Today we celebrate our 42nd wedding anniversary. On April 3, 1982, on a cold and blustery day in Vermilion, Ohio, we were married–and the rest is history.
42 is a pretty important number, as numbers go. Any baseball fan will tell you that it is the immortal Jackie Robinson’s number–which is why there is a movie named, simply, “42.” It’s a number that therefore has come to signify a step toward equality, fairness, and opportunity and a stand against bigotry, prejudice, and oppression.
Fans of the Douglas Adams novel The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy also attach great significance to the number 42. In that book, the supercomputer Deep Thought takes 7.5 million years to determine the answer to the “Great Question” of “Life, the Universe and Everyhing” and the answer is, simply, “42.” You can get a sense of the broad impact of Adams’ book by a simple test: if you ask many search engines “what is the answer to everything?” you’ll undoubtedly see references to “42.”
It’s nice to know that this anniversary marks such a significant number, because 42 has obviously been an important number for us. We will happily celebrate that number today.
Yesterday was Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s birthday. The child prodigy who astonished the crowned heads of Europe, who then went on to become one of the greatest composers in history, was born on January 27, 1756. Yesterday marked the 268th birthday of this genius, who wrote some of the most beautiful and moving music known to humanity. He is long since gone, but fortunately for us his piano and violin concertos, sonatas, operas, serenades, and symphonies live on.
I’m currently reading Mozart:A Life, a very interesting book written by Maynard Solomon that tells Mozart’s fascinating life story and tries to put his musical creations into their proper chronological, biographical, historical, and critical context. Solomon often illustrates his textual descriptions of the depth and reach of Mozart’s music by choosing examples from certain of Mozart’s pieces, such as the portions of the Sonata in A minor shown below. The reader is supposed to be able to read the music, hear the music in his head, and thereby grasp the author’s point.
Unfortunately for me, I’m missing out on this element of the book, because I can’t read music. I briefly took guitar lessons as a youth, because everyone took guitar lessons during the ’60s, but I never understood the written representation of the music. Put pages like the ones below in front of me, or hand me a church hymnal and ask me to sing one of the songs, and in my mind it’s like looking at ants on a page. For me, trying to read written music could be called the great mental sound barrier.
Some people resolve to learn a new language; I should try to finally learn to read music. It’s something to add to my growing list of life goals.
There’s a lot on the ballot in Ohio generally and in Columbus specifically this election, including some hotly contested ballot issues that have dominated the conversation and the airwaves. I want to put in a plug for an issue that has drawn much less attention and that I hope is not controversial, and encourage my fellow central Ohioans to vote for Issue 16, which will fund the Columbus Metropolitan Library system.
Libraries encourage readers, and I firmly believe that we could use a lot more readers in our world: people who relish the idea of turning off the TV and enjoying some quiet, thinking time when they can sink into a good book. In my experience, readers typically aren’t ranters. And a public library, with a collection that is available to all, sends an important message about what it means to be a mutually supporting community, where people share useful resources and, in doing so, demonstrate their shared values. When I was young and first started borrowing books from my neighborhood library, the idea that I could get cool books I wanted to read for free amazed me–and it really still does. It made me proud of my home town of Akron, Ohio, and the quality of the Columbus system makes me proud of Ohio’s capital city, where I have lived for many years.
I hope everyone will vote for Issue 16, and the Columbus Metropolitan Library system.
I’ve been reading the Cormoran Strike series of books written by J.K. Rowling under the pseudonym Robert Galbraith. I’m in the middle of the third book in the (so far, at least) seven-book series, and have very much enjoyed following the exploits of British detective Cormoran Strike and his plucky assistant, Robin Ellacott.
One of the fun parts of reading a series of books is developing a clear mental image of the characters, and that has been true for the Cormoran Strike series. Strike is described as a huge, hairy, overweight man with a nose mashed from boxing and a head covered by hair that is better suited to his nether regions; he also has a prosthetic lower leg to replace the limb he lost in an explosion while serving in the investigatory service of the British Army. The descriptions of him are vivid, and after two and a half books, I’ve got a fixed picture of him. Robin is a bit more elusive, because other than strawberry-blond hair and an attractive figure, her main features are her very appealing personality, her loyalty to her boss, and her emerging toughness, but I’ve got a developing conception of her appearance as well.
Because of that, I’m going to follow my standard rule and not watch any TV adaptation until I’m done with the books. In this case, the books have been made into a British series called Strike. I don’t know whether the series is good or bad, but in either case I don’t want to mess with those mental images. I also prefer to finish the books in the series before I watch the show, and not get ahead of the books. I’ve followed that rule pretty uniformly, too, with the only exception being the Game of Thrones series because it is not clear to me whether George R.R. Martin will ever finish and publish the final books.
Sometimes the casting of beloved literary characters fits with the mental image, sometimes it jarringly doesn’t, and sometimes it completely alters the mental image in a positive way. The best example of that latter scenario is the casting of Robert Duvall as Gus McCrae in Lonesome Dove. Duvall’s rawboned look is not how I envisioned Gus, but by the end of the first episode I was sold, and Duvall’s unforgettable portrayal is how I know see that terrific character. Perhaps that can happen again with Cormoran Strike, but for now I’d like to leave my mental image of the character unpolluted by someone else’s vision.
It’s blueberry season in Maine. There’s a pick your own farm about a mile from our A-frame rental where the berry-picking opportunities opened up yesterday. (Pay no attention to the sign, which is directed at non-paying passersby who might otherwise be tempted to try one of the fat, ripe berries.) The owner of the farm said that this year he’s got a bumper crop, with plenty of rain to make the berries plump and plentiful, and sunshine at just the right time to facilitate the growth process.
The setting, and the sign, reminded me of one of the books we read when I was young: Blueberries for Sal, by Robert McCloskey. The book tells the gentle story of a young girl named Sal and her mother going berry-picking on a blueberry-covered hill on a pretty summer day. Sal’s Mom industriously starts to fill her pail with blueberries that will be canned for the winter. Sal drops a few blueberries into her metal pail–where they make ku–plink, ku-plank, ku-plunk sounds–but then decides it would be a lot more fun to eat the succulent blueberries instead.
Unbeknownst to Sal and her Mom, a mother bear and her cub are similarly interested in blueberries and are eating them on the other side of the hill. The bear cub, like Sal, becomes focused on the delicious blueberries as his mother eats her fill at the bottom of the hill and goes wandering off. In their quest for blueberries Sal and the bear cub get mixed up and end up following the wrong mothers–which the mothers realize only when the bear cub tries to eat berries from Sal’s Mom’s pail, and the mother bear hears Sal’s ku-plink, ku-plank, ku-plunk sounds as she drops a few berries into her pail. Eventually the mothers get things straightened out, and the bears and Sal and her Mom head home.
The moral of the story, as I took it as a youngster: listen to your mother, blueberries are fun to eat, and don’t go wandering off because you never know who or what you might encounter. I’ll keep those lessons in mind the next time I go berry picking.
I’ve enjoyed a number of seafaring books over the years, including the Patrick O’Brian Aubrey/Maturin series and the C.S. Forester Horatio Hornblower books. Give me some salt spray, some nautical terms, and a sea battle or two in a historical setting, and I’m a satisfied reader. I’ve just finished the four books (so far) in the Bliven Putnam series, by James L. Haley. If you like sea yarns, the Putnam books also are well worth reading.
The Putnam books apparently were designed to create an American naval character similar to Hornblower and Aubrey, and in the meantime provide some interesting information about the early days of the U.S. Navy. The first book in the series finds young Bliven Putnam, a farmboy from Litchfield, Connecticut, as a midshipman and then a young officer, fighting the Barbary Coast pirates. The later books follow Putnam as he serves on the U.S.S. Constitution and other vessels in the War of 1812, is tasked with showing the American flag in the Pacific, including the Sandwich Islands (now known as Hawaii), and finally being seconded to the newly created Republic of Texas to help prevent the Mexican government from resupplying General Santa Anna from the sea.
The books feature a number of actual historical characters, in the U.S. government, in the U.S. Navy, and in U.S. culture, and they don’t shy away from addressing the challenging issues of those days, such as slavery, religious bigotry, the infection of native populations with STDs, and impressment and mistreatment of common sailors. It also follows Putnam as he progresses in his naval career, in his life, and in his understanding of those issues, and gives interesting, historically based glimpses of the United States during its days as a very young republic, seeking to make a mark on the world stage.
I’ll be keeping an eye out for future additions to the Bliven Putnam series, and for a new set of sea yarns to enjoy.
Yesterday the Columbus Metropolitan Library officially marked its 150th anniversary. Today we celebrated the sesquicentennial in classic library fashion–by walking down to the Main Library, doing some browsing, and borrowing a few books from the collection. There was a special program there, and the library was hopping with visitors, as well as being decked out with a nerdy book cake, shown below, and other decorations for the CML’s big birthday.
Public libraries are one of the most important elements of a free society, in my view, and the Columbus library system has been a crucial part of the central Ohio community for its entire 150-year history. We know this first-hand because we are frequent users of the library, its services, and its book reservation system. You can read about the Columbus Metropolitan Library and its history, from its humble beginning on March 4, 1873 as a single reading room in the old city hall, at the library website here.
Happy birthday, CML, and thank you for being such a key part of our city!
One of the world’s oldest books is being put up for auction. Called the Sassoon Codex after one of its prior owners, the book is one of the earliest and most complete copies of the Hebrew Bible–including the Pentateuch, the Prophets, and the Writings. The book, pictured above, is thought to be about 1,100 years old. And, because it dates to a time centuries before the development of the printing press, the book was painstakingly handwritten by a careful scrivener, line by line.
Books contain history, but they also can become history. The Sassoon Codex includes some notations that reflect its personal history, including its sale in the 11th century, its dedication to a synagogue in a community in northeast Syria, and its entrustment to a member of the community when that community was attacked by invading troops long before Columbus sailed the Atlantic. And reading the book now (assuming you speak Hebrew) or simply turning the pages to admire the craftsmanship of the drafter would provide that sense you get whenever you touch an old object, or walk in an ancient place, of feeling physically connected to those who have been there long ago.
The sale of the Sassoon Codex made me wonder about where it ranks on the list of the oldest known books, as opposed to scrolls or tablets. One article listing 10 of the oldest known books (a list that does not include the Sassoon Codex, by the way) identifies the oldest known book as the Etruscan Gold Book, a six-page book made entirely of 24-carat gold that dates back to 660 B.C.–or more than 2,600 years ago. By way of comparison, the Gutenberg Bible, the world’s first book produced by a printing press, was produced in the 1450s, more than 2,000 years later.
Books that literate people can carry, treasure, and enjoy have been around for a long time.
I’m reading an interesting biography of Noah Webster called The Forgotten Founding Father, by Joshua Kendall. Webster was an educator who developed a classic book on spelling that American schools used for generations, a lawyer, and a relentless champion of the need to establish a unique American identity and culture. His passion caused him to tackle the monumental project of creating an American dictionary–the American Dictionary Of The English Language, which was first published in 1828. Webster’s dictionary is one of the principal reasons why Americans and British have been called people separated by a common language; he thought English spelling rules were unnecessarily complex and was responsible, among other things, for eliminating the u in the American version of humour/humor and colour/color.
“In total it took twenty-eight years to complete. To evaluate the etymology of words, Webster learned twenty-six languages, including Old English (Anglo-Saxon), Greek, Hebrew and Latin. Webster completed his dictionary during his year abroad in 1825 in Paris, France, and at the University of Cambridge. His book contained seventy thousand words, of which twelve thousand had never appeared in a published dictionary before.”
We don’t know for sure whether Noah Webster had a diagnosable case of OCD, because the condition wasn’t generally recognized until well after this death. Webster therefore is one of those figures where historians look for clues to determine whether OCD was likely. A British history of OCD suggests that other notable people who may have had the condition include Charles Darwin, Dr. Samuel Johnson, and Martin Luther; some believe that Albert Einstein, Marie Curie, and Sir Isaac Newton also had forms of OCD. The list of potential sufferers from the condition makes you wonder how many literary, scientific, and cultural advances occurred because an individual became fixated on a particular project or idea and engaged in a single-minded pursuit of it, to the exclusion of normal human interaction and behavior.
Interestingly, one word that was historically used to describe some of the symptoms of what we now call OCD was “scrupulosity”–and it was one of the 70,000 words Noah Webster defined in his dictionary. The 1828 edition of his dictionary defined it as follows:
“1. The quality or state of being scrupulous; doubt; doubtfulness respecting some difficult point, or proceeding from the difficulty or delicacy of determining how to act; hence, the caution or tenderness arising from the fear of doing wrong or offending.
The first sacrilege is looked upon with some horror; but when they have once made the breach, their scrupulosity soon retires.
2. Nicety of doubt; or nice regard to exactness and propriety.
So careful, even to scrupulosity were they to keep their sabbath.
3. Niceness; preciseness.”
I wonder if Noah Webster had a flash of self-awareness when he wrote that definition?
The Austin airport is pretty darned cool, with some little touches that bored travelers who are walking around while waiting for their flights will appreciate–like this mock “Interimaginary Departures” board found at Gate 14. It changes just like your standard departures board, only the destinations are fictional locations from literature, film, TV, comic books, video games, and other elements of popular culture. The airlines are fictional too, of course, but very cleverly named. And all flights leave from Gate Infinity.
For example, you could catch a flight to Gotham City on DystopiAir, or head to Hogwarts on Spellbound Airlines, or visit the Hundred-Acre Wood on Wistful. I’d avoid the flight to Isla Nublar on GossAmerica, myself. On the other hand, I admit to being tempted by the chance to experience the most wretched hive of scum and villainy in the known universe, so I would probably grab a seat on the 11:07 to Tattoine in order to check out the Mos Eisley spaceport.
I’ve included photos of two of the many boards with this post. Somebody obviously had a lot of fun with this great idea.
The destinations on the “Interimaginary Departures” board are a kind of litmus test of your awareness of different elements of popular culture, and I am sad to say that I am not aware of many of them. How many of the references do you recognize? And, like me, if you see a destination you haven’t experienced through books or movies or comics, are you motivated to check them out?
Dr.. Martin Luther King is known to us as a teacher whose relentless advocacy and aspirational vision of a better, fairer America helped to power the Civil Rights movement in the 1950s and 1960s. What many do not know is that he was a teacher in fact–for one class. In 1962, Dr. King returned to his alma mater, Morehouse College, and taught a class called Seminar in Social Philosophy. The records of that class, and the recollections of the students who were fortunate to take it, provide a glimpse at another facet of this iconic historical figure and the ideas that motivated him and his work.
You can see Dr. King’s handwritten syllabus of readings for the course, and an exam that was given in the course, here. From looking at the reading list, it’s obvious that this was one of those college courses that would challenge a student to the limit: the readings encompassed a broad range of philosophical writings, from Plato and Aristotle to Thomas Aquinas, from Hobbes and Locke to Kant, from Rousseau and Hegel to John Stuart Mill–with a little Machiavelli thrown in for good measure. In the exam, students had to answer five of seven questions that required them to actually think about how the philosophical constructs they learned could be compared and applied. One of the seven questions, for example, asked students to “Appraise the Student Movement in its practice of law-breaking in light of Aquinas’ Doctrine of Law.”
Ten years ago CNN published a story about the eight men and women who took this class with Dr. King–one of whom was Julian Bond. You can read about them, and their interesting recollections about the course that met once weekly for that semester in 1962, here. Not surprisingly, the students were influenced and motivated by that class, One student, Barbara Adams, shared this recollection:
“It was a hard class in the sense that there was a lot of reading and understanding great thinkers. It was relaxed in that it was more like a conversation rather than a lecture. It was hard in that we had to come to grips with nonviolence as more than just a political tactic. He wanted us to understand it was a way of living and bringing about change.”
She added this point about how the students viewed Dr. King at that time:
“We didn’t really know we were in the midst of a man who in the future would be considered great. We knew he was a man with a vision, sure, but he seemed so ordinary and so down to earth and he was so easy to talk to, even more than some of my other professors. I mean we respected and admired him, but we never dreamed that he would become a Nobel Prize winner or that he would become a martyr. He was not a puffed-up man.”
Imagine having the opportunity to discuss philosophy with Dr. Martin Luther King and a few other highly motivated students who had done the heavy reading, had thought about the tough issues, and were passionate about the subject and its relevance to an ongoing social movement that would change America forever. Imagine being spurred to learn and think about how the developing philosophy of the Civil Rights movement fit into the grand sweep of different philosophies that had been articulated in the past. This must have been a college course for the ages.
The story of the Morehouse College Seminar in Social Philosophy also shows that Dr. King didn’t shy away from challenging others, whether it was in the pulpit, in the classroom, or on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. And it also shows why college students shouldn’t always try to take the easy route. Sometimes, the toughest classes have the greatest reward. It’s something worth thinking about as we commemorate Martin Luther King Day.
What historians now view as the “Bronze Age” was a period of about two thousands years of civilization and human cultural and social development among a number of long-established kingdoms in the Middle East. With Egypt as the wealthy and ancient anchor, kingdoms with names that are familiar to those who have read the Old Testament of the Bible or Homeric poems–the Hittites, the Assyrians, the Babylonians, the Trojans, the Philistines, the Canaanites, and a host of other “ites”–were thriving societies. Writing had been developed and was the accepted way to record events and send messages, cuneiform script was the lingua franca of the day, artisans plied their trades, commerce among different cultures spread different goods from different places across across the Fertile Crescent, and tin–along with copper, a key ingredient in smelting the bronze that was the principal metal used in making swords, chariots, and other key items–was a highly valued substance.
But at some point between 1200 B.C. and 1150 B.C., most of these ancient kingdoms that had existed for hundreds if not thousands of years suddenly crumbled, never to rise again. What happened?
I recently finished 1177 B.C.: The Year Civilization Collapsed, by Eric H. Cline, an interesting volume that tries to answer that question. And the ultimate answer is: we just don’t know for sure. Archaeological finds and digs give us lots of information about some of the Bronze Age civilizations. Clay tablets with cuneiform script tell us that kings of different kingdoms communicated with each other, provide information about commerce and issues like famines, and present the victors’ views of conflicts and invasions. The discovery of sunken Bronze Age ships in the Mediterranean Sea shows that trade was occurring between different kingdoms, and diggings that have uncovered objects that must have been imported from faraway places show us how extensive that interaction must have been. Telltale signs, such as tilted walls that indicate earthquakes, or layers of ash that show that a city has been burned to the ground, also provide clues. But the reality is that no one knows for sure.
Cline’s ultimate conclusion is that prior scholarship that blames “the Sea Peoples” for the widespread series of collapses is too simplistic. The “Sea Peoples” were a group identified by hieroglyphics on Egyptian artifacts that boasted of Pharaoh Ramses III’s victory over them, after the “Sea Peoples” had purportedly toppled other ancient kingdoms. The “Sea Peoples” are part of the mystery surrounding the collapses; no one knows who the “Sea Peoples” were, or precisely where they came from. They clearly played a role in the fall of civilizations, but Cline’s conclusion is that they were likely one of a series of cascading factors–that also included earthquakes, changing climate conditions that produced drought and famine, weak kings leading weakening kingdoms, and internal rebellions–that simply produced too much pressure for the ancient civilizations to bear. So they collapsed, and the Hittites, and the Assyrians, and other kingdoms fell into the historical dustbin forever.
What’s interesting about a book like this one is that much of it is speculation. Archaeologists are like historical detectives, finding clues and trying to piece together a coherent narrative, but with only fragments to draw upon, absolute certainty is impossible, and educated guesswork necessarily has to fill in the gaps. We’ll likely never know for sure what happened to bring the Bronze Age to an abrupt and deadly close, unless and until time travel is invented–but it’s fascinating to speculate about it.
For many bookish kids, myself included, libraries were a fabulous place of discovery during our childhoods. I loved going to the local library and browsing among the bookshelves, looking for a Homer Price book or an Encyclopedia Brown book or a Hardy Boys book that I hadn’t read yet–being careful always to be quiet as a church mouse to avoid being shushed by the librarian. For me, and I think many others, public libraries were a gateway to a lifetime of reading and all of the pleasure and intellectual growth it has brought.
That’s why it is so sad to read about the problem at the main library in Boulder, Colorado. The library had to close before Christmas because there was a spike in people using the library bathrooms to smoke methamphetamine, exposing staff members to meth residue and fumes. Then, when the city conducted tests of the air ducts and ventilation system at the library, it found unacceptably high levels of methamphetamine, leading the city to keep the library closed to conduct further tests of surfaces in the library. You can read the City of Boulder press release about the unfortunate situation here. According to a more recent report from a Colorado TV station, testing showed some contamination in certain seating areas, causing library officials to remove the furniture in those areas and further delaying the reopening of the library.
Anyone who has been in a library branch in an urban area recently has probably noticed that those library branches attract homeless people who are looking for a place to stay warm, particularly during the winter months. Library restrooms often end up being used by those patrons as personal hygiene centers. Some libraries are also dealing with issues of homeless people camping out on library grounds. The homeless issue is a tough one, and no one thinks people should freeze during periods of frigid temperatures. But surely everyone can agree that libraries shouldn’t have to put up with people smoking meth in their restrooms. Libraries aren’t de facto public shelters or drug treatment facilities, and librarians shouldn’t be put in the position of policing library grounds and bathrooms to identify drug use or roust out other people who are engaging in illicit activities.
Ultimately, the issue boils down to whether libraries will be permitted to serve their intended function–as places of learning and wonder that allow members of the community to enjoy reading different books for free–without having to shoulder additional responsibilities as a result of other societal issues. Meth use in library bathrooms interferes with that intended function, and will have regrettable consequences. How many parents in Boulder are going to allow their kids to go to the main library now, to browse through the shelves and find a book that looks interesting? That’s very sad.
The world of literature is filled with redemption tales. From ancient mythology to the stories of the Bible, from medieval narratives to modern novels, the basic contours of a redemption story plot have proven to be irresistible: the hero does something terrible, is tormented by his misdeed and seeks atonement, and must face some incredible challenge in order to redeem himself and wipe the slate clean. Sometimes the hero successfully meets the challenge, and sometimes he doesn’t.
In Greek mythology, perhaps the most famous redemption tale is that of Heracles (Hercules, in its Romanized form). Hera, the queen of the gods, hated Heracles because he was the son of her husband Zeus, kind of the gods, and Alcmene, a mortal princess who Zeus had tricked and seduced. Heracles’ presence therefore was a constant reminder to Hera of Zeus’ extraordinary and never-ending infidelity and philandering. To punish Heracles, Hera caused him to go mad–and in the throes of madness Heracles killed his wife and children.
When the madness lifted and Heracles realized with horror what he had done, he sought guidance from the famous oracle at Delphi, which advised that he must go into the service of King Eurystheus in order to atone for the murders. The King then required Heracles to complete a dozen seemingly impossible tasks requiring immense physical strength, stamina, extraordinary fortitude, and intelligence and guile, besides. The tasks included slaying the nine-headed Hydra, cleaning the colossal (and filthy) Augean cattle stables in a single day, and bringing the three-headed dog Cerberus, the guardian of the gates of hell, up from the underworld. Heracles completed all of the labors and was thereby redeemed.
Tonight we will see how another redemption story plays out. The Ohio State Buckeyes seek redemption in the College Football Playoff semifinal game after a disastrous second-half performance against Michigan a month ago. To start on the road to redemption, the Buckeyes don’t need to slay the Hydra, but they instead must defeat the mighty and top-ranked Georgia Bulldogs, a three-headed powerhouse on defense, offense, and special teams. Rather than 12 labors, the Buckeyes will need to play a complete game of four quarters of tough, disciplined, hardnosed football, block and tackle, avoid penalties, execute under great pressure, go toe-to-toe with a great and talented team, and perhaps bring some guile and misdirection into play as well.
It’s a plotline as old as time, and we’ll be rooting that the Buckeyes–like Heracles–meet the challenges before them so that redemption lies ahead. Go Bucks!
Lately I’ve been on a break from The Shakespeare Project. I am resolved to get back to it, after the first of the year, but after reading a series of the histories I needed to go in a different direction for a while. After much deliberation, I decided to try the Horatio Hornblower series, by C.S. Forester.
My decision to try the Hornblower series was motivated by two factors. First, I wanted to read a multi-book series, so that if I liked the characters and the setting I would have a good, long sojourn with them. And second, I very much liked the Patrick O’Brian Aubrey-Maturin Master and Commander series of seafaring novels, and the Hornblower series is often identified as a similar kind of read. I figured if I like one series of books set in the British Navy in the last 1700s and early 1800s, I’d probably like another.
It turns out that I was right: the Hornblower series is very good. It’s not as prolonged as the O’Brian series, which included 20 finished novels and one unfinished one, but the ten finished and one unfinished book in the Hornblower series allow you to really get to know the characters. I’m now on book eight the series, Flying Colours, and Hornblower is like a familiar friend. The prose is great, the plotting is very interesting, and the character development of Hornblower–outwardly heroic, decisive in a crisis, and deeply sensitive to proper behavior, but inwardly plagued with self-doubt and self-deprecation–is fascinating. I’ve ended up admiring Hornblower’s accomplishments, but also shaken my head at his flaws and his blind spots. I wonder if he would have been much fun to be around. And Ftying Colours is a good example of Forester’s willingness to deviate from the sea yarn norms in his plotting–the book focuses on Hornblower’s adventures after being captured by the French, as he faces the prospect of a firing squad on the orders of Napoleon.
C.S. Forester (that’s a pen name; his real name was Cecil Louis Troughton Smith) must have been an interesting person, too. Forester was a prolific author who also wrote The African Queen, among many other books, but he is best known for the Hornblower series. Curiously, he wrote the series out of order, with later books filling in the gaps in Hornblower’s Royal Navy career left by the earlier books. I can only imagine the plotting and continuity challenges posed by his decision to take that approach, but I haven’t noticed any glitches. Being able to carry that off indicates that he was meticulous plotter.
According to some, among the British people Horatio Hornblower is a favorite character, second in popularity only to Sherlock Holmes. That’s saying something. It’s also interesting, though, that both characters are odd in their habits, single-minded, and probably challenging to live with on a daily basis. The Brits must like characters who are intractable.
Webner House 