Category / Bunberry

by Sixer

Strawberry Fields and Military Sci-Fi

Aldis had freeze dried strawberries in the nut section last time I went in.

I have been curious about freeze-dried fruits, and, more specifically, how they would do in granola for about as long as I’ve been into making granola so naturally I bought a bag, combining a crushed handful of fragrant redness with (shelled) pumpkin seeds, almonds, candied ginger, vanilla extract, and honey syrup.

Conclusion: It does right well in granola, though more because the powder clung to the ginger than becasue the chunks are noticeable. Next time I will add less sugar, but for now the strawberries are pleasantly tart and smell heavenly; when topped with chunks of fresh peaches it is divine.


I’ve since used the strawberries, powdered, as a base for salad dressing and as an addition to candied walnuts. I have a little bit left in the bag . . . . maybe something traditional like scones? I haven’t really had time to think about it: for the last 2.5 day I’ve been slogging through the muggy jungles of Marduk in a 1,000 page crawl of the Empire of Man’s opening half. I’m recuperating while my hold requests for the last two books are fulfilled. I do have three other books on my table, all also courtesy of the library (one on loan from a completely different county, using the Marina system. Magic) but, in all honesty, I don’t think I could read another line right now. Not with enjoyment, anyway.

Part of that is becasue all the books I’m reading are just similar enough to start running together. I’ve been kind of on a military sci-fi kick lately – it’s my new whodunit, I guess. For years I loved reading Agatha Christie and Arthur Doyle during the summer but, now that I’ve read a fair number of those stories and sampled a few others in the genre, I’m rather mystery-ed out. Even with my love of formula, between the literally cookie cutter nature of some mystery books, and the inevitable ruins they makes of the characters’ lives, I’m a bit numb to them. I can get my seasonal dose of scandal from police dramas, thank you.Military sci-fi fits in perfectly to the void thus created. The situations are equally convenient, the characters unimportant, and the plot merely a carriage for death, cunningly achieved. At times authors of either genre will wander into arm chair philosophy; the whodunit focusing on the psychological origins of human evil and the military covering honor and death and what the struggle to live means when that struggle includes being willing to lay down your life for an outside cause.

Not that the characters in military fiction are merely bits of wood for the bullets to hit. However, they do sometimes seem so in comparison to longer epics that don’t make battles their primary focus but instead are full of random character dialogue. The Belgariad comes to mind as the best example of this – the characters are the reason you read the book and, when you are done reading it, you feel you know them inside and out. The Belgariad is such a part of me that it’s difficult to not hold other long, drawn out sagas to the same standard of camaraderie, even when they are obviously in a completely different category. And military fiction is a completely different category than Fantasy or Sci-Fi. Instructional rather than inspirational, Military Fiction is for the quartermaster in all of us. It’s about logistics and order in the midst of lack and chaos. That is what I love about it the most: the orderly, detailed unfolding of battle.

But that is also why it occasionally comes across as, well, flat as a cartographer’s masterpiece. Take the Lost Fleet series, of which I’ve waded through three out of six books. The battles are delicately orchestrated to be daring and dangerous while at the same time letting the characters survive without outright cheating death. They are filled with exhaustively persistent reminders that something ten light-minutes away will take thirty minutes to reach you if you’re going at point one light speed.{{1}} [[1]]Or whatever the actual figures are. I’ll admit, my love for a logical world was not strong enough to figure out how soon two ships would come together if they were five light minutes apart and one was moving at 1.4LS and the other at .9LS. The answer was, invariably, “not as quickly as it takes to tell it.”[[1]] If, by the end of the first book, you are not mentally begging for a good ol’ warp drive you have not been reading it closely enough. The human drama element is there – but it is there becasue that is a part and parcel of war and you couldn’t really have one without the other. As such the characters are sometimes conscripted to speak or act in ways inconsistent to their personality{{2}} [[2]]Assuming they were lucky enough to merit a personality in the first place[[2]] but necessary for the moment, effectively killing off any chance of the audience relating to them. This is good, becasue there are only three categories for named characters in war: the doomed, the enemy, and the hero. All in all, it is a wonderful argument for the chain of command and the military mindset and will make you ponder deeply the complexities of waging war in a vast 3D plain. It will get you thinking, but it’s not going to leave tears streaming down your face.

Of course there are military books that have relatable characters as well – L. E. Modestt’s scholar portfolio in the imager universe comes immediately to mind. But even here it is not all the characters. It couldn’t be – too many people die to keep track or care about all of them. And, let’s be brutally honest, no matter how much people are willing to follow a military leader there is something so tragic about them that it is almost impossible for them not to be somewhat isolated in the midst of their troops. They may know the name and backstory of every soldier, but at the end of the day the knowledge that they are sending these men to their deaths will wall their hearts round with guilt. Truly, MF can be almost as emo as a vampire love story. Which, of course, is just another reason to love it, becasue military fiction reminds us, again, that sometimes the hardest of us are also the softest, that it’s rare to have hate without love, and that numbness can only exist where feeling is possible.

I think it’s the juxtaposition of these two concepts – the obsessive attention to niggling detail and the yearning to serve and protect what you hold dear – that really makes military sci-fi. As a culture, we tend to divide things to their basest elements, putting the brain here and the heart there, but this one genre welds them together with spit, wire, and pure grit. This is the-needs-of-the-many level philosophy, where you must constantly weigh the worth of lives today against the uncertainty of victory tomorrow. In a strange way, it is a place in fiction where the hero will always survive but will never truly win, because every time a life is lost he fails. In a world that continually invites you to fall, how can we not relate to the relentlessly battered warrior, who sees his actions time and time again take the life of friend and innocent alike? Perhaps it is as much for the hope they lend – the encouragement to press on despite our despair –  and not just for the ingenuity of war that we continue to write and read them.

obligatory ending photo

Incongruous Tart

by Sixer

The New Old Thing

After I finished reading about apocalypse-by-bee, I picked up Level 7, by Mordecai Roshwald. I can not seem to help reading in themes – Herzog’s book wasn’t even the start. When I read these books I was knee deep in a study of Revelations.

Level 7 is a thin, black, hard back published in 1959. My great-grandmother, from whom my grandfather received a large number of his collection, has written a lengthy epistle all over the fronts piece and title page. Her letter made a touching preface, helping me sink back in time to a place where the threat of utter annihilation by bomb was very, very real.

Even with that as a warning, I was still unsure of what the book was for the first few pages. Was this a real life account? Did this actually happen? Only when the main character was sealed up in a sterilized town thousands of miles below the surface of the Earth did I finally feel confident in proclaiming it pure, if informed, fiction.

The sum of the story is simple enough. The main character is a button pusher for the military, trained to launch missiles at The Enemy if the worst should come and they found themselves under attack. He and about 200 other people are more or less tricked into populating an underground safe house where they are told they must pass out their days. The first half of the book is a methodical journal of the daily life of these people. It’s fascinating, but in a morbid kind of way. The 50s were not kind to interpersonal relations, and none of the 200 people feel real. The women are as bad as the men, except they talk more and so expose themselves more openly. No, I take that back. The main character talks the most, and I found myself torn between sympathy, frustration, and amusement over his plight, naivety, and assumptions.

The second half of the book is an equally methodical detailing of the world going to pieces at rocket speed. In case you haven’t already gathered, this is not a cheery, feel good book. Everyone dies: some just die slower than others. And of course the real tragedy is that it’s all for nothing. Well, naturally: if everyone dies this must be so. But even beyond that, the first missile was launched accidentally by a computer – a simple coding error that started a chain reaction of automated destruction. With the amount of thought that went into building these machines, it is not surprising that there was so little left over to design defenses. We take it as a matter of course that none of the precautions put in place to protect civilians from the fall-out worked – the radiation penetrated the shallower shelters and poisoned the water of the deeper stations. But the dernier cri, the ultimate expression of irony, was that our little subterranean town was completely safe from the atomic fallout caused by their actions. They only died of radiation poisoning becasue their nuclear generator developed a leak.

The last pages of the story are written by our doubtful hero as he lies in bed, dying. . . .

It was rather subduing. I’ve always said I was a passivist, not a pacifistic. The idea that selfish people can share a planet without dissolving occasionally into fist fights seems dangerously naive to me. But as I read books like this, and ones like Connie Willis’ Lincoln’s Dreams and Wouk’s The Hope, I find war stripped of any younger associations with glory and valor. It can be honorable to fight, I still believe there is a time when we must answer war with war, but even more obvious is the importance of cultivating meekness in our interactions with others. True honor, whether in a conqueror or a servant, comes from humility not pride. From defending another’s rights, not extending the limits of your own. Nobody wins in war. Only when peace means turning a blind eye to human suffering should such a sorry stalemate be sought after.

This was book 2 out of 12 for TBR 2016. Read in March, I’m still currently reading my third book for the challenge – a modern, non-fiction book which is both exotic and exasperatingly familiar. Will I be able to make up my two month deficit? Stay tuned to find out . . . .

by Sixer

The Latest Buzz

Another belated posting of an older piece, this one from mid-January. Spell checked and published to, hopefully, get me back into the thick of things.

It’s a quiet evening, and I have all the weariness you would expect in a body after working and then coming home and washing dishes for an hour. And yet, there is a strange thread in my limbs that is screaming for action. It is this silent, insistent need to create which has sent me here, to drivel across the page. So here I am, driveling away.

It’s a strange task to assign to a list-maker: to wander aimlessly down a page meant for other people to view. No outlines, no matching topic sentences. Just words leading to words leading to . . . well, nowhere really.

It’s so unnatural I just have to stop and fill up space with something. Something like, say, a review of Arthur Heizorg’s The Swarm, a la 1975.

Now here is a book to discuss. It is, in essence, a beach book. A mass market thriller full of the imminent destruction of man kind. Or at least, of people in the USA – for some reason the bees were very respectful of the Canadian border.

 Yes, The Swarm is about bees. Specifically it’s about jumbo, mutated African bees (old adansonii) that have adapted to use plastic in their hive walls in order to survive the winter, and military grade, top secret chemicals in their sting in order to better survive us. Or out survive us, as the characters in the book start to fear. The whole thing should have been one long eyeroll. Instead I feel quite educated. The book is written to be as histor-real as possible, with footnotes scattered throughout to properly cite and defend all scientific information. Real citations, too, or at least this one was. This is a fast paced, high stakes, drama peopled with the lowest of the nerd pool – entomologist, geneticists, chemists, and medical practitioners. And not one person ever bemoaned or otherwise called attention to their narrow, intellectual way of life. In a world in which geek and nerd have become utterly meaningless, I found this refreshing. The atmosphere of the book was excellent.


Nothing is perfect, of course, and there were some bits of the book that I appreciated less. The use of the bee’s long forgotten genetic origin, instead of their Latin name, vaguely annoyed me toward the end. And the obligatory love-story was both off-screen and yet too present. I realize this is what I expect from sci-fi books – the outline is all that’s needed since the relationship is not the main focus of the story. In some ways I respect this, but I think the better answer is just not to include it at all. The worst thing about this book though is its ending. The last third of it felt like an all-nighter – indeed, the cast pulled quite a few to fill it. The characters died for stupid reasons, their plans failed for stupid reasons, and the whole nation was saved by some stupid reason or other. The delicate balance of terror and hope that managed to exist in the first part of the book crumbled as the bees toppled one obstacle after another like a never ending wave of over-powered heroes gone bad. With the falling away of suspense went the need for hope – the magical trance in which I had been held could not sustain itself alone for very long. I lost belief in the world, and with belief went enjoyment.

My favorite of all the silly things in the book was that the whole attack plan was manned by dozens and dozens of faceless laborers and about five specialists. As the months dragged on and the crisis grew, those five people struggled on in forced hermitage (about three hours away from D.C.) with less and less sleep. Two people died for no other reason than the lack of personnel. For this alone the bees probably should have won.

This was my first TBR book of 2016. I’m pledging for twelve this year, and saying that eight of those have to be non-fiction. Like all the future books I’ll read, this book was a gift from my grandfather. Curious to see what I’ll read next? So am I.

by Sixer

Tea-Table TalkBack: Chp. 2

This is a rambling essay composed in response to chapter two of Jerome K. Jerome’s Tea Table Talk. I’m calling this kind of self-dialogue a Talk Back, a way of processing ideas in writing instead of skipping over them lightly in passing. I hope that it stimulates your own thoughts, amuses you, or drives you to a better form of entertainment. It was so fun to do, even if it’s not such fun to read, that I would encourage you to brew up your beverage of choice, peruse the source material, and most importantly of all: Talk Back.

Don’t just smile, Talk Back!


Main Argument:

Nature (meaning life unburdened by the embellishment of invention), supported by the Minor-Poet

Vs.

Civilization (being man’s lot, improved by his modifications), supported by the Worldly Woman

The Breakdown:

First I must say I find it easy to agree with the Minor-Poet (who argues Nature), even though I think what he is saying is rubbish. My gut reaction is “that’s well said” followed by an even stronger “but twaddle.” It does sound pretty to talk about how the things we have don’t really make our lives happier, but if you think living in a cave would give your soul a lift, you’re mad. Still, it is an interesting debate to have becasue it forces us, eventually, to look at those underlying assumptions that we never think to start with. For instance, why does the poet think a natural state is better? His arguments are really not for Nature, if you look at them with this question in mind, but against Civilization. That is, he only argues that Civilization has not given mankind any of the benefits that we usually claim for it. Fine. How would we be better off if we had been content to stop at foraging? By his choice of words we can infer that this would be an easier life, our needs would literally be growing on trees. Money, and the lack thereof, would not be an issue becasue shelter, sustenance, and swathe{{1}} [[1]] Okay, that was a little unnatural.[[1]] would all be provided for us via such convenient occurrences as caves, plants, and our own skin, well weathered. This is a pretty easy argument to disarm becasue, while foraging can work in many climates, it can’t work in all of them, which means that the world would have to remain largely unknown to us. This idea seems a death blow in my mind, for I feel personally rich in the wideness of this world, however I concede that we might, in such a case, have no way to know the world was so unknown and so will continue as if it does not count. Nevertheless, this smaller world still takes its toll by forcing on us quite early the notion of population control. I read (most of) Diamond’s Collapse a few years ago, and he mentioned a few cases where it could be assumed that either the civilization in question had failed becasue they out-numbered their food source or else thrived becasue they were ruthlessly practical about how many people their environment could support. I would suggest that such controls, though backwards, would still be a sort of progress becasue they suggest that man stand in the place of Nature to determine his fate. A truly savage, animal sort of mankind would either die from lack of resources or else dissolve into a nightmare of endless feuds over territory.

Not that Nature wouldn’t help out, what with all sorts of natural deaths like complications in child birth, plagues, and even predators. Without any sort of inventions to overcome these mankind could only bow to them as the whims of the world and go on. But go on with what? This right here, I think, is the best argument against the supposed peace of the savage, and that is what is the point? I mean, seriously. You’re not making anything, building anything, dreaming anything – not even besting anything, since even going so far as to, say, make a spear for self defense would be spitting in Nature’s eye. The only point of life would be surviving until you died. Like pac-man without the power-ups, cut-scenes, fruits, score board, or squiggly mazes. Just a straight line with the ghosts right on your tail.

So there ends that line of thinking. Nature can’t have a higher claim on what it cannot satisfy. What then? Can civilization come up with a better point? If so it is not my business to make one, since I am only answering the poet and not arguing for Civilization. However, I will give Civilization this: it allows us the opportunity to offer all of ourselves – our hearts, our minds, our souls, our desperation – everything. And though that does not by default mean there is really a point to anything, at least it provides people with a framework in which to manufacture purpose.{{2}} [[2]] It would be unnatural of me not to put my two cents in here and say that even Civilization, defined as progress for the sake of society, is pointless. Self-proposed goals are nice, whether of the individual or the community, but they are inherently artificial, being fabricated. The only way our lives can really have meaning is if they’ve received it from something outside themselves.[[2]]

So then, is that the only argument the poet has for Nature, that it is simpler and therefore more satisfactory? No, the Minor-Poet also insists that Nature allows for a wider appreciation of beauty. That is, if people were forced to live in Nature 24/7, they would be unable to miss the wild, dramatic beauty of this world. The Minor-Poet unfortunately could not make the illustration of the person listening to music through their ear-buds while strolling under a flock of melodious finches; however, his depiction of the Average Man as only admiring of Art becasue he is told it is worth admiring is amusing and, in my own life at least, rings true. I went to the Philadelphia art museum with the Geekette last year and LOVED it, but I had no particular affection for about 85% of the museum. They were merely pictures to me. Some of them rather less than that. Does this mean the artist is a fraud? That art itself is a fraud? That mankind is cheating himself out of true beauty by putting in its place something so artificial that you have to be told it’s art? In a lot of ways I agree that art is merely a (poor) distraction from what is really attractive in life – yet there is that 15%. Yeats is redeemed by a handful of poems, even though the reams I must wade through to find them are little more to me than random words arranged into even lines. And for myself, I find this same pattern in Nature. The line of trees along the highway is made beautiful in the spring by the wisteria, in the summer by the subtle gradations of greens, in the fall by the shifting of colors, in the winter by the morbid glory of mist. It is not always beautiful, there are places we must choose not look and acts we must condemn, yet in general we can say, “it is beautiful today becasue . . . .” So the Minor Poet makes a false argument, implying that nature is always wonderful and the crafting of man seldom. The craftings of man are less concrete – being born so often by passing things like world events, opinions, and feelings – but in their eternal moments they strike a chord just as deep as Nature’s own.

Of course, I would also argue that there are other ways of appreciating art than through visual depictions of it, and it is very likely some person might loath a painting but love a sunset even while they abhor raw veggies but ardently attack a casserole of summer squash and kale. Beauty in Nature is not regulated to one sense, and Civilization has taken its cue from that and branched out as well. So the Worldly Woman brings up music. The Poet’s argument that Civilized music is not essential in bettering mankind is interesting. It is really wonderful how the base of this argument is the mature sister of his comments about visual arts. For bottom line, he believes that rather than give us better, richer music, Civilization instead strips the majority of mankind of any desire to make music at all. That is, because we are so used to hearing good music, we do not promote the personal.{{3}}[[3]]Sadly there is truth in this, found in the phrase “I can’t sing” which, not having trained pipes myself, always brings a sense of empathetic pity for the speaker. We needn’t apologize for being an amateur here anymore than we would apologize for not being able to do full splits. And as we do not stop walking merely becasue we can’t run marathons, we should not stop singing for personal fun merely becasue we have no intention of singing for our supper.[[3]] Because our music is complex and developed, it cannot flow out of our actual lives and therefore cannot really represent us. The human voice, he insists, is the best instrument and yet it is often untrained while we fiddle with our fiddles. To answer the face of the argument, I would need him to tell me how far he thinks music can go before it is considered something of Civilization. Is singing in rounds savage enough? What about duets? Barbershop quartets? At what point does even the strictest a cappella merge from the natural, unconscious outpouring of soul into a carefully formed expression of thought? Because as soon as you have a beat, a melody, some sort of meter for your lyrics – as soon as you have these, I say, you are no longer just singing, you are making music and yes, not everyone is going to be able to do this. But if the people making songs are able to converse with other people making songs, or build off of previously made songs, then music will progress, will become, if not more complex, at least more defined. More caught in a tangle of jargon and technicalities and handy rules meant to aid in composition. Therefore there can be no music as we know it in a truly natural community, only the unnoticed whistle, the subconscious hum which echoes back to the sky whatever sighing breeze or buzzing insect we have happened to hear recently. Anything else, no matter how seemingly humble in comparison to an orchestra, is but the first seeds of Civilization.

The face of the thing being headed off, I find the Minor-Poets underlying question much more compelling. Does perfecting and improving a thing inevitably make it less and less accessible? Folk songs can be learned in a week, pan pipes in a year or two, but to really learn the piano, the violin, the full range and use of your vocal chords – these things take intention, dedication. They take time. No one learns them on a whim or by accident. Which means that few people can really learn them well. Painting, sculpting, building, sewing, coding, engineering (whether structurally, mechanically, or electrically), even cooking. The more that we learn and discover about the things we love, the less likely it is that an individual is going to be able to reach master level. Does it have to be this way? Does it detract from the artistic expression of the rest of humanity if only, say, 5%  represent it in any given field? Will Sally still hum her simple little tunes, just to amuse herself, if Jill begins to play complex chords? If Sally liked singing before she heard Jill, I would argue, she is not likely to stop liking it afterwards. For great musicians, like the other greats, are just as likely to encourage us on as they are to stop us in our tracks in despair of ever attaining their level. We might not be able to keep up with them, but for a few brief moments in our life they will have inspired us to trot along in their wake. Once, after seeing a man climb a pole using only his hands, his arms straight in front of him, body tense as it hung in open air, I determined to build up my own arm strength so I could at least do something as mundane as walk across the floor on my hands. For about three months  I kept up the practice, until the vision had faded and I was gratefully able to drop it. Has my athleticism been stunted becasue there are other people in the world who devote their lives to it? No, rather the strength that I developed at that time has even now not entirely left me. Beauty calls up beauty, as they say.{{4}}[[4]] A phrase which hear means Google can’t find my source[[4]] The giants of Civilization do not over cloud and dwarf the average person (there are, of course, exceptions to everything), instead, like an impossibly tall tree, they remind him that there is a sky to reach towards.

If that is true, then we should no longer say that people are left behind. It would be more accurate, indeed, to say that they are shown up! Where we leave our talents, whether through our own decision or aptitude or through circumstances outside of us, is not the fault of the greats. It’s possible you could hold people back in order to make the average also the best, but that would suggest that beauty wasn’t really the issue for you. People have tried to reach the heavens by standing on mountains, and people have been content to imagine them from the midst of a smog filled valley. Whether you are on that mountain, or that valley, when you return your gaze back to your own level doesn’t it, at least for a few minutes, seem to twinkle a little brighter, as if suddenly aware of its own potential to shine? Civilization doesn’t detract from the individual’s ability to engage in beauty on a personal level, instead it brings the more remote facets of beauty closer to hearts that might never have known them otherwise.

That’s my favorite rabbit trail brought to mind by chapter two of Tea-Table talk. It’s fun to dissect arguments slowly, leisurely, but now that I have devoted two thousand words to doing so I realize it would have been more efficient to address the underlying assumption of the Minor-Poet, which is that man has the natural capacity to take things as they are without adjusting them more to his liking. We all have our limits, of course, but in general it would be directly against human Nature not to make, modify, and meddle. Any debate about whether we should continue to complicate things or not ignores the fact that we cannot help but complicate things. How far we complicate them might be a choice, but even so I’m sure it’s not one often made consciously by ourselves. I would be interested to hear the Minor-Poet’s explanation of why humans are so invention prone, if it really isn’t in their best interest. In fact, I would be delighted to hear  anybody’s opinion on any of the things discussed here. I, of course, already have my own.

by Sixer

Poor Man’s Portmanteau

My career as an armchair traveler was hampered, in my younger years, by a complete willingness to enter into any world – real or fake – by its own terms. This was done with an innocent understanding of books as completely separate things, unrelated to this reality at all except as portals to get us out of it and into another a little more interesting. This, coupled with a dedicated ignorance of geography which defies imagination, kept me well grounded between two covers whenever reading of foreign nations and daring expeditions.{{1}}[[1]]It did not, somehow, keep me from assuming I would one day visit the Crystal Palace and see all those nice little exhibitions. Time can be a dangerous place to travel through casually.[[1]]

 

I think it was G. A. Henty’s The Young Carthaginian which finally birthed the inkling of an idea that some places in fiction could be traveled to physically as well as mentally. Trying to work out the passage of elephants across the atlas, I started in surprise to see such well known names all bunched together on the page, patiently awaiting my discovery. It wasn’t that I had thought them to be fake – not Switzerland, certainly, nor Scandinavia, France, Siberia, or any or them really.  It was more that the implications of their existence hadn’t ever quite occurred to me. All things in books are equally real while read, and so I lived as if they were all equally inconsequential when not. More than just being wrong, I found that by treating place names as pertinent only to the stories they were in I had twisted the globe into an impossible shape, where countries never touch or always touched, grew to grandiose dimensions or diminished into obscurity, depending on what I happened to be reading. The real world, I knew instantly then, was no such malleable thing, and the position of the different lines on the atlas was as important to the stories as anything else. They in fact informed, and were themselves informed by, not just the stories I read, but the story behind them – the greater tale known as history.

I wonder if I would have discovered all this a little bit sooner if I had read The Princess Passes as a child. Probably not – the rich, descriptive language used to describe impossible mountains and awful precipices would have made the story seem a fairytale, unspoiled by truth. But older now, and grounded both in the conviction that this world is more miraculous than any fairyland and the knowledge that the authors had motored through that part of the world themselves, and so could describe it firsthand, I am fully able to appreciate this book both as a well-written story and a window into a part of the world I might one day go.

Well written, of course, is one of those phrases which is tossed around for a number of reasons, and hardly tells anyone anything unless they already know it and agree. What I mean by it most times is that the use of language is exquisite. A book can be well put together, well executed, even well done without ever having achieved that best praise of all, well worded. Here that praise can be honestly given, for from Paris to Monte Carlo the scenery is painted with a fanciful, technicolored brush, sometimes to evoke a laugh sometimes a wishful sigh, but always to make us feel we know exactly how it would appear if we were standing on that balcony, or trudging along that narrow ridge.

Since I have been so obviously taken by the form, I will let you form your own opinion of the content. If I enjoyed it, I enjoyed it as a whole with the book and would consider it dull, if not a little insulting, to annex it merely to weigh and measure its many parts. I do have a particular soft spot for our main traveling companion, who fit neatly into the mold of most of my childhood heroes and produced such delightful metaphors – even now I can see rose petals falling softly onto the snowy mountain tops. Admittedly, part of my sympathy for the hero comes from Grant Hurlock’s excellent vocals, which gave serious dignity to such otherwise ethereal apparitions as lakes of melted emeralds and lapis lazuli skies. The other elements of the story, the plot and cast, are average and can be well summed up in the phrase “Shakperean rom-com.” Yes, it’s a romance, and it does get a bit treacly near the end.

When you find a book whose use of words elevates it above nice to truly good, and has a subject matter worthy of its efforts, it is hard to resist quoting it to all your friends. Luckily for us all, my memory is artlessly awful, especially when drawn from dictation, so if you too would like the sensation of visiting the alps without having to board a plane, you can find the audio recording of the book here.