June Stats

Well, relatively speaking, June was an eventful month for me. Did a lot of things I’ve never done before or don’t do enough. Took in a Yankees game with the family, went to a gospel church, chilled with the in-laws in Brooklyn, swam with my little ones in a ginormous pool, spent a sick day watching a killer octopus flick with my sick oldest (and introduced her to the monster movie classic Bride of Frankenstein the week before), went to the movies with my pal to see World War Z, basked in pride attending Little One’s recorder concert, ditto with Patch’s pre-K graduation, and painted her room a luxorious shade of pink.

From a literary perspective, I finished the epic, way-too-long-on-the-bookshelf Anathem as well as a pair of Westerns. Bought a half-dozen books I’m quite excited about, too, and spent about $12 doing it.

As far as the physical goals I set earlier this month … well, I tried. I did get my twelve fierce workouts in but could not get up to a mile run without stopping. In fact, I only ran three times. Running now seems to be my nemesis. And with the busy-ness at work at home the final week in June, I stopped working out the final four days. Look to resume tomorrow.

Of the other goals that I posted the first day of June, I’d guesstimate I accomplished fifty percent of fifty percent of them. The other fifty percent range from zero to twenty-five percent. See, I force you to think to see whether the extent of my shame is shameful or not. Well, “shame” is a bit harsh. Better to set a goal and not attain it than to never set a goal. Right?

Interestingly enough, the wife brought up self-publishing on her own accord earlier this past week. One of my June 1 goals was to research that process. That is something that definitely needs to be done before the next month concludes. We’ll see where that puts me. Oh – I did re-read a large chunk of my Whale novel this past Friday (which I haven’t read in full in three years), and was quite proud of it. That’d be the crown jewel of my self-publishing empire, when that finally comes about.

Peace out, June. It was good to know ya, but now it’s time to move on.

The Wolf Is My Brother

© 1967 by Chad Oliver


Oliver was an intriguing writer of about a dozen science fiction and western novels. Though he isn’t a household name, he had won literary respect during his lifetime. The Wolf is My Brother won an award from the Western Writers of America for best historical novel the year it was released. I had never heard of him until I came across his first book, Shadows in the Sun, in a hole-in-the-wall used books store two years ago. I read it, liked it, and reviewed it, here. Then, a few weeks back, I came across this western and, recalling the name, picked it up.

The most interesting thing about Oliver was his full-time occupation, Professor of Anthropology. As such, the themes of the two books are similar: one culture inevitably buckling under a stronger, more advanced one, suffering death through absorption. In Shadows in the Sun, it is the human race at the hands of an invisibly invading alien force. In The Wolf is My Brother, it is the America Indians losing to the ever-expanding, ever-advancing White Man.

There are no winners here. The novel is told from two main viewpoints, that of US Calvary Officer Colonel William Foster Curtis and a Comanche warrior named Fox Claw. Adversaries from the outset, though they don’t know it, the two are gradually brought together by societal forces out of their control (“Manifest Destiny” and the Department of Indian Affairs for Curtis; the conflict between accepting the Reservation Policy and the ancestral warrior spirit for Fox Claw). At the end, one loses his life to gain it, as they say, and the other loses his soul.

The novel is spare, grim, unrelenting. The reader, like the character, feels himself in the thrall to forces greater than himself, unable to change the script or leave the play. Life on the prairie, especially during the hard winter months, is delicately and painfully described in all its awful detail – how ever could a soft man like myself survive in those days? Historically, the novel exudes authenticity to the point where it feels almost as if Oliver heard the tale at his great-grandfathers knee.

The novel also bears the authenticity of real life: literary and plot devices which I thought would come into play don’t. The result is a sloppy story, as sloppy as reality. The murder of Fox Claw’s surrogate son by US soldiers; the siege of the settlement of Adobe Walls by rebelling Indians; Curtis’s sham of a marriage and sham of a life (he lives with a terrible secret committed a dozen years earlier in the War between the States). It’s all there in the story, adding flavor but not fuel. As a writer myself this confused me, and I’m not of definite opinion whether it is for the better of the story or not.

The main thing, the important thing, for me at least, is it’s believability. Oliver creates – or recreates – a world long gone and places you in it, painfully and gloriously so, that for a few brief hours you will forget you live in the 21st century, where men no longer carve out a brutal existence, living knife to mouth, one step always ahead of the elements, natural or otherwise, that can snuff them out as easily as blowing out a candle.

Grade: B+

Sometimes a Book is Just a Book

For some strange, unknown reason * , for the past couple of months, I’ve felt an odd urge to read up about India. The whole thing. The people, culture, the land, and, especially, the philosophical and religious beliefs of this especially philosophical and religious place. But I’ve been putting it off.

I never really checked out India save for a few rare times. In the 90s, during my spiritual wanderings, I investigated Hindu beliefs for something like a week one summer. Most of that decade was a tug of war between Zen Buddhism and Catholicism. Around the turn of the century I read most of the Mahabharata, giving up after growing impatient with it. As for non-religious India, I did a day’s worth of research on the country for background understanding for my reading of The Satanic Verses.

Of late I’ve been trying to deepen my Catholic faith, and feel a little oogy reading books about other belief systems (even philosophies in the traditional sense, i.e., Kant, Spinoza, even Kierkegaard). But today at my local book store, in the used section, I found a small book aptly entitled A History of India for $5. Begging to be plucked off the shelf.

I plucked.

And I rationalized:

Sometimes a book is just a book, and not a metaphorical metaphysical statement of eternal consequence.

Right?


* = it’s called being a “Hopper”