoologists, is to make bloody certain humans don't find out about it. So they long ago plumped for a lifestyle that, in return for a certain amount of porterage and being prodded with sticks, allowed them adequate food and grooming and the chance to spit in a human's eye and get away with it.” 

 

That’s at least plausible. And You Bastard is certainly a great character. 

 

“It was said that life was cheap in Ankh-Morpork. This was of course, completely wrong. Life was often very expensive; you could get death for free.”

 

And in the United States too, if you think about it. Related is the explanation of the creed of the Assassin’s Guild:

 

“We do not murder," he said. It was a soft voice; the doctor never raised his voice, but he had a way of giving it the pitch and spin that could make it be heard through a hurricane.

"We do not execute. We do not massacre. We never, you may be very certain, we never torture. We have no truck with crimes of passion or hatred or pointless gain. We do not do it for a delight in inhumation, or to feed some secret inner need, or for petty advantage, or for some cause or belief; I tell you, gentlemen, that all these reasons are in the highest degree suspect.

“Look into the face of a man who will kill you for a belief and your nostrils will snuff up the scent of abomination. Hear a speech declaring a holy war and, I assure you, your ears should catch the clink of evil’s scales and the dragging of its monstrous tail over the purity of the language.

“No, we do it for the money.

'And, because we above all must know the value of a human life, we do it for a great deal of money.

'There can be few cleaner motives, so shorn of all pretense.

'Nil mortifi, sine lucre. Remember. No killing without payment.'

He paused for a moment.

'And always give a receipt,' he added.” 

 

More on life and death:

 

“When you die, the first thing you lose is your life. The next thing is your illusions.” 

 

And this grammar joke that I can’t leave out:

 

“Broadly, therefore, the three even now lurching across the deserted planks of the Brass Bridge were dead drunk assassins and the men behind them were bent on inserting the significant comma.” 

 

Some of the good lines aren’t jokes, though. This one is entirely serious. 

 

“The role of listeners has never been fully appreciated. However, it is well known that most people don’t listen. They use the time when someone else is speaking to think of what they’re going to say next. True Listeners have always been revered among oral cultures, and prized for their rarity value; bards and poets are ten a cow, but a good Listener is hard to find, or at least hard to find twice.”

 

On the other hand, this conversation is comedic GOLD:

 

“What’s Ephebe like?” said Ptraci.

 

“I’ve never been there. Apparently it’s ruled by a Tyrant.”

 

“I hope we don’t meet him, then”

 

Teppic shook his head. “It’s not like that,” he said. “They have a new Tyrant every five years and they do something to him first.” He hesitated. “I think they ee-lect him.”

 

“Is that something like they do to tomcats and bulls and things?”

 

“Er.”

 

“You know. To make them stop fighting and be more peaceful.”

 

Teppic winced. “To be honest, I’m not sure,” he said. “But I don’t think so. They’ve got something they do it with, I think it’s called a mocracy, and it means everyone in the whole country can say who the new Tyrant is. One man, one—” He paused. The political history lesson seemed a very long while ago, and had introduced concepts never heard of in Djelibeybi or in Ankh-Morpork, for that matter. He had a stab at it anyway. “One man, one vet.”

 

“That’s for the eelecting, then?”

 

He shrugged. It might be, for all he knew. “The point is, though, that everyone can do it. They’re very proud of it. Everyone has—” he hesitated again, certain now that things were amiss—“the vet. Except for women, of course. And children. And criminals. And slaves. And stupid people. And people of foreign extractions. And people disapproved of for, er, various reasons. And lots of other people. But everyone apart from them. It’s a very enlightened civilization.” 

 

On a more serious note:

 

“No one is more worried by the actual physical manifestation of a god than his priests; it's like having the auditors in unexpectedly.”

 

As I said, the seeds of the ideas that would be used to such amazing effect in Small Gods are in this book. And yes, most religious leaders today would utterly lose their shit if their gods actually showed up.

 

“I mean, we think we believe that the gods are wise and just and powerful, but what we really believe is that they are like our father after a long day.”

 

There’s more: 

 

“The king nodded. “What are the priests doing about this?” he said.

 

“I saw them throwing one another in the river, sir.”

 

The king nodded again. “That sounds about right,” he said. “They’ve come to their senses at last.” 

 

And even more: 

 

“People normally keep out of the way of assassins because of an instinctive feeling that killing people for very large sums of money is disapproved of by the gods (who generally prefer people to be killed for very small sums of money or for free) and could result in hubris, which is the judgment of the gods. The gods are great believers in justice, at least as far as it extends to humans, and have been known to dispense it so enthusiastically that people miles away are turned into a cruet.” 

 

Pratchett saw all too well how fundamentalist religion worked. This bit from Ptraci shows how far the death-cult ideas run. (And yes, fundamentalist evangelicalism is very much a death cult. All religions based on authoritarianism are.) 

 

“I—I don’t want to die,” she said quietly. “Don’t blame you.” “You mustn’t say that! It’s wrong not to want to die!” 

 

Before that, you can see the way religion of this sort gaslights:

 

“The king will have you put to death anyway. Surely it is better to go honorably, to a worthy life in the Netherworld?” “I don’t want to be a servant in the Netherworld!” There was a groan of horror from the assembled priests.” 

 

Another observation:

 

“Enthusiastic soldiers with no fighting to do soon get bored and start thinking dangerous thoughts, like how much better they could run the country.”

 

A money line that sure sounds like “Whiskey” Pete Kegsbreath justifying Trump’s invasion of Iran:

 

“If we don't attack them, they'll attack us first,` said Ibid.

`S'right,` said Xeno. `So we'd better retaliate before they have a chance to strike.”

 

A good jibe at philosophers:

 

“Teppic stared into his wine mug. These men are philosophers, he thought. They had told him so. So their brains must be so big that they have room for ideas that no-one else would consider for five seconds.”

 

And at science:

 

“Nature abhors dimensional abnormalities, and seals them neatly away so they don't upset people. Nature, in fact, abhors a lot of things, including vacuums, ships called the Marie Celeste, and the chuck keys from electric drills.” 

 

And how about this most excellent retort:

 

“Teppic drew himself up. He was getting fed up with this treatment. “Kiddo? I’ll have you know the blood of pharaohs runs in my veins!” The other boy looked at him unabashed, with his head on one side and a faint smile on his face. “Would you like it to stay there?” he said.” 

 

There are probably more pithy quotes that I can’t remember or find, but those are enough for one post. I highly recommend reading Terry Pratchett, in any case. Pyramids can stand by itself as a story, but I think it is helpful to read earlier Discworld books to understand the greater universe in which it takes place. 

 

***

 

The complete Terry Pratchett list:

 

Rincewind:

 

The Colour of Magic

The Light Fantastic

Sourcery

Faust Eric

Unseen Academicals

 

Tiffany Aching:

 

The Wee Free Men

A Hat Full of Sky

Wintersmith

I Shall Wear Midnight

 

Witches:

 

Equal Rites

Wyrd Sisters

Witches Abroad

 

Watch:

 

Guards! Guards! (Stupid abridged edition, which is an abomination unto Nuggan and everyone else.)

 

Industrial Revolution:

 

The Truth

Monstrous Regiment

Making Money

Raising Steam

 

Death:

 

Reaper Man

 

Ancient Civilizations:

 

Small Gods

 

 Non-Discworld:

 

The Carpet People

Dodger

Dragons at Crumbling Castle

Good Omens (with Neil Gaiman)

Nation