A Grief Observed (CS Lewis)

My mind works less like a plane circling a city in pattern waiting to land, and more like a compact car trapped in a round-about trying to exit. "Hey kids, Big Ben." Right when I think I'm getting somewhere someone blows a horn, speeds past, and I am forced back into another turn around the circle. Some people might say I'm slow to learn. I say I'm just having trouble merging into to traffic. Nonetheless, because of it I sometimes find myself chasing a thought to a maddening end. A friend once called it the "paralysis of analysis." I think that is why I so appreciated this book by CS Lewis.

A Grief Observed is really not a book. It's a collection of writings from Lewis' journal penned about a month after his wife died. It is extremely raw and deals with his journey though the process of mourning. But he comes to conclusions near the end that are less like answers and more like resignations. Not the desperate sort of resigning oneself to facts that cannot be changed, but the kind of freeing resignation like quitting a job of 30 years, I imagine, would be. It's bittersweet, but no less bitter, no less sweet.

I honestly did not expect to connect well with this volume. I ended reading the whole darn thing in one evening. Lewis' musings do not just deal with his greif alone, but serve as a vehicle into the human mind and soul and our issues with attachment and loss. I personally loved the book because here, we see one our great apologists of Christianity honestly doubting the faith and the goodness of God. He yells at Him. He cries. He blames Him. He adresses His distance. He is honest with Him.

This text is a good therapy session for anyone and, as is natural to Lewis intellect and ability, the author has brought the psycology down from the mountain to us all. I've always thought a true stroke of genius was measured by how well a person could make me understand some rather complex thing. Lewis always had that gift.

Inferno (Dante Alighieri)

Wow! This is an amazing, extremely imgainative poem.

I wondered as I read whether this could be considered the predecessor of today's tales of person's descending to Hell and writing their stories to make a few bucks. I suppose the difference there is the tremendous literary value and the historical look into the religious mindset of Dante's time.

This text was written over 700 years ago, I must commend Mark Musa for rendering a translation very accesible to modern readers while still possessing the spirit of the piece.

The book is a little scary at times, but then it can tend to be somewhat boring as he trudges through each layer of Hell. The characters Dante meets throughout also demonstrate the writer's command of history up to his time. Sorry Homer, Plato, Socrates, Achilles, Cassius. It makes you think. Word of warning...do not build your understanding of Hell as portrayed in the Inferno. It is important to remember that it is an imaginative work. Dont miss this one.

Beowulf (Dave Campbell ?)

Seeing as how this is hailed as one of the greatest achievements of the English language, I purposed to read it. I confess I did not read the poem, rather a prose rendering. I expected this would enhance comprehension, and I was miserably correct.

There is no clue as to the original author of this work, so I took upon myself to claim authorship. Thank you. Thank you. Dont look for the book tour however, because I now regret that I have imposed such loathsome reading upon this planet. Here's the rundown...

Monster terrorizes Danish people.
Man from next province over (Boewulf) comes with many words and kills monster.
Much backslapping and lofty speech as to how great everything is.
Man kills monster's mother.
More backslapping and lofty speech.
Man leaves to his own country and reigns nobly for fifty years.
Man killed by dragon.
Whole world of middle-school students forced to read text.

No wonder kids dont like to read. Hark! Perhaps if we handeth unto thine children texts to engageth their realities they mayest grow more fond toward said practice.

I did not finish the book. Read about half. Thank goodness it only cost me $1.50.

The Suicide Club (Robert Louis Stevenson)

The name was enough for me. I think it sparked memories of an amazing movie called Suicide Kings. At any rate the back cover of this one proved to be incredible. A secret society comprised of men in London who want to kill themselves, but lack the courage to do so. The President of this club is a mainstay. He charges a fee for entrance. He shuffles. He deals. If you get the ace of clubs you kill whoever gets the ace of spades. Sounds great right. Well the concept is.

The problem here was that a noble minded Prince Florizel along with his manservant, Colonel Geraldine, take it upon themselves to disband the society. After dressing in disguise and making a habit of visiting the dregs of London, the Suicide Club finds the bottom of their capacity to endure what they've discovered.

Written as a series of three short stories, this whole work reeks of poorly written Sherlock Holmes. Forgettable characters, forgettable crimes, forgettable resolution. I simply expected more from the man who gave us Treasure Island. But you know what? Perhaps I'm the problem. Maybe there's something wrong with me because all I desired was to see the organization live and watch desparate characters sweat out their opportunites for death. Sicko.

Frankenstein (Mary Shelley)

A $4 purchase at a used book store when I was looking for something, anything to peak my interest. Sometimes the interregnum betweeen books is like a wandering, searching of the soul. A desparate desire for the imagination to connect with the printed word. Being a classic, and being that I had never read it, I acquised to it's draw. It took me three days to finish.

I must honestly say I was surprised. I had heard the story that Mary Shelley, her husband, and Lord Byron all challenged one another one dreary evening to compose the scariest ghost story they could. Out of this contest was born Frankenstein, but not the one I had expected. The Adam's Family had effectively indoctrinated me to accept the pictures of the mad scientist in his lab trying to electrically charge the electrodes in the side of his square-headed monster's neck. Shelley's book is much more organic.

It grapples with the psychology more than the monster. She paints a picture of madness to be sure, but not the Hollywood type that shocks one's hair to stand sraight up. Her's is the kind that emaciates the health on an individual. Her Victor, which in reality is the only Victor Frankenstein, is a man the reader has a hard time embracing in spite of his horrible misfortunes. The reason...he is to blame for them all. A greater sympathy is felt toward his monster, unamed and shunned by it's creator and every other human. However, the atrocious acts committed by this creature leaves little room for pity. In short it is a tale that engages the reader while at the same time gving her nothing to hold onto. While the depravity of their natures are accesible, it is difficult to relate to the main characters in the depravity of their experiences. This story is more of a tragedy than a horror. In fairness, to the minds of 19th century readers as yet unpolluted and desensitzed by the screen, it was surely a masterpiece of psychological disturbance. It will even leave 21st century robots with plenty to think about.

One thought provoking scene is "the prayer." The creautre relates his existence to his maker, Frankenstein, at the end of which he requests a bride. Though repulsed by his invention, the doctor consents but later renegs setting the stage for the final act. Here Shelley dives to the depths of the human desire for accpetance and paints an existence where one's Creator is hostile toward him without regard to his appeals for love.

The book is written as a narrative and is extremely descriptive. All in all a great read, though not one I expect to return to in my lifetime. If you enjoy chasing the roots of cultural phenomena, this Bud's for you. If you want to keep believing in your halloween costume, stay far, far away.