Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

This post was originally published on a now-retired blog that I maintained from roughly 2005 to 2013. As a result, there may be some references that seem out of date. 

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The new audiobook is Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. Not sure what possessed me to get this one. Fifty bucks and twenty-four cassettes. I hope I like it because I’m going to be listening to it for some time to come.

So far there’s this guy, Ablomski (it’s Russian literature and I’m only listening to it; I’m going to get all the names wrong), who’s had an affair on his wife with their children’s governess, and his friend, Levin, who’s come in from out of town to propose to Ablomski’s wife’s sister. Anna Somebody is coming to visit, but it’s not Anna Karenina. At least not yet. I get the sense that this Anna will become Anna Karenina when she marries another character named Karenin. We’ll see. 

The writing is good and in a style that isn’t used much any more. We spend some time inside Ablomski’s head and his sensual-seeking, upper class, unredeeming state of mind is on full display.

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Levin went ice skating with the woman he intends to propose to -- her name is Kitty -- and although he was filled with love, he had too much self doubt to pop the question. Then he went out to dinner with his friend Ablonski (I think it’s Ablonski, not Ablomski) and Ablonski told him that he thought Kitty would agree to marry him, but only if he hurried up and asked her. Levin has just returned to Moscow after a few years in the country and while he was gone a rival had appeared on Kitty’s horizon. This news both encourages and frightens Levin.

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Levin proposed in a clumsy fashion to Kitty and, although Kitty’s heart was momentarily filled with joy at receiving a proposal, she realized that she truly loved Vronsky and so turned Levin down. Vronsky himself then makes an appearance, along with Kitty’s mother who openly favors Vronsky over Levin for her daughter’s nuptials. Kitty’s father favors Levin, and he comes in as well.

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Not sure I’m going to make it through all 24 tapes of Anna Karenina. Much has happened since last time I wrote, but I’m not sure I remember much of it.

Anna Something is Anna Karenina. The Something was evidently her middle name or the feminized version of her father’s name or whatever crazy thing those nutty Russians do. Vronsky has fallen for her but she’s married to a famous guy and has fled back to Petersburg but Vronsky has followed her. Levin has gone back to live in the country. Ablonski and his wife have reconciled, but Ablonski’s eye is starting to wander again. Kitty has gotten sick and she and her family are planning to go abroad to help her recover. The current action is taking place in Petersburg with Anna and Vronsky and the social circles in which they move. Anna finds herself drifting from one circle to another since her return from Moscow, the modern and bohemian suddenly more attractive that the traditional and stodgy.

One thing I do like about the novel is the way the characters lead their separate lives but are all interconnected through love, friendship and/or family relation. It makes me realize how much drama there is in the day-to-day reality of people and their relationships.

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Lenin and Ablonski argued over Ablonski selling a forest he owned to another guy for what Lenin thought was well below its value. The argument included different perspectives on what it means to be an aristocrat and what it means to be working class, and I could tell that Tolstoy was making commentary on Russian society. I couldn’t tell what the commentary meant -- just like I can never tell what the social commentary means in Russian literature (except for the scene in Crime and Punishment with the old man whipping his lame horse to death; I know what that social commentary meant but only because I read the Cliff Notes) -- but I could tell commentary was being made. Vronsky and Anna have begun an affair and Anna has just told Vronsky that she is pregnant.

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Long passages in Anna Karenina about Levin and his laborers working in the fields, mowing the grass and bailing the hay. Levin’s half brother has come to the country to stay with Levin, and they have opposite perspectives on the country. To Levin, it is a place free of the corruption of the city, where work can both fortify the body and heal the soul. To the brother, it is a place to relax and do as little as possible. Again, the social commentary is fairly obvious, especially when Levin and his brother get into an argument over some of the social reforms that the brother supports and Levin opposes. Ablonski also wrote and asked Levin to visit his wife Dolly and their country house, where she is staying with the children for the summer. Levin agrees, only to find out after he arrives that Kitty will also be visiting there.

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Levin is so enamored with the pastoral way of life led by his peasants that he decides to adopt it wholly for himself, but then goes to visit Kitty and is smitten again with her and the “civilized” circles in which she moves. The triangle between Anna, her husband and Vronsky gets more complicated as Vronsky decides that since she is carrying his baby Anna has to leave her husband and pledge her life to him. Karenin decides that he won’t let Anna go because to do so would make her happy and publicly bring scandal down upon his good name, and Anna waffles helplessly in between.

The character study is quite well done, with each set of thoughts and motivations being presented and explained in turn. Tolstoy does a good job making each character’s position seem logical and true given what information they have, but ultimately, each is limited not only by the partial vision each have of the situation, but also by the acts of the other two on which their considerations are only a reaction.

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Finally finished this audiobook. I did not enjoy it. It was probably a mistake to begin trying to log this one on a day-to-day basis. My god. So much going on. So many characters. No clues as to which ones really matter. Maybe that was the point?

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

FARCHRIST TALES

BOOK THREE:

THE UNDERGOD

We called the game “kick-the-can,” and I’m sure children have played and will continue to play it for years under that name or under some other simplified nomenclature. I was “it,” and I had just counted up to the mandatory fifty, when I saw the horse-drawn wagon come crawling down the street. The man who drove it was still young, but obviously an adult, and he wore red clothes and a black beard. Behind him, the wagon absolutely tottered with piles of books and boxes, loosely held together with a piece of tarpaulin. The man stopped the cart right beside me, in front of a house that had been vacant for months and whose yard my friends and I had been using as a playground of sorts. He asked me for some help in unloading his wagon. Without much thought I agreed, figuring his books and boxes might be more interesting than another round of kick-the-can. He asked me my name and I said Gil. I asked him his and he said Roy. When the work was finished, and I had seen dozens of things that made my eyes swim with fascination, the man took me aside and pressed a small silver pentacle medallion into my palm.

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Brisbane did his best to make out Ternosh’s vague form as they walked down the dark tunnel. Every once and a while, he would unconsciously slow down and Vrak would give him an angry shove from behind. In that way, at least, it seemed like old times.

“As I said before,” Ternosh said as he led the way into the ork tunnels, “I pretend to neither understand nor agree with the information I have received from my Demosk, but I do not for a moment doubt its veracity, nor will I shirk my obvious responsibility in the matter.”

Brisbane noticed how talkative Ternosh was being. He decided to try and take advantage of it. “Just what exactly did your Demosk tell you this time?”

Ternosh turned down a side passage and Brisbane quickly followed him, eager to hear anything the ork might say. Ternosh was silent for a moment before he answered.

“I might as well tell you, I suppose. I’m going to have to tell you quite a bit I’d really rather not tell you before this is all over.” Ternosh continued his fast pace down the tunnels and into the earth as he spoke loudly enough for Brisbane to hear. “My Demosk again asserted the bane of He-Who-Watches was in your blood and he also revealed something about his intentions in granting you such a responsibility. I was told even if given the chance, you would not flee from the settlement because you had a job of sorts to do here. I admit I do not know what this job is. I was also told you were to be treated like any other Grum, or Grumak-in-training. This I will do even though I do not know what will possibly result from it.”

Ternosh continued to lead the way through the countless tunnels and corridors. Brisbane was not sure if he was being taken to the same chamber he had been to before, but he did not think so. His eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness and occasionally they would pass near a room or through a corridor that was lit by torchlight.

“Other than that,” Ternosh went on, “I really am not yet sure what He-Who-Watches, Or Gruumsh One-Eye as I am now allowed to refer to him as in your presence, has in store for you. I do know I will continue to ask my Demosk for information, but that can often be slow going. Whatever reason Gruumsh has for this situation, it must be unusual and very important for him to go to these extreme measures.”

Shortly the small party arrived at a small chamber that seemed to be a laboratory of sorts. It was lit by torches and contained workbenches covered with books, glassware filled with liquids, and jars filled with solid ingredients. A single ork stood at one of the workbenches, dressed in red robes like the ones worn by Ternosh, except his had white stripes running down the sleeves and wide white streaks in the folds that fell beneath the waist. The ork seemed busy at working with the liquids and glassware. When he turned to meet the group entering the chamber, Brisbane noticed he had two red eyes.

Ternosh turned to face Brisbane and saw Vrak standing there behind the human. He raised his voice in several curt orders and Vrak quickly turned and fled from the chamber.

“I’m afraid Vrak has not yet accepted the fact that you are no longer a prisoner. It is a problem you are likely to have with the majority of us. I will do as I am told, but I cannot force anyone to treat you cordially. Wister?”

Ternosh addressed the ork in the red and white robes and he stopped his work to come over by the pair at the doorway.

“Brisbane,” Ternosh said, “this is Wister, a Grum like you. I have already discussed your new position with him and, as I am needed elsewhere at the moment, he will have to continue with your indoctrination into our ways.”

Brisbane looked at Wister and nodded his head. “Hello.”

Wister said nothing and turned his red eyes away from Brisbane.

“By the way,” Ternosh cut in. “My name is Ternosh.”

“I know,” Brisbane said, trying not to feel insulted by Wister’s rudeness.

“You know?” Ternosh said, his brow wrinkling. “How would you know that?”

Brisbane did not want to go into what had happened between Smurch and himself. “I heard your Demosk call you Grumak Ternosh. I knew Grumak was your title, so I figured Ternosh was your name.”

Ternosh seemed puzzled. “You can speak our language? That of the grugan?”

“No,” Brisbane said honestly. “The Demosk was speaking the common tongue.”

“You heard your own language?”

“Yes,” Brisbane said.

“Fascinating,” Ternosh said. “This is something I will have to look into.” He snapped out of his puzzlement. “Oh well, no matter, I must be off. I will leave you in Wister’s capable hands.”

Ternosh turned to leave but before he had gone a full step he stopped and turned back. “Oh, Brisbane. Now that you are a member of the klatru, our upper class, you have the right to retain a personal servant. Shall I assign you one or do what want someone in particular?”

“What do you mean?” Brisbane asked.

“Well,” Ternosh said, “if you wanted to pick Vrak or someone else in the party that captured you, they would have no choice in the matter. They would be forced to serve you.”

Brisbane thought about it. “No,” he said. “I’m not going to make any friends that way.”

Ternosh nodded and then focused his attention on the side of Brisbane’s neck. The Grumak reached out and tore off the healing patch he had placed there. Brisbane’s hand went up to his neck and he could feel no trace of a scab or scar.

“So,” Ternosh said. “I’ll just assign you someone.”

“No, wait a minute,” Brisbane said. “Smurch. I would like Smurch to be my personal servant.”

Ternosh looked at him oddly but he eventually nodded his head. “Fine. I’ll have him sent down. Now, I really am leaving. Brisbane, Wister, I’ll see you both at dinner.”

Ternosh spun and this time he did leave the chamber. Brisbane watched him go and when he turned back to the chamber he saw Wister had returned to his workbench. The ork was mixing liquids together in exact amounts.

Brisbane slowly went over to Wister’s work table. It was cluttered with an array of various-sized bottles, but a small work area had been cleared in front of Wister. The ork had a large book open before him and a large vessel in which he was mixing small amounts of the different liquids. Brisbane heard a squeak and amidst all the bottles he saw a small wire cage holding a large black rat. The rat’s body filled the entire cage and left no room for the animal to move around.

“What are you doing?” Brisbane asked.

Wister said nothing. When he had mixed his ingredients to the proper amount, he picked up what appeared to be a small arrowhead on a stick and began to dunk the barb into the mixture he had created. The potion was syrupy and it clung to the arrowhead like glue. When Wister had the point coated with the substance, he brought the small weapon to bear on the rat’s cage. The ork quickly struck the arrow in between two of the bars and into the hide of the rodent.

Brisbane stepped up next to Wister. “What are you doing?”

Wister put out an arm to keep Brisbane away from the rat. The ork kept his eyes on the animal in the cage and Brisbane could do nothing else but watch.

The rat, which had squeaked loudly when the arrow had pierced it, was now silent and stood on shaky feet with its beady black eyes wide open. The wound in its side was not great, and it appeared the sticky potion had actually stopped some of the bleeding, but the rat did not look well. Its whole body was quivering now with rapid muscle spasms and in a short period of time it fell over and stopped moving altogether.

“Is it dead?” Brisbane asked.

Wister still said nothing. Completely ignoring Brisbane, he picked up a quill pen and began to make notes in the book that lay open before him. The script he wrote in was both strange and somewhat familiar to Brisbane.

Poison, Brisbane thought. It must be some kind of poison. Killed that rat quick and easy. Is that what this Wister is doing here? Developing different kinds of poison?

Brisbane decided to try one more time. “Is that some kind of poison?”

To Wister, it must have been like Brisbane was not even there. For a moment, Brisbane considered Wister might in fact be deaf, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Ternosh would have told him that, he thought, and besides, Wister had not only not spoken to him, the ork had paid him no attention whatsoever.

To the hells with him, Brisbane thought. If that’s the way he wants to be—fine. Brisbane could play that game, too. He stepped away from Wister and began to move around the chamber, looking at the other work tables and the things on them. They were all similar to Wister’s table and Brisbane quickly lost interest in them because nothing was being worked on at them. He wasn’t about to go wandering around in the dark tunnels, so it seemed he would have to sit and wait for something to happen. Brisbane squatted down against one of the walls and did just that.

He began to turn the situation over in his mind. He did feel more in control than he had in his cage, but he was in no way near to having control over it. There were still a lot of things that were up in the air, things he didn’t understand, and things of which he wasn’t sure.

What exactly had the Demosk told Ternosh about him? The Grumak had acted like he was coming clean with Brisbane, but Brisbane doubted Ternosh would actually tell him everything he knew. Brisbane could not forget the countless faces that had passed by his cage earlier that day. Whatever was going on, as Ternosh had said, it was not a normal situation. Traditions were going to be suspended, policies changed, and feelings hurt. He was going to have to tread very lightly if he wanted to make any progress.

Brisbane was playing along with this charade just long enough for him to get Angelika back. He knew that on the surface, but he still did not fully understand the deep down importance of such an action. To him it was a rational decision, he figured as long as he still had his life, he had a chance to steal back his sword from the orks. The thought that in his quest for Angelika he might very well lose the life Ternosh had granted him had never occurred to him, nor did the thought that the decision to stay might not have really been his.

Thoughts of Angelika made Brisbane realize he was now in the same caves in which he had seen Vrak take his sword and he may, in fact, be close enough to her to re-establish contact. He didn’t seem to have anything else to do—Wister was still working at his table, oblivious to Brisbane—so he closed his eyes and opened his mind, reaching out in all directions for her.

And ever so quietly, behind all his brain’s activity, underneath even the currents that beat his heart and digested his food, Brisbane could hear that soft, seductive voice he had longed for so much.

—Brisbane? Is that you?—

Brisbane’s heart raced. Angelika! Yes, it’s me. Where are you?

—I am nearby, young Brisbane. I am glad you have found me.—

Where are you? I’ll come and get you right now.

—No. Remember what I have told you. We have the chance to do great good in this den of evil. Be patient and be strong. Vengeance shall be ours.—

Angelika. I’ve missed you so.

—As I have missed you, young Brisbane. Never before have I been wielded by someone with such potential. Our conquests will be written in the Book of Time. Together we will destroy terrible evil. I yearn for our next battle.—

Angelika’s words left Brisbane a little empty. No, Angelika. I need you. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed your voice in my head.

—Be patient and be strong. In your hands, I shall draw evil blood again.—

Angelika?

Her voice was gone. Brisbane felt unusually uneasy. Normally, a little discussion with Angelika would have supported him, given him a boost of confidence to continue facing the odds in such an unfriendly situation. But this time, her voice left him feeling just the opposite. He felt a little bit more alone in his strife, a little less confident, and a little less able to deal with the mess his life had become. It was a feeling he tried not to dwell on. He tried to reassure himself, forcing himself to be nurtured by Angelika’s words, and tried to forget he had never had to force himself before.

There was a noise at the entrance of the chamber, someone clearing their throat in order to draw attention to themselves. Brisbane opened his eyes to see Smurch standing there, dressed in his plain gray clothing. Brisbane quickly got to his feet and went over to his friend. Wister took no notice of them.

“Jack,” Brisbane said in a low voice. “It’s good to see you again.”

Brisbane extended his arm for a handshake but Smurch ignored it. Instead, the half-ork bowed respectfully.

“I am honored,” Smurch said to the floor, “that you have chosen me, Grum Brisbane. I pledge myself and my service to you until such time as you deem it unnecessary.” He slowly straightened back up.

Brisbane tried not to blush. He looked over at Wister and spoke in an even lower voice. “Is there somewhere we can go for some privacy?”

Smurch answered in monotone. “I can show you to your chamber, if that’s what you mean.”

Brisbane turned back to his servant and nodded. “Let’s go.”

Smurch did not move. “Grum Wister,” he said to the ork in the red and white robes. “Do you have any further need of Grum Brisbane?”

Wister did not turn around. He continued his work, mixing different liquids together to make strange potions. Brisbane heard the ork speak for the first time.

“No.”

“Then I shall take him to his chamber,” Smurch said.

The half-ork turned and left the room. Brisbane quickly followed him. They walked down many of the twisting tunnels and Brisbane made a mental note that sometime soon he was going to have to learn the layout of these caverns. He couldn’t very well have Smurch take him everywhere he wanted to go. Brisbane tried to memorize the way from the work chamber to his personal one, but there were so many twists and turns he would not have bet on his ability to find his way back.

Finally, they came to a small corridor branching off one of the main tunnels. It went back about twenty feet and ended in a portal with a dark curtain hanging in it. Next to the portal, in a wall bracket, was a burning torch and under the torch, carved into the wall, was a large cubbyhole, about big enough for a man to lie down in. The floor of the cubbyhole was blanketed with thick animal furs.

Smurch stopped and pulled aside the dark curtain. Brisbane could see a roughly square chamber about twenty feet across. In the center of the room was a low table, and on the table was what appeared to be an oil lantern. A crude bed sat against one wall, a well-worn mattress laying on a wooden rack to keep it off the floor and heaped with old blankets and furs. The room appeared to be otherwise empty.

“This is it,” Smurch said as he went in and set about to lighting the lantern.

Brisbane stepped in and let the curtain swing shut behind him. “A bit frugal, isn’t it, Jack?”

Smurch was getting a warm glow from the lantern. “Only the Grumak and the Sumak have finer accommodations, Grum Brisbane.”

“Jack,” Brisbane said. “You don’t have to be so formal with me.”

Smurch stood up and looked at Brisbane. “Are you not my master? Have you changed your mind? Are you going to choose another to be your servant?”

“No, dammit, I’m not going to choose another. I chose you because I wanted someone I could talk to.”

“I will obey your every command,” Smurch said.

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

Smurch made a face as if he was trying to think. “Grum Brisbane, I must treat you with due respect in the presence of others. If I do not, you will become a laughing-stock among the klatru. They will think you are unable to control your own servant.”

Brisbane nodded. “Okay, fine. But we’re alone now. I want you to drop this ‘Grum Brisbane’ horseshit. My name is Gil.”

“Is this an order?”

“If it has to be,” Brisbane said. “If that is the only way I can get you to treat me as an equal.”

Smurch’s eyes went wide. “Grum Brisbane, we can never be equals.”

Brisbane shook his head in frustration. “Then how about friends?”

Smurch did not say anything, but the look on his face was not promising. Brisbane’s stomach suddenly rumbled loud enough for Smurch to hear it.

“Dinner is less than an hour away,” the half-ork said. “If you do not wish to wait until then, I can send for some food to be brought here.”

Brisbane shook his head. In a strange way, he had almost become accustomed to his hunger.

Almost.

“I guess I can wait,” he said. “What else is there to do?”

Smurch looked shocked. “You may do whatever you wish. You are Grum Brisbane.”

Brisbane was really getting sick of that. “What would you suggest I do with my time?” he snapped.

Smurch sniffed the air. “Well,” the half-ork said slowly. “No disrespect intended, but it would not be proper for you to show up in the banquet chamber smelling the way you do. As a member of the klatru, it is now your privilege and duty to bathe regularly.”

Brisbane lifted his arm and took a whiff. “I am a little ripe,” he said after his eyes stopped watering. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve had a bath.”

Smurch nodded. “Shall I take you to the bath chamber?”

“This place sure does seem to have a lot of chambers.”

Smurch said nothing to that.

“Yes,” Brisbane sighed. “Please do.”

Smurch extinguished the lantern and then led Brisbane out of his personal chamber. They turned down the main corridor and began to make their way to one of its ends. Small tunnels branched off the corridor at regular intervals, all of them ending in torchlight and a dark curtain. Brisbane could only assume these were more living quarters for other members of the klatru.

When they reached the end of the corridor, Smurch led Brisbane into another lit chamber. High up on one of the walls, a spout of clear water tumbled out a rough crack in the stone and fell to gather in a large pool that dominated the floor of the room. Next to the pool, freakish and out of place in the rough stone cavern, was a small wooden towel rack, like you would expect to find in someone’s home, stuffed with towels and cakes of soap on a small shelf.

Brisbane looked at all the water before him and had to decide whether he was going to drink it or bathe in it. Both, he decided liberally. I’ll drink from the spout and bathe in the pool.

Smurch was at his elbow. “Would you like me to bathe you, Grum Brisbane?”

“No,” Brisbane said, laughing inwardly at the idea. “There are still some things I prefer to do myself.”

“I understand,” Smurch said. “With your permission, I will go and procure some clean garments for you to wear.”

Brisbane nodded. “That will be fine, Jack. Thank you.”

Smurch stiffened. “I will be back shortly,” he said. “Enjoy your bath, Grum Brisbane.”

“Gil,” Brisbane corrected him, but the half-ork had already turned to leave the chamber.

Brisbane began to remove his clothing. He was still wearing his tanned leather pants and the blue tunic his mother had made for him, but they were filthy, caked with mud and waste. Wash them, he thought. I’ll wash them, too. Smurch was going to bring him new clothes, but he still did not want to get rid of his old ones. He could still remember his mother’s hands as she had stitched the tunic together and had put the gold needlework around the collar. Brisbane put the tunic and the trousers carefully by the side of the pool and removed the tattered remains of his underclothing.

When he was naked, he found some stone steps leading down into the pool and he slowly immersed himself in the water. It was warm and only about waist deep, but Brisbane dunked himself down all the way, and he stayed under for as long as he could hold his breath. He felt good under the water like that, better than he had in a long time. His body was buoyed in the water and it felt like he had left the confines of the earth and was floating in some thick soup that existed between the stars. His eyes were closed so he could see nothing and the only sound he heard was the muffled rumble of water falling into the pool.

When his breath ran out on him, Brisbane resurfaced. He moved over to the rack to get some soap and he began to wash himself. He soaped up and then moved over to the waterfall to rinse off. He turned his face up into the spray and let the water cascade down around him. He took a drink and, although the water was warm, it was clean and refreshing.

Brisbane surveyed his own body as he washed it. The effects of his injuries were diminishing—the swelling on his face had gone down considerably and his abdomen was only a little tender to the touch. This pleased him, the fact that he was healing, but there was something else that disturbed him. His eyes saw a body that was much thinner than the one he had known before. His muscles were noticeably, perhaps only to him, smaller and there seemed to be less fat padding them. He looked hardened, more angular, and different. It was as if he was slowly changing into something else and these were the first steps in the metamorphosis.

Brisbane tried not to think about it. He was a member of the klatru now and, along with bathing, he was sure to get all the food he could ask for. Smurch had said dinner was less than an hour away. Brisbane would then see to putting some meat back on his bones.

He continued his bath, washing out his hair and his clothes when he had removed the grime from his skin. He felt refreshed and invigorated when Smurch returned with his new clothes, red and white robes like the ones Wister had worn. Brisbane felt ready to eat an entire horse at dinner.

Smurch offered to towel dry Grum Brisbane.

Brisbane refused him.

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

The Regulators by Richard Bachman

Richard Bachman is a pseudonym used by Stephen King, initially, I think, so that he could write and publish works out of type from that which made him most famous. Or maybe they’re the stuff he wrote before he became famous. Not sure, but in my experience, the Bachman novels are some of the most typical Stephen King novels around.

And The Regulators is not a good example of that type. It’s a bit of a mess -- with too many characters to keep track of; long on gore and short on psychological horror.

Johnny sees everything, hears everything, feels everything; input floods him and his mind insists on lining up each crazy increment, as if something coherent were happening here, something which could actually be narrated.

This is on page 71 (of 489), and even by then I had had enough. Are you trying to tell us something, Bachman? Is something coherent happening here? Is this something which can actually be narrated? It sure doesn’t seem that way to me.

And then there are long stretches of the story that are told in newspaper clippings or as entries in someone’s journal. In order to add to the realism, press clippings are shown as mocked-up newspaper articles, and the journal entries are set in a script-style font.

Sometimes he goes into the den to watch TV, but not even Bonanza held him long today.

Do you see what happened there? Bonanza is the title of a TV show, and so it is properly italicized or underlined when shown in print. Many computer programs “know” this, and can add that feature automatically. You know who else knows that? Book authors and editors, generally speaking. But you know who doesn’t know that? Most people when they’re writing in their journals. And those journal writers who do know that, probably wouldn’t bother to underline Bonanza in their entry about how their son had been possessed by a malevolent spirit.

Later on, this happens.

A little old for that, but it must have been a bad morning at chez Hobart.

Chez. You know, French for “at the house of.” And you know, that’s a foreign word, so it is properly italicized in straight text, or underlined in italicized text. That’s definitely that kind of thing your average journal writer would do. To underscore their sarcasm, I guess?

Look, it’s a nitpick, I know, but it really destroyed the whole gimmick of the journal entries for me. They were supposed to seem real, but every time something was underlined, all it told me was that it wasn’t real.

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

Blink by Malcolm Gladwell

This post was originally published on a now-retired blog that I maintained from roughly 2005 to 2013. As a result, there may be some references that seem out of date. 

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So I read this book called Blink by Malcolm Gladwell. It was the first selection in an online book club I got exposed to at work. It’s work-related so I don’t think I’m going to specifically track it here, but I did have a personal reaction that I would like to mention.

The book is about the snap judgments we all make in the blink of an eye and about how some of them are amazingly accurate, about how some are downright wrong, and the physiological and observable differences between the two.

One chapter is about cops, and about how they are trained to avoid stressful situations, because a highly-stressed state of mind is one of those physiological conditions which make our snap judgments go bad. It made me think of a novel I would like to write. Something about cops and their “good guy/bad guy” view of the world and how it leads to more not less confrontation and violence.

Blink talks about how police departments across the country are eliminating the option of chasing suspects who run, not because it’s dangerous to civilians (which, if in cars, it is) but because it produces a hyper-stressed state in the police officers and destroys their ability to make good snap judgments. That’s why so many chases end in gunplay. He was going for his gun. I swear he was.

Blink tells one story about a cop who chased someone who ran, and when he finally got them to pull over, he broke every regulation about how to approach a suspicious person on a traffic stop and wound up killing the driver, convinced he was pulling a gun on him. Look, he complained during the investigation, being a cop is hard. I put my life on the line every night and I couldn’t take the chance and let the guy pull his gun on me. It was either him or me.

Which, Blink points out, is all bullshit, because the cop used poor judgment and violated procedure to put himself in that situation. If he had shone his high beams on the suspect’s mirrors, kept himself behind the driver’s left shoulder with the car’s door post always between them, and shone his flashlight on the suspect’s hands -- all as he had been trained to do -- he never would have “seen” a gun (there wasn’t one) and never would have shot the suspect.

At the same time, the cop’s actions were not part of some racist attitude, even though he was white and the suspect in question was black, so that usual refrain is also faulty. His snap judgment that the suspect had a gun was based partially on his perception of him as a black man and the stereotypical associations our culture has pummeled into him his whole life, but no more or less than any other white person in the society. His action was not a result of his individual racism, but more of a cultural racism, and in his highly-stressed condition and in the milliseconds he had to make the decision, he could no more control his ingrained associations than he could control his heart rate.

This is the story I want to write. The cop, steeped in his “bad guy out to get me” view of the world and the victim, in the wrong but not deserving to be killed, moving slowly towards each other until they collide in this three second encounter that leaves one of them dead and the other forever changed.

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

CHAPTER THIRTY

FARCHRIST TALES

BOOK THREE:

THE UNDERGOD

The day Otis Parkinson became my stepfather was the same day I began my study and worship of the great god humans call Grecolus. I was given a leather-bound copy of the Scriptures, the holy writings of the ancient prophets, and I was quickly taught to read it. I was instructed in the creation of the world, the mandates Grecolus had set down for his followers to live their lives by, and the promise of eternal life for those who remained faithful to him. These things were good, and in my innocence, I believed them with all my heart. But even before the seeds of doubt began to germinate in the topsoil of my consciousness, I recognized that life and death under the law of Grecolus was a structured framework, without room for experimentation or oddity. And at the center of it all, was the undying assertion that Grecolus was the only true god. His story of creation left no room for other gods, because Grecolus had created everything, including it seemed, himself. One of his mandates forbid the worship of false gods. The promise of eternal life in the heavens was revoked for all who did not worship Grecolus. To me, even at that young age, it was all an argument between the acceptance of ultimate truth and the openness to listen to other points of view. The Grecolus-driven universe was indeed the only way to go if it was true, but if it was not, the rejection of such diversity to me seemed unhealthy and cruel.

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Vrak returned Brisbane to his cage, after threading him through the countless tunnels of the ork cave, and Brisbane spent the entire day wallowing in the dirty straw with his two faithful companions, pain and hunger. Before the day was over, the need for a bowel movement came upon him and, unlike urination—which he could direct out of his living space—he was forced to squat in one of the corners of the wagon and leave his refuse of the floor. When finished, he kicked most of the mess out through the bars and scrubbed the fouled area with generous handfuls of straw. He had never felt so low and depraved in his life and could see no difference between himself and the animals that must have once done the same thing in the cage. It was the orks who had done this to him, and Brisbane hung tenaciously to Angelika’s promise of vengeance.

Angelika. Where was she now? Brisbane tried again to contact her but his second attempt was as futile as his first had been. He had seen Vrak take her inside the cave, but Brisbane supposed he could not be sure she was still in there. Vrak had not been able to draw her from her scabbard, Brisbane remembered, and Angelika had said none of the orks would be able to do so. This surely would arouse the curiosity of the orks, to say nothing of the fact that she was found on the person of history’s first human Grumak or, perhaps most importantly, she had an emerald the size of a fist embedded in her pommel.

But, as Brisbane was to find out that day, Angelika was not the only recipient of the orks’ curiosity. Word had evidently spread about the Demosk’s judgment of his blood, and it seemed the whole of the ork encampment passed by Brisbane’s cage that day to catch a glimpse of such a miraculous being. Men in armor and red-eye shields, women with dirty tunics pulled tightly over their large breasts, children with spindly little legs and fingers in their noses—they all came to see the human whose blood bore the bane of Gruumsh One-Eye.

Brisbane did not believe his power came from Gruumsh One-Eye any more than he believed it came from Damaleous. His power came from within himself, as Roystnof had taught him, and the only reason he was not more skillful with his power was because he had not spent enough time mastering it. He was nothing special. All these people, eyes wide with wonder and amazement, who passed by his cage in an endless procession needed to look no farther than themselves to see what they had come to see in Brisbane.

It was a day that passed slowly and during which Brisbane found it difficult to think clearly. The orks—there seemed to be so many of them—passed by with such reverence and awe that it distracted Brisbane and kept his mind from settling down on one idea for long scrutiny. Throughout the day his thoughts passed over many things, maybe as many things as orks that passed by his cage. He thought about his life, the important and not-so-important events that had led up to the situation in which he now found himself.

He thought about Otis, the man who had married his mother and raised him as if he were his own son. He remembered the lessons and the moral training and the occasional spankings, yes, but he also remembered other things, things he had not thought about for quite some time. Brisbane remembered the times they had spent together, not as teacher and student, but as father and son. They had played games together. Otis had been a big fan of card games and had taught young Brisbane just about every kind there was at one time or another. Cribbage was Otis’ favorite and he was very good at it. The day in which Brisbane had finally beaten his stepfather, after years of loss after loss, came flooding back in memory to him now. Brisbane had counted his crib and triumphantly moved his peg into the 121st hole, winning the game. He had looked up at Otis, a smile straining the edges of his small face, and Otis had smiled warmly back at him. Otis had congratulated him and then slyly asked if Brisbane had ever heard of a game called euchre. Brisbane had always known the reason Otis had been strict and sometimes cruel was that he had loved his mother and him like the family they were, but it wasn’t until now, dirty and starving in a broken-down circus wagon, that he realized how much he had loved Otis, too.

He thought about his mother, a woman of impossible beauty named Amanda who had birthed him. Brisbane had many memories about his mother, most of them warm and happy and nurturing, but ever since that fateful day just after his eighteenth birthday

—I’m nineteen now and this December I’ll be twenty—

all his memories had been tainted with the inevitable fact of her weakened death. Somewhere in the mists of his recollection Brisbane could bring up, when he closed his eyes and shut out all other thoughts, the dimmest memory of himself as an infant, teething and drawing milk from his mother’s swollen breast. But even that was ruined by the stigma of her death, for he knew the suckling flow had stopped completely and her breasts, once so full and smooth and round, had drooped and wrinkled with age and disease and were now withering into dry dust in her grave. He missed her so much and it was times like this that he wondered how he could go on living without her. How could he go on for such long periods of time without thinking about her and all she meant to him?

He thought about Roystnof, his oldest friend who he had known for six years as Roy Stonerow. Roystnof was one of his teachers, too, like Otis, and also like Otis, Roystnof was also something more. Brisbane loved him like a brother and felt the separation from him perhaps more than anyone else. Roystnof was a source of other ideas, ideas different from those set down as law by Grecolus, and may therefore have been more appealing to the rebellious Brisbane approaching his adolescence. Roystnof’s world was a world without gods and without the guilt and sacrifices that gods seemed to need when they lived among men. In Roystnof’s world, man was the master of his own destiny and it was his choice to do what he willed with his life. Death was an ending in Roystnof’s world, not a beginning, and when it found you, all that was left of you were your works and the memories of you in others. It was a less comforting world, a world in which mortal meant mortal, but through his experiences with Roystnof, Brisbane had come to suspect it was the only kind of world that made any sense.

He thought about Shortwhiskers, the dwarf who had come into his life one night and shown him a wizard named Roystnof where he had previously seen a friend called Roy Stonerow. The dwarf had also shown him another world, not the one of Moradin and Abbathor and of the dwarven myths, but the one of stalwart adventure, a man and his sword out to win fame and fortune. A world Nog Shortwhiskers had known for longer than Brisbane had been alive, a world he had shared with his friend Roystnof and his grandfather Gildegarde Brisbane. The dwarf had become such a part of his life. They were friends, yes, but they were also something more than that. They were companions in battle. Together they had faced and defeated orks, ogres, ettins, and a demon. There was a special kind of bond forged there, different from the one that attached him to Roystnof, but strong and binding all the same. In the heat of battle, Brisbane had and would again flagrantly risk his own life to protect Shortwhiskers’, as he knew the dwarf had and would do for him.

He thought about Stargazer, the half-elven woman he had first seen in the town square of Queensburg on the eve of the festival of Whiteshine. Brisbane closed his eyes and tried to remember her beauty through the ugly images that had dominated his life since his capture on the banks of the Mystic. He loved her, he could feel the truth of that inflating his heart like a balloon until it pressed almost painfully against his lungs and shortened his breath. He longed to hold her in his arms as he remembered having once done, only this time he wanted to do more than just snuggle for warmth beneath blankets on the floor of some tent lost in the wilderness. Grecolus said what he wanted to do was a sin when it was done out of wedlock, but at that moment he didn’t care. If Grecolus wanted to condemn him for thinking of making love to Allison Stargazer while he waited in an animal’s cage for Ternosh the Grumak to decide his fate by some drug-induced vision of a strange race’s afterlife, Brisbane thought, then Grecolus could take his best shot. Brisbane believed dreams and thoughts of that sort may very well be the only things that kept him sane during this ordeal, and if he somehow survived to see Stargazer again, he vowed to do his very best to make these dreams come true.

He thought about Roundtower, another warrior like Shortwhiskers, but unlike Shortwhiskers in his manner and purpose. He was a teacher of sorts to Brisbane as well, and he was also something more. Brisbane had an amazing amount of respect for Ignatius Roundtower, even though he did not agree with his religious beliefs. They had fought battles together, too, but what was different about Roundtower was the reason why he was fighting the battles. He was following his dream to become a Knight of Farchrist, and Brisbane could respect him for that if for nothing else. The dream was no longer his own, but it had been his mother’s for him, and Brisbane knew it wasn’t necessarily the content of the dream that won his respect. It was the way Roundtower pursued it, never giving it up and moving towards it in everything he did. He had the faith of Grecolus and was not out adventuring to increase his wealth or fame, he was out to increase his skill with his sword so he could serve his lord better. When Brisbane had happened along, Angelika had left Roundtower free to pursue the next stage of his dream. There was no guarantee he would be accepted by some knight to become a squire, but Brisbane knew Roundtower would be there for as long as it took.

He thought about Dantrius, the illusionist Roystnof had restored to flesh in the basilisk’s garden and who had recognized Brisbane from a mental image of his grandfather. The man had been a pain in Brisbane’s side since that day and the small pleasure he took in knowing he was separated from Illzeezad Dantrius was tainted with the fearful knowledge that the mage was still among his friends. Brisbane knew too many things about Dantrius and he didn’t know which, if any, of them were true. Shortwhiskers said he had betrayed King Gregorovich II at the request of the dragon Dalanmire. Roystnof said he worshipped Damaleous and believed he got his power from the Evil One. Brisbane was only sure of the growing dislike he felt for the man, and had felt from him, since they had met. Brisbane hoped Dantrius would leave them all alone, but Roystnof didn’t seem to think he would without disturbing something. Brisbane realized that right now, Illzeezad Dantrius, and what he might do, were the least of his problems.

He thought about Smurch, the half-ork he had named Jack and who had been tossed in his cage the night before. The only person within miles Brisbane could tentatively call a friend, Brisbane was not sure what to make of this half-ork Jack Smurch. He obviously didn’t like his life of abuse from the pure-blooded members of the clan—who would, even if they hadn’t once been the son of a chief? Brisbane would have liked to think he could use this against his captors somehow, maybe get Smurch to do secret favors for him, but he didn’t know if he was ever going to see the half-ork again. He seemed to be the only member of the Clan of the Red Eye who hadn’t passed by to catch a glimpse of the freak Brisbane had become. Brisbane knew. He had kept his eyes peeled for the half-ork all day.

Lastly, he thought about Grumak Ternosh, the ork who had the power of magic at his disposal and the one who would decide Brisbane’s fate. The question of Ternosh’s power was still a puzzle to Brisbane. He had worked a cantrip in what the Grumak had declared as an anti-magic zone, and so Brisbane questioned just how powerful his magic could be. Even what had just happened in the Grumak’s chamber, which appeared to have been a powerful example of summoning and divining magic, might have been no more than a hallucination caused by the inhalation of the smoke from that strange red powder. It was obvious the incense had been some kind of drug and while he was under the influence, Brisbane could be sure of nothing he sensed. The entire episode with the Demosk, whatever that really was, had possessed a dream-like quality, and it could have been as unreal as Brisbane’s feeling of floating free from his chains.

These are the people who walked through Brisbane’s thoughts as he sat in his cage, trying to ignore the orks outside and waiting for the return of Ternosh the Grumak. He wondered if he shouldn’t try to formulate some sort of plan of escape but the idea seemed strangely ridiculous to him, knowing as little as he did about his surroundings and the potential events of the next few hours. Any plan he could devise was more than likely doomed to failure by any one of a thousand variables Brisbane had no control over. To play it by ear was as detailed a plan Brisbane felt he should make and he pessimistically realized this was pretty much the same plan he had followed for his entire life so far.

The waiting and the flood of orkish bodies past his cage finally ended that day when Ternosh emerged from the cave mouth in his red robes with Vrak right on his heels. The Grumak came out and stood before Brisbane, glaring angrily at him for several seconds before turning to address the crowd of orks in their native language.

It was a speech of sorts and Brisbane watched as the men, women, and children listened silently and wide-eyed to every word. The whole while Vrak stood behind Ternosh’s right shoulder and he would occasionally turn and burn Brisbane with a mixed look of fear and hatred. Brisbane wished time and again he could understand orkish so he would know what it was Ternosh was telling his people, but it was a wish that went ungranted. As he finished, Ternosh raised his hands to the massed populace and sent his voice up many decibels. He rang a final sentence out over their heads and the people reacted with cries of surprise and triumph. When Ternosh lowered his arms, the people quieted and began to slowly disperse back into the settlement.

Ternosh and Vrak turned back to Brisbane. He had come to the front of his cage and had his hands curled around the bars as he watched his audience stream away from him.

Ternosh waited until Brisbane took notice of his angry stare. “Well, Brisbane,” the Grumak said when he had the human’s attention. “It seems He-Who-Watches has revealed to me his purpose in granting the powers of my kind upon a human.”

Ternosh motioned to Vrak and the ork went over to the door of the circus wagon. Vrak worked at the lock with his key and opened the door. He did not enter the wagon. He did not have any other guards with him. Brisbane looked at him for a long moment and then turned back to Ternosh.

“We are all creatures of duty,” the Grumak said seriously. “Some of us are more powerful than others, but in the end, we are all creatures of duty. What I am about to do, I do because it is my duty to do so. Personally, I do not agree with this action, but it seems the path has already been made for me, and now I must walk down it.”

All the other orks were still leaving the scene. This discourse confused Brisbane profoundly. What was Ternosh talking about? What was he about to do?

“You can come out of your cage, Brisbane,” Ternosh said.

Brisbane did nothing.

The Grumak addressed Vrak in orkish. Reluctantly, Vrak backed away from the open cage door.

“Come on,” Ternosh said to Brisbane. “I have little time for your dalliance.”

Brisbane began to move slowly out of his cage. He arrived at the door and Vrak backed off another few paces. Brisbane stood half-in and half-out of the door and looked up at the darkening sky. Vrak had freed him of his bonds and his gag when the ork had returned him to the cage, and without them the outside air smelled a bit sweeter and the sky looked a bit wider. Brisbane started down the few wooden steps and stood upon the hard earth. Vrak grimaced at him as he made his way around the wagon to stand in front of Ternosh.

The Grumak put his hands on his hips and sized Brisbane up and down. “You are free, Brisbane. You may leave this camp.”

Brisbane did not move.

Ternosh spoke to Vrak in a commanding tone, then turned back to address Brisbane. “I have told Vrak not to molest you. If you wish it, Vrak will even escort you from the camp. I am serious. You are truly free to go.”

Brisbane looked the Grumak over very carefully. Something smelled extremely fishy here. Vrak and Ternosh were now the only two orks within a hundred yards and the others were getting farther away every second. Ternosh seemed sincere but there was an odd little twinkle in his remaining red eye that sent shivers up and down Brisbane’s spine.

On the surface of his consciousness, Brisbane was convinced this offer of freedom was some kind of trick, something Ternosh wanted Brisbane to jump up at so he could be knocked down even further. He simply could not accept the fact that the orks would just let him go after all they had done to keep him here. But subconsciously, deep down in the pool of Brisbane’s thoughts, so deep that the surface was undisturbed by it, a soft and seductive feminine voice begged Brisbane not to leave without her, reminding Brisbane vengeance would be theirs if he would only be patient and strong.

A full minute of silence went by as Brisbane stood there in indecision. The whole time Ternosh seemed to be studying Brisbane’s face, as if he planned to paint it later from memory. When the minute had passed, and neither Brisbane, Ternosh, nor Vrak had taken a single step in any direction, Ternosh threw his head back and began to laugh.

“So,” the Grumak said, composing himself with some difficulty. “It is true. You will not leave. I did not believe it even though I heard it from the mouth of my own Demosk. There is something holding you here and you will not leave until you have acquired it. Good. Very good.”

Brisbane lowered his head. He could feel the force holding him here and yet he did not fully understand it. How could Angelika exert such a power over him? He was free to go, Ternosh would not stop him, and still his feet did not move. Just how much did that sword come to mean to him, anyway?

“What are you going to do with me?” Brisbane asked.

Ternosh seemed surprised Brisbane had even spoken. “Why, you will go into training, of course. You have just become my apprentice, Brisbane. You will be instructed in the magic and worship of He-Who-Watches and, when the time comes, you might very well become the Grumak of the Clan of the Red Eye.”

Brisbane did not like the sound of that. He wasn’t about to become the Grumak of any clan, and he certainly wasn’t going to start worshipping Gruumsh One-Eye. But that did not really matter, for in Ternosh’s words, Brisbane did not hear the threats of a controlled existence under the repressive arm of yet another primitive religion. What he did hear was a promise to go on living. The orks were not going to kill him, they were going to give him some time and, in that time, Brisbane nurtured a glimmer of hope he would somehow be able to recover Angelika and extract their vengeance from the hides of the orks around him.

Ternosh asked Brisbane to follow him and the Grumak led him into the cave. Vrak predictably fell into step right behind them.

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

Running With the Demon by Terry Brooks

This, then, is the beginning of my plan to read all the Shannara books in chronological order. This is actually the start of Brooks’s three-volume The Word and the Void series -- and it begins in pretty much present-day America -- in a town called Hopewell, Illinois.

Here’s the summary from the back of my paperback copy:

Plagued by nightmares that tell him something evil will soon unleash an ancient horror upon the world, John Ross feels irrevocably drawn to the sleepy town of Hopewell, Illinois. In Hopewell, fourteen-year-old Nest Freemark also senses that something is terribly wrong, but she has not yet learned to wield the budding power that sets her apart from her friends. Now the future of humanity depends on a man haunted by his dreams and on a gifted young girl -- two souls who will discover what survives when hope and innocence are shattered forever.

What was most interesting to me was the way this is actually horror and not fantasy -- or at least a kind of merging of horror and fantasy. And that started me thinking about Stephen King’s similar genre-bending attempts with his Dark Tower series. And I was left wondering.

King is a better horror writer than Brooks, and Brooks is a better fantasy writer than King. But which one is better at the opposite craft? In other words, which is better? King’s fantasy or Brooks’s horror?

They are very similar stories, but based on this fresh read of Running With the Demon and my dim recollection of The Gunslinger, I’d have to give the nod to Brooks’s horror.

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.

Nostromo by Joseph Conrad

This post was originally published on a now-retired blog that I maintained from roughly 2005 to 2013. As a result, there may be some references that seem out of date. 

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Took me a long time to read this one and as I did so I came to refer to it as “my stupid book.”

That’s probably too harsh. I found myself nodding off a lot, but probably largely because I read it at night before going to bed. On weekend afternoons, I found it a better read.

It seemed to take a long time for the actual story to begin, the first 200 pages seemingly devoted to exposition and character development. Characters, that is, except for Nostromo, who is kind of a ghostly figure until he makes a late appearance in part two and suddenly makes the story his own.

In retrospect, it may have been an effective structure because the characters in the story feel like they have unique histories behind them, but those first 200 pages were kind of tough to get through.

Everyone in the novel thinks Nostromo has unassailable integrity, but through a series of accidents and circumstances, he finds himself the only person who knows where a fortune in silver is buried. Rather than reveal his secret and return the silver to its owner, even after the danger that brought the accidents and circumstances has passed, he decides to keep it to himself and “slowly get rich” under the guise of a successful shipping business with his schooner. His penalty, in the strange morality of fiction, is death by accidental shooting by someone who thinks of him as a son.

That’s the story, but the book is much larger than that, encompassing a revolution in a fictional South American republic and the plunder of its natural resources by foreign commercial exploits at the expense of its own citizens. Although Nostromo’s story fills fewer pages, it seems more real and immediate than its overpowering and sometimes indistinct backstory. I doubt I’ll put any more Conrad on my reading list.

A quote worth noting:

Nostromo shook his head resolutely. He did not believe in priests in their sacerdotal character. A doctor was an efficacious person; but a priest, as priest, was nothing, incapable of doing either good or harm. Nostromo did not even dislike the sight of them as old Giorgio did. The utter uselessness of the errand was what struck him the most.

And:

In our activity alone do we find the sustaining illusion of an independent existence as against the whole scheme of things of which we form a helpless part.

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This post appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.