The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt by Edmund Morris

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 As a result, there may be some references that seem out of date. 

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I remember admiring Theodore Roosevelt after reading H. W. Brands’ treatment of his life in TR: The Last Romantic. That book, and one of its key chapters, even inspired me to write my River of Doubt short story about famous fathers and less-famous sons and how an individual’s strength of character can sometimes become so all encompassing that it takes the place of the human person that gives it life.

Well, I’m a bit less admiring of Roosevelt after reading Morris’ treatment of him in The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt. Brands and Morris are both skilled biographers, but they have different interpretations of TR’s underlying character, and given the life experiences that I’ve had between the two readings (I finished Brands in late 1998), I find Morris’ portrayal disturbing in several fundamental ways.

Essentially, what comes through more strongly in Morris’ treatment is Roosevelt’s jingoistic Americanism, and his belief that Americans as a people and as a nation were destined for greatness through imperial expansion.

In describing Roosevelt’s participation as a featured speaker at the Independence Day 1886 celebration in the small town of Dickinson, Dakota Territory, Morris says:

With all his boyish soul, he loved and revered the Fourth of July. The flags, the floats, the brass bands—even Thomas Jefferson’s prose somehow thrilled him. This particular Independence Day (the first ever held in Western Dakota) found him feeling especially patriotic. He was filled, not only with the spirit of Manifest Destiny, but with “the real and healthy democracy of the round-up.” The completion of another book, the modest success of his two ranches, his fame as the captor of Redhead Finnegan, the joyful thought of his impending remarriage, all conspired further to elevate his mood. These things, plus the sight of hundreds of serious, sunburned faces turned his way, brought out the best and the worst in him—his genuine love for America and Americans, and his vainglorious tendency to preach.

The book Morris refers to was a biography of Thomas Hart Benton, one of the first senators from the state of Missouri, and a strong proponent (like Roosevelt) of American expansion.

The most controversial chapter of the book is that devoted to Benton’s doctrine of westward expansion, which Roosevelt defines as “our manifest destiny to swallow up the land of all adjoining nations who were too weak to withstand us.” The “Oregon” of the 1840s—an enormous wilderness stretching west from the Rockies, and north from California to Alaska—was a prize that both the United States and Britain were entitled to share. But the “arrogant attitude” of Senator Benton, in claiming most of it, “was more than justified by the destiny of the great Republic; and it would have been well for all America if we had insisted even more than we did upon the extension northward of our boundaries.” Warming to his theme, Roosevelt declares that “Columbia, Saskatchewan, and Manitoba would, as States of the American Union, hold positions incomparably more important, grander and more dignified than…as provincial dependencies of a foreign power…No foot of soil to which we have any title in the Northwest should have been given up; we were the people who could use it best, and we ought to have taken it all.”

I think at one time my eye would have simply glossed over some of these phrases, but now they seem to jump out at me—“…swallow up the land of all adjoining nations who were too weak to withstand us...” and “…justified by the destiny of the great Republic…” seem especially egregious and indicative of Roosevelt’s unabashed “might makes right” and “we’re better than everyone else” style of Americanism.

I’m sometimes embarrassed to admit how long it takes me to learn the lessons of history—how often my eye glosses over words that contain fundamental context and understanding. As a quick aside, read this short passage about Roosevelt’s experiences in the Badlands of Dakota Territory:

Here, for thousands of square miles around, were juicy pastures, sheltered bottoms, and open stretches of range whose ability to support countless thousands of bovine animals had been demonstrated over the centuries. Now that the buffalo and red men were on their way out, cattle and white men could move in.

Forever I thought the buffalo were slaughtered mostly for sport, but this book’s analysis of the spirit of empire and colonization that pervaded Roosevelt’s thinking and that of his time has shown me that this can’t possibly be true.

Thomas Hart Benton was not the only book Roosevelt wrote. Indeed, Roosevelt was, among many other things, a published author of some note, and these themes show up again and again in his books. One critic, reading Roosevelt’s History of the City of New York, said this:

“Mr. Roosevelt preaches too much. He lays down the singular proposition that a feeling of broad, radical, intense Americanism is necessary if good work is to be done in any direction…The sooner we get over talking about ‘American’ systems of philosophy, and ethics, and art, and devote ourselves to what is true, and right, and beautiful, the sooner we shall shake off our provincialism.”

Probably nowhere is this chest-beating Americanism more prevalent than in Roosevelt’s campaign for, participation in, and myth-making triumph in the Spanish-American War. He was Assistant Secretary of the Navy at the time, serving in the first McKinley Administration, and did about everything he could to maneuver the country into the war, including ordering (probably without the authority to do so) the Navy to annex the Philippines as some kind of protection against global domination with Spain. When war with Spain in Cuba eventually came, Roosevelt immediately resigned his position with the Navy and went on to lead a regiment in two of the most famous battles of the war.

And it was, of course, in Cuba and on San Juan Hill where the myth of Teddy Roosevelt was finally and forever enshrined in people’s memory. One eyewitness described Roosevelt’s performance like this:

Perhaps a dozen of Roosevelt’s men had passed into the thicket before he did. Then he stepped across the wire himself, and, from that instant, became the most magnificent soldier I have ever seen. It was as if that barbed-wire strand had formed a dividing line in his life, and that when he stepped across it he left behind him in the bridle path all those unadmirable and conspicuous traits which have so often caused him to be justly criticized in civic life, and found on the other side of it, in that Cuban thicket, the coolness, the calm judgment, the towering heroism, which made him, perhaps, the most admired and best beloved of all Americans in Cuba.

Talk about writing for posterity. It’s hard for me to believe this is an accurate depiction of thoughts that took place during the battle, untinted by the knowledge of Roosevelt’s subsequently meteoric rise from retired Army colonel to the Governorship of New York, the Vice Presidency, and the Presidency.

But let that pass. What I don’t like most is Roosevelt’s own attitude about the war, his special role in it, and what he evidently felt it had released him to do.

For Roosevelt himself, the “crowded hour” atop San Juan Heights had been one of absolute fulfillment. “I would rather have led that charge…than served three terms in the U.S. Senate.” And he would rather die from yellow fever as a result than never to have charged at all. “Should the worst come to the worst I am quite content to go now and to leave my children at least an honorable name,” he told Henry Cabot Lodge. “And old man, if I do go, I do wish you would get that Medal of Honor for me anyhow, as I should awfully like the children to have it, and I think I earned it.”

With fulfillment came purgation. Bellicose poisons had been breeding in him since infancy. During recent years the strain had grown virulent, clouding his mind and souring the natural sweetness of his temperament. But at last he had had his bloodletting. He had fought a war and killed a man. He had “driven the Spaniard from the New World.” Theodore Roosevelt was at last, incongruously but wholeheartedly, a man of peace.

One can’t help but wonder how much of American history would have been different if Roosevelt could have found a less bloodthirsty way of proving his own manhood to his own satisfaction. Indeed, this equation of manliness and bravado seems cemented in who Roosevelt was.

…his tirades on the currently fashionable topic—became alarmingly harsh. “What matters a few broken bones to the glories of inter-collegiate sport?” he cried at a Harvard Club dinner. (Meanwhile, not far away in hospital, the latest victim of football savagery lay paralyzed for life.) He declared publicly that he would “disinherit” any son of his who refused to play college games. And in private, through clenched teeth: “I would rather one of them should die than have them grow up as a weakling.”

Of course, Roosevelt’s youngest son, Quentin, was killed as an early Air Force pilot in World War I, charging off to prove his manhood in the same fashion his father had and, true to form, Roosevelt, although mortified with sadness, was as proud as he could be.

But despite these shortcomings, as the force of Roosevelt’s character shines through in Morris’ prose as well as it did in Brands’, it attains a certain and never-ending buoyancy that I do find appealing. This is from Morris’ prologue:

Theodore Roosevelt is a man of such overwhelming physical impact that he stamps himself immediately on the consciousness. “Do you know the two most wonderful things I have seen in your country?” says the English statesman John Morely. “Niagara Falls and the President of the United States, both great wonders of nature!” Their common quality, which photographs and paintings fail to capture, is a perpetual flow of torrential energy, a sense of motion even in stillness. Both are physically thrilling to be near.

And his bookishness is also something that cannot be failed to be mentioned. This extended passage concludes Morris’ rich prologue, which is constructed as a snapshot of Roosevelt’s activities on a particular day in his Presidency—New Year’s Day, 1907.

Later in the afternoon, the President, his wife, and five of his six children are seen cantering off for a ride in the country. Although reporters cannot follow him through the rest of the day, enough is known of Roosevelt’s domestic habits to predict its events with some accuracy. Returning for tea, which he will swig from an outsize cup, Roosevelt will take advantage of the holiday quietness of his dark-green office to do some writing. Besides being President of the United States, he is also a professional author. The Elkhorn Edition of The Works of Theodore Roosevelt, just published, comprises twenty-three volumes of history, natural history, biography, political philosophy, and essays. At least two of his books, The Naval War of 1812 and the four-volume Winning of the West, are considered definitive by serious historians. He is also the author of many scientific articles and literary reviews, not to mention an estimated total of fifty thousand letters—the latest twenty-five of which he dashed off this morning.

In the early evening the President will escort his family to No. 1733 N Street, where his elder sister Bamie will serve chocolate and whipped cream and champagne. After returning to the White House, the younger Roosevelts will be forcibly romped into bed, and the elder given permission to roller-skate for an hour in the basement. As quietness settles down over the Presidential apartments, Roosevelt and his wife will sit by the fire in the Prince of Wales Room and read to each other. At about ten o’clock the First Lady will rise and kiss her husband good night. He will continue to read in the light of a student lamp, peering through his one good eye (the other almost blind) at the book held inches from his nose, flicking over the pages at a rate of two or three a minute.

This is the time of day he loves best. “Reading with me is a disease.” He succumbs to it so totally—on the heaving deck of the Presidential yacht in the middle of a cyclone, between whistle-stops on a campaign trip, even while waiting for his carriage at the front door—that he cannot hear his own name being spoken. Nothing short of a thump on the back will regain his attention. Asked to summarize the book he has been leafing through with such apparent haste, he will do so in minute detail, often quoting the actual text.

The President manages to get through at least one book a day even when he is busy. Owen Wister has lent him a book shortly before a full evening’s entertainment at the White House, and been astonished to hear a complete review of it over breakfast. “Somewhere between six one evening and eight-thirty next morning, beside his dressing and his dinner and his guests and his sleep, he had read a volume of three-hundred-and-odd pages, and missed nothing of significance that it contained.

On evenings like this, when he has no official entertaining to do, Roosevelt will read two or three books entire. His appetite for titles is omnivorous and insatiable, ranging from the Histories of Thucydides to the Tales of Uncle Remus. Reading as he has explained to Trevelyan, is for him the purest imaginative therapy. In the past year alone, Roosevelt has devoured all the novels of Trollope, the complete works of De Quincey, a Life of Saint Patrick, the prose works of Milton and Tacitus (“until I could stand them no longer”), Samuel Dill’s Roman Society from Nero to Marcus Aurelius, the seafaring yarns of Jacobs, the poetry of Scott, Poe, and Longfellow, a German novel called Jöhn Uhl, “a most satisfactorily lurid Man-eating Lion story,” and Foulke’s Life of Oliver P. Morton, not to mention at least five hundred other volumes on subjects ranging from tropical flora to Italian naval history.

The richness of Roosevelt’s knowledge causes a continuous process of cross-fertilization to go on in his mind. Standing with candle in hand at a baptismal service in Santa Fe, he reflects that his ancestors, and those of the child’s Mexican father, “doubtless fought in the Netherlands in the days of Alva and Parma.” Watching a group of American sailors joke about bedbugs in the Navy, he is reminded of the freedom of comment traditionally allowed to Roman legionnaires after battle. Trying to persuade Congress to adopt a system of simplified spelling in Government documents, he unself-consciously cites a treatise on the subject published in the time of Cromwell.

Tonight the President will bury himself, perhaps, in two volumes Mrs. Lodge has just sent him for review: Gissing’s Charles Dickens, A Critical Study, and The Greek View of Life, by Lowes Dickinson. He will be struck, as he peruses the latter, by interesting parallels between the Periclean attitude toward women and that of present-day Japan, and will make a mental note to write to Mrs. Lodge about it. He may also read, with alternate approval and disapproval, two articles on Mormonism in the latest issue of Outlook. A five-thousand-word essay on “The Ancient Irish Sagas” in this month’s Century magazine will not detain him long, since he is himself the author. His method of reading periodicals is somewhat unusual: each page, as he comes to the end of it, is torn out and thrown onto the floor. When both magazines have been thus reduced to a pile of crumpled paper, Roosevelt will leap from his rocking-chair and march down the corridor. Slowing his pace at the door of the presidential suite, he will tiptoe in, brush the famous teeth with only a moderate amount of noise, and pull on his blue-striped pajamas. Beside his pillow he will deposit a large, precautionary revolver. His last act, after turning down the lamp and climbing into bed, will be to unclip his pince-nez and rub the reddened bridge of his nose. Then, there being nothing further to do, Theodore Roosevelt will energetically fall asleep.

Theodore Roosevelt, for whatever faults I may wish to find in his political philosophy, was a reader and a writer—and he continually sought to expand his knowledge and understand his world. This devotion exposed him to a collection of ideas almost unique to someone of his day, teetering as he was on the cusp of the 20th century, and it gave him a kind of eternal optimism for the progress of the human species.

“At no period of the world’s history,” says Roosevelt, “has life been so full of interest, and of possibilities of excitement and enjoyment.” Science has revolutionized industry; Darwin has revolutionized thought; the globe’s waste spaces are being settled and seeded. A man of ambition has unique opportunities to build, explore, conquer, and transform. He can taste “the fearful joy” of grappling with large political and administrative problems. “If he is observant, he notes all around him the play of vaster forces than have ever before been exerted, working, half blindly, half under control, to bring about immeasurable results.”

It almost humanistic, this perspective, mixed as it is with Roosevelt’s own brand of individualism and imperialism. It seems clear to me that his constant reading and the consciousness expanding that came with it seasoned his views in a strange and forward-looking way, but unfortunately couldn’t quite redeem them.

During his years as a rancher, Roosevelt had acquired plenty of anti-Indian prejudice, strangely at odds with his enlightened attitude to blacks. But his research into the great Indian military heroes for The Winning of the West had done much to moderate this. Now, touring Pine Ridge and Crow Creek on behalf of the Great White Father, he looked on the red man not as an adversary but as a ward of the state, whom it was his duty to protect.

Roosevelt describes his view like this:

Here we have a group of beings who are not able to protect themselves; who are groping toward civilization out of the darkness of heredity and ingrained barbarism, and to whom, theoretically, we are supposed to be holding out a helping hand. They are utterly unable to protect themselves. They are credulous and easily duped by a bad agent, and they are susceptible of remarkable improvement when the agent is a good man, thoroughly efficient and thoroughly practical. To the Indians the workings of the spoils system at the agencies is a curse and an outrage…it must mean that the painful road leading upward from savagery is rendered infinitely more difficult and infinitely more stony for the poor feet trying to tread it.

This innate sense, that the American Indian represents the savage and barbarism, and that the European immigrant and their descendants represent civilization and progress, is ubiquitous in Roosevelt’s thinking, as it remains in the thinking of many today. His multi-volume epic, The Winning of the West, is absolutely rife with it—in fact, seems to depend on it for its narrative cohesion. In it, Roosevelt says things like:

During the past three centuries the spread of the English-speaking peoples over the world’s waste spaces had been not only the most striking feature in the world’s history, but also the event of all others most far-reaching in its importance.

He assails the “warped, perverse, and silly morality” that would preserve the American continent “for the use of a few scattered savage tribes, whose life was but a few degrees less meaningless, squalid, and ferocious than that of the wild beasts with whom they held joint ownership.”

And concludes that:

The most ultimately righteous of all wars is a war with savages, though it is apt to be also the most terrible and inhuman. The rude, fierce settler who drove the savage from the land lays all civilized mankind under a debt to him. American and Indian, Boer and Zulu, Cossack and Tartar, New Zealander and Maori—in each case the victor, horrible though many of his deeds are, has laid deep the foundations for the future greatness of a mighty people…it is of incalculable importance that America, Australia, and Siberia should pass out of the hands of their red, black, and yellow aboriginal owners, and become the heritage of the dominant world races.

They say one should not judge historical figures by the standards of modern times, but I’m not sure that’s what I’m doing when I find myself recoiling at these words. There were plenty who criticized Roosevelt for these views in his own time.

But Morris, like the good biographer he is, stops short of casting judgment, and rather allows his subject to hang—for good or bad—by his own thoughts and deeds. The most profound chapter in the book is the 18th—called The Universe Spinner—which focuses more than most on Roosevelt’s worldview, juxtaposing it against his participation in the festivities associated with the 1893 World’s Fair in Chicago. Morris writes:

Grover Cleveland’s adjectives on Opening Day—splendid, magnificent, grand, vast—were no different from those Roosevelt himself had lavished on America in all his books. The symbolism of the flags, and of the little Spanish admiral dwarfed by a three-hundred pound American President, was pleasing to him, but not revelatory. Nine years before, in his Fourth of July oration to the cowboys of Dickinson, he had hoped “to see the day when not a foot of American soil will be held by any European power,” and instinct told him that that day was fast approaching. When it came, it would bring out what some consider his best, what others consider the worst in him. This overriding impulse has been given many names: Jingoism, Nationalism, Imperialism, Chauvinism, even Fascism and Racism. Roosevelt preferred to use the simple and to him beautiful word Americanism.

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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 FOURTEEN

FARCHRIST TALES

BOOK TWO:

THE FORGOTTEN TEMPLE

The King’s School for Boys was what some people would call a stark, cold, and unfriendly place. But to Gildegarde Brisbane II, in the years between the ages of six and sixteen, it was home. Many boys found it hard to deal with the strict regulations, the driving and sometimes seemingly cruel schoolmasters, and the endlessly tedious assignments and exams. But to young Brisbane, this was all icing on his cake of faithful service to Grecolus. He excelled in most of his duties and subjects and, indeed, in the areas in which he performed less admirably, it was not due to any lack of effort. The other boys made fun of him there, as boys are wont to do, but Brisbane never let it bother him. He never said it to their faces, but he knew they teased them because they were jealous of the special relationship he shared with their creator.

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Four days before the end of Farchrist Year 105, Gildegarde Brisbane celebrated his nineteenth birthday. His friends held a small dinner party in his honor, and it was at this occasion that Allison Stargazer met Roystnof and Illzeezad Dantrius for the first time.

Shortwhiskers had gone to see Stargazer at her cottage a week before to deliver the invitation and to discuss whatever was left hanging after their brief conversation in The Lazy Dragon. Now that Brisbane knew a little more about Stargazer’s past, he felt he could make some fairly good guesses at what they had talked about.

First and foremost, Brisbane was sure they had a long and detailed discussion about Illzeezad Dantrius. Stargazer had said she had heard Shortwhiskers speak of him, but that was before Brisbane knew of Stargazer’s part in the expedition to Dragon’s Peak, and now Brisbane figured that that was just a lie for his benefit. If Stargazer had known Dantrius personally, and felt the same way about him that Shortwhiskers did, the dwarf probably had to do quite a bit of talking to get her to come to a dinner party at which Dantrius would be in unfortunate attendance.

Secondly, Brisbane supposed Shortwhiskers would tell Stargazer that he had told Brisbane about her past. Shortwhiskers had said she probably wouldn’t mind if just Brisbane knew, and Brisbane hoped that was true. He hadn’t told anyone about it and certainly had no intentions of doing so.

Finally, Brisbane hoped Shortwhiskers had in some way explained Roystnof and his magic to Stargazer. Roystnof, after all, was not a servant of Damaleous. His magic power came from his own will and there was no reason why Stargazer should take any offense to it. Brisbane hoped the dwarf had tried to convince her of this, but if Stargazer was like any other Grecolus-fearing faithful Brisbane knew, the dwarf would have little luck.

But whatever it was that Shortwhiskers and Stargazer had talked about at their private meeting, Stargazer had accepted the invitation to dinner. Brisbane was happy for that if for nothing else. She arrived at their little rental cabin as the sun was nearing the tops of the trees and Brisbane met her in the front yard.

“Welcome,” Brisbane said as he offered a hand to her and helped her up the front steps. Her grip was strong but there seemed to be almost no pull against his arm.

“Thank you,” Stargazer said. “And happy birthday.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed Brisbane on the cheek.

Brisbane tried not to blush. “Thank you,” he said. “Would you like to come inside and meet everyone?” He offered the question as gently as he could.

Stargazer folded her arms under her bosom. “The time must come, I suppose.” She bowed her head and mumbled some words to herself. When she looked back up, Brisbane realized she had been praying. “I am ready,” she said.

Brisbane opened the front door and led Stargazer into the large living room of their rented cabin. A warm fire crackled in the fireplace and seated in the warm glow, in overstuffed chairs, were Shortwhiskers, Roystnof, and Dantrius.

All three men got to their feet as Stargazer entered the room. Shortwhiskers quickly crossed the room in an attempt to greet her first. The two exchanged a few words as Brisbane stood by and watched the expressions on the faces of Roystnof and Dantrius.

“Thank you for coming, Allison,” Shortwhiskers said. “I was worried you wouldn’t.”

“I came because you asked me to, Nog,” Stargazer said. “And to celebrate Gil’s birthday. I did not pick the guest list, nor was it my place to do so.”

“Yes,” Shortwhiskers said uneasily. “Well, I hope things go a little better than that. If everyone acts so formally, I may be asleep by the second course.”

Shortwhiskers got a smile out of Stargazer on that one and he took the opportunity to guide her over to meet the two wizards.

“Allison Stargazer,” Shortwhiskers said. “I would like you to meet Roystnof and Illzeezad Dantrius.”

Stargazer approached Roystnof first. The wizard was dressed in his usual black and red but in no way did his appearance give away his magical powers. His van dyke had recently been trimmed and his hair neatly combed.

“Miss Stargazer,” Roystnof said as he bowed a little. “Nog has told me much about you. I am glad to finally make your acquaintance.”

Stargazer nodded. “Nog has told me about you too, sir. I would be interested in hearing your views on the shrine you discovered on your last expedition.”

Roystnof smiled royally. “It would be my pleasure.”

Stargazer then turned to Dantrius. The mage was dressed neatly and still smelled of the soaps with which he had bathed. His long black hair framed his cracked face, gouged with the fingers of erosion, and his icy blue eyes glared out from under rough brows.

“Well,” Dantrius said. “This has been quite a little reunion for me, hasn’t it? First the Dwarven Ambassador and now the High Priestess. One could even say that young Brisbane there represents the figure of his grandfather, the Knight. I don’t think, however, that the Prince or anyone representing him will be able to make an appearance.”

Brisbane was surprised at the frankness of Dantrius’ comments, revealing as he had that he knew Stargazer had been the high priestess on the expedition to Dragon’s Peak. Did that prove what Shortwhiskers had said about him, about his role in those events? Brisbane wasn’t sure, but he now knew that everyone in the room, with the exception of Roystnof, knew the whole story of that doomed expedition.

Stargazer spoke softly. “Nog has told me that you are a sorcerer, Dantrius.”

“Sorcerer?” Dantrius replied, seeming shocked. “I fear Mister Ambassador pays me too great a compliment. I can do some minor tricks, yes, but a sorcerer? No, I don’t believe so.”

“It didn’t surprise me,” Stargazer said, ignoring his protestations of innocence. “I was dismayed that someone could deceive the King so, but I was not at all surprised to find out you were serving evil forces.”

Dantrius allowed a pained expression to pass over his face. “It’s nothing to hold against me, Your Matriarchy. Ideological opposites are not as different as they may seem on the surface.”

“Your kind disgusts me,” Stargazer said grimly.

Dantrius smiled. “And here I was hoping you would favor me with a dance later this evening.”

Shortwhiskers cut in. “Perhaps we should move into the dining room and begin our dinner. Before someone completely loses their appetite.”

Brisbane presented himself next to Stargazer and hooked out an elbow. Stargazer gave Dantrius a cold stare and then turned, slipping a hand inside Brisbane’s arm. He led her into the dining room.

Brisbane showed Stargazer to her chair and sat down next to her. Shortwhiskers came in and sat on the other side of Stargazer, followed by Roystnof and Dantrius, who took their seats on the other side of the table.

Shortwhiskers picked up a small bell set at his place and rang it. Shortly, a man dressed in white, hired for the occasion, came in through the swinging door that led to the kitchen, welcomed all the guests, and recited off the menu for the evening. He then went off to fetch the first course, returning soon with a tray cluttered with five bowls of thick broccoli soup. He placed a bowl in front of each guest.

Brisbane was reaching for his spoon when he saw Stargazer out of the corner of his eye bow her head and fold her hands in her lap. He quickly brought his own hands to his lap and, for the first time in many months, he offered the small ritual prayer of grace to Grecolus.

When he had finished the mental recitation, Brisbane was ready to eat, but he kept his hands folded because he noticed that Stargazer had not yet finished her prayer. He wondered what she could still be praying about, but then remembered what Shortwhiskers had said about her.

She worships Grecolus in the old ways.

Brisbane knew nothing about this. He thought the rites and rituals he had been taught were the way Grecolus had been worshipped since creation and had no knowledge of any other kind.

She’s a healer, Brisbane heard Shortwhiskers’ voice echo in his head. Claims her power comes from Grecolus himself.

Power. That’s what Shortwhiskers had said. Her power. Brisbane had originally thought the dwarf was referring to her medical skills, but now he was not so sure. He remembered the scene when Stargazer had healed (used her power on) the old man, Skinner. It had been like she was casting a spell, hadn’t it? She had placed her hands on his abdomen, moved them about, and chanted in an unfamiliar tongue. What was there about that process that could realistically take away pain? Nothing. But Skinner had relaxed and he had looked better. It was as if Stargazer had taken away his pain by magic.

Stargazer finished her prayer and began to eat her soup. Brisbane quickly followed and let his ponderings go for another time. He knew he would have to find a time to ask her about it eventually. What was the difference between what she did for Skinner and what Roystnof did with his red book?

“Nog tells me,” Stargazer suddenly said pointedly to Roystnof, “that you found Dantrius as a stone statue in some mysterious garden south of here. The victim of a basilisk?”

Roystnof put his soup spoon down. “Yes.”

“And that you, through your use of magic, restored him to the form present with us this evening.”

Roystnof nodded. “This is true.”

Stargazer returned her attention to her soup bowl for a moment. All around the table everyone enjoyed a few spoonfuls of the fine soup. There was some kind of cheese in it with which Brisbane was not familiar.

“He also tells me,” Stargazer went on, “that inside the shrine you discovered, you encountered some kind of demon, a demon that withstood attacks from both Nog and from Ignatius Roundtower. He says that it was your magic that helped Gil finally destroy the creature.”

“Again, true,” Roystnof said. “Without my slow spell, I fear the demon would have been too much for Gil to handle.”

“I see,” Stargazer said. “And just why did you choose that particular spell? Couldn’t you have brought some sort of fireball down on its head or something? I mean, it seems like such a minor act against such a powerful adversary.” Her voice was subtle and suggestive.

Roystnof considered Stargazer’s words for some time. “Listen, Miss Stargazer, I know what you must think about me and my magic and, frankly, I don’t care. But I’m not going to sit here and listen to you speculate about my motives. I used the spell I thought most helpful in the situation. I helped destroy that demon because it was endangering the lives of my friends. Now, you can speculate to yourself all you want, but you will never come closer to the truth than that.”

Silence fell around the table. Brisbane looked at Roystnof’s angry face and felt a resurgence of the love and respect he felt for his friend. Shortwhiskers kept his eyes switching between Stargazer and Roystnof. Dantrius slurped his soup.

“I’m sorry,” Stargazer said finally. “It was not my place. You surprised me with your passion.”

Roystnof accepted the woman’s apology and the rest of the soup was finished in silence. The hired man came in to take the dishes and returned with salad plates for all of them.

“Roystnof,” Stargazer said, starting the conversation again. “I hope Nog has told you that I plan to accompany you when you set out again in the spring.”

“He has,” Roystnof said.

“For personal reasons,” Stargazer continued, “I am very interested in the shrine you discovered. Nog has told me about it in his words, but I would very much like to hear it described in yours.”

“It was rather plain, really,” Roystnof said after chewing the crisp lettuce. “A cube of stone made out of great slabs of rock. Inside were the rotted remains of what I took to be kneeling benches and a faded mural.”

“A mural?” Stargazer asked.

“Yes,” Roystnof said. “A pair of giant hands parting a cloudbank. Quite a striking image, actually. The basement was completely empty except for the demon we found. I have no idea what the space was once used for.”

“The demon,” Stargazer said. “How do you suppose it got there?”

“Somebody conjured it up,” Roystnof said matter-of-factly. “The pentagram was still on the wall.”

“The pentagram, yes,” Stargazer said. “Do you have any idea who might have conjured such a beast in such a holy place?”

“No,” Roystnof said. “It could have been most anyone.”

Stargazer turned her attention to Dantrius. The pale man held a cherry tomato poked on the end of his fork and was eyeing it dubiously.

“What were you doing in the garden, Dantrius?” Stargazer asked. “What were you doing at that shrine?”

Brisbane held a forkful of lettuce halfway between his plate and his mouth. This was a question he was very interested in hearing answered. It was something he wanted to know, something he had wanted to know since Roystnof had first transformed Dantrius from stone to flesh. The rest of the guests seemed equally anxious to hear the mage’s answer.

Dantrius smiled. “Exploring,” he said simply. “The basilisk trapped me before I could even enter the shrine.” He placed the tomato in his mouth and slowly drew the fork out from between his lips.

“When were you there?” Stargazer asked insistently. “How soon was it after you had left the King’s court?”

“That’s my business,” Dantrius said. “But because it is of no consequence, I will tell you anyway. It was almost immediately. When I left the King’s employ, I started to travel south, searching for friendlier environs. I had been trapped as a stone statue in that garden for nearly the entire intervening time between then and now. There is precious little mischief I could have perpetrated.”

“I’m sure,” Stargazer said uneasily.

Dantrius suddenly stood. “But please, could we dispense with this interrogation session?” He lifted his glass which, at this time, was only filled with water. “We are here to celebrate the birthday of our dear friend, Gildegarde. I would like to propose a toast in his honor.”

The others suspiciously reached for their glasses and held them in front of themselves.

Dantrius cleared his throat. “Here is to young Gildegarde Brisbane. May his life be better than ours have been and longer than the wisest man’s.” Dantrius took a ceremonial drink from his cup, sat back down, and returned to his salad.

All around the table, glasses were brought forward, and uncertain sips were taken.

The rest of the dinner was mostly uneventful, although the food was delicious. The main course was a sumptuous pork roast with potatoes and gravy and steamed carrots. For dessert, they were served the richest chocolate cake with a scoop of immaculate vanilla ice cream. Brisbane’s appetite seemed unstoppable and he devoured helping after helping. The others seemed to nearly gorge themselves as well, except for Stargazer who, although she ate a little bit of everything brought to her, she never seemed to clean her plate.

When the dinner was over, they all retired to the living room to let the hired man and his crew clean up the mess and wrap up the leftovers. Brisbane was hoping for some friendly conversation around the fireplace, but as the others found comfortable chairs, Stargazer drew him aside and said she thought it would be best if she left.

Brisbane did not argue, although he really wanted her to stay. He asked her if she would like him to walk her home and she said that that would be very nice. Brisbane told the others they were leaving and they quickly set out.

It was full dark when they stepped outside, the sun having set a while ago. Stargazer drew her coat around her frame and they marched off, away from town and in the direction of her cottages.

“I had a fine time tonight, Gil,” Stargazer said, her breath puffing visibly out of her mouth. “Regardless of what happened with Roystnof and Dantrius. It was a wonderful dinner party.”

“I’m sorry we can’t all get along,” Brisbane said. “It would make things much easier in the spring.”

“Yes,” Stargazer agreed. “It would.”

“Allison?”

“Yes, Gil?”

Brisbane was afraid to ask the question. “Do you really believe all magic-users are servants of the Evil One?”

“It is what the scriptures tell us,” Stargazer said without pause. “Magic is the tool of Damaleous to turn people away from Grecolus.”

Brisbane was working up the courage to ask her about her healing skills but, before he could get it out, Stargazer asked him a question.

“Where do you think they get their powers from?”

There was something about the way she had said the word they. Brisbane knew she was not referring to all wizards in general. He knew she was talking specifically about Roystnof and Dantrius.

“As far as Dantrius goes,” Brisbane said, “you may be right. It wouldn’t surprise me for a minute if he was worshipping Damaleous. But Roystnof? No, I can’t believe that about him. I’ve known him since I was twelve and never have I seen any evidence of it. And if he can do magic without worshipping Damaleous, what does that say about where magic really comes from?”

“Careful, Gil,” Stargazer warned. “You’re coming close to blasphemy. I know how you feel about Roystnof; Nog told me about your relationship with him. You think of him as an older brother, or perhaps even as a father figure. This worried me at first, but now I see he is a man of character, regardless of his religious beliefs, and that he had not corrupted you.”

Warning lights were going off in Brisbane’s head. Evidently, Shortwhiskers had not told Stargazer about Brisbane’s short-term apprenticeship to Roystnof, and she as yet had not seen the medallion Brisbane wore behind his tunic. If either of these were made known to her, Brisbane had the impression that Stargazer would have nothing more to do with him. As Brisbane did not want that to happen, he decided it was a necessary deception. Besides, neither he nor Roystnof was really worshipping Damaleous anyway, so it wasn’t really a lie. It was just something he wasn’t telling her.

“I did not mean to call the scriptures wrong,” Brisbane said truthfully. “I just have no proof that they are correct.”

“That is why you need faith, Gil.”

They were nearing Stargazer’s cottages. The one she lived in was dark, but the one where she tended to the sick and injured of Queensburg was lighted. Brisbane walked her up to the door of the latter.

Stargazer turned to face him. “There are a few I want to check on before I turn in,” she said, taking both of Brisbane’s hands in hers. “Thank you for walking me back, Gil. Your gentlemanly manners are impeccable.”

Brisbane shrugged. “It seems to come naturally to me. Especially for someone as ladylike as you.” Even while he was saying it, Brisbane couldn’t believe how lame it sounded.

Stargazer stood on her tiptoes and kissed Brisbane on the cheek for the second time that night. “Happy birthday,” she whispered in his ear and for a second her hushed and throaty voice in his ear reminded him of how Angelika’s seductive voice sounded in his head.

Stargazer broke away from him. “Come and see me again. Soon.”

“I will,” Brisbane said.

Stargazer smiled.

She likes me, Brisbane thought. By Grecolus, she really likes me. She’s giving me the benefit of the doubt with Roy because she likes me. She wants me to be good. She doesn’t want to believe I would worship Damaleous.

Stargazer turned and entered the cottage. She gave Brisbane a little wave goodbye before she shut the door.

Brisbane just about ran home.

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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.

Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi

Azar Nafisi is an Iranian woman and a professor of English Literature. Reading Lolita in Tehran is her memoir of the time after the Islamic Revolution when she and a small group of her female students continued to study the books they loved in a kind of secret book club she hosted in her home.

As such, it is appropriately more a story of these women than these books, but my favorite part was the way she framed the events of their lives, and the revolution and society going on around them, through the famous characters in the novels they were reading.

Through this technique, it is easy to see Humbert Humbert in Lolita as a representative of the repressed Islamist yearning for his own freedom, and it is easy to see Daisy Miller in that Henry James classic as the embodiment of the woman they all wished to be.

But who is the “great” Jay Gatsby? And who is Elizabeth Bennet from Pride and Prejudice? With them, I was unable to make any significant connections. 

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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.

Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

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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I’m not in the habit of tooting my own horn, but I am really happy with the entry I wrote on Brave New World after listening to it years ago as an audiobook.

From December 6, 2004:

The next audiobook after The Handmaid’s Tale and another dystopic vision of the future. I can’t say I enjoyed it as much as My Antonia or The Moon and Sixpence, but I believe I will add it to my get and read again list anyway. It’s a classic, after all, and its vision of the future is stark and compelling. In fact, now that I think on it, I realize that it’s the vision that is worth revisiting, and not so much the story.

There were really two things here that, although taken to a ridiculous extreme, reflect poorly on our present society and make me wonder how truly close we are to that Brave New World. The first is the idea of conditioning. In BNW, people believe what they believe because it has been conditioned into them, a conscious part of their education as well as reinforced ad infinitum during their periods of sleep. Hypnopedia is what Huxley calls it. But even in our own society, absent subliminal messages played repeatedly in our sleep, I wonder how much of what we believe we believe because we have been “conditioned” to think a certain way. “People believe in God because they have been conditioned to believe in God,” Mustapha Mond famously says, but he also questions the philosopher who said that philosophy is the practice of coming up with bad reasons to believe what we believe intrinsically. “As if people believe anything intrinsically.” That will make you think. Do we know or believe anything apart from what our environment has taught us? Can we? How is that different from being conditioned to believe a certain thing?

The second is the idea of consumption. In BNW, to consume commercially-produced products is more than patriotic, it is a sign of good citizenship. To mend clothes that have torn or fix things that have broken—rather than getting new ones—is seen as antisocial and wrong. After all, consumption drives the economy, keeps people employed, and therefore gives purpose to a thousand otherwise meaningless tasks and the people that perform them. And all of the “approved” forms of recreation require elaborate and expensive equipment to participate in. There’s nothing you can do by yourself (with a pen and a piece of paper, for example). Everything requires a group and the latest in an unending chain of upgraded tools and devices. Again, I see this as different from our own society only in degree, not in basic premise.

I also like the way Huxley brought in the title. John is a “savage” raised by Indians on a reservation where the rules of BNW don’t apply. He is given a book of Shakespeare’s plays which he reads voraciously and basically memorizes. Like Miranda upon seeing men from across the sea, he quotes, “Oh, brave new world that contains men such as these,” when he finally meets men from the BNW society.

The last part of the book is an interesting analysis of how the world of Shakespeare cannot co-exist with the Brave New World. BNW has eliminated all forms of human passion by declaring that everyone belongs to everyone else, and abolishing the family unit as the basis of society. Babies are born in test tubes and children are raised in conditioning centers. No one has a wife to cheat on or a lover to pine for. No one has a child to care for or a brother to compete against. For the BNWers, it is the ultimate expression of human happiness because there is no war, crime, or strife of any kind, and people spend eight hours a day making positive contributions to society and then take a recreational drug (called soma in the novel) and have sex with each other as much as they want. For John the Savage, it’s a world turned upside down and, after an initial fascination, a decidedly insidious one. He much prefers the human passions of Shakespeare, even if they too frequently lead to heartache, betrayal, and death.

There’s much more to say about this book—the caste system in which embryos are nurtured or neglected from the very beginning to produce the right number of geniuses to keep innovation moving forward and the right number of morons to keep the machines running, for example—but again, almost none of it is about the story. It’s almost all about the premise. Bernard Marx is no Winston Smith, and there isn’t a time when we care about him as much as we do the other.

I’m not sure there’s much new substance I could add to that, although having now read it in hard copy, I’ve made notes on several dog-eared pages, and that gives me a prime opportunity to cite several passages from the text itself that expound on one of the novel’s main themes—conditioning.

The Director of Hatcheries and Conditioning perhaps says it best on page 15:

“And that,” put in the Director sententiously, “that is the secret of happiness and virtue—liking what you’ve got to do. All conditioning aims at that: making people like their unescapable social destiny.”

The whole opening section of the novel is, in fact, an introduction to the way BNW develops and conditions its children to fulfill the social destiny that’s been determined for them. It’s a conditioning that Bernard Marx and then John the Savage rebel against, the first from within and the second from without the construct of that conditioning itself.

I say at the very bottom of my previous entry that Bernard Marx is not Winston Smith, and what I mean by that is that Marx never captures the reader’s compassion and fealty the way Smith does, even though they are both fighting against the inhuman machinations that control their societies. Marx is ultimately not BNW’s protagonist, the way Smith is 1984’s. In BNW, that honor ultimately goes to John the Savage, but Huxley allows us to flirt with Marx for a while before introducing his novel’s real conflict.

Marx’s most endearing scene, for me, is when he speaks out against his conditioning, in language his love interest Lenina (similarly, no Julia) can’t hope to understand.

On their way back across the Channel, Bernard insisted on stopping his propeller and hovering on his helicopter screws within a hundred feet of the waves. The weather had taken a change for the worse; a south-westerly wind had sprung up, the sky was cloudy.

“Look,” he commanded.

“But it’s horrible,” said Lenina, shrinking back from the window. She was appalled by the rushing emptiness of the night, by the black foam-flecked water heaving beneath them, by the pale face of the moon, so haggard and distracted among the hastening clouds. “Let’s turn on the radio. Quick!” She reached for the dialing knob on the dashboard and turned it at random.

“…skies are blue inside of you,” sang sixteen tremoloing falsettos, “the weather’s always…”

Then a hiccough and silence. Bernard had switched off the current.

“I want to look at the sea in peace,” he said. “One can’t even look with that beastly noise going on.”

“But it’s lovely. And I don’t want to look.”

“But I do,” he insisted. “It makes me feel as though…” he hesitated, searching for words with which to express himself, “as though I were more me, if you see what I mean. More on my own, not so completely a part of something else. Not just a cell in the social body. Doesn’t it make you feel like that, Lenina?”

But Lenina was crying. “It’s horrible, it’s horrible,” she kept repeating. “And how can you talk like that about not wanting to be part of the social body? After all, every one works for every one else. We can’t do without any one. Even Epsilons…”

“Yes, I know,” said Bernard derisively. “‘Even Epsilons are useful’! So am I. And I damned well wish I weren’t!”

Lenina was shocked by his blasphemy. “Bernard!” She protested in a voice of amazed distress. “How can you?”

In a different key, “How can I?” he repeated meditatively. “No, the real problem is: How is it that I can’t, or rather—because, after all, I know quite well why I can’t—what would it be like if I could, if I were free—not enslaved by my conditioning.”

“But, Bernard, you’re saying the most awful things.”

“Don’t you wish you were free, Lenina?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I am free. Free to have the most wonderful time. Everybody’s happy nowadays.”

He laughed. “Yes, ‘Everybody’s happy nowadays.’ We begin giving the children that at five. But wouldn’t you like to be free to be happy in some other way, Lenina? In your own way, for example; not in everybody else’s way?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she repeated.

Indeed, Lenina doesn’t. She has never had any reason to question her conditioning. To her, Bernard’s pining for something other than what he has been conditioned for is unnatural, almost obscene. But when they visit the savage reservation together, we see in Lenina’s reaction to that society’s sights and sounds both a horror of things different and a deep abiding understanding of at least one basic element of all human culture.

Lenina liked the drums. Shutting her eyes she abandoned herself to their soft repeated thunder, allowed it to invade her consciousness more and more completely, till at last there was nothing left in the world but that one deep pulse of sound. It reminded her reassuringly of the synthetic noises made at Solidarity Services and Ford’s Day celebrations. “Orgy-porgy,” she whispered to herself. These drums beat out just the same rhythms.

There was a sudden startling burst of singing—hundreds of male voices crying out fiercely in harsh and metallic unison. A few long notes and silence, the thunderous silence of the drums; then shrill, in a neighing treble, the women’s answer. Then again the drums; and once more the men’s deep savage affirmation of their manhood.

Queer—yes. The place was queer, so was the music, so were the clothes and the goiters and the skin diseases and the old people. But the performance itself—there seemed to be nothing especially queer about that.

“It reminds me of a lower-caste Community Sing,” she told Bernard.

And as I said before, it is Marx’s and Lenina’s introduction to John the Savage and his society that provides the vehicle for the ultimate conflict in the novel—not the one between Marx and his conditioning, but the one between the controlled, stable society of BNW and the random, myth-believing society of the savage reservation. Both societies are flawed—in neither one do the citizens embrace the truths of their existence. And it is only World Controller Mustapha Mond—our antagonist—who is in a position to understand the price that is paid to make the Brave New World possible.

In a scene reminiscent of Smith’s truth revealing encounter with O’Brien, John asks Mond why there can’t be things like Shakespeare’s Othello in his society.

“Because our world is not the same as Othello’s world. You can’t make flivvers without steel—and you can’t make tragedies without social instability. The world’s stable now. People are happy; they get what they want, and they never want what they can’t get. They’re well off; they’re safe; they’re never ill; they’re not afraid of death; they’re blissfully ignorant of passion and old age; they’re plagued with no mothers or fathers; they’ve got no wives, or children, or lovers to feel strongly about; they’re so conditioned that they practically can’t help behaving as they ought to behave. And if anything should go wrong, there’s soma. Which you go and chuck out of the window in the name of liberty, Mr. Savage. Liberty!” He laughed. “Expecting Deltas to know what liberty is! And now expecting them to understand Othello! My good boy!”

The Savage was silent for a little. “All the same,” he insisted obstinately, “Othello’s good, Othello’s better than those feelies.”

“Of course it is,” the Controller agreed. “But that’s the price we have to pay for stability. You’ve got to choose between happiness and what people used to call high art. We’ve sacrificed the high art. We have the feelies and the scent organ instead.”

This is the section in which Mustapha Mond famously says, “People believe in God because they’ve been conditioned to believe in God,” but that sentiment seems at odds with this thesis, which Mond presents just two pages prior.

“That sickness is old age; and a horrible disease it is. They say that it is the fear of death and of what comes after death that makes men turn to religion as they advance in years. But my own experience has given me the conviction that, quite apart from any such terrors or imaginings, the religious sentiment tends to develop as we grow older; to develop because, as the passions grow calm, as the fancy and sensibilities are less excited and less excitable, our reason becomes less troubled in its working, less obscured by the images, desires and distractions, in which it used to be absorbed; whereupon God emerges as from behind a cloud; our soul feels, sees, turns toward the source of all light; turns naturally and inevitably; for now that all that gave the world of sensations its life and charms has begun to leak away from us, now that phenomenal existence is no more bolstered up by impressions from within or from without, we feel the need to lean on something that abides, something that will never play us false—a reality, an absolute and everlasting truth. Yes, we inevitably turn to God; for this religious sentiment is of its nature so pure, so delightful to the soul that experiences it, that it makes up to us for all our other losses.”

I can’t tell if Huxley is trying to say something permanent about God here—if he does and doesn’t actually believe that God is an ultimate and transcendent truth of our existence. He seems to smash the idea with Mond’s more famous line two pages later, but the rest of the discussion seems to argue that God is something Mond has to protect the BNWers from, like Shakespeare, in order to have the happiness and stability they seek.

One final point. John the Savage seems to hold his own throughout this climactic discussion with Mond, and we the contemporary reader, who feel more affinity for John’s Shakespeare than Mond’s feelies, wish John to succeed, want him to destroy this unfeeling Brave New World if he can. But John doesn’t, and after his banishment, we see that perhaps our fealty to his savage predilections was misplaced.

John is ultimately tortured by the ideals of his savage world, and he actually flogs himself as punishment for sullying the purity he seeks to maintain. Pledged to holding sacred and constant the memory of his dead mother, Linda, the memory and carnal desires associated with an unfulfilled encounter with Lenina cause him to quite lose his mind.

“Strumpet! Strumpet!” he shouted at every blow as though it were Lenina (and how frantically, without knowing it, he wished it were), white, warm, scented, infamous Lenina that he was flogging thus. “Strumpet!” And then, in a voice of despair, “Oh, Linda, forgive me. Forgive me, God. I’m bad. I’m wicked. I’m…No, no, you strumpet, you strumpet!”

It makes you wonder which side you’re supposed to fall on. Ultimately, I realize that the choice of the Savage is no better than the choice we face as the reader. Which society should we embrace? The one based on the passions of our distant past, or on the calculated happiness of our stable future? And if we choose neither extreme, an even larger question looms. How do we ensure that we walk the correct and delicate line between them when others will invariably want to pull our society in one direction or the other?

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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 THIRTEEN

FARCHRIST TALES

BOOK TWO:

THE FORGOTTEN TEMPLE

Although some may claim that it is impossible for one so young to make such a commitment, young Gildegarde Brisbane II chose to become a Knight of Farchrist the day Nog Shortwhiskers told him of his father’s death. While his formal education would not begin until he entered the King’s School at the age of six, his mother read to him from the scriptures and taught him many of their lessons before that required age. When young Brisbane did enter the School, his masters were amazed at his knowledge of the holy works of Grecolus and the lessons they dictated.

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The name of the tavern was The Lazy Dragon. It was early December and the snows had begun to fall. Shortwhiskers and Brisbane sat at a small table in one of the corners of the common room. Each had a large tankard of ale set before him. The tavern was quiet and not crowded.

Brisbane had been spending a lot of time at The Lazy Dragon lately. Roystnof was still tied up with Dantrius, and now with Roundtower gone, Shortwhiskers was the only true companion Brisbane had. The dwarf liked to spend his winter days and nights next to the warm fireplace of the nearest tavern, so Brisbane invariably found himself in the same places.

Brisbane had not liked the taste of ale the first time he had tried it. All the years he had helped Otis in The Quarter Pony he was not allowed to sample any of the drinks he had served. Not only had Otis thought Brisbane was too young for alcohol, the older man had considered it beneath the station of a Knight-to-be. Pure body and pure spirit.

But the events of the past months and Shortwhiskers’ insistence had changed Brisbane’s outlook. Otis and The Quarter Pony seemed leagues away and Shortwhiskers had taken it upon himself to declare Brisbane old enough.

His first taste was awful. It was a bitter liquid that always felt like it was fighting against Brisbane’s swallow. After he had taken his first sip, he was dismayed at the size of the vessel he would have to drain. He thought it would take him all winter. But each drink he took was a little easier to down than the one before it, and soon he could take a healthy swig without wrinkling his nose or squeezing his eyes shut.

Whereas Brisbane was still not crazy about the way the drink tasted, he was certainly becoming a fan of the way it made him feel. He could understand why so many people drank the stuff and why so many people had trouble controlling how much they drank. He had seen people sick on the drink plenty of times, back at The Quarter Pony and here at The Lazy Dragon. Brisbane never wanted that to happen to him so he made Shortwhiskers promise to cut him off whenever the dwarf felt he had had enough. So far the system had worked, but it was often called very close. Brisbane had fought a lot of skirmishes and so far he had won them all.

For the most part, Brisbane enjoyed these times he spent with Shortwhiskers. The dwarf was a good drinking companion and Brisbane liked him. He only wished he could spend more time with Roystnof.

The drink tended to loosen Shortwhiskers’ lips, which Brisbane enjoyed, and often they found themselves discussing things freely that Shortwhiskers would have normally been close-mouthed about.

It was a day like any other they had spent in the tavern. Sitting around the fireplace, watching the snow fall, sipping ale, and listening to stories of past adventures told by Shortwhiskers and other regular patrons of the tavern. It was late afternoon and the sky was darkening when the door to the tavern swung open and The Lazy Dragon received a trio of the most unusual customers.

The first man who entered the common room was unusual in no other way except for the uniform he wore. It was dark blue, neatly tailored to fit the man’s body perfectly. He wore riding boots and a long riding cloak. The uniform bore no rank insignia but the visored hat the man wore bore a shiny silver badge on it. Behind him entered the two other men, huge and bulky figures dressed in chainmail, helmets, and red capes. They wore the Farchrist Crest above their left breast.

The three quickly surveyed the room and went over to the bartender. Everyone, including Brisbane, knew what the three men were here for. Brisbane had seen three similar men come into The Quarter Pony every year around the same time. The man with the badge on his hat was the tax collector. The other two were guards to make sure everyone gave Dalanmire his due.

Brisbane and Shortwhiskers watched as the tax collector went through a large account book the bartender had produced for him. He ran a stiff finger down a column of numbers, and when he had found what he wanted, he brought out a book of his own and began making notes in it.

“Every year,” Shortwhiskers spat. “And all over the kingdom. Sometimes I feel like it’s my fault, Gil. Did you know that before the expedition to Dragon’s Peak, the dragon tax came due only once every three years, and the King only had to tax the citizens of Raveltown to meet it?”

Brisbane nodded. He knew. Shortwhiskers had told him many times.

“Now it’s every year and all over the kingdom. All because the King defied Dalanmire and sent the two Knights to confront him. I shouldn’t have gone along, Gil. I shouldn’t have guided them there.”

Brisbane shrugged. “Someone else would have,” he said simply, taking a drink of his ale.

One of the guards had produced a small cash box and the bartender was slowly counting coins and dropping them into it. The tax collector kept a close eye on the procedure.

Shortwhiskers put down his ale. “Would they have?”

Brisbane nodded. “Of course. The King was so much in favor of the mission nothing could have stopped him. You’ve said so yourself. If the dwarves had refused to help, the King would have found some other way if he had had to go there himself.”

“Yeah,” Shortwhiskers said, picking up his ale again. “I suppose you’re right. I still feel guilty about it, though.”

“Drink your ale,” Brisbane instructed.

One of the guards snapped the cash box shut and the tax collector spun on his heel to leave. The two guards followed him out the door and to the next place of business. Soon, Brisbane supposed, the trio would show up at the cabin they had rented and demand a percentage of whatever money was on hand. It didn’t worry Brisbane much, he was broke, living off the charity of his friends. He didn’t know how much gold Shortwhiskers and Roystnof had accumulated over their travels, but he assumed it was quite a bit. He also believed it was the kind of income that no one really kept track of and which would be hard to tax.

Shortwhiskers called for two more ales and the bartender, who had seemed defeated at the loss of his hard-earned money, hurried over with hopes of keeping this year in the black.

“Someday, Gil,” Shortwhiskers muttered. “Someday I’m going to go back to Dragon’s Peak and put an end to this tax nonsense.”

Brisbane chuckled. “Okay, Nog. Just don’t leave without me. We’ll skin that dragon alive.”

Brisbane was joking but he could tell by Shortwhiskers’ eyes that the dwarf was serious. “Yes,” he said resolutely. “We’ll make daggers out of his teeth and shields out of his scales.” The dwarf drank his ale.

“Nog?”

The voice was feminine and came from over Brisbane’s left shoulder. Shortwhiskers looked up and Brisbane turned in his chair to behold the form of Allison Stargazer. At first, Brisbane didn’t recognize her, but he soon placed her face in his memory and let a smile escape him. She was dressed much as she had been when Brisbane had first met her, in a simple blue dress with intricate lacing at the bodice. Her honey hair fell loose to her shoulders and her green eyes sparkled in the firelight.

“Hello, Allison,” Shortwhiskers said. “You startled me. Won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you,” Stargazer said, taking a seat between the dwarf and Brisbane on the other side of the table.

“You remember my friend, Brisbane,” Shortwhiskers said.

“Yes,” Stargazer said. “How are you, young Gildegarde?”

“I’m fine,” Brisbane said. “Please, call me Gil.”

Brisbane was suddenly nervous, but he thought he had handled that first exchange well. Stargazer was the prettiest woman he had ever seen.

Stargazer smiled at Brisbane and then turned to the dwarf. “Nog, I heard you were back in town and figured you would be in one of the taverns. How many have you had today?”

Shortwhiskers shrugged, pulling his ale a little closer to himself. “Who counts?”

Stargazer turned to Brisbane and her gaze reminded him of the way she had referred to alcohol when she had been treating that old man. He suddenly felt ashamed about all the ale he had been drinking.

Stargazer looked at Brisbane but spoke to Shortwhiskers. “Look what your influence has done to your young friend here. Really, Nog, I wish you would be more aware of what is going on around you. Young Gil simply admires you.”

There was no malice in her voice and as soon as she had said it, Brisbane realized that it was true. It wasn’t something he could have decided or admitted to before, but after Stargazer had said it, Brisbane saw it had never been any other way. He did admire Shortwhiskers.

Shortwhiskers laughed. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste, so I guess I won’t hold it against him.”

Stargazer turned back to the dwarf, smiling. “So anyway,” she said. “How was your little adventure? Profitable?”

Shortwhiskers shook his head. “Educational.”

Stargazer’s eyebrows flew up. “Now that’s a new one. How so?”

“Something you may be interested in,” the dwarf said. “Did you know that only one day south of here there is an ancient shrine of Grecolus?”

“Nog, don’t kid me.”

Shortwhiskers reached out and took her hand. “No kidding, Allison. One day south.”

Stargazer eyed him suspiciously. “How do you know it’s devoted to Grecolus?”

“Ignatius confirmed it for us,” Shortwhiskers said. “You know, Ignatius Roundtower. You’ve met him, haven’t you?”

The conversation was staying away from Brisbane but he didn’t mind. If he had to talk, he would be too nervous not to come off sounding like a dope in front of Stargazer. He was content to just sit there and look at her.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m surprised he’s not here with you.”

“He’s gone on to Farchrist Castle to try for the knighthood,” Shortwhiskers said.

“Wonderful!” Stargazer exclaimed. “I will pray for him.”

“I’m sure he would appreciate that,” Shortwhiskers said.

“And he said this shrine was devoted to Grecolus?” Stargazer asked, looking doubtful.

Shortwhiskers nodded. “Said there were ancient worship symbols or something on it. One he recognized had a circle with a bunch of wavy lines crossing it.”

“Safe passage,” Stargazer whispered.

“Yes, safe passage,” the dwarf said. “That’s what Ignatius said. “Didn’t he, Gil?”

Stargazer suddenly turned to Brisbane. Her eyes were anxious, glowing with an intensity all their own. The color was high in her cheeks and for the first time Brisbane noticed that her ears came to a slight point.

“Yes,” Brisbane said. “Peace and safe passage for all loyal to Grecolus.” His voice was cool and confident. “That’s what Ignatius said. We went right in.”

Stargazer smiled and turned back to Shortwhiskers. “I would very much like to visit this shrine, Nog. Do you plan on going back there?”

Shortwhiskers nodded. “In the spring. We will be going south to investigate rumors of a forgotten temple at the source of the Mystic. We can take you by the shrine on the way.”

“Is it a temple of Grecolus?” Stargazer asked.

“I don’t know,” Shortwhiskers said. “It could be. There’s really no way to tell until we go there.”

Stargazer nodded. “I think I will be coming with you in the spring, my friend. I have been settled here in Queensburg for perhaps too long. It’s about time for a sabbatical. If that’s okay with you.”

“Fine by me,” Shortwhiskers said. “It’ll be nice to have you along. Could have used your skills once or twice on the last excursion. What do you think, Gil?”

Stargazer again turned and looked at Brisbane.

Brisbane remembered how she had taken that old man’s pain away and the various injuries his friends had sustained on their trip. “Yes,” he said. “Her services would certainly have come in handy.”

“But, Allison,” Shortwhiskers said. “There’s more. We saw some things you may not like.”

Stargazer sobered. “Like what?”

“Like Illzeezad Dantrius.”

“Illzeezad Dantrius?” Stargazer said. “Where have I heard that name before?”

“He was Gregorovich the Second’s chief advisor,” Shortwhiskers said. “You remember.” Shortwhiskers turned to Brisbane, gave him a very strange look and then turned back to Stargazer. “The one who argued against the expedition to Dragon’s Peak and then disappeared from the kingdom after the party left.”

“Yes,” Stargazer said oddly as she too gave Brisbane a strange look. “I remember you telling me about him. Where did you find him?”

“He was standing before the shrine as a statue of rock. He was the victim of what Roystnof called a basilisk. Do you know what that is?”

“I believe so,” Stargazer said. “It is a large lizard that can turn people to stone.”

Brisbane sat helplessly as he wondered what was going on. Both Shortwhiskers and Stargazer were talking guardedly in front of him and both of them had given him a strange look at the mention of Dantrius. They were sharing some kind of secret and Brisbane wanted to know what it was.

“That is how Roystnof described it,” Shortwhiskers said.

“Roystnof?” Stargazer said, searching her memory. “Oh yes,” she exclaimed. “The wizard you travel with.”

Brisbane did not like the way she said the word ‘wizard.’ She made the word sound like a curse. She said ‘wizard’ almost the way the demon from the shrine had said ‘paladin.’

“Wait a minute,” Brisbane said, trying to think of something of some consequence to say.

“Nog,” Stargazer said before Brisbane could collect his thoughts. “Perhaps we should discuss this another time.”

Shortwhiskers looked at Brisbane. “Yes, I think that might be best.”

“Fine,” Stargazer said. “Another time, then. I regret that now I must leave.” She rose from her seat.

Brisbane and Shortwhiskers awkwardly got to their feet.

“I have business across town,” Stargazer said. “But I’ll be sure to see you again before our departure.”

“You know where to find me,” Shortwhiskers said.

Stargazer gave the dwarf a slanted look. “Yes,” she said. “I’m afraid that I do. Farewell, Nog.”

“Farewell,” Shortwhiskers said.

Stargazer took Brisbane’s hand in her own. “And farewell to you, Gil,” she said, trying his informal name for the first time. “I hope to see you before the spring as well. Take care.”

“Take care,” Brisbane repeated as Stargazer turned and left the tavern. Brisbane and Shortwhiskers sat back down.

“Nog?” Brisbane said.

“Yes, Gil?” Shortwhiskers said, picking up his ale again.

“Do you think that was really such a good idea?”

“What?”

Brisbane lowered his voice. “Inviting Stargazer to come along. Won’t it be dangerous?”

“Allison?” Shortwhiskers seemed shocked.

“Yes, Allison,” Brisbane said, raising his voice. “What the hells was that just all about?”

Shortwhiskers hid behind his drink. “What do you mean, Gil?”

“Okay,” Brisbane said as he quickly leaned back in his chair. “So don’t tell me what’s going on between you and Stargazer.”

“Gil, please,” Shortwhiskers said. “Don’t get all worked up. I’ll tell you but must promise never to repeat what I am about to say. Not,” the dwarf stressed, “even to Roystnof.”

Brisbane swallowed hard and leaned closer to the dwarf. “I promise.”

Shortwhiskers paused. “It’s something she doesn’t want to be widely known, but I don’t think she’ll mind if I tell you.”

“What is it?” Brisbane begged.

“The expedition to Dragon’s Peak. I told you your grandfather, the Prince, myself, and a High Priestess of Grecolus made the journey.”

Brisbane was confused. “Yes?”

“Allison Stargazer was that High Priestess.”

Brisbane sat back. “Stargazer? How can that be, Nog? That was forty-two years ago. She doesn’t look a day over twenty-five.”

“Keep your voice down,” Shortwhiskers admonished. “I know how long it’s been. Allison Stargazer is sixty-seven years old.”

Brisbane felt like he had been slapped. He felt like he had when Shortwhiskers had said that he was a hundred and sixty-three years old. But Stargazer was no dwarf.

“How can that be?” Brisbane asked.

“She’s not wholly human, Gil. It’s not that noticeable, but she has elven blood running in her veins. Her mother was an elf, her father a human.”

“Elven?” Brisbane said, looking back at the door as if Stargazer was still standing there. “How could she be a High Priestess of Grecolus if she was a half-elf?”

“Well,” Shortwhiskers said evasively, “she wasn’t a High Priestess for long.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

Shortwhiskers sighed. “Whenever Knights go on long journeys away from the kingdom,” he explained, “a High Priest or Priestess is sent with them to tend to their spiritual needs. When news of the expedition to Dragon’s Peak reached the Temple in Raveltown, none of the clerics there were willing to go along. They thought no one would ever come back from such a mission. So they took little Allison Stargazer, then more of a girl than a woman, gave her the title of High Priestess, and sent her off with me and the Knights.”

“Did they know she was of elven stock?”

“They might have,” Shortwhiskers said. “It might have helped them decide to send her. But she took her new position seriously. She actually thought she had earned the promotion, even though she had previously been serving the Temple as a simple Acolyte. It wasn’t until after we got back that she realized they had sent her only because they were all too afraid to meet Dalanmire themselves. Too weak in their faith, Allison called it.”

“What did she do?” Brisbane asked.

Shortwhiskers drained his mug of ale before he answered. Brisbane watched him take the swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. Brisbane didn’t think he could ever drink that much so quickly. It would certainly make him sick.

“She left,” Shortwhiskers said. “She said she was through with organized religion and went off to worship Grecolus in her own way. She’s been traveling ever since. She settled here in Queensburg just a couple of years ago.”

Brisbane thought about it. He had never known an elf before but had heard a lot about them. But they were a very reclusive people so Brisbane figured most of what he had heard was probably rumor. There were no full-blooded elves living in the kingdom, though. At least none that anyone knew about. They were slender, wilderness folk who were said to live impossibly long lives, some a thousand years or more. If Stargazer were indeed a half-elf, Brisbane supposed she could very well be sixty-seven years old and appear no more than thirty.

But if what Shortwhiskers had told him was true, and Brisbane had no reason to doubt it, that would mean that Stargazer was yet another person who had known his grandfather. He remembered a time when Stargazer had said she respected the name of Brisbane, and that memory now made Brisbane feel oddly proud. The more he traveled, it seemed, the more he learned about his family’s past. It was strange, in Scalt, Otis had always told him to revere his family name but he had never told Brisbane much of his family’s history or tradition.

“Bartender!” Shortwhiskers called out. “You want another?” he quietly asked Brisbane.

“No,” Brisbane said, still having half a mug of ale left.

“One more ale,” Shortwhiskers said when he could tell he had the bartender’s attention. The man brought the drink, placed it in front of Shortwhiskers, and left before the dwarf and Brisbane exchanged any more words.

“Nog?”

“Yes, Gil?”

“How do you think Stargazer will react to traveling with Roy?”

Shortwhiskers shook his head. “She won’t like it. But she’ll put up with it if I know her. She really wants to see that shrine.”

“She’ll think Roy is evil, won’t she?” Brisbane still found the idea ludicrous.

“He works magic,” Shortwhiskers said. “That will be all the proof she needs. If you want to stay on her good side, I wouldn’t let her see that medallion you wear.”

Brisbane pulled on the chain around his neck and drew out the silver pentacle that had been hidden behind his shirt. “Nog,” he said, “I don’t wear this because I worship Damaleous. I wear it because Roy gave it to me.”

“I know that and you know that,” Shortwhiskers said. “Allison doesn’t. If she sees it around your neck, she’ll draw her own conclusions.”

Brisbane examined the small piece of metal. “Does it really mean that much?”

“To her, yes. Trust me, Gil. Keep it inside your shirt.”

Brisbane pulled on his collar and dropped the medallion inside. Shortwhiskers returned his attention to his ale and Brisbane moved his chair a nudge closer to the fireplace.

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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.

Ironweed by William Kennedy

So, there was a time when I was blindly buying novels that had won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Ironweed is one of those, a book I knew nothing about but, there it was, on my reading list.

Turns out it is the third book in something called Kennedy’s Albany Cycle, evidently a series of books that take place in Albany, New York, with some recurring characters and themes.

I liked Ironweed a lot -- both for its theme and for its style. 

Here’s the theme.

When Francis opened the trunk lid the odor of lost time filled the attic air, a cloying reek of imprisoned flowers that unsettled the dust and fluttered the window shades. Francis felt drugged by the scent of the reconstituted past, and then stunned by his first look inside the trunk, for there, staring out from a photo, was his own face at age nineteen. The picture lay among rolled socks and a small American flag, a Washington Senators cap, a pile of newspaper clippings and other photos, all in a scatter on the trunk’s tray. Francis stared up at himself from the bleachers in Chadwick Park on a day in 1899, his face unlined, his teeth all there, his collar open, his hair unruly in the afternoon’s breeze. He lifted the picture for a closer look and saw himself among a group of men, tossing a baseball from bare right hand to gloved left hand. The flight of the ball had always made this photo mysterious to Francis, for the camera had caught the ball clutched in one hand and also in flight, arcing in a blur toward the glove. What the camera had caught was two instants in one: time separated and unified, the ball in two places at once, an eventuation as inexplicable as the Trinity itself. Francis now took the picture to be a Trinitarian talisman (a hand, a glove, a ball) for achieving the impossible: for he had always believed it was impossible for him, ravaged man, failed human, to reenter history under this roof. Yet here he was in this aerie of reconstitutable time, touching untouchable artifacts of a self that did not yet know it was ruined, just as the ball, in its inanimate ignorance, did not know yet that it was going nowhere, was caught.

Francis Phelan is an old man now, a bum, with broken teeth, living on the streets of Albany, but once, once in the past, he was young and healthy and a ball player with the world at his feet. Ironweed is a novel about this reconstituted past, seen only through the lens of the present day, the promises it once offered now less potent, but never really gone, not at least to anyone who had the sense to remember and hope.

And as for the style, that past and its unfulfilled promises are gloriously there on every page and in every scene.

Katrina unwrapped the parcel on the dining-room table, took Francis by the hand, and pulled him up from his chair. She unbuttoned the buttons of his blue workshirt.

“Take that old thing off,” she said, and held the gift aloft, a white-on-white silk shirt whose like was as rare to Francis as the fruits de mer and Chateau Pontet-Canet he had just consumed.

When his torso was naked, Katrina stunned him with a kiss, and with an exploration of the whole of his back with her fingertips. He held her as he would a crystal vase, fearful not only of her fragility but of his own. When he could again see her lips, her eyes, the sanctified valley of her mouth, when she stood inches from him, her hands gripping his naked back, he cautiously brought his own fingers around to her face and neck. Emulating her, he explored the exposed regions of her shoulders and her throat, letting the natural curve of her collar guide him to the top button of her blouse. And then slowly, as if the dance of their fingers had been choreographed, hers crawled across her own chest, brushing past his, which were carefully at work at their gentlest of chores, and she pushed the encumbering chemise strap down over the fall of her left shoulder and he trembled with pleasure, and sin, and with, even now, the still unthinkable possibilities that lay below and beneath the boundary line her fallen clothing demarcated.

There it is. Hope. The unthinkable possibilities.

“Do you like my scar?” she asked, and she lightly touched the oval white scar with a ragged pink periphery, just above the early slope of her left breast.

And there it is. Like the scar on Katrina’s breast. The reconstituted past.

“I don’t know,” Francis said. “I don’t know about likin’ scars.”

“You are the only man besides my husband and Dr. Fitzroy who has ever seen it. I can never again wear a low-necked dress. It is such an ugly thing that I do believe my poet would adore it. Does it offend you?”

“It’s there. Part of you. That’s okay by me. Anything you do, or got, it’s okay by me.”

“My adorable Francis.”

“How’d you ever get a thing like that?”

“A burning stick flew through the air and pierced me cruelly during a fire. The Delavan Hotel fire.”

“Yeah. I heard you were in that. You’re lucky you didn’t get it in the neck.”

“Oh, I’m a very lucky woman indeed,” Katrina said, and she leaned into him and held him again. And again they kissed.

He commanded his hands to move toward her breasts but they would not. They would only hold tight to their grip on her bare arms. Only when she moved her own fingers forward from the blades of his back toward the hollows of his arms did his own fingers dare move toward the hollows of hers. And only when she again inched back from him, letting her fingers tweeze and caress the precocious hair on his chest, did he permit his own fingers to savor the curving flow, the fleshy whiteness, the blooded fullness of her beautiful breasts, culminating his touch at their roseate tips, which were now being so cleverly cataleptic for him.

When Katrina put the new shirt on and threw the old one into the back of Rosskam’s wagon, he saw Katrina standing on her front steps, across the street, beckoning to him. She led him into a bedroom he had never seen and where a wall of flame engulfed her without destroying even the hem of her dress, the same dress she wore when she came to watch him play baseball on that summer day in 1897. He stood across the marriage bed from her, across a bridge of years of love and epochs of dream.

Do you see how the past just intruded onto the present -- almost seamlessly that you may not have noticed? That’s the style that Kennedy executes so well and so often -- merging past and present into one tale of both hope and unrequited sorrow.

Never a woman like Katrina: who had forced him to model that shirt for her, then take it home so that someday she would see him walking along the street wearing it and relive this day; forced him first to find a hiding place for it outside his house while he schemed an excuse as to why a seventeen-year-old boy of the working classes should come to own a shirt that only sublime poets, or stage actors, or unthinkably wealthy lumber barons could afford. He invented the ruse of a bet: that he had played poker at a downtown sporting club with a man who ran out of dollars and put up his new shirt as collateral; and Francis had inspected the shirt, liked it, accepted the bet, and then won the hand with a full house.

His mother did not seem to believe the story. But neither did she connect the gift to Katrina. Yet she found ways to slander Katrina in Francis’s presence, knowing that he had formed an allegiance, if not an affection, for not only a woman, but the woman who owned the inimical tree.

She is impudent, arrogant. (Wrong, said Francis.)

Slovenly, a poor housekeeper. (Go over and look, said Francis.)

Shows off by sitting in the window with a book. (Francis, knowing no way to defend a book, fumed silently and left the room.)

In the leaping windows of flame that engulfed Katrina and her bed, Francis saw naked bodies couple in love, writhing in lascivious embrace, kissing in sweet agony. He saw himself and Katrina in a ravenous hunger that never was, and then in a blissful stroking that might have been, and then in a sublime fusion of desire that would always be.

Did they love? No, they never loved. They always loved. They knew a love that Katrina’s poet would abuse and befoul. And they befouled their imaginations with a mutation of love that Ketrina’s poet would celebrate and consecrate. Love is always insufficient, always a lie. Love, you are the clean shirt of my soul. Stupid love, silly love.

Francis embraced Katrina and shot into her the impeccable blood of his first love, and she yielded up not a being but a word: clemency. And the word swelled like the mercy of his swollen member as it rose to offer her the enduring, erubescent gift of retributive sin. And then this woman interposed herself in his life, hiding herself in the deepest center of the flames, smiling at him with all the lewd beauty of her dreams; and she awakened in him the urge for a love of his own, a love that belonged to no other man, a love he would never have to share with any man, or boy, like himself.

“Giddap,” Rosskam called out.

And the wagon rolled down the hill as the sun moved toward its apex, and the horse turned north off Colonie Street.

The past is so present in this novel -- the way it is, I suppose, in our minds. The past and the present existing in the same overlapping moments of sensation and sanctuary.

The applause was full and long and gave Helen strength to begin “My Man,” Fanny Brice’s wonderful torch, and Helen Morgan’s too. Two Helens. Oh Helen, you were on the radio, but where did it take you? What fate was it that kept you from the great heights that were yours by right of talent and education? You were born to be a star, so many said it. But it was others who went on to the heights and you were left behind to grow bitter. How you learned to envy those who rose when you did not, those who never deserved it, had no talent, no training. There was Carla, from high school, who could not even carry a tune but who made a movie with Eddie Cantor, and there was Edna, ever so briefly from Woolworth’s, who sang in a Broadway show by Cole Porter because she learned how to wiggle her fanny. But ah, sweetness was Helen’s, for Carla went off a cliff in an automobile, and Edna sliced her wrists and bled her life away in her lover’s bathtub, and Helen laughed last. Helen is singing on a stage this very minute and just listen to the voice she’s left with after all her troubles. Look at those well-dressed people out there hanging on her every note.

Helen closed her eyes and felt tears forcing their way out and could not say whether she was blissfully happy or fatally sad. At some point it all came together and didn’t make much difference anyway, for sad or happy, happy or sad, life didn’t change for Helen. Oh, her man, how much she loves you. You can’t imagine. Poor girl, all despair now. If she went away she’d come back on her knees. Some day. She’s yours. Forevermore.

The entire novel is like this -- every character clouded in their own reveries, lost and stumbling between the blissfully happy and the fatally sad.

It is glorious.

+ + +

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