Five good St Patrick’s Day books

St Patrick visits Purgatory, from a 15th century English manuscript

Updated! With the addition of Freeman’s biography of St Patrick below, this post now has six good books to choose from. I hope y’all find something here to enjoy. Happy St Patrick’s Day!

“Although I am imperfect in many ways, I want my brothers and relations to know what I’m really like, so that they can see what it is that inspires my life.”

— St Patrick, Confessio VI

St Patrick’s Day has been one of my favorite holidays since I was a kid, when my mom would make sure my brother, sister, and I wore something green so that we wouldn’t get pinched at school. As I grew up I gradually learned more and more about the man behind the holiday and my appreciation only deepened. The childhood celebration, the fun of the holiday, led me eventually to what it all meant. It shaped me—both my imaginations and desires—like all holidays should, and are meant to.

I’m writing this at a time of heightened anxiety, as a lot of us are home under quarantine. Even those of us who are not particularly afraid of the disease making its way through the world right now probably have doubts about what the future will look like. With that in mind, I wanted to recommend a few books about St Patrick, books that will be accessible to a variety of readers, both to encourage y’all to learn more about a remarkable and righteous man, and to offer some comfort. Patrick was born into a world of even deeper uncertainties than our own, and confronted possibly more threatening enemies than mere disease, and yet he brought good out of those evils.

So I hope you’ll check out at least a few of these books. We need St Patrick and his example more than ever now.

The Confessio and Epistola, by St Patrick

I’ll start with the two surviving writings of St Patrick himself. The Confessio is our source for virtually all that we know about Patrick and his life. All other information comes to us second- or thirdhand and leans heavily toward the legendary. Patrick wrote the Confessio in response to accusations of corruption, and in it he gives a lengthy explanation of his own life: his kidnapping and enslavement by the Irish, his escape, how God compelled him to return to his former masters, and the work he undertook there among the Irish pagans. He makes vivid the many dangers faced by missionaries at this time, and forcefully responds to his critics. It’s a fascinating and bracing read, and Patrick makes it plain that his sole concern since returning to Ireland has been the Gospel. You won’t find it more clearly laid out than here. Indeed, Patrick’s powers of explanation, as displayed in this letter, at least partly explain his success as a missionary.

The Epistola or Letter to the Soldiers of Coroticus is another forceful piece by Patrick, this time in response to nominally Christian British raiders who had struck westward into Ireland and butchered or enslaved Patrick’s converts, some of them on the day of their baptism. Patrick violently condemns them and calls on other British Christians both to publicize Coroticus’s sins and treat him and his men as excommunicates until they repent and return their captives to their homeland. The Epistola offers us a vivid picture of what life was like in post-Roman Britain, and what a commitment it was to live a life according to the teachings of Christ—a commitment grown no less arduous despite fifteen-hundred years of change in time, place, and culture.

Both of these documents are short—even the longer Confessio you can read in twenty or thirty minutes—and both are freely available online. You can read the entire Confessio online here, and the Letter to the Soldiers of Coroticus here.

St. Patrick of Ireland: A Biography, by Philip Freeman

This is not only the best book on Patrick that I’ve read so far, but it’s one of the best books on the post-Roman British Isles and early medieval Christianity in general. These latter two constitute, of course, almost the whole world in which Patrick lived and moved, and it’s Freeman’s attention to the context of Patrick’s life that makes this such a powerful and enlightening work. Freeman, a classicist, is able to mine ancient Greek and Roman sources and the scant offerings of archaeology and Patrick’s own writings to offer a carefully researched, well-grounded picture of the challenges facing Patrick—from the problems afflicting Britain following its abandonment by Rome to the conditions of slavery in Ireland, a remote place dominated by numerous rival warlords and the worship of gods demanding human sacrifice.

Freeman includes his own complete translations of Patrick’s Confessio and Epistola, which are very good. (I have reviewed another of Freeman’s translations here before.)

Freeman is as gifted a writer as he is a scholar, and his St Patrick of Ireland reads briskly, wearing its research lightly and indulging in a minimum of speculation to fill gaps or round out our understanding of unclear events. The result is a striking portrait of a great man—a man who was only great because of his humble acknowledgement of his flaws—bringing light to a bleak world, a model as important today as it was to the medievals.

Patrick: Patron Saint of Ireland, by Tomie dePaola

This is a relative newcomer to me and my family. My kids have enjoyed a number of Tomie dePaola’s books, and when I discovered he had a book on the life of St Patrick I made sure to get it in time for the holiday. We read it last night. My kids loved it—they picked it up to look back through it this morning while we were getting ready.

DePaola briefly sketches Patrick’s life—as outlined in his Confessio—from his noble background in Britain to his kidnapping, escape, return, and lifetime of missionary work. The pictures, as is the case with all of dePaola’s books that I’ve seen, are beautiful, influenced by but not mere imitations of the style of medieval manuscript illuminations, and the story includes a striking amount of detail for a short picturebook. The book also includes a little section on the legends associated with St Patrick, including his driving of snakes out of Ireland and the famously problematic shamrock story.

Tomie dePaola’s Patrick is an ideal way to relate his life story to kids while also making clear the counter-intuitive grace of what he did in returning to the people who had enslaved him. My daughter couldn’t believe it, providing a moment ripe for discussion.

Saint Patrick, by Jonathan Rogers

An entry in the Christian Encounters series, Jonathan Rogers’s Saint Patrick is a brisk, readable, well-researched, and short biography.

Rogers’s brevity is one of the book’s main strengths. There are longer and more scholarly biographies of Patrick (see Freeman’s above, which is not much longer but certainly more scrupulously scholarly), but this is a book I’ve recommended to friends and students for years precisely because it is so easy to read and makes the history so accessible. Rogers does a good job of expanding upon and contextualizing what Patrick reveals of himself in his two surviving letters, and commendably avoids a lot of speculation and conjecture, which are constant temptations when dealing with a subject so remote and with so little primary source material to work from—not to mention the involvement of the druids, a guarantee that you’ll get some really crazy stuff muddying the waters. The result is a good biography that you can read in an hour or so.

As a bonus, this book includes the complete texts of the Confessio and the Epistola, making this book an excellent starting place for grownups looking to learn more about Patrick, his world, and his work.

Brendan, by Frederick Buechner

This book is a bit of an outlier for a couple of reasons. First, it’s a novel, and everything else I’ve recommended so far is either one of St Patrick’s own writings or a biography of one kind or another. Second, St Patrick barely figures into the story, which mostly concerns the life and work of St Brendan the Navigator.

But Buechner’s novel so powerfully evokes the strange, dangerous world of Patrick and Brendan’s day—with violent warlords ruling diffuse petty kingdoms and druids still carrying on the demonic fertility rites of the old Irish gods in many places—that it offers an excellent way for us to understand anew what these men did and the risks they ran in doing it. And though Patrick is mostly a memory in the novel, his presence looms over Brendan because Brendan and his fellow Christians are the first generation of native Irish Christians. (We tend to forget that Patrick wasn’t himself Irish, but “Romano-British,” of mixed Roman and native Brythonic stock.) Brendan is a Christian because of Patrick, and he struggles to continue Patrick’s work of conversion, which, for him and his fellow believers living in this uncertain world, is not a foregone conclusion. The events of the novel test Brendan, and by the end, after decades in Ireland and many a God-directed voyage out to sea, he learns a lesson Patrick could have taught him—about strength being made perfect in weakness.

In conclusion

A “traditional Irish blessing” of the kind you see in memes would probably seem strange coming from an Anglo-German hillbilly like me, so let me wish you all a happy holiday and good health, and hope that you’ll find something on this list that entertains, informs, and uplifts you. Happy St Patrick’s Day!

On living in the age of coronavirus

This morning a colleague sent me this short post from the Gospel Coalition: “CS Lewis on the coronavirus.” It’s an excerpt from Lewis’s great essay “On Living in an Atomic Age,” which he wrote shortly after the shocking end of World War II in answer to the question “How are we to live in an atomic age?” As the poster there writes, “[j]ust replace ‘atomic bomb’ with ‘coronavirus’” and Lewis’s message moves from being of historical interest to strikingly relevant. Then, timelessness was a hallmark of his thought.

In answer to the question, Lewis writes that:

“I am tempted to reply: ‘Why, as you would have lived in the sixteenth century when the plague visited London almost every year, or as you would have lived in a Viking age when raiders from Scandinavia might land and cut your throat any night; or indeed, as you are already living in an age of cancer, an age of syphilis, an age of paralysis, an age of air raids, an age of railway accidents, an age of motor accidents.’”

As Ellis, the crippled former lawman who counsels Sheriff Bell in No Country for Old Men, might put it: “What you got ain’t nothing new.”

Lewis continues:

[D]o not let us begin by exaggerating the novelty of our situation. Believe me, dear sir or madam, you and all whom you love were already sentenced to death before the atomic bomb was invented: and quite a high percentage of us were going to die in unpleasant ways.

Lewis here confronts one of the basic facts of human life—that it will end. Modern people, heirs to the scientistic optimisms of the Enlightenment and the Progressive Era, many of whom honestly believe we can abolish death through science, are particularly prone to avoid even thinking about this fact, with dire results. As it happens, I’ve meditated on this here recently.

Having forced ourselves to look this fact in the eye, what then? How should we live under these circumstances?

If we are all going to be destroyed by an atomic bomb, let that bomb when it comes find us doing sensible and human things—praying, working, teaching, reading, listening to music, bathing the children, playing tennis, chatting to our friends over a pint and a game of darts—not huddled together like frightened sheep and thinking about bombs.

Lewis notes, poignantly for us at this time, that while atomic bombs “may break our bodies” even “a microbe can do that.” Nevertheless, these things “need not dominate our minds.”

All this comes from the introduction to the essay, and Lewis goes on to lay out his positive vision for responding to the threat of the atomic bomb—or, for us, pandemic—at great and winsome length in the rest of the essay. The whole thing is worth reading. “On Living in an Atomic Age” is collected in Present Concerns, a wonderful collection of topical pieces Lewis wrote for newspapers and magazines between the beginning of World War II and the late 1950s.

You can also listen to the entire essay as read by Ralph Cosham via the wonderful CSLewisDoodle channel on YouTube. I’ve embedded the video in this post. It’s worth your time.

In the meantime, whether still at work from day to day, on a mandated leave of absence from work or school, self-quarantined just in case, or—God forbid—sick, let these days “find us doing sensible and human things.” (Here’s one version of that that I’ve recently written about.) And, quite sensibly, we can always start with reflection.

Greyhound trailer reaction

Tom Hanks on the bridge of the destroyer Keeling in Greyhound

Yesterday afternoon the first trailer dropped for Greyhound, a World War II film written by and starring Tom Hanks. Greyhound is based on the novel The Good Shepherd, by CS Forester (most famous as the creator of Horatio Hornblower), which was my favorite book of the year when I read it in 2018. I’ve been looking forward to the movie ever since.

The Good Shepherd is the story of Commander George Krause (Ernest Krause in the movie, per IMDb), a US Navy officer whose career has been undistinguished and his rise through the ranks slow. The outbreak of war with Germany and Japan finally gets him the rank of commander and the command of his own ship, the destroyer Keeling. Intensely religious, Krause reflects repeatedly on scriptures that seem to speak to his circumstances, and he approaches protecting the merchant ships entrusted to him with a fatalistic but Christlike sense of duty (it’s all right there in the title). This duty could mean redemption for Krause, who carries with him the burden of a long career with little actual experience, the seeming disregard of his superiors, and a failed marriage.

The novel begins as Krause, the thirty-seven merchant ships of his convoy, and the three other military escorts from other Allied countries enter the “air gap” or “black pit,” the stretch of the North Atlantic between Nova Scotia and Iceland and the British Isles that lay out of range of Allied air cover, where the convoys and their escorts had to fend for themselves. This zone was the primary hunting grounds of the U-boat wolfpacks. The subs which would fan out across the convoy routes until one submarine made contact, then signal the others to close in and harry the convoy from all directions. This technique proved devastatingly effective, especially during the periods in which the German Enigma codes were undeciphered, and The Good Shepherd takes place at the height of the U-boats’ success, in early 1942.

The novel was excellent—intense and gripping, comparable only to something like Deliverance in its conveyance of an exhausting life-and-death struggle. I read it in three days. I hope the movie lives up to it. So, as has become my wont when I do these trailer reactions on my blog, here are a few notes and impressions based on Greyhound’s first trailer:

• The novel takes place across about three days and sticks with Krause the whole way. It’s told in third-person limited and, as I wrote when I named it my favorite fiction read of the year two years ago, it’s “intensely interior.” Krause doesn’t sleep and barely eats for three days, and a great deal of the drama comes not from colorful characters, the suspense of dramatic irony, or sheer action, but from the second-by-second calculations Krause makes any time a ship falls behind, one of the escorts under his command breaks away to chase a U-boat, leaving an opening, or a U-boat is spotted—rarest of sights—and the ships have to rush to its position and find it. There’s a lot of figuring and reckoning of relative speeds and distances and positions relative to the ship itself—all made with the continuous threat of U-boat attack if the Germans detect this vulnerable spot—and if Krause is not present or doesn’t see it, neither do we. It’s riveting. But I wondered even as I read it how to make it a movie. The filmmakers have clearly chosen to show us a lot more than we get in the book, which is fine—it’s not called adaptation for nothing—but I hope this doesn’t undermine the intense, exhausting mental game that the book evokes so strongly.

• All that said, the trailer does give us plenty of shots of Krause’s bridge and the instruments he uses to captain the Keeling, communicate with the other escorts, and, especially, hunt the U-boats. The brief depth charge sequence in the trailer is suggestive—Krause has to guess on the basis of an oil slick whether they’ve killed a submerged U-boat or not. In the novel this is yet another source of anxiety, because Krause knows that the U-boat commanders will try to game him by dumping excess oil, blowing air from their ballast tanks to create phantom ASDIC pings, and all sorts of other tricks. Occasionally they succeed.

• Hanks wrote the screenplay, and the film is directed by Aaron Schneider, whose previous movie, a Southern gothic fable called Get Low, I enjoyed. Based on that film and what we get in the trailer for Greyhound, Schneider has a strong visual sense and good feel for period filmmaking.

• Lots of CGI, which is fine—I honestly don’t know how you’d tell this story without a lot of digital assistance. But it looks better than Midway, which ended up being good despite some of its special effects, so that’s something.

• There are at least some real ships here, as Greyhound shot aboard the Fletcher-class destroyer USS Kidd. I hope this will lend the movie a lot of authenticity as well as something concrete and physical to which to the audience can anchor its imagination.

• Related: Tom Hanks looks pretty great in uniform, and on the bridge. It’s easy to see why he’s made a career of playing unflashy and competent leaders.

• The trailer includes scenes in a posh hotel lobby with Elisabeth Shue, presumably playing Krause’s estranged wife. As I mentioned, the whole book takes place over three days in the North Atlantic, so I wonder whether these are flashbacks, a sort of “cold open” or prologue, or if the film has an entirely different structure.

• The film also stars Stephen Graham as one of Krause’s officers. Graham is British but has played Americans in period pieces a number of times—Sgt. Ranney in Band of Brothers, Baby Face Nelson in Public Enemies, Al Capone in Boardwalk Empire—so he seems like a natural fit. He’s also one of those actors who can arrest your attention with very little screentime, so I look forward to seeing what he brings to his part since the junior officers in the novel are, by design, very thinly characterized.

• I’m a sucker for lowering skies and gloomy atmosphere, so I’m sold there. This looks like a realistically oppressive and dreary North Atlantic, though the ice and snow of the novel don’t seem to be present. The cinematographer is Shelly Johnson, who has, like Schneider, shown a knack for period atmosphere, shooting such films as Hidalgo, The Wolfman, and, speaking of World War II, Captain America: The First Avenger.

• The film was shot two years ago and its release has been delayed several times. It was originally supposed to come out last March, then this May, and now June. I haven’t come across any specific reason for these delays, and—contra the whole internet—a delay or reshoot is unremarkable, but I do hope this doesn’t signal some kind of editing or story trouble.

• “Inspired by actual events” seems kind of weaselly. Forester did base his novel on experiences as a civilian embedded with various Allied ships during World War II, including both American and Royal Navy vessels, and there was a Battle of the Atlantic, but beyond that The Good Shepherd and Greyhound are, as far as I know, fiction. “Inspired by” continues to be the best example of the Hollywood publicity machine’s manipulation both of the audience and the idea of a “true story.” Pin that on the PR people, though—I’m not holding that against Hanks or the film.

• I had worried somewhat that the film would downplay the novel’s religious overtones, but, lo and behold, the trailer opens with Krause praying for strength and concludes with him bringing hellfire to the Germans.

• Finally, this movie combines two of my favorite jokes: the internet meme advice never to travel with Tom Hanks, and the classic Onion article “Tom Hanks Forces Houseguests to Play ‘World War II’ With Him.”

I’ve watched the trailer a couple times now and am quite excited to see it. The sailors of the Atlantic convoys are seldom acknowledged heroes of World War II—they lived in some of the most stressful and dangerous conditions imaginable, from the ships themselves to the freezing weather and a powerful, mostly invisible foe that would strike without warning—and I hope Greyhound will effectively bring their story to a wide audience. Tom Hanks, with his long, genuine interest in the war and the ordinary men who fought it, seems like just the right man for the job.

Greyhound arrives June 12, just in time to be a belated birthday gift for me (I have already tipped my wife off that I might maybe perhaps like tickets). Looking forward to it!

Benign shabbiness

Apropos of yesterday’s post, several days after I had dug up that line from Tocqueville and read the Akallabêth, I ran across the following from the late Sir Roger Scruton. In reflecting on old age and especially the widespread anxiety of becoming senile and being neglected, Scruton reflects on the various modern responses to those problems, from the nursing home to euthanasia to manias for health and wellness. As he often does, he finds the root of these problems in a flawed view of humanity and whimsically suggests an alternative ordered to the truth.

From “Dying in Time,” collected in Confessions of a Heretic:

Courage therefore is the sine qua non of any attempt to deal with the threat of senility—courage to face the truth, and to live fully in the face of it. With courage a person can go about living in another way . . . This other way is not the way of the welfare culture in which we are all immersed. It does not involve the constant search for comforts or the obsessive pursuit of health. On the contrary, it is a way of benign shabbiness and self-neglect, of risky enjoyments and bold adventures. It involves constant exercise—but not of the body. Rather, exercise of the person, through relationships with others, through sacrifice, through the search for opportunities to be involved and exposed. Such, at least, is my intuition. The life of benign shabbiness is not a life of excess. Of course you should drink, smoke, eat fatty foods—but not to the point of gluttony. . . . The risks you take should not damage your will or your relationships, but only your chances of survival. Officious doctors and health fascists will assail you, telling you to correct your diet, to take better forms of exercise, to drink more water and less wine. If you pursue a life of risk-taking and defiance the thought-police will track you down, and your life style will be held up to ridicule and contempt. It is not that anyone intends you to live beyond your time. Rather, to use Adam Smith’s famous image, the old people’s gulag arises by an invisible hand from a false conception of human life—a conception that does not see death as a part of life, and timely death as the fruit of it.

An altogether English vision, unfussy and without vanity, with plenty of room for eccentricity. It reminded me—and here’s the almost purely subjective Tolkien connection—of the sheer enjoyment of life typical of hobbits. “Benign shabbiness” perfectly describes them, with their gardens and larders and tobacco and six meals a day and evenings at the Green Dragon. And not a surgeon general’s warning to be found.

“The main point, it seems to me,” Scruton says in conclusion, “is to maintain a life of active risk and affection . . . remembering always that the value of life does not consist in its length but in its depth.”

Tolkien, Tocqueville, and reckoning with death

Alexis de Tocqueville (1805-59) and JRR Tolkien (1892-1973)

A few weeks ago I ran across a line from Alexis de Tocqueville that I had copied down—and preserved forever—as a Facebook status. The line comes from a passage in Democracy in America, his monumental book of observations on the political culture of the still young United States, about the delicate interplay of religion and self-interest among Americans:

“However hard one may try to prove that virtue is useful, it will always be difficult to make a man live well if he will not face death.”

— Alexis de Tocqueville

This line resonated with me because, at the time, I was finishing my first front-to-back reading of The Silmarillion, JRR Tolkien’s history of the First Age of Middle Earth. In addition to the stories of Middle Earth’s creation and fall, Tolkien tells the story of the human kingdom of Númenor and its rise and fall in the Second Age. The account of the rise and destruction of this kingdom comes from The Silmarillion’s penultimate section, Akallabêth, “The Downfallen.”

Here Tolkien describes the beginning of the Númenóreans turn toward evil:

Thus the bliss of Westernesse became diminished; but still its might and splendour increased. For the kings and their people had not yet abandoned wisdom, and if they loved the Valar no longer at least they still feared them. They did not dare openly to break the Ban or to sail beyond the limits that had been appointed. Eastwards still they steered their tall ships. But the fear of death grew ever darker upon them, and they delayed it by all means that they could; and they began to build great houses for the dead, while their wise men laboured unceasingly to discover if they might the secret of recalling life, or at least of the prolonging of Men’s days. Yet they achieved only the art of preserving incorrupt the dead flesh of Men, and they filled all the land with silent tombs in which the thought of death was enshrined in the darkness. But those that lived turned the more eagerly to pleasure and revelry, desiring ever more goods and more riches; and after the days of Tar-Ancalimon the offering of the first fruits to Eru was neglected, and men went seldom any more to the Hallow upon the heights of Meneltarma in the midst of the land.

Note, first, that Númenor’s “bliss” decreased while “its might and splendour increased.” Whatever evil is about to appear in Númenor is not the result of poverty or material want. Neither is it the result of ignorance, for they “had not yet abandoned wisdom” and their skills, while falling short of defeating death, are sufficient to stop the natural decay of flesh.

Rather than reckoning with death, which is one of the most important purposes of traditional religion and one of the necessary starting points of many philosophies, the Númenóreans try to first to defeat it, then to smother their fear of it, and finally they embrace it. “The desire to escape death,” Tolkien wrote in one of his letters, “produced a cult of the dead.” While the most obvious signs of this obsession were the “tombs and memorials” on which “they lavished wealth and art,” the cult was also made manifest in libertinism and consumption and the abandonment of religion. Not only do they fill the land with tombs, but they exalt the captive Sauron as an adviser, build him a temple to Morgoth, and turn to maritime kidnapping both to fill their coffers with wealth and to keep the human sacrifices burning in Sauron’s temple. Finally, seized with resentment of the immortals away west of them in the Undying Lands, they defy “the Ban” mentioned above and sail there with the goal of a violent takeover. They are instantly defeated and Númenor is sunk beneath the ocean in a cataclysm that reshapes the entire planet.

Reading this the same day that I rediscovered that quotation from Tocqueville was striking—it’s hard to imagine a more powerful or vivid illustration of the consequences of the refusal to face death. It’s also hard not to think of where we are in the present.

Technology has prolonged our lives to an unprecedented degree and, true to the Númenórean vision, there are those who promise the defeat of death, and soon. Simultaneously we live in an age of cultural malaise, discontent, and wild and irresponsible consumption and waste. Tolkien’s description of the people of Númenor turning “more eagerly to pleasure and revelry, desiring ever more good and more riches,” is apt, as are his descriptions of the suspicion and jealousy these spawn, and which Sauron takes advantage of. Sauron “denie[d] the existence of God,” Tolkien writes in a letter, “saying that the One is a mere invention [and that] The Ban is only a lying device of fear to restrain the Kings of Men from seizing everlasting life.” Our politics revolves more and more around questions of who has what and in what quantities, an obsessive materialism bound closely with envy and resentment, and questions of truth, morality, and the transcendent are treated as mere power plays in a game of oppression—the original Satanic lie. Finally, the rampant worship of death, the sacrifice of others to get us what we want, is as befitting of Morgoth as anything.

The fear of death, paradoxically, turns us toward it. We end by taking as many with us as we can.

In “Tolkien and the Gift of Mortality,” an article published almost twenty years ago, Anna Mathie notes that “immortality, or the lure of it, seems to turn members of all these races [men, elves, dwarves] in on themselves.” Those that pursue immortality end where the Númenóreans did—where I think we are—in a hunt for glory or pleasure, and those that achieve immortality become inert, lost in memory and self-regard. Barrenness marks both.

What to make of this?

Mathie argues that facing the fact of our eventual death and accepting rather than railing against it is what transforms death from a curse into a gift. The hobbits show this most clearly. In contrast to men or the elves, they hardly seem to think much less worry about death, this lack of desire for immortality being one of the reasons Bilbo and Frodo can resist the power of the ring for so long. The fact of death thus accepted, they get down to the plain business of living. While it’s the Númenóreans who take such pains to preserve flesh, it’s the hobbits who strike us as most fleshly and fully embodied precisely because they have accepted that this incarnate state is not forever, nor is it meant to be. Being willing to lose their lives, they find them.

Accepting death frees us to live. Accepting our mortality orients us otherward—it turns us inside out—first toward those immediately around us, then to past and future generations—whose value we perceive too, since they have or will share our fate. And, hopefully, looking at death as a reality to be reckoned with rather than ignored, fled from, or conquered will also force us to look beyond this world to another.

In a culture that shows all the marks of a Númenórean fear of death and its perverse turn toward destruction, this outward, mortal focus, a willingness to live with our limits, a willingness to face death as the prerequisite to virtue, fruitfulness, and goodness, is something we desperately need.

Charles Portis, RIP

For years now, I have hoped for just one more novel from two aging Southern writers. One was Cormac McCarthy, whose most recent novel, The Road, came out in 2006, when I was in college. The other, and the one whose work I more devoutly wished for, was Charles Portis. Portis’s last novel, Gringos, was published in 1991. Escape Velocity, a 2012 miscellany of newspaper articles, travelogues, short fiction, a play, and essay-length appreciations by other writers, collects a handful of more recent stories. It looks like it will be his last book of any kind—Portis died yesterday aged 86.

An Arkansas native, Portis served in the Marine Corps in Korea—a memory obliquely evoked in at least one of his novels and his final short story—before going into journalism. After writing for regional papers in or near Arkansas he was picked up by the New York Herald Tribune, where he worked alongside Tom Wolfe (literally alongside, their desks being next to each other), among others. He covered the Civil Rights movement before being assigned to the paper’s London bureau—a job once held by Karl Marx. (He joked that the Herald Tribune “might have saved us all a lot of grief if it had only paid Marx a little better.”)

The London bureau job was his final gig. He quit journalism and returned to Arkansas to write his first novel. Norwood came out in 1966 and was adapted into a film four years later, by which time he had published his second, best remembered, and arguably greatest novel, True Grit.

These first two novels have everything in them that Portis would tweak and explore in his later books. Naive but well-meaning Southerners or westerners, a picaresque road trip, loquacious cranks, con men more pathetic than threatening, a world blankly indifferent to the characters, and masterfully interwoven humor, especially deadpan snark. There is no joy like Portis’s dialogue.

True Grit also demonstrates Portis’s mastery of narrative voice. While the story takes place in narrator Mattie Ross’s fourteenth year, her acid, knowing narration is the voice of middle aged Mattie, and the wry interplay of this Mattie describing her younger self in more precocious years and livelier times—and settling theological and political scores in terse asides—is half of what makes the book great. It also helps that it’s a great story, and Rooster Cogburn a fictional invention for the ages. Throughout, the tone is what keeps the book going as much as anything, and it’s the Coen brothers’ success, in the more recent of the book’s two film adaptations, in dramatizing the tone of the book that has made theirs the better of the two film versions. Mattie is the American narrator par excellence—I’d choose her over Huck Finn any day.

His last three books came out in six-year intervals from 1979 onward. The Dog of the South is about a cuckolded bore traveling into Mexico in pursuit of his wife, who has run off with a lover. Masters of Atlantis tells the story of a naive midwesterner hoodwinked into founding a secret society to protect the arcana of Atlantis. Gringos tells the story of American expatriates—some good, some bad, most somewhere in between—living out their days in the Yucatan, passing the time leading tours of Mayan ruins, trafficking the occasional illicit antiquity, and dealing with violent millenarian hippies.

All are great.

These books have meant a lot to me since I first discovered them a decade ago, and they are among the few that I have reread with even more enjoyment a second time. I reread True Grit and Masters of Atlantis just last year. I have not only enjoyed them but learned from them, and tried especially to use the lessons in the art of fiction I learned from True Grit when I came to write Griswoldville. Anything I’ve written pales next to his work, but he remains an inspiration. My consolation is that at least I can be near him on the shelf.

Portis was a gift, and my genuine sorrow that he is no longer with us is balanced by my lasting gratitude for his work. RIP.

Dawson (and Lewis) on the benefits of history

Christopher Dawson (1889-1970)

Last week I began reading Christopher Dawson’s 1932 book The Making of Europe, one of the first histories seriously to push back on the Renaissance and Enlightenment image of the early medieval period as “the Dark Ages” and to rehabilitate the period as a crucial—even the crucial—era in the development of Western culture. It’s great so far.

Dawson starts strong. In his introduction he offers several reasons why he has written the specific book he has about the time period he has chosen, and among them are the following:

One of the great merits of history is that it takes us out of ourselves—away from obvious and accepted facts—and discovers a reality that would otherwise be unknown to us. There is a real value in steeping our minds in an age entirely different to that which we know: a world different, but no less real—indeed more real, for what we call “the modern world” is the world of a generation, while a culture like that of the Byzantine or the Carolingian world has a life of centuries.

“History should be the great corrective to that ‘parochialism in time’ which [is] one of the great faults of our modern society.”

— Christopher Dawson

History should be the great corrective to that “parochialism in time” which Bertrand Russell rightly describes as one of the great faults of our modern society. Unfortunately, history has too often been written in a very different spirit. Modern historians, particularly in England, have frequently tended to use the present as an absolute standard by which to judge the past, and to view all history as an inevitable movement of progress that culminates in the present state of things. There is some justification for this in the case of a writer like Mr. H. G. Wells, whose object it is to provide the modern man with an historical background and a basis for his view of the world; but even at the best this way of writing history is fundamentally unhistorical, since it involves the subordination of the past to the present, and instead of liberating the mind from provincialism by widening the intellectual horizon, it is apt to generate the Pharisaic self-righteousness of the Whig historians or, still worse, the self-satisfaction of the modern Philistine.

“Parochialism in time” is an excellent way to think of the problem. Modern people would scoff at someone who spent their entire lives in one town but think nothing of reading only the very latest books. That kind of parochialism is even more damaging and dangerous than the homebody’s, because it keeps the mind small and warped to fit only the shape of the present.

Dawson’s argument here anticipates—and probably even inspired—similar arguments in CS Lewis’s work, notably in The Abolition of Man and, even more clearly, in CS Lewis’s great essay “On the Reading of Old Books.” (For a little more about Dawson’s influence on Lewis, their mutual respect, and their awkward first meeting, see here.) Lewis wrote the essay in 1944 as an introduction to a new translation of St. Athanasius’s De Incarnatione Verbi Dei (On the Incarnation). Early in the essay he writes that

Every age has its own outlook. It is specially good at seeing certain truths and specially liable to make certain mistakes. We all, therefore, need the books that will correct the characteristic mistakes of our own period. And that means the old books. All contemporary writers share to some extent the contemporary outlook—even those, like myself, who seem most opposed to it. Nothing strikes me more when I read the controversies of past ages than the fact that both sides were usually assuming without question a good deal which we should now absolutely deny. They thought that they were as completely opposed as two sides could be, but in fact they were all the time secretly united—united with each other and against earlier and later ages—by a great mass of common assumptions. We may be sure that the characteristic blindness of the twentieth century—the blindness about which posterity will ask, “But how could they have thought that?”—lies where we have never suspected it, and concerns something about which there is untroubled agreement between Hitler and President Roosevelt or between Mr. H. G. Wells and Karl Barth. None of us can fully escape this blindness, but we shall certainly increase it, and weaken our guard against it, if we read only modern books. Where they are true they will give us truths which we half knew already. Where they are false they will aggravate the error with which we are already dangerously ill. The only palliative is to keep the clean sea breeze of the centuries blowing through our minds, and this can be done only by reading old books. Not, of course, that there is any magic about the past. People were no cleverer then than they are now; they made as many mistakes as we. But not the same mistakes. They will not flatter us in the errors we are already committing; and their own errors, being now open and palpable, will not endanger us. Two heads are better than one, not because either is infallible, but because they are unlikely to go wrong in the same direction. To be sure, the books of the future would be just as good a corrective as the books of the past, but unfortunately we cannot get at them.

Dawson, like Lewis, is also alert to the misuse of the past, especially as a polemical weapon in what we would now call culture wars:

There is, of course, the opposite danger of using history as a weapon against the modern age, either on account of a romantic idealisation of the past, or in the interests of religious or national propaganda. Of these the latter is the most serious, since the romanticist at least treats history as an end in itself; and it is in fact to the romantic historians that we owe the first attempts to study mediaeval civilisation for its own sake rather than as a means to something else. The propagandist historian, on the other hand, is inspired by motives of a non-historical order, and tends unconsciously to falsify history in the interest of apologetics.

“One of the great merits of history is that it takes us out of ourselves.”

— Christopher Dawson

Dawson cites as examples the work of Catholic historians aiming to defend the Church against the attacks of modern atheists using medieval stereotypes as a cudgel, and we might add to this the uses to which history has been put in modern cultural and political debates, which often come in pairs: Marxist histories histories in which everything is exploitation and money and Whiggish histories in which everything is the fight for liberty; the tidy whitewash of Neo-Confederate history and the everything-looks-like-a-nail slavery-centric approach of the 1619 Project; freethinkers’ histories of religion as the font of all evil in the world and their counterparts in which all evil stems from Nietzsche, or Darwin, or Voltaire.

But “this way of writing history,” Dawson notes, “defeats its own ends, since as soon as the reader becomes suspicious of the impartiality of the historian he discounts the truth of everything that he reads.”

Such propagandist histories fail because they do not confer the very first benefit of history Dawson lists—they do not take us out of ourselves, but instead “subordinat[e] the past to the present,” especially our own interests. For all their faults, the Romantics were at least interested in the past for its own sake. Only if, like them, we surrender to the past and try to understand it on its own terms can we reap the benefits Dawson describes, or feel Lewis’s “clean sea breeze” freshening our minds.

Scruton on nothing buttery

From The Soul of the World, in which the late Roger Scruton mounts a sophisticated philosophical attack on reductionist accounts of religion, the experience of the sacred, and the personal encounter with God. Having just described the way in which describing a sequence of pitched sounds is inadequate as an explanation of a chord or harmony in Beethoven, and just before moving on to a detailed argument against the pretensions of neuroscience and evolutionary psychology to explain thought, consciousness, and personhood, Scruton writes:

It is helpful at this point to register a protest against what Mary Midgley calls “nothing buttery.” There is a widespread habit of declaring emergent realities to be “nothing but” the things in which we perceive them. The human person is “nothing but” the human animal; law is “nothing but” relations of social power; sexual love is “nothing but” the urge to procreation; altruism is “nothing but” the dominant genetic strategy described by Maynard Smith; the Mona Lisa is “nothing but” a spread of pigments on canvas, the Ninth Symphony is “nothing but” a sequence of pitched sounds of varying timbre. And so on. Getting rid of this habit is, to my mind, the true goal of philosophy. And if we get rid of it when dealing with the small things—symphonies, pictures, people—we might get rid of it when dealing with the large things too: notably, when dealing with the world as a whole. And then we might conclude that it is just as absurd to say that the world is nothing but the order of nature, as physics describes it, as to say that the Mona Lisa is nothing but a smear of pigments. Drawing that conclusion is the first step in the search for God.

Compare CS Lewis in The Abolition of Man. In this famous passage, he critiques reductionist attempts to debunk or explain away traditional understandings of reality as cynical attempts to “see through” things to what is “actually” happening. This mindset or hermeneutic of suspicion proves self-defeating in the end:

But you cannot go on “explaining away” forever: you will find that you have explained explanation itself away. You cannot go on “seeing through” things forever. The whole point of seeing through something is to see something through it. It is good that the window should be transparent, because the street or garden beyond it is opaque. How if you saw through the garden too? It is no use trying to “see through” first principles. If you see through everything then everything is transparent. But a wholly transparent world is an invisible world. To “see through” all things is the same as not to see.

Scruton’s book is an extended examination of why that’s the case. It’s worth your time, and I regret that it took his death two weeks ago for me to pull it off the shelf and, finally, read it.

1917, isms, and art

“Loyalties as simple as death.” British infantry shelter in A freshly dug trench near the end of 1917.

About a week ago, a friend of mine in the Marine Corps sent me a Slate article about 1917, the best movie of last year and one of the greatest war films ever made. The article is headlined “1917 has one major flaw—it’s irresponsibly nationalistic.” Anyone who has seen 1917 and taken it on its own terms will wonder what on earth the author of the piece is talking about. True to form, the essay has all the high-flying silliness of a typical Slate piece, including a lot implicitlys—a classic indicator of spectral evidence—and condescending oversimplifications and plenty of inane references to Donald Trump. (My favorite: Kaiser Wilhelm II was “a proto-Donald Trump,” which is not only silly but somehow manages to be insulting to both men.)

While I drafted and redrafted this blog post with much longer excerpts, the following paragraph sums up the piece’s argument. Writing that while he enjoyed the craft and technical achievements of 1917, the author

felt very uneasy—not for aesthetic reasons, but for moral ones. “1917,” as its title indicates for the historically well-informed, is a World War I picture. Any film set during that conflict has a responsibility to account for the horrors of nationalism, much as a film that takes place during the Civil War must deal with slavery, and one that occurs during World War II must acknowledge fascism.

To which I say, as politely as I can, no. For two interlocking reasons.

First, because storytellers can tell the stories they want and tell them any way they damn well please. I can’t emphasize this enough. One of the least becoming and most nefarious aspects of contemporary talk about storytelling, whether on film or television or between the covers of books, is the reflexive urge to police who can tell what story and how. The who and what have been particularly hotly contested in the Slough of Despond known as YA fiction. The how is what concerns me here.

In writing that 1917 “must acknowledge the inherent ambiguity of” World War I, the author is ordering Sam Mendes and his co-writers to tell a different story than the one they have chosen to tell. It is a tedious demand that the filmmakers tell a story that he prefers—in this case, an ideologically driven argument about political bogeymen. “Even if we are only being told a microcosmic story about two soldiers trying to survive a dangerous mission,” the author writes, “we should still understand the larger tapestry in which those characters are mere threads.” This is the leftist equivalent of those historians who wanted, needed, had to have scenes of Winston Churchill giving speeches and generals pushing flags around map tables stuck into the finely tuned story of Dunkirk. This kind of bossiness betrays a lack of trust in or appreciation for what the storytellers have used their skill, creativity, and carefully sharpened discernment—their arts—to create. It’s anti-art, and the author’s own admitted admiration for the film, despite the desperate override commands of his ideology, belies that fact.

“It is immoral to tell a story about a war without analyzing the reasons behind that war.” Why? World War II stories “must acknowledge fascism?” What does that even mean? Civil War stories must deal with slavery? No. Some of the greatest entries in Civil War literature barely acknowledge slavery’s existence, much less ruminate on its morality. Here’s one you might have heard of. I myself wrote a Civil War novel in which slavery plays almost no role because that’s not what concerns my characters and not what drives the plot. In short, that’s not what my novel is about.

And that’s my second objection. Introducing the kind of navel-gazing ruminations on isms that tickle people like this Slate writer have no place in the world of 1917 because that’s not what 1917 is about.

As I wrote at length in my review, 1917 is about the experience of combat, the dreariness and terror of the trenches, the toll it takes on the men caught up in the war, and, in a contrast made more striking by the vivid depiction of what life in the trenches was like, the beauty of friendship and home. Nationalism doesn’t come into it—even “implicitly”—because that is not what moves the characters.

Writing almost a hundred years ago in his great book The Everlasting Man, GK Chesterton conveyed the disconnect between ideology, which he calls “practical politics” or “realpolitik,” and reality, and did so with soldiering as his example:

Whatever starts wars, the thing that sustains wars is something in the soul; that is something akin to religion. It is what men feel about life and about death. A man near to death is dealing directly with an absolute; it is nonsense to say he is concerned only with relative and remote complications that death in any case will end. If he is sustained by certain loyalties, they must be loyalties as simple as death. They are generally two ideas. . . . The first is the love of something said to be threatened, if it be only vaguely known as home; the second is dislike and defiance of some strange thing that threatens it. . . . A man does not want his national home destroyed or even changed, because he cannot even remember all the good things that go with it; just as he does not want his house burnt down, because he can hardly count all the things he would miss. Therefore he fights for what sounds like a hazy abstraction, but is really a house.

This almost exactly describes the approach Mendes and company used for 1917’s depiction of the war. The two protagonists, Schofield and Blake, have intensely immediate concerns—get from here to there safely, avoid being seen or shot at, deliver their message, save lives, get back to their families. They live with the “loyalties as simple as death” and the war is precisely that simple for them. Earlier in the same passage, Chesterton imagines it even more succinctly:

Does anybody in the world believe that a soldier says, “My leg is nearly dropping off, but I shall go on till it drops; for after all I shall enjoy all the advantages of my government obtaining a warm-water port in the Gulf of Finland.” Can anybody suppose that a clerk turned conscript says, “If I am gassed I shall probably die in torments, but it is a comfort to reflect that should I ever decide to become a pearl-diver in the South Seas, that career is now open to me and my countrymen.”

These are manifest absurdities, but are apparently what Slate writers and their ilk want out of a movie like 1917. Tell us how bad the British officer class was. Don’t other the Germans. Don’t “validate the nationalist impulses that led to such terrible bloodshed.” Don’t give us a movie, give us a disquisition. Give us a sermon. Give us a Slate article.

The author of this piece does offer up counterexamples in the form of All Quiet on the Western Front and Paths of Glory, both fine movies, well produced and well acted. But, tellingly, the most political parts of those movies are also the phoniest parts, the most tinny and artistically clumsy, and the strongest parts are those most like what 1917 accomplished, bringing the viewer into the experience of the soldiers in the trenches.

Why does any of this matter? First, because I object to the totalitarian impulse to make everything political. Second, I hate to see this film, an outstanding evocation of a time and place and the experience of an entire generation of ordinary men, denigrated for such stupid and meretricious reasons. Third, and I think most importantly, the nature of art and storytelling, the basis of my first objection, is at stake. Artists and storytellers must be free to tell the stories they have in the way best suited to those stories. They must be true to their art. The team behind 1917 exercised their considerable gifts to tell a good story and tell it well, just like the filmmakers behind All Quiet on the Western Front and Paths of Glory did in their day. They used their gifts to choose their material and to shape it toward their end. What matters after that is whether they succeeded in what they set out to do, not in what pundits think they should have done.

“Poetry is, among other things,” John Ciardi wrote, “the art of knowing what to leave out.” Begin dictating those choices and you kill the work of art.

2019 in Books

Not only was 2019 a good year for movies, my reading this year was unusually good. I dialed my ambitions back a little bit, setting my Goodreads Challenge goal as 55 books and intending to make several of those longer, heavier novels. I ended up reading 80, finishing the last—Ian Fleming’s short story collection For Your Eyes Only—a few hours before midnight on New Year’s Eve. You can look at everything I read here, but below are my favorites from the last year.

Per my usual year-in-review lists, I’m focusing on favorites, meaning those books I most enjoyed, benefited from, or stopped to think about, with plenty of overlap in those three categories. The books fall into three broad categories: fiction, non-fiction, and kids’ books, with a top ten for the latter two categories and, because I can’t keep these things to a set number, a few runners up. The books appear in no particular order, but I do save my favorite of the year for each category until the end.

Another thing I’ve been trying to discipline myself to do is reread good books. CS Lewis wrote that “I can’t imagine a man really enjoying a book and reading it only once,” a line that has always bothered me because I so often fail to live up to it. I feel keenly the desperation to read everything I’m interested in and the list is unending, so revisiting something I’ve already read can sometimes feel like falling behind. But this year I did reread a lot of old favorites, and I’ve included a list of those as well.

I hope y’all enjoy! If y’all are looking for something good to read in the new decade, I hope you can find something in these lists.

Ten fiction favorites:

Presented in no particular order. Rereads are marked with an asterisk.

The Moonshine War, by Elmore Leonard—A fun Depression-era adventure from the moment of Leonard’s career in which he was transitioning from Westerns to crime novels. Like many other Leonard novels, The Moonshine War pits multiple implacable bad guys against a single stalwart who has something they want. In this case, the bad guys are ostensibly on the side of law and order, the stalwart is Son Martin, and what everyone wants is a massive stash of high quality moonshine hidden somewhere on Son’s land. This has everything I enjoy about Leonard’s Westerns, such as a strong, silent hero who stands up against overwhelming odds and survives through quick thinking, backbone, and a stubborn refusal to quit, plus an unusual and well-realized setting and a great ending. As a bonus, it also takes place in a 1930s Appalachia that does not feature any condescending or grotesque Southern stereotypes.

Andersonville, by Mackinlay Kantor—The longest, weightiest book I read this year, Andersonville is a modernist masterpiece of Civil War fiction, harrowing and brutal in its realization of life in the sprawling, badly run Confederate prisoner-of-war camp. It’s not a perfect book, but it has a breadth of imagination and sweep of life in the United States in the middle of the nineteenth century that are engrossing from start to finish. I wrote a longer, more detailed review early in the year which you can read here.

Past Master, by RA Lafferty—I read perhaps two sci-fi books per year, and this was one of them. It was the most delightfully weird novel I read this year. Past Master begins with Astrobe, a future society founded and planned as a Utopia, struggling to maintain its utopian standards despite decline and collapse. The planet’s fractious leaders decide to go to the man who coined the very word utopia, Sir Thomas More, and bring him back from the past to advise them. More—witty, urbane, skeptical, with a sly wit (much as in real life)—comes along and, in his travels, shows us the dark side of utopianism. I don’t want to say much more, but Past Master is weird and wonderful, an unjustly overlooked dystopia that has more to say to us now than the more faddish 1984 or The Handmaid’s Tale.

Casino Royale, by Ian Fleming*—One of the classics of the spy genre and the novel that introduced James Bond, Casino Royale is short, sharply written, and much more internal and psychologically grounded than the Bond series’ reputation would suggest. Fleming enjoyed experimenting with plot and especially structure, and the three acts of the novel—casino, capture, and the tragic denouement—are an early indication of that impulse. But the main draws are the characters—richly drawn and memorable, from Bond himself to Vesper Lynd and Le Chiffre, the immensely threatening villain—and the plot, which races along from beginning to end and takes Bond through attempted assassination, torture, and more. There’s a reason this character has proven immortal. Do yourself a favor and give this first book of the original series a try sometime.

Pronto, by Elmore Leonard—One of Leonard’s crime novels, and the book that introduced Raylan Givens, hero of the TV series “Justified” (which I haven’t seen), to the world. Pronto deftly follows multiple overlapping plots involving the Mafia, a bookie on the run, and US Marshal Givens, and hops back and forth between Miami and Italy. It’s one of Leonard’s most enjoyable crime novels, long on character and tension and the thrill of the chase, and I look forward to reading the other Raylan Givens stories he wrote: Riding the Rap, Raylan, and one of the short stories in When the Women Come out to Dance (aka Fire in the Hole).

Masters of Atlantis, by Charles Portis*—An underappreciated novel by an underappreciated novelist. Masters of Atlantis follows bland Midwesterner Lamar Jimmerson over several decades, from the tail end of World War I through the 1960s and 70s, as he is hoodwinked into founding a secret society—based on the supposed last surviving text from Atlantis—which briefly flourishes before collapsing into a few small cells of esoterica-obsessed mystics, eccentrics, and con men. It’s a hoot. I first read this seven or eight years ago and liked it even better this second time around.

Cain at Gettysburg, by Ralph Peters—I wrote a little about this novel in my summer reading list, but it’s an excellent piece of Civil War fiction, gritty, hard-eyed, and shockingly violent, but with a humane sympathy toward its diverse cast of characters—squads of German immigrants from Wisconsin and mountaineers from North Carolina, generals and officers from both sides and all levels of command, and at least one legitimate war hero—that makes it a powerful read.

The Weight of This World, by David Joy—A grim story of poverty, addiction, friendship, and betrayal, this novel takes place in rural Appalachia near where I grew up but among the people of a completely different world. Set during the lowest days following the 2008 financial crisis, best friends Aiden and Thad, a wounded veteran, get by on the copper they steal from abandoned summer homes and sell to scrapyards. They use most of their cash on booze and meth, and Aiden, the responsible one of the pair, worries about how long this life can last. He wants out, a new start in Asheville or points east. Thad vows he’ll never leave the mountains again. Then, during a drug deal gone wrong, the pair come into enough wealth in cash and drugs to make their mutually exclusive dreams come true, and the tension between them and the lowlifes jealous to get a piece of the action threaten to destroy them both. A cross between Ron Rash’s settings and well-drawn relationships and the darkness and brutality of Cormac McCarthy—especially No Country for Old Men—The Weight of This World is a crushing tragedy beautifully told, with hints of the power of redemption.

The Road, by Cormac McCarthy*—I first read The Road as a college senior, shortly after it was published. I loved McCarthy, and while I enjoyed The Road I didn’t class it among my favorites of his work at the time. Now, almost thirteen years on and as the father of three children, I’ve reread it to a totally different effect—it destroyed me. The Road is all of fatherhood in a book. The difficulty of raising a child and passing on as much as you can of what you know, the nagging anxiety for the future and the uncertainty of how much time you have, the gut-deep sense of the dangers of the world and the instinct to protect and teach, the panic when the danger becomes real, the frustration, the exhaustion, the fear, and, despite everything, the joys too deep for words—all are given powerful expression in the story of this father and son and their harrowing journey through a post-apocalyptic South. I was rapt from the first page and wept at the end. The Road is a deeply moving and meaningful book, and a monument to all fathers seeking to “carry the fire” and pass it on to their children.

Honorable mentions:

Dune, by Frank Herbert—A monumental work of imagination with a vividly realized setting and a palpably vast history. I enjoyed Dune much more than I thought I would, given that I had tried and failed twice to get into it in college. To my surprise, I found the sandworms thrilling, but I did feel the plot dragged in one or two places and resolved rather too quickly. Going to give at least one of the sequels a shot this year.

Big Trouble, by Dave Barry—A comedic crime romp across Miami with more than a little of an Elmore Leonard vibe (Barry apparently knew Leonard and thanks him in the acknowledgements) and the distinct comic voice and running gags of classic Barry humor. There’s ultimately not much to it but it was a ton of fun. You can read my longer review here.

Liberator, by Dominic Hall—This is a bit of a cheat, as I read Liberator in manuscript. It’s a forthcoming Christian action thriller by my old friend Dominic Hall and follows a young man through his first few days as the member of an elite special ops group operating out of San Diego. It was a blast to read and I look forward to its release. Y’all should definitely check it out when it becomes available later this year.

Favorite of the year:

A Bloody Habit, by Eleanor Bourg Nicholson—If you had told me last January that my favorite novel of the year would be about vampires, you’d have to forgive me for scoffing. And yet here we are. I heard an interview with Eleanor Bourg Nicholson on John J. Miller’s Great Books podcast in which she both sang the praises of and critiqued Dracula. When Miller asked her a few questions about her own vampire novel, a novel I found I had heard of—A Bloody Habit—I was sold.

A Bloody Habit takes place across about a year in the last days of Queen Victoria. It’s the memoir of John Kemp, a middling London lawyer who, through a case involving a strangely behaving aristocrat and his foreign wife, who has disappeared, falls in with Father Thomas Edmund Gilroy, an unassuming Dominican friar—and vampire slayer. (The “habit” of the title is a pun on the serial predation of the vampire and the bloodstained clothing of the monks who hunt them.) Kemp, who shares all the materialist progressive assumptions of a cultivated Englishman of his day, is dismissive of the quiet but persistent little friar at first but, as weird incident upon weird incident piles up around him and he sees the aftermath of more than one brutal murder, he seeks the man out for help and counsel.

There are grisly murders, seemingly supernatural events that Kemp struggles to explain, and the gradual revelation of even greater dangers than Kemp is at first aware of.

The characters are all fun and finely drawn, from Kemp and the friar (think Father Brown crossed with Dr. Van Helsing) to the more traditional detective of Scotland Yard, the various women who pass in and out of Kemp’s life, and scads of suspiciously cadaverous and threatening men. The tone is one of genuinely creepy horror—the first appearance of a vampire in the novel actually nauseated and spooked me—but also of goodnatured fun. When a team of vampire hunters consisting of a lawyer, doctor, detective, a few cops, and a throng of Dominican monks troops out into the streets of London near the end I was laughing for pure enjoyment. And speaking of London, the setting is nicely researched and presented. Fans of anything late Victorian—Sherlock Holmes, H. Rider Haggard, Wilkie Collins, Robert Louis Stevenson, even steampunk—will enjoy Kemp’s world.

But what really sets A Bloody Habit apart—there are, after all, a lot of vampire novels out there—is the seriousness with which Nicholson treats the evil Kemp and Father Thomas Edmund confront, and the rigor with which she, through the friar, presents the truth that will set the victims free. Kemp proves an extraordinary vessel for this story, and his transformation over the course of the novel is well done and quite moving. He finds his condescending attitudes—toward the priest, toward Catholics, toward foreigners and rural peasants who still believe in both God and vampires—challenged, and he wrestles with the implications of this trip beyond himself and his assumptions. Nicholson weaves some powerful theological themes through the book but dramatizes rather than preaches them. It’s incredibly effective and well done, a model any Christian concerned to convey some measure of the truth through his writing would do well to emulate.

If you’re looking for a fun, atmospheric, genuinely creepy and inventive adventure novel with its heart and mind aligned to the truth, A Bloody Habit is for you. I highly recommend it.

Ten non-fiction favorites:

Symbol or Substance? by Peter Kreeft—I owe an enormous spiritual and intellectual debt to Peter Kreeft, as I discovered his book Socrates Meets Jesus in college and was heartened by his vision of the friendship of faith and reason. Symbol or Substance?, like that earlier book and many of his others, is written as a dialogue, with CS Lewis, JRR Tolkien, and Billy Graham debating the nature of the Eucharist. Are the bread and wine just symbols, as the low church Graham maintains? Or something more, per Lewis? Or do they become the literal flesh and blood of Christ, as Tolkien believes? Winsome, fun, and fair to all sides, this is an excellent and persuasive book.

God is Not Nice: Rejecting Pop Culture Theology and Discovering the God Worth Living For, by Ulrich Lehner—A brisk, readable rebuff to Moralistic Therapeutic Deism, the polite, affirming, undemanding (and therefore unnecessary) God of most modern Americans, including Christians, and a call to greater commitment to a God worth believing in and following. An excellent short read.

Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose, by Flannery O’Connor—A collection of O’Connor’s writings on a variety of often overlapping topics—writing and art, story and character, the South and Christianity. It’s excellent, full of wisdom and not a little of O’Connor’s mordant, self-deprecating sense of humor. One of the best books on fiction writing out there, from one of the great masters of the mid-twentieth century short story.

Normandy ‘44: D-Day and the Epic 77-Day Battle for France, by James Holland—An outstanding new history of the Normandy campaign, from its planning stages through the beach landings to the breakout from the hedgerows at the end of the summer of 1944. Wide-ranging and well-researched, with good attention to all levels—and both sides, Allied and German—of this grueling campaign, from Eisenhower down to the infantrymen and tankers on the ground.

Russell Kirk’s Concise Guide to Conservatism—A new edition of Kirk’s book The Intelligent Woman’s Guide to Conservatism, a short, briskly written handbook to the fundamental priorities or dispositions of conservative thought. You won’t find policy proposals or sloganeering here, but rather a guide to the nesting layers of relationships and “permanent things” that conservatives should seek to protect and preserve. I hope this book gets a wide readership; conservatism today can only benefit from its vision. I wrote a full length review which you can read here.

The Face of God: The Gifford Lectures, by Roger Scruton—I won’t even try to summarize this one, but it’s a strong critique of materialism, reductionist philosophies grounded in the overzealous application of empirical methods, and a work of anthropology, the philosophy of man, of people. Scruton masterfully works his way through his arguments about being, self, will, art, beauty, and the transcendent. It’s a challenging but not impossible read—challenging because of the ideas, not the vocabulary—and I’m still not sure I’ve fully digested it. (N.b.: This would pair well with his later book On Human Nature, which I actually read before this one.)

Letters to an American Lady, by CS Lewis—A collection of letters written by Lewis to an American correspondent named Mary over the course of the thirteen years between 1950 and Lewis’s death in 1963. Wide-ranging, witty, and thoughtful, with Lewis’s thoughts on a huge number of topics big and small. Well worth reading.

CS Lewis: A Very Short Introduction, by James Como—Speaking of Lewis, here he is again, in this excellent short book from Oxford UP. Como crams a solid biography and full accounting of Lewis’s work into just over 100 pages, an astonishing feat worthy of the subject himself. If I were to recommend any one book about Lewis to someone wanting to get to know him and his work, but who is daunted by the longer biographies available, this would certainly be it.

On Reading Well: Finding the Good Life Through Great Books, by Karen Swallow Prior—A winsome and insightful guide to learning and practicing the virtues through our reading. Prior examines a wide variety of novels and short stories—including some of my favorites, like Jane Austen, Cormac McCarthy, and Flannery O’Connor, as well as authors I’ve never read before, like George Saunders—for examples of virtue in action and encourages us to lead better lives with these stories as models. A good guide to the roles of beauty, goodness, and storytelling in shaping our lives.

Favorite of the year:

The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers, by John Gardner*—I first read Gardner’s books The Art of Fiction and On Becoming a Novelist for my senior novel writing class in college. I’ve reread one of them every time I’ve completed a rough draft since. This fall, upon completion of the manuscript for what I’m calling The Wanderer, I reread The Art of Fiction.

The Art of Fiction has exerted a profound influence on my work, especially in how Gardner conceptualizes the way a good story works. Gardner makes paramount what he calls the “vivid continuous fictive dream,” the state a reader enters into as they read the story. Nothing should interfere with or disrupt that dream, and anything that does, anything that wakes the sleeper, has to go.

This is a good way to express how fiction does what it does and also leaves a lot of room for flexibility, careful experiment with style and form, and what Gardner calls “jazzing around,” the seemingly improvisatory but expertly disciplined grace notes of a writer in full command of his talents. Gardner rightly avoids being prescriptive, offering good guidelines but emphasizing throughout that what is permissible in fiction is whatever a good writer can make work, the way to make it work being to develop and sustain the fictive dream. There’s a lot of room.

Finally, Gardner presents the best account I’ve seen so far of the process of conceiving of and writing a novel—or any fictional work—and includes a lot of helpful advice on matters stylistic and mechanical as well as a host of useful exercises to keep the writer’s mind limber.

I’ve benefited a lot from Gardner’s book, and this trip back through it—my third or fourth—was no exception. If you’re looking for a good book on the fiction writing process, I always recommend this one. It’s encouraging, inspiring, and challenging, and I always finish it determined to be a better writer than I am.

Runners up:

Stories in the End: Short Letters from a Long Life, by Tom Poole and Jay Eldred—A wonderful and unusual epistolary memoir by a man who saw an enormous amount in his long life. From the killing of John Dillinger to the attack on Pearl Harbor to surviving a night in the English Channel after a U-boat attack to turtling along the North Carolina coast, Tom Poole led an extraordinary life and this book wonderfully captures his understated wisdom. You can read my full review here.

Æthelred the Unready: The Failed King, by Richard Abels—Another good, short book from a series, Richard Abels’s volume on the reign of Æthelred is an excellent short biography and introduction to the period of late Anglo-Saxon England. It also offers a good reassessment of an easily caricatured and much maligned figure. You can read my longer Goodreads review here.

Ætheflæd: England’s Forgotten Founder, by Tom Holland—An even shorter book on an Anglo-Saxon ruler, Tom Holland’s Ladybird Expert book on Ætheflæd began through his research into her nephew Æthelstan for the Penguin Monarchs series. The daughter of Alfred the Great and de facto ruler of the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia after her husband’s death, Æthelflæd was a powerful and influential woman and ably defended her people against the Vikings at a time when many kingdoms succumbed to their repeated attacks. This little book is beautifully written and illustrated and offers a fascinating look at a truly great woman, well worth remembering.

Knight of the Holy Ghost: A Short History of GK Chesterton, by Dale Ahlquist—A solid short book on the life and works of Chesterton, one part biography, one part literary history, and one part apologetic, making the case for Chesterton’s influence and defending Chesterton’s memory against some common present day critiques.

Homer: A Very Short Introduction, by Barbara Graziosi—Another solid entry in Oxford’s Very Short Introductions series, this concise little book covers what we (think we) know about Homer and his life, and gives a concise but thorough exploration of the plots, characters, and themes of his two great epics, the Iliad and the Odyssey.

Disappointments:

The Reckoning, by John Grisham—An intriguing premise very, very badly executed. I’ve already written about this one in my summer reading recap.

The Haunting of Hill House, by Shirley Jackson—Some genuinely spooky moments and a vividly realized setting, but the characters and dialogue were too clever by half and annoyed me. A lot. The book’s greatest strength is its atmosphere, but unfortunately that isn’t enough.

Last of the Breed, by Louis L’Amour—I love escape stories and anything about desolate arctic landscapes, but for all the adventure, cunning, and survivalist exploits in this book, I found it pretty dull. I think some of its subplots could have been removed with no damage to the central story and a more fully realized antagonist would have helped. Nevertheless, I’ve had this novel recommended to me by many trusted friends over many years, so I may give it another go in the future.

The Seven-Per-Cent Solution, by Nicholas Meyer—Part of the problem with this novel is simply historical: the Sherlock-Holmes-cocaine-addiction trope has been done to death now, though it probably felt pretty fresh when Meyer published this story. The plot is bifurcated—in the first half, Watson tries to cure Holmes of his addiction with Sigmund Freud’s help. In the second, Meyer cooks up a quick and simple mystery for the now-clean Holmes to solve. It’s fun but falls far short of the best Holmes adventures, and there’s also a lot of very silly Freudian hoodoo, which Meyer apparently intended us to take seriously.

Rereads:

The books I read for the second or third—or, in the case of Dante, fifteenth? twentieth?—time this year, in no particular order. For those that I have briefly reviewed on Goodreads I have provided a hyperlink to the review. These were all well worth the reread.

• True Grit and Masters of Atlantis, by Charles Portis—See above. I gave the top ten slot to Masters of Atlantis because with True Grit in the race it’s just not fair. Both are great.

• The Art of Fiction and Grendel, by John Gardner

• Agricola and Germania, by Tacitus

• The Poetic Edda, trans. Jackson Crawford

• Inferno, by Dante, trans. Anthony Esolen—Read for a group discussion during Lent. Any excuse to read Dante is a good one.

• Iliad, by Homer, trans. Robert Fagles—Read for The Core Curriculum Podcast, the first series of which covered the entire Iliad in eleven episodes. I appeared in four (episodes 3, 8, 9, and 11). It was great.

• Casino Royale, Live and Let Die, and Octopussy and The Living Daylights, by Ian Fleming

• The Shining, by Stephen King—Read for the Christian Humanist Radio Network’s annual Halloween crossover event, in which Jay Eldred and I discussed the novel with The Book of Nature Podcast’s Charles Hackney. You can listen to the episode here.

• A Study in Scarlet and The Hound of the Baskervilles, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle—Read to Sarah before bed every evening. We usually read a chapter of something to relax before turning out the lights. For the first of these, we read just about the entire second half in one go.

• All Quiet on the Western Front, by Erich Maria Remarque, trans. AW Wheen

• The Man Who Was Thursday, by GK Chesterton

• The Road, by Cormac McCarthy—See above. One of my favorite reads of the year, and one of the most striking rereading experiences I can remember.

Favorite kids’ books:

By the Great Horn Spoon! by Sid Fleischman—A fun Gold Rush adventure about a wealthy Boston boy and his butler and their voyage to California. Emphasizes courage, toughness, resourcefulness, and good cheer through hardship. We really enjoyed this. You can read my Goodreads review here.

The Mouse and the Motorcycle, by Beverly Cleary—I somehow passed through childhood without ever reading Beverly Cleary. On my wife’s recommendation I read this to our daughter as a bedtime story and we both enjoyed it a lot.

Mr. Popper’s Penguins, by Richard and Florence Atwater—One of my childhood favorites, I was excited to share this with my daughter as a bedtime story. She especially enjoyed the idea of penguins living in the freezer and, eventually, a frozen lake in the basement. (Now, as an adult, I mostly worried about the mess and the Popper family’s food budget.)

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and Prince Caspian, by CS Lewis—I didn’t read the Narnia books until I was in college, but my father-in-law read them to my wife when she was very small so we introduced them to my daughter this year. She loved them, though the flashback structure of Prince Caspian proved a little confusing for her. We’re carrying on into the new year—we just started The Voyage of the Dawn Treader last night!

Looking ahead

I’ve set my Goodreads goal for 2020 and have a stack on my desk and nightstand ready for me to plow through. I’m excited for the new year and all the reading—and living—in store for us. I hope y’all had a great New Year and have a lot of good reading ahead of you, too. Thanks for reading!