What Are You Reading

[Trenchfriend]

Now a classic.
New translated by Heike Holtsch.

 

[Trenchfriend]

Animal Farm is just a joy to read, what else should I say?

Of course I know the story.

 

[Fading Fast]

The Saint Plays with Fire (aka Prelude to War) by Leslie Charteris, first published in 1938


Leslie Charteris wrote thirty-plus Saint books himself, and kicked off a phenomenon that saw over twenty additional ghostwritten books, fifteen-plus featured movies, and a six-season-long TV series in the 1960s starring Roger Moore – and those are just the highlights.

Charteris' creation – the suave, smart, handsome, cocky, womanizing Saint – struck a chord with audiences that few cultural icons have before or since. His pop cultural currency has faded by now, but it was quite a run, and who knows, he could yet make a comeback.

The Saint Plays with Fire is part of the original "canon" – written entirely by Charteris and "classic" in structure, characterization, and plotting. By this book, the Saint is more of a private investigator; whereas, he started out more violent and legally questionable.

Like with most recurring action heroes, the plots matter and they don't. Most readers want a good story, but they don't come for the harrowing escape or espionage plot so much as for the Saint's je ne sais quoi – his cool, irrepressible personality.

They come to see him exchange barbs with his half-friend and half-nemesis Scotland Yard investigator Claude Eustace Teal, a man who really didn't deserve, on a policeman's salary, to have to regularly go toe-to-toe with the Saint.

They come to see the Saint verbally face off against this or that bad guy – here, it's a Frenchman leading an attempted fascist takeover of France at the start of WWII. Sometimes the faceoff is a physical fight, but much more interesting is the verbal sparring.

World philosophy and politics get tossed into the mix as the Saint believes in his own brand of individual freedom. This has him fighting the fascists. He is also, despite all his womanizing, a proto feminist in that he respects women and expects them to make up their own minds.

And the readers come for the witty and prurient exchanges he has with these free-thinking and often beautiful women who – alert to those who don't want to believe this because it challenges their views of the past – are often smart, coolheaded, and able to outwit many of the men.

In this one, the woman is a pretty, young Englishwoman from a humble background who uses her looks, style, and smarts to circulate among the rich society set. She knows, however, her position is tenuous and aiding the Saint, like he wants her to do, won't help her standing one bit.

The one other thing they come for is the cool lifestyle. The Saint drives fast cars, has an extensive and well-tailored wardrobe, dines out at exclusive restaurants, and has an elegant apartment – all at a time when these were genuinely rare, aspirational status items.

Even if you dismiss all the "will the Saint survive" harrowing moments intellectually – Charteris isn't going to kill off his meal ticket – when you're reading it, you can't help wondering, "How the heck will he get out of this one?"

Will the Saint, whose character's real name is Simon Templar, be able to save France by defeating the fascists without getting himself and the pretty Englishwoman killed? Will he be able to expose the entire fascist cabal? Will his suit get wrinkled doing so?

In The Saint Plays with Fire, the ending is a bit rushed, but when you turn the last page, you still feel satisfactorily entertained. And that is a pretty good description of why you would read the Saint books: they're intelligent and engaging escapist entertainment.

It's also why the Saint's calling card – a little stick-figure man with a halo over his head – had cultural currency for a long time.

 

[Grandville]

Reading Franz Kafkas´whole portfolio in a very old german edition actually, what a delight to read.

 

[Trenchfriend]

Ha! Now I also got Gregg Hurwitz - Orphan X, vol. 1 of the Orphan X series!!

Man, I'm looking forward to it!

 

[Trenchfriend]

Finished Animal Farm.
Althought the most of us of course know the story, it's always worth to read.

 

[Trenchfriend]

Now starting Daniel Silva - The Cellist (2021).

 

[Trenchfriend]

Comfortable to read.

 

[Harp]

I think, I will abandon it. Anyways, I got it from my grocery store's swap meet and I can bring it back any time.

The story switches between past and present without any markings. And it's boring written.
Also, it's officially recommended to not read it without having read the first four books of the "Detective Konrad - series".

If not already read, might I recommend Albert Camus' The Myth of Sisyphus if you're stuck in a rut.

 

[Harp]

View attachment 772199
The Saint Plays with Fire (aka Prelude to War) by Leslie Charteris, first published in 1938


Leslie Charteris wrote thirty-plus Saint books himself, and kicked off a phenomenon that saw over twenty additional ghostwritten books, fifteen-plus featured movies, and a six-season-long TV series in the 1960s starring Roger Moore – and those are just the highlights.

Charteris' creation – the suave, smart, handsome, cocky, womanizing Saint – struck a chord with audiences that few cultural icons have before or since. His pop cultural currency has faded by now, but it was quite a run, and who knows, he could yet make a comeback.

The Saint Plays with Fire is part of the original "canon" – written entirely by Charteris and "classic" in structure, characterization, and plotting. By this book, the Saint is more of a private investigator; whereas, he started out more violent and legally questionable.

Like with most recurring action heroes, the plots matter and they don't. Most readers want a good story, but they don't come for the harrowing escape or espionage plot so much as for the Saint's je ne sais quoi – his cool, irrepressible personality.

They come to see him exchange barbs with his half-friend and half-nemesis Scotland Yard investigator Claude Eustace Teal, a man who really didn't deserve, on a policeman's salary, to have to regularly go toe-to-toe with the Saint.

They come to see the Saint verbally face off against this or that bad guy – here, it's a Frenchman leading an attempted fascist takeover of France at the start of WWII. Sometimes the faceoff is a physical fight, but much more interesting is the verbal sparring.

World philosophy and politics get tossed into the mix as the Saint believes in his own brand of individual freedom. This has him fighting the fascists. He is also, despite all his womanizing, a proto feminist in that he respects women and expects them to make up their own minds.

And the readers come for the witty and prurient exchanges he has with these free-thinking and often beautiful women who – alert to those who don't want to believe this because it challenges their views of the past – are often smart, coolheaded, and able to outwit many of the men.

In this one, the woman is a pretty, young Englishwoman from a humble background who uses her looks, style, and smarts to circulate among the rich society set. She knows, however, her position is tenuous and aiding the Saint, like he wants her to do, won't help her standing one bit.

The one other thing they come for is the cool lifestyle. The Saint drives fast cars, has an extensive and well-tailored wardrobe, dines out at exclusive restaurants, and has an elegant apartment – all at a time when these were genuinely rare, aspirational status items.

Even if you dismiss all the "will the Saint survive" harrowing moments intellectually – Charteris isn't going to kill off his meal ticket – when you're reading it, you can't help wondering, "How the heck will he get out of this one?"

Will the Saint, whose character's real name is Simon Templar, be able to save France by defeating the fascists without getting himself and the pretty Englishwoman killed? Will he be able to expose the entire fascist cabal? Will his suit get wrinkled doing so?

In The Saint Plays with Fire, the ending is a bit rushed, but when you turn the last page, you still feel satisfactorily entertained. And that is a pretty good description of why you would read the Saint books: they're intelligent and engaging escapist entertainment.

It's also why the Saint's calling card – a little stick-figure man with a halo over his head – had cultural currency for a long time.

View attachment 772200

A deft touch review. I remember The Saint series with the late Roger Moore, though only an occasional watch for some reason, probably too young to appreciate its plot settings. Never read any Charteris but this might
change. He reminds me of Ian Fleming, who actually killed off Bond in From Russia With Love, but before the franchise really started and Bond resurrected like a literary Lazarus. Eunice ***son and Lois Maxwell had me hooked on 007, but The Saint remained precursor in the background.

 

[gainghiskhan]

If not already read, might I recommend Albert Camus' The Myth of Sisyphus if you're stuck in a rut.

I've been reading it intermittently, it's a good one.

Just finished up Autumn of the Patriarch, picked it up at a book store thinking it would be pretty similar in style to Gabriel Garcia's other books. I was also looking for a break from some of the authors I've been reading that tend to ignore punctuation, funny how that turned out Fantastic read, though. Very few books explore the extremes of a character like the despot in such compelling and exhaustive ways.

 

[Tiki Tom]

What a wicked and corrupting book. It also happens to mask its wickedness with a great deal of charm, wit, and elegance.

The book is “The picture of Dorian Gray” by Oscar Wilde (published in 1890, 210 pages.)
TPODG is Wilde’s take on the story of Faust. In this version, Dorian Gray sells his soul for eternal youth and good looks. However, he has a painting of himself that takes on all his mileage and sin as the years roll by.
The character of Lord Henry plays the part of Mephistopheles. He is quite suave and droll and very entertaining. I was amazed at the number of commonly quoted witticisms that originally come from his lips. For example: “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

Even though Dorian Gray has an attack of guilt and regret in the last few pages of the story, the book was widely criticized for being wicked at the time of its publication. That’s because Oscar Wilde is pretty sympathetic to his evil protagonist. During the course of the book, Dorian Gray commits every sin and corrupts many innocent youths in the course of his quest for experience and “life”. A lot of serious damage is done. His main motivation seems to be to avoid boredom. Dorian Gray is young and beautiful (and rich), so he can get away with anything.

Through the charming witticisms of Lord Henry, Oscar Wilde walks us through the finer points of the Hedonistic life style/philosophy. When the sins are accompanied by the lush upper class banter of British aristocrats, who can resist?

To me, Dorian Gray’s definitive flaw is that he is completely and horribly self absorbed. Nothing is ever his fault after all, and one must remember HIS suffering. “Why are people saying such bad things about me!?” Lord Henry’s flaw is that he tends to view people as interesting science experiments.

The books other theme is the role of Art. Beauty and art are constantly being discussed, and it seems to be Wilde’s opinion that art is created for its own sake, and that it’s a mistake to weigh it down with too much moralism.

Finally, the book has endlessly been pointed to as foreshadowing Oscar Wilde’s own tragic end.
The book is sophisticated, amusing, posh and …chilling. Don’t read it if you have any fears that your own soul is on a slippery slope.
I’m kidding, of course. Sort of.

 

[Harp]

^ Oscar Wilde converted to Roman Catholicism on his deathbed inside the Hotel d'Alsace, 13 Rue des Beaux- Arts of a cerebral infection, probably meningitis, but not from syphilis as rumor has it. The room where he died is available overnight stay for the literary minded.

The opening passage of Dorian Gray just knocks my socks off. His pen brush strokes a grandeur evocative
Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel or El Greco's Assumption of The Virgin for its literary majestic splendor.
And the man himself is fascinating. By most accounts, something of a cad roustabout, undisciplined and ill
mannered; yet his writing contradicts this assessment. I could do a decent Wilde bio and there's a film featuring Stephen Fry, Wilde, and The Happy Prince with Rupert Everett. Stove back burner traffic jam pileup
of books to read and films to see....

 

[GHT]

"This is Going to Hurt:" by Adam Kay is a raw, hilarious and heartbreaking diary style memoir of his time as a junior doctor in Britain's NHS, specifically in obstetrics and gynaecology. It highlights the brutal reality of 97-hour weeks, chronic underfunding and the emotional toll of life and death decisions, ultimately explaining his departure from medicine.

 

[Tiki Tom]

Just started reading Turgenev’s “fathers and children.”
Trying to plug a gap in my experience of the Russian Masters.
Ah, the Russian Soul! 19th Century Russian aristocrats trying to straddle the gap between feudalism and modernity. Mother Russia! The Orthodox Church! Young men coming home from St Petersburg with crazy half-understood ideas of freeing the serfs and creating an egalitarian heaven on earth. Meanwhile, their fathers are hip deep in the old ways. It’s a powder keg! Great reading.

 

[Fading Fast]

East of the Hudson by J. Brooks Atkinson, first published in 1931


"Things hummed."


Arguably the best book personalizing the New York City experience is 1948's Here Is New York by E. B. White. White's "musings" capture the essence of the city with such affection, nuance, and feeling that it's often been described as a love letter to the famed metropolis itself.

East of the Hudson, published seventeen years earlier, treads similar ground, but as a series of essays (White's was originally a single essay in Holiday magazine) culled from J. Brooks Atkinson's writings, mainly from his time as a drama critic for The New York Times.

Since they are a series of essays beginning before a young Atkinson even lived in NYC and, of course, continuing into the time he lived there, you get a timeline view at the New York experience of someone "becoming a New Yorker."

Written at different times and for different reasons, there is a disjointed feeling or a bumpy transition now and then, but still you can read through that to take in Atkinson's mainly favorable view of the city, warts and all.

It starts with the longing comments of a young man wanting desperately to live in New York City. It's the kid-looking-in-the-candy-store-window equivalent of early adulthood.

The pull of the City to the youth of the country has been a constant for over a hundred years, as seen in all the books and movies – in every generation – about young people coming to New York City to start "real" adult life.

So much of what he says could still be written today. The following is Atkinson commenting on his first apartment in Greenwich Village (where many back then started because it was cheaper – that era's long since past):

In the course of time, minor inconveniences occasionally upset the sybaritic beauty... Brutal truckmen made the early morning hideous... Sometimes I dislodged mischievous bugs from under my bed. Uptown revelers caroused through the Village streets until early morning... An effeminate youth in the next room had strange predilections; I wondered vaguely; But it was a vivid city. Things hummed.

Tweaked only slightly, this paragraph could have been written up until about the 1990s. Atkinson goes on to talk about the "dramatic contrasts" of ritzy residential districts being only a few blocks away from coal yards, another thing you only have to adjust slightly to still see today.

Later on, Atkinson marvels at the marketplace of goods that exists in New York because it is a port city. While New York today still has incredible markets, this advantage has been diminished owing to the internet, as everyone now has the world's marketplace at his or her fingers.

Atkinson's description of New York at Christmas – "...throughout the city, rows of Christmas trees...walled the sidewalk like a forest...they transfigured the streets completely...Nature dominated every scene into which she was admitted" – is all still true today.

In a book mainly about New York City, liberal Atkinson – a college-educated newspaper man and self-described member of the "intelligentsia" – goes on a long screed against his own politics that sounds oddly modern:

Liberalism had degenerated from a habit of mind into an inbred social claque... The paradox of liberalism as a professed creed was its illiberalism. It was intolerant of any part of you that did not fit its intellectual plan... Nothing was more humiliating than the incompetence of the liberals in any natural circumstances.

After time spent in some of the surrounding areas – the Palisades, Long Island, Westchester – often in a summer or winter rental, which is another perennial New York City tradition to get out into nature, Atkinson returns his essays to the City proper again.

From Trinity Church looking down Wall St. to the much-cherished "pass key" for residents of Gramercy Park, it's fun to see – almost one hundred years later – that many things have not changed.

Coming back from one of his self-imposed rental exiles, Atkinson captured so much of what makes New York, New York and a New Yorker, a New Yorker:

Things were happening there... Sullenness and surliness were subdued under the lash of constructive energy. You could do something with people accustomed to seeing things done. There was everywhere a sense of expectancy... I was impatient to resume the work I had learned how to do.

At the end, Atkinson describes himself, changed by the city:

The velocity of light was hardly fast enough for me; I could not wait that long, my business was so urgent. I had need of all the inventions and improvements and the latest discoveres of scientific management; and I was prepared to pay the highest price for something new... it was a vivid city. Things hummed.

All that is still true, but the internet, as noted, has diffused much of that vibe, that moxie, that "let's get things done" attitude everywhere. Still, with over 8 million people living in New York City, the physical power of the city remains its striving people. Strive or you won't survive.

Here Is New York is still the gold standard of individual "impression" books about New York City, but if you are looking for additional reading, East of the Hudson offers an impressive time capsule that shows how the city evolves over generations, but keeps the same heartbeat.

 

[Harp]

Just started reading Turgenev’s “fathers and children.”
Trying to plug a gap in my experience of the Russian Masters.
Ah, the Russian Soul! 19th Century Russian aristocrats trying to straddle the gap between feudalism and modernity. Mother Russia! The Orthodox Church! Young men coming home from St Petersburg with crazy half-understood ideas of freeing the serfs and an egalitarian heaven on earth. Meanwhile, their fathers are hip deep in the old ways. It’s a powder keg! Great reading.

Speaking of Russian masters, Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov is the premiere novel of the last
two hundred years, hands down. I recommend his canon to diffident youth, not that they accept my literary
suggestions however much I might flatter myself that they do. He has a grasp of the ascendant through
incarceration and sight of the naked soul. His prison memoir, The House of the Dead preceded Viktor Frankl's epic Second World War concentration camp tale, Man's Search For Meaning.

 

[Harp]

View attachment 775279
East of the Hudson by J. Brooks Atkinson, first published in 1931


"Things hummed."


Arguably the best book personalizing the New York City experience is 1948's Here Is New York by E. B. White. White's "musings" capture the essence of the city with such affection, nuance, and feeling that it's often been described as a love letter to the famed metropolis itself.

East of the Hudson, published seventeen years earlier, treads similar ground, but as a series of essays (White's was originally a single essay in Holiday magazine) culled from J. Brooks Atkinson's writings, mainly from his time as a drama critic for The New York Times.

Since they are a series of essays beginning before a young Atkinson even lived in NYC and, of course, continuing into the time he lived there, you get a timeline view at the New York experience of someone "becoming a New Yorker."

Written at different times and for different reasons, there is a disjointed feeling or a bumpy transition now and then, but still you can read through that to take in Atkinson's mainly favorable view of the city, warts and all.

It starts with the longing comments of a young man wanting desperately to live in New York City. It's the kid-looking-in-the-candy-store-window equivalent of early adulthood.

The pull of the City to the youth of the country has been a constant for over a hundred years, as seen in all the books and movies – in every generation – about young people coming to New York City to start "real" adult life.

So much of what he says could still be written today. The following is Atkinson commenting on his first apartment in Greenwich Village (where many back then started because it was cheaper – that era's long since past):

In the course of time, minor inconveniences occasionally upset the sybaritic beauty... Brutal truckmen made the early morning hideous... Sometimes I dislodged mischievous bugs from under my bed. Uptown revelers caroused through the Village streets until early morning... An effeminate youth in the next room had strange predilections; I wondered vaguely; But it was a vivid city. Things hummed.

Tweaked only slightly, this paragraph could have been written up until about the 1990s. Atkinson goes on to talk about the "dramatic contrasts" of ritzy residential districts being only a few blocks away from coal yards, another thing you only have to adjust slightly to still see today.

Later on, Atkinson marvels at the marketplace of goods that exists in New York because it is a port city. While New York today still has incredible markets, this advantage has been diminished owing to the internet, as everyone now has the world's marketplace at his or her fingers.

Atkinson's description of New York at Christmas – "...throughout the city, rows of Christmas trees...walled the sidewalk like a forest...they transfigured the streets completely...Nature dominated every scene into which she was admitted" – is all still true today.

In a book mainly about New York City, liberal Atkinson – a college-educated newspaper man and self-described member of the "intelligentsia" – goes on a long screed against his own politics that sounds oddly modern:

Liberalism had degenerated from a habit of mind into an inbred social claque... The paradox of liberalism as a professed creed was its illiberalism. It was intolerant of any part of you that did not fit its intellectual plan... Nothing was more humiliating than the incompetence of the liberals in any natural circumstances.

After time spent in some of the surrounding areas – the Palisades, Long Island, Westchester – often in a summer or winter rental, which is another perennial New York City tradition to get out into nature, Atkinson returns his essays to the City proper again.

From Trinity Church looking down Wall St. to the much-cherished "pass key" for residents of Gramercy Park, it's fun to see – almost one hundred years later – that many things have not changed.

Coming back from one of his self-imposed rental exiles, Atkinson captured so much of what makes New York, New York and a New Yorker, a New Yorker:

Things were happening there... Sullenness and surliness were subdued under the lash of constructive energy. You could do something with people accustomed to seeing things done. There was everywhere a sense of expectancy... I was impatient to resume the work I had learned how to do.

At the end, Atkinson describes himself, changed by the city:

The velocity of light was hardly fast enough for me; I could not wait that long, my business was so urgent. I had need of all the inventions and improvements and the latest discoveres of scientific management; and I was prepared to pay the highest price for something new... it was a vivid city. Things hummed.

All that is still true, but the internet, as noted, has diffused much of that vibe, that moxie, that "let's get things done" attitude everywhere. Still, with over 8 million people living in New York City, the physical power of the city remains its striving people. Strive or you won't survive.

Here Is New York is still the gold standard of individual "impression" books about New York City, but if you are looking for additional reading, East of the Hudson offers an impressive time capsule that shows how the city evolves over generations, but keeps the same heartbeat.

Me maternal ancestors landed New York City since the British sentenced grandmother's grandfather
to death in abstentia, comin' ove they did aboard the packet, Chicago, no less. Harlem residents tale told, until me great grandad finished an engineer course and hired on for the Columbian Exposition in Chicago.

I had a shot at Columbia but stayed Second City for the University of Illinois-Chicago. Always have felt a
New York City pull, Merrill Lynch called after college, but opted a local no frills brokerage as an overnight
trade specialist during law school. Wall Street being Mecca and all, always thought I'd do the Haj. Yet never
made the trip. So here I remain put. I must read East of The Hudson and Here Is New York.

 

[Trenchfriend]

Part I of Daniel Silva - The Cellist was not thrilling to me. But now it seems to get better in Part II.

 

[Turnip]

Currently re-reading this below one, quite essential.