New Horizons in Handsomeness

It was cool enough, early today, for a walk in the park, and in the park, there is one of those dumping grounds - ha ha! it is nicer than I am making it sound - for unwanted books. You know, a little wooden house where you can put old books for hoary old scavengers such as myself to pick through with our trembling fingers. And today we had a real find: THE NEW LAROUSSE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF ANIMAL LIFE. Honestly, "NEW" might be stretching it. But there was a pic of a solemn leopard on the cover, and I didn't think of it as having birds in it - that was not my motive for snagging it! - although I do realize that birds are animals (despite the fact, conclusively proven by the "blog," that pelicans are not owls; is that a syllogism?). All right! You know what I'm leading up to: once I got it home, I opened the book at random, to page 429, upon which was displayed a photo of a "Ferruginous Pygmy Owl," which, as far as I can tell, has nothing to do with Lou Ferrigno, sadly. My eyes twitched over to page 428, the facing page, where I saw the words "The Little Owl (Athene noctua) is a small, handsome-looking bird." (See also.) My skittish eye twitched back to page 429 and landed on "The handsome Snowy Owl." So! These people really think owls are handsome, or at least two kinds of owls are. Maybe they are repulsed by the features of some other poor owls. I have not yet ascertained whether they find mammals or reptiles handsome.

Larry O

Now that I have finished JOSEPH AND HIS BROTHERS, you, having internalized my previously detailed catalog of all the kinds of books I have going at the same time and why, must be wondering what my new "main book," as I have officially designated it, will be. I am so glad you asked! Bill Boyle's SAINT OF THE NARROWS STREET comes out in February, and he was kind enough to present an advance copy to Dr. Theresa and myself, and it has become my follow-up to JOSEPH. It's great so far! Bang! Action right out of the gate! And, as it is my duty to report for reasons you may research for yourself in your ample spare time, it has owls in it. More than that! It has "Crickets and tree frogs and owls and whatever else hoots and bellows." Witchy! Look for SAINT OF THE NARROWS STREET under Bill's writer name (and actual name) of William Boyle. We call him Bill! It's like on talk shows in the 1970s when some guy would come out and casually mention running into "Larry Olivier" someplace. I swear this is something that used to happen, though I feel disinclined to search for corroborative evidence. I don't care about anything anymore, you see.

The Rose/Wexler Ratio

I just finished reading JOSEPH AND HIS BROTHERS. What, you thought I wouldn't crow and bellow about it in a boastful manner? Just think back on how I strutted around after THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY. And there are 1.5 Anatomies in 1 Joseph, or as we call it around here, "The Rose/Wexler Ratio." (The studious and scholarly may "click" here for more information about the origins of that useful term. You non-"clicking" bastards!) My first thought, of course, is that JOSEPH AND HIS BROTHERS ends exactly like WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING, an allusion that Kent Osborne will get if he ever stumbles across this "post." The rest of you will have to read all 1492 pages of JOSEPH and then watch the Sandra Bullock vehicle in question before enlightenment may occur. Next I'll say that it is almost impossible to believe that one person could be responsible for two such towering works of imagination as the novel under consideration and THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN. I'll put it mildly, as I am not exactly allowed, living in the unnamed town where I do, to express the secret thought rattling in my brain, but... let's just say Thomas Mann gives William Faulkner a run for his money. I've already said too much. All my blabbing about Thomas Mann during the course of this journey, as I guess I'm calling it - sorry! -, has had unintended consequences. For example, Tom Franklin dug out his old, presumably yellowed, copy of THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN, read a few pages, and said (I think this is an exact quotation), "Jack likes THIS?" I'm glad it happened! And I'll tell you why. It allows me to reiterate a couple of interesting points. 1. You can't just dig out your old paperback! You have to spring for the John E. Woods translations (assuming you are reading either book in English). 2. You have to give THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN 100 pages of grace. Just trust it for 100 pages! Do I have to remind you of what Keats said? I'd insist that you "click" here to find out, but who are we kidding? How I hate you! End of interesting points. For the moment! Bill Boyle told me that Annie Baker, a playwright we both admire, in turn admires Thomas Mann, particularly in the Woods translations, I believe. An inside source, drawing from the private content of an encounter at a party, revealed to me that a certain famous author (we'll call them "Famous Author") personally confided in my source that they (Famous Author) enjoyed every Thomas Mann novel EXCEPT for JOSEPH AND HIS BROTHERS!!! One may only assume that Famous Author did not heed my variation on point #2 above, which is that the latter novel requires anywhere from 200-400 warm-up pages before really kicking in. Let me also state that Famous Author famously and authorially ragged on the state of Mississippi (where I dwell) as containing not even one single inhabitant capable of reading a book. Before I left social media like a true hero of our age, I responded indignantly to Famous Author's assertion, having perused an old comic book starring the giant, dimwitted duck Baby Huey on the very day of Famous Author's proclamation. Though my brave social media statement regarding Baby Huey has been lost in the bog of dead and dying tweets, as they were formerly called, it gives me no small pleasure to know that as an illiterate Mississippian with drool rolling down my face, I was yet capable of gleaning more than Famous Author from the inestimable trove of JOSEPH AND HIS BROTHERS. In a final incident worthy of consideration, Mary Miller informed me with some excitement that Lee Durkee was reading and enjoying THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN. I was so thrilled to have someone with whom to talk about it! So I hopped on my phone like a happy teen and texted Lee at once, whereupon he issued, just as swiftly, a strongly worded denial. It turns out that Mary was confusing Lee with... me. I was the one who had told her about THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN. With this charming anecdote I lay the entire matter to rest, just like the Biblical patriach Jacob at the end of JOSEPH AND HIS BROTHERS. Spoiler alert!

Sweet Thoughts of Hawkman

Been reading in some of these old comic books about Hawkman and Hawkgirl, and one thing I notice is how much they like birds. These comics are slightly before my comic-reading time, I think... the Hawkman I remember wasn't as into birds, in my recollection. But Hawkman and Hawkgirl, in the older comics, they are really into chilling with birds, just hanging out with birds and shooting the breeze. Because they can talk bird language! Hawgirl says, "SUMMON OUR BIRD-FRIENDS TO SHARE OUR FUN, DEAR!" And Hawkman goes, "GOOD IDEA! WHEET WHEEEEET" - a couple of panels later he is talking about his "FEATHERED FRIENDS." They sure do love birds. It's nice. Like I say, by the time I knew about Hawkman, he was all business. He wasn't kicking back with some bird buddies anymore. It's sad. In the same story, Hawkman marvels over the very idea of sandwiches, and expresses his astonishment that the advanced minds of his home planet Thanagar never came up with something as awesome as sandwiches. Truly this is the best version of Hawkman. Lover of birds, appreciator of sandwiches! Also, Hawkman and Hawkgirl can't keep their hands off each other!

An Attractive Spine

Well, I certainly have gotten myself into some kind of fix with all these books around here, each one carefully calibrated to fit a different portion of my complicated life. For further details, feel free to "click" the appropriate "hyperlinks" in the "body" of this "post." You know about the old comic books I read in bed at night, and the book I took on my recent visit to my parents, which should be distinguished from the sort of book I take on an airplane (determined mainly by size), although I haven't been on an airplane in some time. But the possibility is always lurking, and I do have a number of books around here that would work on airplane, THE MANUSCRIPT FOUND IN SARAGOSSA being my current top contender. No doubt you will remember how I, with unknown metaphysical ramifications, took my book for doctors' waiting rooms on my most recent parental jaunt. That was a mistake, and I'm going to have to think about it seriously, as I have an appointment with the doctor tomorrow. And most of all, you are thinking of JOSEPH AND HIS BROTHERS, what I would probably call my "main book." There's some trouble with that! You see, I started our new book club book today, so room for the last bit of JOSEPH will have to be made in some other portion of my packed schedule. By the way, in a book club meeting conducted according to Robert's Rules of Order this morning, we voted to rename ourselves the Million Dollar Book Club. My cofounder, I believe, was still calling it the Doomed Book Club, long after I had stopped. Let me check the minutes of today's meeting in order to quote myself accurately: "I stopped thinking of it as 'Doomed Book Club' years ago, after those slackers peeled off one by one, like dirty rats escaping our beautiful sinking ship!" I don't believe I've ever told you that I keep yet another book by my favorite chair, just in case the TV goes on the blink. Right now it's TECHNICIANS OF THE SACRED. But none of this is what I wanted to discuss. So! One kind of book I haven't mentioned yet (in this "post") is my "blood pressure book." This is the one I read for five minutes at a time as I sit up straight and breathe normally before taking my blood pressure. The latest of those is the new (?) one by James Ellroy. I'm not sure it's new. But it was still in hardcover at Square Books, where I was captivated by its attractive, glaring spine. You might be asking how James Ellroy could possibly soothe anyone's blood pressure. I'll tell you. It's something about these rat-a-tat, rhythmic sentence fragments, like a hateful, violent metronome lulling me into a peaceful trance. Just yesterday, I think, there were three short sentences or fragments in a row about owls. Night owls, of course. "Night owl this. Night owl that. Night owl the other." I paraphrase delightfully.

Pelicans Are Not Owls

Undoubtedly you recall with a complex admixture of emotions the uncanny raccoon coincidence I personally shared with the narrator of a book I was reading in the waiting room of a doctor. Well, hold onto your hat(s)! We happened to be driving across the bridge to Dauphin Island the other day, a bridge I had not crossed in at least 45 years - though, when we reached a certain part of it, I recalled a recurring nightmare the bridge had given me in my youth... and that night, after we had crossed the bridge in the "present day," I had the terrible dream again! For the first time in many decades. But that is not what I meant to tell you. Don't trouble yourself about my tortured mind! What I meant to say is that as we crossed the bridge I took note of several pelicans, marveling at how weird they were, and remarking upon said weirdness to my beloved helpmeet, and then! Then, when we got where we were going, I opened up the book I had last cracked in the doctor's office and immediately came to this sentence: "Li looked at pelicans on the pier and remembered how weird they were, with their handbag-like beaks." Now I should name the book, because I have quoted a sentence. It's LEAVE SOCIETY by Tao Lin. I know what you are thinking. You are thinking two things. One of them is "Does Jack Pendarvis, chiefly known for his interest in the owls of literature, realize that pelicans are not owls?" Well, now I do! Thanks! The other question you have is whether or not I considered that taking my book clearly designated for medical emergencies, and deciding willy-nilly that it could serve double duty as the book I take along when I am visiting my parents, might bring down an avalanche of bad luck to crush my body and soul. Once again, now I have. Too late! In a possibly related matter, Dad told us that Dauphin Island was originally called Massacre Island by the French explorers who landed there, because they found a big pile of mysterious bones. My brother confirmed as much on his phone. He didn't trust our father, I guess! Dr. Theresa and I described a weird animal we had seen doing an eerie, serpentine lope across the road in Coden, Alabama, and Dad told us we had seen a mink. Following my brother's bad example, I looked up a mink on my phone and confirmed its minkiness. Later, at a separate gathering, after we had told our mink story afresh, my brother-in-law and I had a discussion about the plural of mink, and HE looked up the answer on HIS phone! What a weekend. I said I had never seen a mink before and Dr. Theresa boasted that she had seen plenty of mink (an acceptable plural) being cruelly mistreated in the film GORKY PARK. (Note that Dr. Theresa, with her tender heart, ceased her viewing at that juncture.) I said it didn't count, that I meant seeing mink in person. Everybody ran out of the room as we got in a big screaming match about it, ha ha, not really! I just wanted to make sure you were still riveted by the tale, because a very important part is coming up. A few days after the mink, Dr. Theresa and I saw a pig run across the road just about 2 miles away from my parents' house! Now, this was an adorable little brown farm pig, not a hairy, scary wild pig with giant-ass teeth for goring and chomping. Reading back over the "post," I changed "giant" to "giant-ass" for extra emphasis. To anyone I have offended with my cavalier use of dirty language, I apologize. A bittersweet coda indeed: I looked it up on the "internet" in the course of "researching" this "post," and am now debating whether or not to tell Dr. Theresa that the animal in GORKY PARK is a sable.

Tell Your Invisible Friends

I know you don't exist, but if you did, I would strongly encourage you to go out this evening to Square Books, where Ace Atkins will unveil his action-packed new thriller DON'T LET THE DEVIL RIDE. Happy publishing date, Ace, or "pub day" as in-the-know literary types probably call it with their smug eggheaded ways. And because you don't exist, dear "blog" reader, you can bring all your friends, who also, just from using logic, don't exist, because you won't have to worry about seating, as none of you exist! Now, I'm not saying that Ace Atkins fans don't exist. They exist by the carload! I can vouch from experience that Ace Atkins fans will cram Off Square Books (the annex where readings take place) full to bursting. Ace and I were trying to figure out, in fact, how many of his book events I have moderated for him over the years. We can't put it together, quite, but at least 8 or 9. One I particularly recall is from 2015, due to our in-depth discussion of Clyde the orangutan, which left the crowd enthralled and begging for more. And I've never missed an Ace Atkins book event in at least 13 years, though, sadly, I can't make it tonight. But that's okay, because the acclaimed and gifted novelist Michael Farris Smith will be putting Ace through his conversational paces, well, well, well, I guess Michael Farris Smith is Ace's new best friend. :(