A Book Review

May I make you a recommendation? 

For a text most elegant and superb, 

By the illustrious, G.K. Chesterton, 

In my mind, a master of written word.

Rarely in life, has a book besotted

Me so, from the very first page twas True

That it would be oh most favorited,

I’d be remiss not to share it with you. 

Tis a slim volume, but full of wonder, 

 Beauty and Goodness are it’s golden crown,

It forms the soul, yet purrs with the thunder 

Of the voice of Christendom from all around. 

This book, possesses power to revive 

And does remind us we are Manalive. 

 

Read It. 

The Still Life

Let’s go, Soul, to where the ceilings are vaulted and made of glass,

Where the light is golden with sunshine gleaming on old lamps made of brass, 

Where the walls are walnut bookshelves, carved by a master’s hand,

And where several large tropical plants make the air thicker, by their leaves, all fanned, 

Worry not, Soul, about moulding books,

But consider, rather, the great abundance of reading nooks,

with violets tucked all in. 

 

Twirl tendrils of light, my soul, and suck on the end of a jasmine flower, 

Rather than on the old pipe full of tobacco, sour, 

Rest in the embrace of an overstuffed, tufted chair, 

With one finger, lazily spin the crackled globe, worn with care,

And try to avoid the gaze of the green glass toad,

For into that stare, I hear, is where Ulysses lost his men,

As into dread Charybdis.

 

 

Soul, should the record start to skip and slush,

Slowly stand, (for there is no need, here, to rush),

Untangle your legs from long creamy skirts, 

And reset the phonograph’s needle to it’s right course; 

Notice, Soul, the cat, peering through the window pane, amorphous,

Perhaps it is begging for a few drops of milk from the creamer of the tea service, 

But it is impossible to tell with cats (for they are friends with glass frogs, you know). 

 

Regard the unfinished letter on the desk, 

See, Soul, the curl of smoke caress

The edges of the hot wax pot and then dance 

With the sudden summer breeze that drifts through by chance, 

From the green room, through the double glass doors, just there, 

Whence the orchids are ready to bloom and the chirping of tiny bright finches is a fanfare,

A hungry one, perhaps. 

 

Untrained in slow ease, the Mind will strive, wonder if it is bored, 

And claim that it is languishing with each passing chord, 

Of the stately grandfather clock; It will rally in remembrance

Of pirates and planets very far off, until it learns acceptance; 

Soul, listen not to it’s convincing pleas for harder tasks, 

Which are but worldly woes wearing feathered masks,

                        A knock on the door, a rustle of passing skirts and footsteps. 

 

Pay no heed, Soul, for this is your sanctuary and visitors are not permitted to enter,

Return, Soul, to the overstuffed, tufted arm chair,  

(After touching the rich tassels holding the drapes), 

As if through a meadow, over the oriental rug, lightly traipse,

Turn your thoughts, again, to the sweet, sticky taste of jasmine

That somehow, is more refreshing today than a mint limeade ever has been,

And pick up your paintbrush. 

 

The still life, before you, Soul, is quite the challenge, 

The tumbling flowers, arranged last Tuesday, now show heat and time’s damage, 

And the green glass frog is too, perched on the table below,

If you dare to glance at it, with it’s eyes, twill eagerly swallow, 

But paint on, Soul, for the horse in the painting above the desk dared you to, 

At this juncture, it would be impolite if you withdrew, 

Paint on, paint on. 

 

Hold up your thumb, Soul, to avoid the glassy abyss,

The watery fate of all the friends of Odysseus, 

With each smear and stroke, the still life nears completion,

And so, Soul, you endure some depletion,

As you bring into the golden world, a new creation, 

Requiring, of yourself, some exertion, 

In a race with the horse and the sunlight. 

Meaning and Mischief

Reading World War II spy novels tends to inspire mischief. The gravity and morality wrapped up in the pages is countered by a classy humor that makes sense in light of the dark times. Code Name Verity and Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy are two of these mischievous books. The primer is a stellar young adult’s novel that is literarily solid, the writing itself captures the confusion and chutzpah of the protagonist spy, and it’s a really great story about friendship. The latter a darker more disillusioned novel with a riddle for a plot, an impressive amount of internal action and a very satisfying ending. Both of these texts, however, employ espionage not only as a key setting but also as a device that brings a sense of levity to the otherwise harrowing accounts. 

Images of the Holocaust are haunting, evidence stored in museums that documents this unspeakable tragedy is emotionally overwhelming. These books, fiction, written from the perspective of British spies do not negate that truth. It is clear from the texts that there is a gravity and deep respect for the victims of this war, a regard that inspires a great deal of conflict in the attitudes of the protagonists, removed as they are from the historical atrocity. Their ethical conflicts and confusion in the face of these crimes against humanity are appropriate and well represented. 

The aspect of spying in the 1940’s that forces a dark chuckle is the actual methods themselves. The letter drops, the physical signals, whether she is carrying her umbrella in the right hand or the left, the mystery and intrigue, the safe houses and the secret codes. Coming from a 21st century disillusioned state, these quaint methods seem almost like a child’s game and it is impressive and surprising that so much was able to be accomplished without so much as a cell phone or the internet. Indeed these classy, sneaky and suave spies are admirable for their improvisation, spunk, and candor in the face of the war. The operations are fascinatingly complex because they deal with real people on both sides and that is where right and wrong get so blurred. From the close working perspective of the protagonists in these stories, it seems even more like a game than a bona fide war. Granted it is a game with deadly stakes. 

The dual faces of these characters, the almost unbelievable coolness and the deep knowledge of darkness, makes them real and actually manages to inspire a kind of hope in the reader; that despite everything people can and will find a way to laugh again.