The Book Review That Isn’t: Les Miserables vs. We, The Drowned

Two books face off in a smoky, dirt floored arena filled with the scent and sound of hundreds of sweaty, excited, mostly drunk people.

In one corner, we have Les Miserables, by Victor Hugo. An old veteran to this game, he was first published in 1862, was made famous by the stage musical from Claude-Michel Schönburg, Alain Boublil and Jean-Marc Natel, and called by Upton Sinclair “One of the half-dozen greatest novels of the world.”

In the other corner, we have We, The Drowned, by Carsten Jensen. A newcomer compared to Miserables, he was first published in 2006. I was really fascinated by his title and cover when he first appeared on the unlock screen of my Kindle. Then I saw him in a library I don’t normally visit and just had to introduce myself. Wary of strangers, I looked him up first and decided to proceed in our relationship. He’s become a great friend.

Can Drowned hold his own against the older, stronger Miserables? Can Miserables stand against his younger, more energetic competitor?

OH, THERE’S THE BELL. THE CROWD GOES WILD.

They rush together as only two great cage-fighting books can! Drowned appears to be holding up remarkably well in these early stages, despite having only two-thirds the number of pages! Amazing! Perhaps Miserables is losing some steam to modernity. But no! He throws those extra three hundred pages all over Drowned! How will this end?!

They both appear to be using similar methods in this fight. You know, I never thought about it, but they really use these styles all the time. And are very distinct when you see them apart. But together, man o man! Look at ’em go! To loosely quote the Joker, they are what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object!

Both can be somewhat depressed, though Miserables is more stately in his darkness. In both their lives, there are wars, and terrors untold; good and bad characters; failures, triumphs, and death. Terrible things have happened in these two champs.

WHOA, DID YOU SEE THAT?!?!?! Drowned is taunting Miserables about having a more interesting cover! Can you believe it! This is getting ugly!

I think Miserables might be tiring. He’s superfluous in his movements and muttering about argot and sewers. He just said something about Waterloo. Is he giving up? Did he just predict his own demise?

Perhaps they really are too similar to have a clear winner. It’s hard to call this one, Earl. This could go on forever! The betting windows have never been busier! I predict a few fights in the parking lot after this one.

But they are evenly matched! Both are large books, with similar titles (the Miserables, the Drowned), and in both terrible, horrible, unspeakable things happen to the characters, and yet, both are wonderful books whom I’m glad to know. I think the primary difference, Earl, is in their attitude. Drowned has the downcast outlook of someone who’s been through hell, and Miserables has seen some things. But he’s got hope. I’ve never seen him fight hopelessly or desperately. That might make all the difference. Hope will go a long, long way.

WHAT’S THIS!!!!?!?!!? What is happening? The crowd is on its feet! They’re screaming! What are they screaming at? What’s happening? What? No! What are they doing? Are they really shaking hands?

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a draw! I have never seen this in my long career as a cage-fight announcer! But this is odd! Miserables leaves the ring hopeful as always, head held high, dignity intact.  Drowned looks like someone just died, even though it looks like he was the one to initiate the draw. If I didn’t know his story I’d say he was afraid to lose. But that can’t be it, because, like Miserables, he’s seen everything! Perhaps it’s that hope, folks.

This has been Rhoda Marshall, reporting on the most exciting literary fight of my career. I’m proud to know these two books, and I hope you will make their acquaintance.

Potholes, Mud, and Mosquitoes

I love old country roads. It’s the weird, eclectic buildings, the deepness of the valley they’re always set in, and the general coziness of the whole atmosphere, like nothing will ever change or go wrong. No time will ever pass. My work happens to be on one of these magnificent old roads, and I thought I’d give y’all the pleasure of its sight that I get to enjoy every morning at   dawn-ish, and every night at sunset.

As you first approach said country road, there are two buildings, which make me think of the 1800’s but which were probably built only about 100 years ago-ish. Both are white cinderblock or brick or something. One is tall, and the other is short and squat, with a false front. They’re both sitting not-quite-square to the road, which makes a nice, picturesque entrance-way back in time.

The road itself is a potholed blacktop that’s faded to mouse gray. It sits down in a narrow valley between two steep ridges, and in the summer it’s so humid it feels like you can drink the air. But the weeds and stuff grow so thick down there it’s gorgeous and lush, although the mosquitoes put up quite a roar. In the evenings its worth it to climb the ridge just get up in the wind where they can’t handle it as well.  The road may be called a two lanes, but it’s really one and a half lanes. One has to time passing another car very carefully.

The first house on the right is an adorable old yellow thing with a bay window, and a rusty tin roof, and a little white bridge across the creek by the road. Its front yard is full of tall weeds and one bush, but they don’t really detract from the quaintness of the place. Across the street is a run down old mobile home, with a pole barn to the side, and a truck from the forties with weeds growing through the engine. Perfect waste of an antique.

On down, there’s a house that actually looks modern, with a Clydesdale in the front yard. Next on that side is a white shed and yet another antique pickup truck wasting away in the weeds on the side of the road. Down in a small basin below that, there’s an empty old white house with real wood siding and one wing of the place is ripping off like someone moved part of the house but left that part behind. Next to and kind of behind it, there’s another little white wood house that’s collapsed in the creek like an exhausted toddler that’s been out shopping with its mother too long.

Across from that there’s two or three large, old wood structures, like a big dog kennel, or a poultry house, and a sawmill. Next on that side is a funny little house built in the seventies or so, with a really old looking well-house behind it. It used to have a carport that one of the supports had fallen out from under and which was falling down. Now all the windows are busted out and the people I sometimes see seem to be taking it apart one nail at a time.

Then there’s the house where the Beautiful Idiot lives. The Beautiful Idiot is a gorgeous yellow ad black brindled mastiff or boxer type dog, with her head being darker than the rest. She’s a beauty. But she’s an idiot because she stands about as tall as the window of the little car I drive (mostly with the windows down), and she likes to lunge at me as I pass by and yell a huge “WOOF!” right at my level, which is extremely startling.

Farther along and across the street there’s a field with giant white cattle in it (I’m convinced they’re mythical creatures), accompanied by a hundred year old barn. The funny thing about this hundred year old barn is that hanging in the doorway is a single bunch of drying tobacco, which looks like it might also be a hundred years old.

Just above that on the same side is an adorable log cabin with a tin roof. It’s really legit, with mud chinking between the logs. It looks perfectly OK except for the boarded up windows. There’s a lot of crying shames and perfect wastes on little country roads.

That’s where I turn off. I’ve explored a little farther once, and the farther back you go into the labyrinth of old country roads, the farther back in time you get. There’s a lovely two story farmhouse, that would be worth a lot if only it wasn’t falling apart, and weird compound-type place that looks like the set of some movie about a cult. But that’s the fun of roads. I think this road is prettiest right at dawn. It happens to be east of me, so in the mornings the two white buildings at the entrance stand like door holders at a really nice hotel, and the sky is a nice fresh blue in the middle, framed by the fiercely alive peachy orange on the clouds. I’M ALIVE. NOTICE ME. If it has rained recently a terrific fog sets up, that makes navigating its little  twists almost impossible in the near darkness of five o clock. But I love it.

Here’s to the uniqueness and quaintness of country roads everywhere. I hope you enjoyed virtually exploring mine.

The Dangers of Book Jealousy

I have what I call Book Jealousy: that is, books that are extremely special to me (for example: the Book Thief, Peter Pan, The Silver Chair, and Les Miserables [which isn’t all of my favorite books, by the way]), I’m somewhat reticent about, and I think that’s conceited and selfish. But let me explain. This is a confession. Not a soapbox.

I usually tell myself that the reason I don’t really talk about books very near to my heart is that I can’t adequately explain my feelings for them. At least, not as well as they deserve. They’re just too complex, and my emotions and thoughts are too confused. I know only that I love them, and vaguely why this is so, but not well enough to make a defense, which I like to be able to do if I’m going to engage in a discussion. I just like to know exactly what I think and why.

But I realized recently that I’m jealous of my books. I don’t really want to share them. My conceited self thinks that no one will understand the book as deeply or as well as I. Now, while I don’t think this necessarily means I need to discuss up a storm about any book with anybody, I think I do need to stop thinking other people incapable of understanding and enjoying them. What I tell myself (about not being able to explain myself) may be true, but I shouldn’t begrudge people enjoying the same experience I did, even if they don’t understand it in the same way.

After all, why should they? They are not me, nor I them.

*This has been: Confessions of a Snobby Bibliophile*

Thanks for Reading

Why ‘Senioritis’ is a Non-Thing

I’m a somewhat snobby person. I flatter myself that I’m not, but that really just means I actually am, right? I also like to pretend that I know more than I actually do (and then look XYZ up when I get home, so I don’t have to flaunt my ignorance.). So if you have problems with snobby know-it-alls who actually don’t, just skip this post.

There is something fundamentally wrong with the term ‘senioritis.’  First, anyone with slight knowledge of Latin roots knows     –itis means ‘inflammation of…’. Therefor, ‘senioritis,’ means ‘inflammation of the senior,’ which makes no sense. It also implies that falling grades during the senior year are necessarily the senior’s fault, which isn’t always the case. It can, be, but not all the time.

I propose we start calling this phenomenon, ‘Degenerative Give a Rip Disorder.’  The senior often has a heavy course-load, and must carry on day-to-day schoolwork, while at the same time being forced to choose a college, major, practice the ACT, figure out where to come up with all the money required to go to school, and figure out what to do for the rest of our lives. And no one even cares about a lot of it after college.  Under consistent and considerable strain, our ability and desire to give a rip degenerates, and thus: a more accurate term.

Fury Review

I love movies, y’all. Like, a lot.  My friends also are movie people, and we all went to go see Fury (directed by David Ayer, 2014) a while ago, because none of us had seen it, and we wanted to watch something for the first time together. Aren’t we adorable?

I was the one who suggested Fury, and I was a little afraid of it just being a lot of senseless violence and f-bombing, with little real plot, but it did have some meat to it, if you were looking for it. Which, we were. Neither me or these particular friends really watch movies without hashing it over afterward to identify the worldview, and whether or not we agree with said worldview. What else could you expect from a blog called The Casual Philosopher?

It stars Brad Pitt, but also had several other familiar faces for me: Shia LeBoeuf, Logan Lerman, Michael Pena (sorry, I couldn’t get my ancient laptop to make the accented “n”), and Jon Bernthal. It’s about a tank crew on the western front in 1945, and the basic story line is the breaking-in of the new gunner (Lerman).

Cinematically speaking, it was superb. Special effects, acting, cinematography, I thought all were great. I lack the expertise to make a call on historical accuracy, but it matched up with what little I know.

Now for the fun stuff! So, I was kind of afraid I’d just invited my friends to blow $10 on watching a violent, ludicrously obscene film. But overall, there are things to be gleaned. Yes, it was violent. But it’s a war movie. What’d you expect? So, for a war movie, I thought the level of violence was very acceptable, and not excessive. Language was another thing entirely. I was expecting some language, but not an f-bomb every other line. I understand that it was an intense situation, and I would never criticize a veteran for spewing language, because I have no idea what the charming chap has been through. But for the purposes of movie-making, it was quite unnecessary. I’d have been ok with an F— here and there, but it was ALL OVER the movie. Seemed like every sentence had at least two. I’d like to read the script and count how many exactly. And even if you thought toning down the language would take away from the intensity of the film, there are other words than just  f—-.  It was really just obnoxious.

Despite that, it was still good. The movie’s main redeeming feature was how well it showed the duality of wartime choices.  For instance, breaking in the new guy. Lerman is a tender new recruit at the beginning of the movie. He’s a pretty decent human being, and in being so, he was going to get his fellow-crew-members killed real quick if he didn’t toughen up fast. But in the process of toughening up (and thus saving everyone’s life), he becomes less than he was before. It shows innocent child soldiers, and cunning, duplicitous child soldiers. It shows Germans hanging their own people who refused to fight, and bombing a German house to get at the Americans inside. But it also shows New Guy being forced to shoot an unarmed German officer who is begging for his life, in order to toughen him up. Then, at the end, a young German recruit, who is at the point New Guy was in the beginning of the movie, gives New Guy mercy, and…….that’s the end of the movie, so I won’t spoil it for you. I’ve not seen Saving Private Ryan, but one of the friends I went with has, and (this is strictly second hand, mind. I may not get it right) said there’s a parallel scene in Private Ryan, where the Americans want to shoot a begging German, and are told ‘no,’ by their commanding officer. So then we talked about how much society has changed between 1998 and 2014, and how movies and culture influence each other, but which influences the other more? Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

So, overall, it was a good movie. I just wouldn’t recommend it to anyone who can’t handle violence, a ludicrous amount of cussing, and witnessing very hard choices. However, if you can, knock yourself out.

The Glory Days

I woke up at 4:45 this morning because I couldn’t sleep. Is there ever any other reason for getting up other than: I am no longer sleeping? But I’m one of those who just gets up once they wake up, 4:45 or no. So, understandably, I was too tired to work on whatever I’d been trying to do. I had been reading To Hell on a Fast Horse, by Mark Lee Gardner, an excellent dual biography of Billy the Kid and Pat Garrett, and all of that was just spinning around in my head. I was thinking about how time fades glory, and because Billy died dramatically at the height of his notoriety, he became an American hero. Garrett, on the other hand, instantly became The-Man-Who-Shot-Billy-The-Kid, and then had to live the rest of his life trying to keep that climax. But climaxes never last for long.

You never stay on the mountaintops of life for long. After all, why would you? There’s too much wind up there. But anyway, Garrett drifts into debt and dishonor, becoming less famous than Billy. If he’d died like the Kid had, in one fell swoop, he might be as much of a household name as Billy still is. So all that was running around in my poor, sleep-deprived brain, and what did Brain do with it? It wrote a poem.

“The Glory Days”

by Rhoda Marshall

Do you ever think of glory days?

Or ponder bygone times?

How all fades to the dust of Memory,

Falls to the march of Time?

For Time goes ever ever on,

Like someone wrote in song.

But he has faded out as well,

His ‘good old days’ are gone.

They say you don’t know what you have till it’s gone.

Time goes on and on and on.

Things forgotten were great deeds done

And we don’t remember one.

Alexander the Great and Billy the Kid

Will we remember what they did?

When Time has pressed them hard–and won

Forcing them to dust. They are gone.

The Battles of Hastings and of the Bulge

And what about them?

Will we remember what they were for?

And what the dead men accomplished?

For the world is built on the backs of dead men

Whose glory days are gone.

For Time keeps marching onward,

And we don’t remember one.

Time asks: Do you ever think of glory days?

Or ponder bygone times?

Of the great things that are won and lost

In that evil march of Mine?

But fear not, friend, nor be discouraged

That all things pass away.

But revel in the life allowed you:

That each can be a glory day.

The Beginning: Where you should always start

Philosopher: (n.) A seeker of knowledge

I’m no Socrates. I’m not even Ralph Waldo Emerson (who I greatly admire).

But I am a seeker of knowledge. I consider myself on a Quest.  I have really been on a Quest for a while, but only formally declared it somewhat recently. I’ll be Questing till the day I die. Here I will vomit out my discoveries, from the mundane, to the arcane, to the inane, to the insane, to the brilliant. You didn’t think I could rhyme forever, did you?

The Quest is me. The Quest is my life. I’m on a Quest for Christ. I’m on a Quest for knowledge, or better yet, wisdom. I’m on a Quest to better define myself, my environment, my opinions, and my philosophy. I’m on a Quest for everything. Go big or go home, baby. I invite you to come along, if you’re game enough.

Tallyho!