Gordon Wood, RIP

I was sorry to learn of the death of the great historian of the American Revolution, Gordon Wood, two days ago, and even sorrier to learn of the circumstances. Aged 92, he deserved a better ending, but none can doubt he leaves behind a great scholarly legacy. Since his death I’ve seen lots of tributes and recommendations of his most famous books—the kind large enough to be called tomes, influential enough to be called monumental, magisterial, definitive—but I’d like to acknowledge a small personal debt and recommend a less celebrated book.

When I graduated from Clemson sixteen years ago I received an MA in European History. I had taken Dr Edwin Moïse’s class on Vietnam as part of my focus on military history, Dr Rod Andrew’s seminar on American historiography as an elective, and read the late Sir John Keegan’s then-new The American Civil War: A Military History but otherwise didn’t touch US history—and hadn’t since my sophomore year of college. But at my very first teaching job as an adjunct at Greenville Tech my department head plopped a US History I course in my lap.

If you’ve heard that the best way to learn something is to teach it, it’s true. Completely. I learned more about American history over that first year or so than in all my studies up to that point. For the first time I began to form a coherent overall picture of everything from Columbus and Jamestown to Appomattox. Part of the joy I discovered in teaching—which I never could have predicted I would end up doing for a living—was the feeling of suddenly getting it, of the material clicking for me. A large part of my work since then has been communicating that joy to my students.

But I had a healthy self-doubt and didn’t want to fall prey to Dunning-Kruger. I knew enough to know how little I knew, and spent a lot of time checking myself, probing for gaps and holes in the narrative I was perceiving and presenting, and wanting to make sure I was getting things right.

This is where Gordon Wood comes in. I have a lot of those famous books that I’ve read or dipped into as needed—The Radicalism of the American Revolution (c. 450 pages), Empire of Liberty (c. 780 pages), and The Purpose of the Past (300 pages on historiography)—but as I taught the Revolution for the first time I picked up his little 200+ page survey for the Modern Library Chronicles series, The American Revolution: A History.

This book was a godsend—short, well-written, approachable, and measured. The great test of the historian is to be both comprehensive and brief, and Wood demonstrated that favorite insight of Herbert Butterfield, that “The historian is never more himself than when he is searching his mind for a general statement that shall in itself give the hint of its own underlying complexity.” I still recommend it to students who want a good scholar’s take on the Revolution but don’t want to tackle the 800-page behemoths popular among buffs.

But most importantly, it reassured me. Over and over I read in Wood what I had arrived at and presented to students. I was not comforted that Wood agreed with me, but that I had worked my way into a position that accorded with a great authority. I was doing something right. I hadn’t lost my way among the details as I scrambled to form a big-picture interpretation. Wood settled my anxiety that, having been forced to return to American history, I could and understand and teach it. His work gave me confidence and made me a better teacher. For that I’m still grateful.

Gordon Wood, scholar, writer, and teacher, RIP.

I highly recommend The American Revolution: A History if you’d like a short, readable introduction to the topic (something I’m always interested in for any subject in the hopes of recommending it to students). For a valuable recent service from Wood, here’s his critique of the 1619 Project. And for a more personal appreciation and reminiscence from a former PhD student, here’s Clemson’s C Bradley Thompson on how Wood, who was his dissertation advisor, shaped him as a scholar.

Tossed-off trifles and top one-hundreds

The Guardian’s recent “100 Best Novels of All Time” list caused quite an understandable hullaballoo, it being broadly agreed—and obvious—that the list is terrible. The Guardian’s explanation of the list’s rationale and method didn’t really help, either.

All of this occasioned a lot of talk about this list, any such list, and novels in general, and while I saw a lot of thoughtful observations and critiques—including the question, which I’ve raised before, of whether something as broad and protean as “the novel” can be meaningfully sorted and discussed this way. But the best response came from Joel J Miller, who crowdsourced a better list through an open thread on his Substack. Each commenter could submit five to seven novels for inclusion, with Joel tabulating and weighting the entries for a new top hundred. You can look at the finished list here. It’s much, much better.

I commented with my own seven at the last minute, and found myself contending with some of the questions occasioned by the Guardian’s list in the first place. The Guardian’s list was for English-language books but was open to literature translated into English from any language. Huh? Joel’s was for novels, and yet I saw multiple people nominating the Iliad and Odyssey—an elementary mistake.

I ended up limiting myself to a pretty strict definition of novel and only books originally written in English. But even within those parameters I faced a more fundamental question: what precisely does best mean? What do I think the best novels in English are?

To be more specific, I paused over the work of Charles Portis. I certainly wanted to include him in my seven and my gut said to nominate Gringos, but I had already seen a few other commenters nominate True Grit and the herd mentality of such things, the desire to bandwagon in order to game the process, intruded. Maybe Gringos is better—I’m still undecided—but True Grit had a better chance of making it into the top one-hundred. Having had the question occur to me at all made whatever choice I would make feel inauthentic.

Which brought to mind a line from Douglas Murray I quoted in the course of my very first John Buchan June:

There are many jokes that the roulette wheel of publishing can play on those who spend their lives at its table. But one of the finest is when a writer toils away at their magnum opus only for some tossed-off trifle or jeu d’esprit to go into multiple editions and risk overtaking their whole life’s work.

True Grit is undoubtedly the Portis novel most people would be familiar with. John Buchan’s The Thirty-Nine Steps has never been out of print but was quite literally something he dashed off while sick to entertain himself. Meanwhile, possibly greater novels like Witch Wood, John Macnab, and Sick Heart River, much beloved of the few of us who look beyond the first couple Hannay novels, are pretty much neglected by the wider public. Likewise with Gringos, the discovery of which almost seems a rite of passage for serious Portis fans.

I wouldn’t call True Grit or The Thirty-Nine Steps “trifles” by any means; Portis and Buchan were too brilliant to trifle, and even their lesser books—say Masters of Atlantis or The House of the Four Winds—are more interesting than the best books by lesser writers. The competition, I suppose, is between best-known, favorite, and the elusive best. I wound up just listing my favorites by a few favorite writers. I suspect most of the other commenters did the same.

Joel’s list has Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion well ahead of Emma, the book I’d rate Austen’s best, and, as I’ve mentioned before, Poe’s best-selling book in his own lifetime was a writer-for-hire textbook about seashells. It is strange to consider the vagaries of what a writer is remembered for.

For what it’s worth, my seven, in no particular order:

• The Lord of the Rings, JRR Tolkien

• Emma, Jane Austen

• Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy

• A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens

• True Grit, Charles Portis

• A Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole

• Witch Wood, John Buchan

I had a hard time coming up even with these seven. This morning I woke up and realized I wanted to include Matterhorn, by Karl Marlantes, or perhaps Chesterton’s The Man Who was Thursday. Too late. I also felt guilty including no fiction by CS Lewis, and another part of me strongly wished to include at least one Ian Fleming, Eric Ambler, or John Le Carré. Ask me on another day and I might come up with an entirely different seven—though Lord of the Rings and one of Portis’s will probably be on there.

I suppose the real takeaway—all controversy about such lists aside—is that we should be thankful there is so much good literature to choose from. Maybe I’ll just have to make my own top one-hundred.

The Desecration of Man

Midway through his documentary “Why Beauty Matters,” the late Sir Roger Scruton surveys the brutalist wrecks in the hollowed out town center of Reading, a formerly quaint Victorian town updated in mid-century and now derelict, and asks us to look past the broken windows and spray paint. “[W]e shouldn’t blame the vandals,” he says. “This place was built by vandals, and those who added the graffiti merely finished the job.”

We clearly live in an age of vandals, with vandalism lauded as both high art and meaningful political protest, and that is before we even consider darker acts of defacement: the surgical mutilation of human bodies in pursuit of phantom identities, the buying and selling of sex through pornography, the devaluing and destruction of unborn, disabled, and elderly life. But like Scruton looking at Reading, Carl Trueman, in his new book The Desecration of Man: How the Rejection of God Degrades our Humanity, presents us the obvious acts of profanation while asking us to consider the subtler, invisible acts that first made them possible—the graffiti artists as well the architects who provided the already crumbling concrete walls.

Trueman’s project for some years now has been the basic historical task of explaining how we got here. Where his best-known book, The Rise and Triumph of the Modern Self, and his more recent study of critical theory, To Change All Worlds, are big, sweeping books tracing multiple interrelated threads of philosophical and cultural development, The Desecration of Man is a short, brisk book concerned specifically with anthropology—the question What is man? If asking How did we get here? is the fundamental question of the historian, this is the fundamental question of the philosopher and theologian.

Everything else, Trueman demonstrates, is downstream of one’s answer to this question. Invoking Nietzsche’s Madman, Trueman argues that a shift in how both intellectuals and ordinary people answered that question began a long, slow rot that has only recently become obvious. The culture coasted for a long time on shared mores even as the anthropological assumptions that shaped them disintegrated. But the assumptions that man is not transcendent, that he is an atomized individual with no connection to others, that his interior life is his true self, that flesh is just flesh and sex is just stimulation, and that all of these are malleable have in the last century born fruit. A spirit of negation—a phrase borrowed from Goethe’s Mephistopheles—has led to a culture of desecration, the vandalization of mankind.

The surgeries, the “exuberant nastiness” of present day political rhetoric and online Holocaust denial, the public celebrations of aberrant sex, the industrial output and consumption of pornography, the epidemic of abortion or, in a seemingly opposite extreme, IVF, the push for infanticide and the rise of euthanasia regimes, the aims of Silicon Valley transhumanists, and even our consumerist obsession with youth and fitness—all of these treat man as a commodity to be bought, sold, upgraded, or disposed of as if man is just another product. These are desecrations, Trueman argues, and as often as not intentional. The frenzy with which, to choose one example, people are encouraged to take vocal public pride in having killed an unborn child betrays this spirit.

Some of this will be familiar, at least if you’ve read Trueman’s essays or have simply been paying attention. Rousseau, Marx, Freud, and others appear, tearing down the old anthropology and replacing it with their functional, brutalist edifices—the individual unsullied by society, the economic man, the Id. This is succinct and pointed, and should prove enlightening to anyone who hasn’t considered the longer history of how we think about ourselves before. But what Trueman does best is illuminate the logical connection between a debased understanding of what we are and how these outcomes—the spraypaint on the office block and bus stop—naturally result.

At this point it is worth noting, in case this sounds like a straightforwardly conservative polemic, that Trueman is bipartisan in his criticisms. He credits neither side in our current political environment or culture wars with a correct anthropology; both of them embrace the commodification of man in only superficially different ways. The end result is the same.

If a diagnosis were all The Desecration of Man had to offer it would be a good book, but Trueman ends with his most surprising and challenging material: a pair of cautions and a vision of the only true solution to the desecration. He roots both in three inextricably interlocked Cs: creed, cult, and code. Creed he defines as a given set of beliefs; cult, in the technical sense of a body of ritual, as the trappings and practices of those adhering to a creed; and code as the ethics, mores, and courtesies of those believing the creed and practicing the cult.

Trueman offers two examples as cautions. The first, Richard Dawkins, enhanced his already exalted reputation as a biologist by becoming the voice of an aggressive, hostile new form of atheism in the early 2000s. Recently, with the best years of the New Atheists behind him, he began to describe himself as a “cultural Christian,” someone who wants the customs and ethical priorities of the West, which he treats as having emerged apparently ex nihilo and as still viable without the pesky need to believe in God. This, Trueman argues, is a dead end, because it wants only the code but not the cult that sustains it or the creed in which it originates.

It is hard to feel sorry for Dawkins, who has shown himself so clearly to be a man sawing off the limb he has spent his life sitting on. More difficult for me was Trueman’s second test case, the aforementioned Sir Roger Scruton himself.

Even after reading more than a dozen of his many books, Scruton’s precise views of Christianity remain opaque, or at least unclear. There are some signs in interviews and reminiscences that he became more traditionally religious toward the end of his life and his arguments in favor of it clearly come from a deep, sincere place, but the usual tenor of his work is merely to treat Christianity as useful. This was not solely for the way it propped up modern niceties about equality and self-congratulatory do-gooder ethics, like Dawkins, but because it made manifest the transcendent, which is aesthetically and spiritually good for people. Scruton, then, in lauding the faith as a way to bring beauty and a sense of wonder into the world, embraced the code and participated eagerly in the cult, but it seemed not to matter to him one way or the other whether the creed was true.

Other examples could be supplied. Trueman mentions Tom Holland and Jordan Peterson. But this also, Trueman argues, is a dead end. It matters whether the creed is true or not because, if not, the anthropology derived from the creed will be a sham. Once this is discovered, as so many thinkers over the last centuries have so eagerly asserted they have, why maintain it? And so we end up right back where we are.

If the problem is desecration, Trueman writes in his conclusion, having “imagined ourselves as gods” only to “have ironically reduced ourselves to dust,” the solution is the long, slow task of consecration, of taking the thing we have vandalized and treating it as it deserves again. The only way forward is Christianity in accord with those three Cs: belief in God and his vision of what man is and what he is for, teleologically; acted out in community rather than as individuals, in embodied, physical liturgy; and lived out in real-life acts toward flesh-and-blood people: giving, hospitality, neighborliness, even acknowledging our shared mortal limits by attending funerals. These three things are inseparable, and only if taken together may restore our anthropology and begin to undo the vandalism, both the obvious and invisible kinds.

The Desecration of Man is a helpful intellectual history, cultural critique, and religious appeal in one short book, briefly and clearly explained for the widest possible readership. And far from affirming a reader inclined to agree with Trueman, he graciously but clearly points out the weaknesses in much modern rediscovery of the utility of faith. Picking up some of the themes CS Lewis presciently explored in The Abolition of Man eighty years ago, this is a worthy successor to that book, and one that I hope many will find challenging and helpful, not to mention hopeful.

Does it matter if the movie is faithful to the book?

Over the weekend Substack, in its mysterious way, showed me a month-old note by a literary critic I follow and respect. Since this is a month old and there was already some debate along these lines in the comments, I’ll share and gloss it anonymously:

It doesn’t matter if the film is faithful to the book.
It’s a film! Judge it as a film.
And anyway, you cannot faithfully turn prose into film.
It’s an affront to literary genius to think otherwise.

I’m not actually sure what the last line is supposed to mean. How does holding a filmmaker to a high standard when adapting a writer’s work degrade the writer? But I strenuously object to the rest of it.

To work backwards, the critic here is asserting that the difficulty of adaptation from one medium into another actually makes it impossible—“you cannot faithfully” adapt from book to film, he says. An appalling oversimplification. What does he mean by “prose,” here? When we talk about how a book is adapted into a film and the film isn’t faithful, we might mean it fails with regard to one or more of the following:

• The literal events of the book

• The overall story arc of the book

• Particular details of the settings and/or characters

• The narrative structure of the book

• The meaning or thematic import of the book

• The tone of the book

I’ve tried to arrange that list from simplest to most complex. The events narrated in a story are the easiest to get on screen. The meaning, what the author is apparently both getting out of the story and trying to share through it, and the tone of his storytelling are much harder. We’ve probably all seen movies that more or less adapted a book’s events without capturing the immaterial elements that give the book personality. A Handful of Dust, a quite literal adaptation of the great Waugh novel, comes to mind, as does the John Wayne True Grit. But other films might deviate here and there from the original while nailing its tone and moral register. The Coens’ No Country for Old Men and True Grit, both of which capture most of the events of their respective novels while, much more importantly, faithfully adapting their tones, are masterpieces in this regard.

All of this, according to our critic, is just “prose,” which “cannot faithfully” be made into a film. Cannot. This is not only oversimplified but wrong. Adaptation is difficult, but that we want to judge faithfulness at all indicates that it can be done, and can be done well.

Our critic is on firmer ground in asserting that films and books should be judged by different artistic standards, but this is common sense. Novels and movies tell stories in different ways and may or may not do so well, of course. But—still moving backwards—to assert a novel and its film adaptation are so separate that “it doesn’t matter” whether the adaptation is true to the book is foolishness.

Of course it matters. It matters because if a film adaptation of a book exists it exists because of the book. If a movie presumes to share a title with an author’s book, if it is meant to please readers of the book at all and not to be purely parasitic on the writer’s work and readership—we’re all familiar with the term cash-grab by now—the filmmakers owe it to the book to be faithful in at least some of the areas listed above. And having established that faithfulness is not, in fact, impossible, they owe it to the original to try.

I think it also matters because this kind of talk about the difficulty or impossibility of faithful adaptation has far too often served as an excuse for vandalism. Some vandalism originates with filmmakers contemptuous of their literary source material and wanting to drag it down to their level. Some comes from filmmakers who hubristically think they can improve on great literature. But perhaps the most common problem is the filmmaker with neither contempt nor reverence for the original, who sees it only as raw material to be reworked according to his preferences. It’s all content, after all.

This was my problem with two of the worst film adaptations I’ve seen in the last few years, The Green Knight and All Quiet on the Western Front, both of which—if you look at my reviews—I tried to judge on their merits as films while also noting their utter failure as adaptations. They don’t adapt the events, characters, meaning, or tone of the originals even a little bit faithfully. Are we to give them a pass because they have nice cinematography? Because they try to flatter our present assumptions?

There are other reasons to demand faithfulness of a film adaptation—the movie may be the one and only time many viewers, especially students, encounter any version of an author’s story—but these, I think, are the strongest. There is room for debate, of course. Arguments about whether and how Peter Jackson succeeded in adapting The Lord of the Rings, for example, have been fruitful for an appreciation of both the film trilogy and the novel. But handwaving even the possibility of faithfully adapting a book is bad for both.

A film might be just a film, but a film based on a book exists in relation to that book. If an author cared enough to write it and readers cared enough to read it, filmmakers owe them something more than apathy, hubris, or contempt. So do critics.

State of Siege

In reviewing Eric Ambler’s Judgment on Deltchev last year, I noted that Ambler’s postwar novels, while focusing on polyglot, cosmopolitan, but out-of-the-way worlds unsettled by global events like his early classics, are marked by a broader scope and more mature perspective. Deltchev, his first postwar thriller, takes place in an unnamed Eastern European state faced with imminent Stalinist takeover. His next, The Schirmer Inheritance, follows an American lawyer tasked with settling an old lady’s estate on a journey through postwar West Germany, its scarcely buried past, and the lingering dangers of guerrilla warfare in Greece. Passage of Arms sprawls across British-controlled Malaya, newly independent and unsettled Indonesia, arms trafficking, Communist insurgency, Chinese organized crime, and American tourists.

These are tense and well-plotted but slower, statelier, with seemingly more at stake than the fates of their characters. State of Siege, published in 1956 between The Schirmer Inheritance and Passage of Arms, comes as a bit of a surprise then.

When the novel begins, British engineer Steve Fraser has finished a three-year assignment to build a dam on the island of Sunda, a former Dutch colony that has gained its independence from both the Dutch and Sukarno’s Indonesia. The dam is part of an international development scheme for southeast Asia. Fraser believes in the work but is happy to be leaving. Rampant local corruption and a succession of inept, unqualified native liaisons with the Sundanese government have left him disillusioned if not embittered. Only one local, Major Suparto, has proven tough, intelligent, competent, and genuinely involved with the project—suspiciously so.

Fraser flies to the capital, Selampang, and has only to wait a few days for the regularly scheduled cargo plane out. An Australian friend sets him up with female company, a half-Dutch, half-Sundanese girl named Rosalie van Linden, and his apartment on the town square by the radio station. Fraser is set for a pleasant few days before flying home but for one discordant note: while walking with Rosalie in the garden of a club, he overhears a voice he recognizes—Major Suparto.

The major has arrived by jeep from the dam, a strenuous daylong drive on seasonal roads through territory controlled by leftwing nationalist rebels under General Sanusi, who hopes to root out corruption and turn Sunda into an Islamic republic. That Suparto has arrived on the same day as Fraser, who flew, suggests that he is a part of the rebel movement, and his overheard conversation with “the general” seems to prove it.

Fraser puts it out of his mind. Whatever Suparto, the rebels, and local mobsters are up to, he’s leaving. He continues his preparations to return home, has a second date with Rosalie, and takes her back to his friend’s apartment.

That night, revolution breaks out.

The army having left Selampang on maneuvers, Sanusi’s rebels seize the opportunity to take over the capital and declare a regime change. His troops occupy the city and take over the radio station. Fraser and Rosalie, in their friend’s apartment nextdoor, find their building turned into the headquarters of Sanusi himself.

There they sit, trapped at the center of the revolution, watching and waiting through aerial and naval bombardment, street fighting, the revelation of competing loyalties and betrayal among the revolutionaries, and the growing pressure in Sanusi’s inner circle to eliminate any potential threat to the revolution, including Fraser and Rosalie: one a foreigner, the other a child of the former colonial oppressors.

I began by saying that State of Siege proved a bit of a surprise among Ambler’s postwar thrillers. Like the others I mentioned it has a sweeping, utterly realistic and plausible scope. Sunda is a fictitious island—one of several Ruritanias Ambler dreamed up for his stories, and likely the most vividly realized of them—but it feels of a piece with that part of the world at that time. Ambler never bludgeons the reader with explanation but allows the corruption and mismanagement of the national government, the idealism and brutality of the Islamic rebels, the broader political situation, the ethnic hodgepodge of Selampang, with its foreign engineers, Chinese business class and gangsters, and benighted native population, and even the geography of the conflict to emerge effortlessly, through Fraser simply telling his story.

That gives State of Siege a real-world believability and convinces the reader of the danger Fraser and Rosalie face, but Ambler combines this quality with the best of his pre-war thriller pacing. His typically skillful use of foreshadowing helps sets the story in motion from the first page and, once underway, the action and suspense build steadily right up to the end.

Fraser and Rosalie are also standouts among Ambler’s protagonists. His novels typically feature unadventurous, nose-to-the-grindstone types—often engineers, as Ambler had formal education in engineering—who find themselves embroiled in international intrigues not of their own making, and Steve Fraser seems at first to fit the standard Ambler type. But he proves unusually resourceful and plucky and, perhaps uniquely for Ambler’s put-upon main characters, keeps his cool in danger. A mid-story sequence in which Fraser is forced to work for the rebels in order to protect himself and Rosalie is arduous, tense, and makes his engineering an exciting and integral part of the plot.

And Rosalie may be Ambler’s best leading lady, not only working as a foil and romantic interest to Fraser but contributing, through her personal story growing up among the Dutch plantations in the back country, a strong sense of dread over the outcome of the revolution. Fraser is a tough, fundamentally honest man who wants to think well of people. Rosalie has no illusions whatsoever about what will happen to her if Sanusi’s side wins. Her perspective not only heightens the tension but adds to the realistic murk of Sunda. One’s sympathies may be pulled in one direction or the other—a tension maintained by the complicated and surprising rebel characters—but one cannot sensibly call either side in the revolution the “good guys.”

Finally, one of the unusual joys of State of Siege is watching Fraser and Rosalie’s casual, transactional relationship deepen through the danger they share. Ambler was not known for his romantic plots, but this works wonderfully, not least—without giving too much away—by adding a bittersweet note to the novel’s ending.

Short, briskly paced, but rich and surprising and centered on two of Ambler’s most sympathetic characters, State of Siege may well be my favorite of postwar Ambler. I hope to read it again soon.

A Rough Shoot

Geoffrey Household knew how to open a thriller. His most famous book, Rogue Male, published in 1939 and which I read just over three years ago, begins with its unnamed protagonist in the hands of an unnamed central European dictatorship’s unnamed secret police, who have tortured him nearly to death and are about to dispose of him using a convenient cliff. Believe it or not, the situation escalates from there.

A Rough Shoot, published in 1951, continues this tradition. Roger Taine, a former British Army infantry colonel and now a salesman and family man, is walking the patch of Dorset farmland to which he’s purchased the hunting rights when he spots two men in the bushes. The sun is going down and he can’t see clearly what they’re doing, but they seem to be rigging up traps and he assumes them to be poachers. When one of them, backing through the hedge on hands and knees, presents his backside as a target, Taine decides to give the poachers a painful scare. He levels his shotgun and gives the man a load of birdshot.

The man collapses and his companion flees. Taine realizes that something has gone wrong. He approaches the man he shot where he lies unmoving on the ground and rolls him over. The men had been putting down big triangular stakes for some kind of device and, when Taine shot him, the man had fallen chest-first onto one of them.

None of this is a spoiler—it all happens in the first three pages. The rest of the novel is Taine’s attempt to deal with the consequences and discover who the two men were and what they were doing.

A Rough Shoot, like Rogue Male, has the Buchanesque qualities of vividly realized landscapes and the continuous chase. Taine’s predicament evolves as newer and greater dangers present themselves, keeping the ongoing action fresh and exciting. From Taine’s attempt to conceal the body and his realization that more and more suspicious men are poking around his shoot, asking questions of the tenant farmer and landowner and wanting to find out more about him, to his meeting with an former Polish commando whose story of exile, unofficial espionage, and a rising neo-fascism coordinating itself across Western Europe, A Rough Shoot escalates continuously in tension and stakes. What begins as a personal crisis for Taine—he is guilty, by his estimation, of manslaughter at least—turns into a tiny local battle in the ruins and upset of the postwar.

I can’t say much more without revealing too many specifics, but Taine’s business, wife, and children are inevitably drawn into a plot begun by Taine’s one impetuous, high-spirited act, and the first half’s smothering tension of concealment, silence, and stalking—the suspense of hunting—gives way in the final third to the chase: the prey flushed, the hunters pursuing.

I reflected a couple years ago on what it must have been like, in the 1940s and 50s, to visit the bookstalls and see a steady stream of novels like this—unpretentious gems of pure craft and enjoyment—flowing from publishers. Reading A Rough Shoot, a slender novel with no chapter divisions, just steadily building story, I could imagine myself traveling by train and needing a good page turner. A Rough Shoot would have fit the bill back then and, thanks to the strength of its simple but tense and Household’s exquisite craft, it still does. It’s inventive and exhilarating and was one of the joys of our recent time snowed in. This is only the second Household thriller I’ve read, but there will be more.

Elegy for the mass market paperback

Some of my oldest and most cherished mass market paperbacks

It’s been a busy week both recovering from last weekend’s ice-storm and two lost days of school and preparing for this weekend’s snow, but not so busy that I didn’t catch a tempest in the Substack teapot: the apparent extinction of the mass market paperback.

In actual fact, Publisher’s Weekly reported last month that the country’s largest book distributor had decided not to bother shipping mass market paperbacks anymore, citing a steep decline in sales over the last few decades and profit margins that were already thin. This will naturally have an effect on how many of them are available and where, but the news was being misunderstood on Substack as either 1) mass market paperbacks will no longer be produced by publishers at all or, more egregiously, 2) paperbacks in general are being discontinued.

In the middle of his hubbub a not insignificant number of voices were raised crying “Good riddance!” Mass market paperbacks, they said, are cheap, badly designed, have small print and margins so narrow your thumbs cover the words, and their spines fall apart almost immediately. A lot of the same people paired their condemnation of the mass market paperback with praise for the hardback.

The mass market paperback may not, in fact, be extinct quite yet, but I can’t tolerate hatred for it.

Let me start with the crassly material. Cheapness is a feature, not a bug. The hardback aficionados seem to forget the kids who want to read but can’t stomach getting only one book for $30 they worked hard for or saved until the day they could visit a good bookstore. The money is just a facilitator, not the point; How much reading will my $20 get me? is the question I asked over and over as a teenager. I still do paperback math in my head—for most modern hardbacks I could have gotten at least six mass market paperbacks back in the day.

As for flimsiness, that’s just the nature of paper and glue. Even the $20—and more and more often $22 or $25—trade paperbacks dominating bookstores today will eventually fall apart from rough use or shoddy binding. Even hardbacks are not bound like they used to be. In my experience, if one takes even a little care of one’s books—not getting them wet, not just throwing them around, not intentionally breaking the spine like a barbarian—they’ll last a long time, and a mass market paperback from a decent publisher will likely be as sturdy as any other size.

And regarding design, a small book will necessarily have smaller print. Adapt. And just how big are your thumbs?

So much for that. Why do I feel so strongly about this?

My affection for the mass market paperback runs deep. I was a country boy without a lot of spare cash for books, so from quite early on, when I got a book, I got a mass market paperback. Many of the books my parents ordered for me at a discount from the God’s World Book Club in elementary school—Rifles for Watie and Across Five Aprils come to mind, as well as things like World’s Strangest Baseball Stories—were mass market paperbacks. I still have many of these.

The Hallmark store on St Simons Island where my mom shopped for gifts and ornaments every summer had an entire wall of these books. It was here that I first found a copy of The Killer Angels, which I knew as the source of Gettysburg, my favorite movie. My parents bought it for me and I just about wore it out reading it in the condo, by the pool, even at supper while a Japanese hibachi chef lit onion volcanoes on fire. Look at the photo at the top of this post—that’s the same copy. Cheap, yes—$5.99 is printed on the spine—but still serviceable.

When I started reading seriously in high school, the mass market paperback made entire literatures available to me for five or six dollars apiece. Signet Classics, which was repackaging their line in nicely designed matte-finish covers as I finished high school and started college, became my go-to. I’d pick up as many as I could with my birthday money during summer trips to St Simons—by this time blessed with a Books-a-Million, which always had a huge inventory of them—or at the Greenville Barnes & Noble when I didn’t have to be in class and had a little money. Burton Raffel’s Beowulf and Sir Gawain, Ovid, Virgil, Boccaccio, Euripides, Malory, Shakespeare, O Henry, David Copperfield, The Song of Roland—just this partial list is an introduction to a whole civilization for about $50.

The most important of all of these was a Signet Classics mass market paperback of Inferno, translated by John Ciardi, which I got sometime in 2001, a quarter century ago. And I can precisely date another important mass market paperback acquisition thanks to Amazon, where my very first order was a copy of All Quiet on the Western Front—in a metallic bronze cover I can still picture—on February 8, 2000.

Again, these are two books that transformed my life and I got both for about $10. (Amazon records the price of my copy of All Quiet as $4.79.) But much more important than the cost effectiveness is what I got out of these books, and the memories I have of them.

I’ve already mentioned a few of these. I also remember reading Inferno on the bus as a high school junior, canto by canto and reading every one of Ciardi’s notes both to uncover more of this amazing book and to block out the chaos around me. I first read Sir Gawain in a single Sunday afternoon as a college freshman, and plowed through The Bonfire of the Vanities over several weeks of lunch in the campus snack shop the same year. I carried my copy of Raffel’s Beowulf in my jacket pocket as I graduated from Clemson sixteen years ago. It was August and it got sweaty but it’s still here on my shelf. And of course there’s the drive to Atlanta in 2000 that I’ve mentioned before, when I read a chapter called “Riddles in the Dark” and realized I loved The Hobbit (purchased at Walmart) and would forever.

The mass market paperback met an important need for me at a specific time. Maturing as a reader, wanting to read a lot, but not having much money or space, and being limited to what was widely available in big bookstores, mass market paperbacks were an intermediate step between the $1 and $2 books in the Dover Thrift catalog I pored over in high school and the Penguin Classics I began collecting in college. Good books, readily available, in workmanlike binding, inexpensive—anything more strikes me as luxury.

I don’t begrudge anyone their hardback library—far from it—but I hate to see the mass market paperback impugned. It’s done humble and honorable service making entertainment and learning available to millions. I’m one of them.

I hope the mass market paperback’s death has been greatly exaggerated and that it will have many years left. But even if not, I’m grateful, and I’ll still enjoy mine.

Mars in Aries

Last year I discovered the work of Alexander Lernet-Holenia, an Austrian novelist, playwright, screenwriter, and soldier. He served in the Austro-Hungarian Army during the First World War and as an Austrian reservist in the Wehrmacht, Austria having been consumed by the Third Reich in the Anschluß, in the Second. His work—at least what I’ve read so far, and I’m always looking for more—is atmospheric and uncanny, with his protagonists descending or arriving unexpectedly in worlds in which the invisible is made manifest and layered over the day-to-day.

Baron Bagge, the novella I reviewed for Miller’s Book Review last summer, does this with an Austrian cavalryman in the First World War. Count Luna, about an Austrian businessman convinced that a former rival who died in the concentration camps is haunting him, does this in the aftermath of the Second World War. Mars in Aries not only takes place during the Second World War, it was written and published—and banned—while it was yet ongoing.

Mars in Aries tells the story of Lieutenant Wallmoden who, we learn on the first page, is not the novel’s hero, simply its main character. The story takes place over a month or so in the late summer of 1939 as Wallmoden, an Austrian reservist, volunteers to join his unit rather than wait to be called up for mobilization by the Germans. He whiles away this peacetime service talking to his brother officers, conducting training exercises, and—occasionally—experiencing visions.

In an especially vivid one that occurs during training, Wallmoden is leading troops across a field near a village when he finds himself surrounded by ghosts. An army doctor assures him he is in good health, but it unsettles Wallmoden to have experienced this after conversations with another officer, a man of a mystical bent and with an interest in spiritualism, about whether or not one can tell if another person is an apparition.

Being of a well-off background and an officer, Wallmoden also makes social calls. It is during one of these that he meets Baroness Pistohlkors. She claims to have been born in the United States and briefly married there before being dumped—all the result of a misunderstanding—and remarrying a consumptive nobleman who moved her back to Europe and promptly died. Still young and breathtakingly beautiful, she is a titled and wealthy widow. An old man who is, strangely, often in her company, insinuates to Wallmoden that despite the two marriages the Baroness is still a virgin.

Wallmoden finds the old man offputting, the Baroness’s foreign friends strange, and her behavior stranger still—why, for instance, does she sometimes speak to only one other person at parties? or disappear before the parties end? and why do the handful of people who know her warn him of her bad reputation?—but he is smitten.

In just a few weeks, heedless of whatever she has earned a reputation for, he develops a passion for her, but the Baroness plays hard to get. Only after Wallmoden’s dogged pursuit does she, one day, agree to meet him for a tryst. They set a date and time for their rendezvous and Wallmoden returns to his camp.

That night the army deploys.

Wallmoden’s unit drives from Vienna to the Slovakian border with Poland preparatory to the German invasion. Wallmoden is unaware of the geopolitical maneuvers by the higher powers, never named, who control world politics, and is preoccupied with letting Baroness Pistohlkors know why he missed their meeting and with scheduling a belated one. He also continues to have visions or waking dreams, like a crawfish migration across the road leading over the Polish border or a ghostly encounter with two bathing girls from some past time, an encounter invisible to everyone else and that leaves no sign behind except a pair of wet footprints.

I don’t want to reveal anything further. I’ve already worked to conceal a lot about the plot. Wallmoden eagerly awaits word from the Baroness, the invasion comes and his unit strikes into Poland, he gets some surprising bad news, and has a yet more surprising encounter after being wounded. The story ends with a stunning reversal, with Wallmoden content but—both literally and metaphorically—nowhere near where he wanted to be.

Mars in Aries may well be my favorite of Lernet-Holenia’s books so far. It has the atmosphere of Baron Bagge and the absorbing ambiguity of Count Luna, as well as a satisfying streak of mystery. It works as both a romance and a war novel. The first half, in which we follow Wallmoden on his desperate bid for Baroness Pistohlkors’s heart, should prove especially poignant to anyone who ever felt unrequited love, and the second half, covering the invasion of Poland, utterly swamps the first. Lernet-Holenia, basing the book on his own experiences in the Wehrmacht, makes the invasion viscerally real—hot, dusty, exhausting, a parade of destruction and casual violence. The harsh reality of these scenes—to which I’ll return momentarily—make the reversal at the end that much more surprising.

The title, an astrological sign, does not reflect any actual celestial alignments during the invasion but apparently does suggest passion and aggressive desire. This is thematically appropriate, but the novel’s original title, The Blue Hour (Die blaue Stunde), a slang term used within the story for brief romantic trysts, works well on several levels, too.

As an additional layer of interest, Mars in Aries was published in 1941 and immediately banned by the Nazis. Actually banned, as in: sale was legally prohibited and the print run put in storage and destroyed. Reading it now, its apparent inoffensiveness—a love story with some mystical elements—may obscure what the Propaganda Ministry objected to. While the novel portrays German victory in Poland, it shows soldiering as unromantic, unheroic, and laborious; some of Wallmoden’s fellow officers openly talk about annihilating civilian settlements; the Poles, though rarely seen by Wallmoden, accordingly have an tone of underdog heroism; and some of the strange social gatherings in the first half of the novel suggest criminal activity—as a few other characters point out to Wallmoden—including Resistance work.

Fortunately, Lernet-Holenia had kept his publisher’s proofs and used them to republish the book after the war. I’m glad he did, and that the combined might of real censorship and Allied bombing couldn’t erase Mars in Aries.

This is an unusual novel, with a unique combination of romance, the uncanny or even gothic, and realistic warfare, and its climax is a suspenseful and moving surprise. Mars in Aries is beautifully written, exceptionally well-crafted, and, at about 200 pages, compact and powerful. I look forward to rereading it soon.

2025 in books: fiction

Gartenterrasse (detail), by Caspar David Friedrich

Happy New Year! After realizing yesterday that my annual reading list was nearing 5,000 words and wasn’t even finished, I decided to break it up and went ahead and published the non-fiction section. You can read that here if you missed it. Here’s the rest: fiction, kids’ books, and a simple list of the books I revisited in 2025.

As always, I hope y’all will find something good here to read in the new year. That said, in no particular order, here are my

Favorite fiction reads

The Friends of Eddie Coyle, by George V Higgins—A lean, tight, dialogue-heavy crime thriller about a washed up conman trying to make quick money by playing different criminal elements off each other, some gormless hoods trying to run guns, and the authorities who are closing in on them—if they can just figure out who’s up to what. Excellent, almost musical dialogue. When I noted this in my spring reading-in-review, I wrote that it “reads like an even more stripped down version of Elmore Leonard.” This summer I read a biography of Leonard (see yesterday’s post) and learned that, in fact, Leonard’s crime fiction sounds like The Friends of Eddie Coyle. It was a huge and openly acknowledged influence on him. A great short read and one I hope to revisit soon.

The Sound of Waves, by Yukio Mishima—Here’s a strange thing: a novel by Mishima with a happy ending. The story of a young man and young woman on a remote Japanese fishing island, where life in the 1950s continues, season by season, much as it has for hundreds of years, of love at first sight, of jealousy and gossip, of the beauty and resilience of local custom, and of the triumph of steadfastness. I think I read this in two days. It’s as powerfully sensual and moving as any of Mishima’s other work, but with a deep love of the ordinary.

Baron Bagge and Count Luna, by Alexander Lernet-Holenia—Two novellas from a great Austrian writer. Baron Bagge tells of ill-fated love born in the middle of WWI and Count Luna, a post-WWII story, concerns an aristocrat who believes a man killed in a concentration camp is haunting him. The former is a beautiful, ethereal vision; the latter is a fever dream. Full review of Baron Bagge at Miller’s Book Review here.

Game Without Rules, by Michael Gilbert—Two retirement-age spies in rural England fight the Cold War on their own terms, and with no diminishment of their skills or intelligence despite their age. A delightful collection of tightly-plotted, surprising, and thrilling short spy stories that run the gamut of the espionage genre while feeling fresh and exciting throughout. Full review on the blog here.

Payment Deferred, by CS Forester—Mr Marble is a impecunious banker with a dim, eager-to-please wife, two growing children, and a few habits—drinking, photography—that keep the family cash-strapped. When a long-lost relative unexpectedly arrives talking of his vast inheritance and lack of connections in Britain, Marble, a passive man all his life, acts impulsively and aggressively to get the money he needs. He poisons the man. (No spoilers: this is all in chapter one.) The rest of the novel is the tale of Marble’s slow descent into greater and greater paranoia and bolder and bolder sin. Based on my reading of The Good Shepherd, a later Forester novel, Forester was biblically literate, and while Payment Deferred rarely brings up religion, it is thematically suffused with Old Testament observations: “Be sure your sin will find you out” and “The wicked flee when no man pursueth,” among others. (It also brought to mind an old Jordan Peterson adage: If you think strong men are dangerous, wait until you see what weak men are capable of.) A grim but utterly absorbing 1920s British noir with a brutally ironic ending.

The Labyrinth Makers, by Anthony Price—A brisk espionage thriller in which the reemergence of a crashed RAF cargo plane from a manmade lake more than two decades after the end of World War II reopens the question of what happened to the pilot and why the Russians have always been so keen to find the wreck. The first of a long-running series by Price. I’ll be reading more.

The Cannibal Owl, by Aaron Gwyn—A brilliant novella about an orphan boy adopted and raised by the Comanches. Absorbing and brutal, with a strong touch of the uncanny, and sharply, powerfully written for maximum effect in a tight form. I read it in less than two hours but felt like I had spent the same hard years on the plains as the main character. I mean to reread it soon.

Judgment on Deltchev, by Eric Ambler—Foster, a British playwright, travels to an unnamed Eastern European country after of World War II to report on the Stalinist show trial of “Papa” Deltchev, a former agrarian politician accused of collaboration with the capitalist Western powers. Foster senses that something isn’t right—about the trial, about Deltchev, about Deltchev’s family, about Deltchev’s accusers, and most especially about Pashik, Foster’s repulsive local press contact—and he determines to get to the bottom of it. A good anti-Stalin novel—one that lost Ambler friends—and a good thriller. Full review on the blog here.

Dracula, by Bram Stoker—I made it to the age of 41 having never read Dracula. All through high school and college the received wisdom was that it was boring and dumb. Nothing could be further from the truth. This was a gripping novel, and the best evidence for its greatness is that I already knew virtually every beat of the story but still couldn’t put it down. A classic for a reason.

The Stress of Her Regard, by Tim Powers—I had heard that this was Powers’s most horrifying novel and so far that’s proven true. This is the story of Michael Crawford, an English doctor who unwittingly invites the conjugal attentions of a possessive female spirit. After a horrific wedding night incident results in Crawford being wanted for murder, he flees into the heady world of the great Romantic poets Shelley and Byron (with a small but important role for my man Keats along the way). It turns out that they not only lead the original high-flown and debauched “tortured poet” lifestyles, they do so at least in part because of the attentions of their own predatory, consuming otherworldly lovers. By turns eerie and horrifying, with a thrilling descent deeper into the mad worlds both of the poets and of the ancient vampirical entities—I don’t want to give away who they really are at the root of things—this is both powerfully imagined and believably oppressive. As in, I had a few restless nights of sleep until I was able to see Shelley and Byron buried and our heroes freed of their possessors. Reading this immediately after Dracula proved a knockout one-two punch. The Stress of Her Regard is brilliantly done, and I think I’m quite finished with vampires for a while.

Gabriel’s Moon and The Predicament, by William Boyd—A new historical spy series about Gabriel Dax, a British travel writer, who is slowly pulled into the paranoid world of Cold War espionage—dead drops, surveillance, “artifice” (tradecraft), “termites” (moles), double and triple agents, clandestine weapons training, and betrayal—as well as a strange, shapeless romance with his handler, Faith Green. I’ve enjoyed these first two entries, which are short and well paced. Gabriel reminds me of an Eric Ambler protagonist in starting off as a naive everyman and, though gradually learning how to cope with the dangers of espionage, is a bit dense and sometimes makes decisions out of frustration or spite—none of which ends well. Boyd nicely integrates Gabriel’s missions with some real-life events in the contested Third World. The second book veers into some conspiracy-mongering territory, which annoyed me but didn’t detract from what a good read it was. Hoping for more in this series soon. Full review of Gabriel’s Moon on the blog here.

John Burnet of Barns and The Path of the King, by John Buchan—A rambling, high-spirited historical adventure in the Scottish Borders and a novel-in-stories spanning everything from the Viking Age to the American Civil War. Two of my favorite reads for this year’s John Buchan June (for a full list, see the summer reading list). Full John Buchan June reviews on the blog here and here.

The Anubis Gates, by Tim Powers—Brendan Doyle, an undistinguished scholar of Romantic poetry is offered a strange gig by an eccentric businessman: accompany a tour group to London in 1810 to listen to a lecture by Coleridge. The businessman’s engineers have discovered a method that allows for some limited time-travel and he seems eager to use it—for reasons beyond meeting literary greats, as will become clear later. Complications arise when Doyle is left behind in Regency London and desperately fends for himself through begging, where he encounters increasingly strange and unsettling people like Horrabin, the disfigured street-performing clown to who commands an army of beggars from his underground lair, or Dog-Face Joe, a predatory body-hopping werewolf. Their inexplicable activities become more and more threatening and more and more obviously magical. Intricately plotted, totally engrossing, and with one of the most satisfying conclusions in my year of reading. Another excellent historical fantasy, and close to being my favorite of the year.

Runners up:

• Eight Hours from England, by Anthony Quayle—A solid short novel about the unique environment and frustrations of Allied commandos fighting the Nazis in Albania during World War II. Full review on the blog here.

• A Deadly Shade of Gold, by John D MacDonald—“Salvage consultant” Travis McGee travels to Mexico to avenge the death of an old friend who had gotten mixed up in some business involving Aztec gold. An involving and suspenseful crime classic.

• Chess Story, by Stefan Zweig—An involving, moving novella about the passengers of an ocean liner competing at chess with two men: a machinelike prodigy and a mysterious tortured man who, we learn, gained his expertise at terrible cost. Short, absorbing, and powerful. I mean to reread it soon.

• Call for the Dead and The Looking Glass War, by John Le Carré—Two solid early spy novels involving, in a greater or lesser role, George Smiley before the magnum opus of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. The second of these two is an ironic take on the public response to Le Carré’s Spy Who Came in From the Cold.

• The Watcher by the Threshold, by John Buchan—A great early collection of weird fiction and horror from John Buchan. Some especially eerie stories about relict forces—ancient people, restless spirits—beyond the ken of modern man. Full review for John Buchan June here.

• Lucky Jim, by Kingsley Amis—Jim Dixon, a young, feckless historian at an English university, is up for the review that could make his probationary lecturer position permanent. You know what they say about everything that can go wrong. Surely my worst case scenario as an academic, and hugely entertaining.

Best of the year: the year of man and machine

As with my non-fiction post yesterday, I’m cheating a bit by naming multiple “bests” thanks to a coincidental overlap across a few really good novels: war stories of men depending on their skills, training, and courage to survive combat in unforgiving environments aboard sophisticated and dangerous machines.

Bomber, by Len Deighton, tells the vast story of a single RAF bombing raid over Germany on a single day during World War II. Deighton gives us the civilian and military authorities in an ill-fated German town, the Luftwaffe defenders both in the air and at radar installations, the ground crews and command staff at a RAF base in England, and the bomber pilots and crewmen.

The characters’ personal lives, relationships, jealousies, misunderstandings, and preoccupations—a widowed German officer who has just begun an affair with his housekeeper, a bomber crew about to fly its last mission, an insomniac pilot and his anxious wife who works at the base, a squadron commander who mistakes one of his best pilots for a leftwing subversive—all develop alongside their assigned tasks, so that this sometimes technical novel always remains intimately personal.

But Deighton’s omniscient perspective also shows the reader things no character could be aware of as the story unfolds, especially the interplay of unwitting decisions, technical errors, and pure bad luck that direct the bombers over a small German town instead of their industrial target—and this is only the largest and most obvious of many such mistakes, some of which no one will ever know about. A harrowing account of all dimensions of a single raid, Bomber is also deeply, bitterly ironic. It’s gripping from start to finish and very moving.

The Cruel Sea, by Nicholas Monsarrat, is another British novel of World War II, but this time about the Royal Navy and of almost the exact opposite scope of Bomber, encompassing the whole war for a handful of men. (Not all war novels are the same, folks—you can do a lot with the genre.) Beginning with Commander Ericson’s assignment to a brand-new corvette, HMS Compass Rose, in Scotland in 1939, The Cruel Sea introduces as well junior officers Ferraby and Lockhart and other key officers and enlisted men. Compass Rose has been assigned convoy escort duties in the dangerous waters of the North Atlantic between Greenland and Britain, and as the war escalates the German U-boat presence increases as well.

Monsarrat conveys the physical and mental strain—and occasional excitement—of protecting the convoys and hunting the U-boats brilliantly, and like Deighton’s later Bomber balances the dangers of the war with the vicissitudes, disappointments, and joys of the home front. A powerful novel and rightly regarded as a naval classic.

Finally, The Oceans and the Stars, by Mark Helprin, is a contemporary novel of the US Navy, Somali piracy, Iran, and ISIS, but as a loose, subtle retelling of the Odyssey it brilliantly and vividly evokes the spirit and pathos of Homer. Bookended with a court martial, the novel follows aging Captain Stephen Rensselaer, who loses a cushy Pentagon job after speaking too honestly with the president. He’s assigned a dead-end final command meant to finish his career as an embarrassment: overseeing the construction and finally taking to sea the last of the Navy’s smallest class of combat vessels, a patrol coastal or PC he christens Athena. While at the dockyards in New Orleans he meets another marooned soul, Katy Farrar, a lawyer whose husband abandoned her. Together these two well-matched, intelligent souls kindle a poignant mid-life romance. What they had thought were their lives and careers have passed them by; they can start over together.

Then war with Iran breaks out and Rensselaer must put to sea, where he does combat in the Indian Ocean and even on land—engaging superior Russian-built Iranian ships, rushing to the aid of a cruise ship attacked by ISIS pirates, chasing after them when they retreat into Somalia with hostages. It’s technically interesting, thrilling, and emotionally rich and moving. I found the first part of the novel, when Rensselaer and Katy are simply washed up and finding each other, achingly moving.

You’ve probably picked up at least some parallels with Homer. There are more. But this isn’t a simple retelling or slavish point-by-point modern adaptation; you could certainly read The Oceans and the Stars and never catch the allusions. But they do enrich the novel and create dramatic irony and suspense. After all, the prologue details the beginning of a court martial, and the war keeps Rensselaer and Katy separate and vulnerable. What will happen, and how will they be reunited?

Despite their differences in time period, subject, structure, and style, Bomber, The Cruel Sea, and The Oceans and the Stars all offer interesting, compelling characters in suspenseful and deadly circumstances, with the former—character, family, relationships—only enhancing the danger of the latter. All three of these are stellar, and while some might resist reading novels like them out of some kind of Tom Clancy impression that war novels are all technical specs, ballistics, and tough-talking, invulnerable men, these showcase the richness of war as a subject for literature. Homer is apropos here—remember that before the Odyssey came the Iliad, the great war story.

Two of these I reviewed in full on the blog this year: The Oceans and the Stars here and The Cruel Sea here. Any one of these three would be well worth your time. I hope y’all will check one out in 2026.

Favorite kids’ books

The Reluctant Dragon, by Kenneth Grahame, illustrated by Ernest Shepard—I loved the Disney cartoon as a kid and only learned as an adult that it was based on a story by the author of The Wind in the Willows. A lark, and lots of fun to read aloud—which I did twice, once to my kids while camping and once to my wife.

The Green Ember, by SD Smith, illustrated by Zach Franzen—A fun fantasy series about a kingdom of rabbits at war with wolves and predatory birds. When the novel begins, the rabbits are on the back foot, their king having fallen and the kingdom in disarray, with isolated bands longing for the coming of “the Mended Wood.” Main characters Picket and Heather have a believable brother-sister relationship, and Smith includes numerous fun side characters like warrior and preparedness obsessive Helmer. My daughter ate these up and demanded I read them. I’m glad I finally got to the first one.

The Book of Three, The Black Cauldron, The Castle of Llyr, Taran Wanderer, and The High King, by Lloyd Alexander—A classic fantasy series that is well worth reading in its entirety, as my wife and I did aloud over the first few months of the year.

Troubled Waters, by Sophie de Mullenheim—Another good entry in this series about a group of boys in Diocletian’s Rome solving mysteries and gradually getting to know the persecuted Christians in their midst. Just got my daughter the fifth and sixth in the series and plan to read them aloud to the kids in the new year.

James and the Giant Peach, by Roald Dahl—Fun and bizarre. I had never read any Roald Dahl before last year. His status as a classic children’s author is well-deserved.

The God Contest, by Carl Laferton, illustrated by Catalina Echeverri—A picture book based on one of my favorite Old Testament incidents: the mountaintop contest between the prophet Elijah and King Ahab’s prophets of Baal. Not the kind of story that gets a lot of traction in our modern therapeutically-oriented Christianity, so this book, with its clear explanation of the handy victory of God in a competition for divine authority, was refreshing. A good read-aloud with all five kids.

Macbeth: A Graphic Novel, by William Shakespeare, adapted by Gareth Hinds—A good, atmospheric comic book adaptation of my favorite Shakespearean tragedy. I’m a big fan of Hinds’s work. Check it out if you haven’t heard of him.

Rereads

Lots of good rereads this year, with my two favorites probably being Emma and The Prestige, a book I last read in college and barely remembered. As usual, audiobook “reads” are marked with an asterisk.

• Emma, by Jane Austen

• The Prestige, by Christopher Priest

• The Hobbit, by JRR Tolkien

• Athelstan: The Making of England, by Tom Holland

• Freaky Deaky, by Elmore Leonard*

• Hombre, by Elmore Leonard*

• Mr Majestyk, by Elmore Leonard*

• The Spy Who Came in From the Cold, by John Le Carré

• Heart of Darkness, by Joseph Conrad

• Starship Troopers, by Robert Heinlein

• On the Marble Cliffs, by Ernst Jünger*

• The Book of Three, by Lloyd Alexander

• The Black Cauldron, by Lloyd Alexander

Looking ahead

I’ve gradually realized that I’m pretty bad at predicting what I will or won’t be reading over the next year, so while I have some goals and ambitions I’m going to refrain from sharing those. Like the mass of people playing “cheat the prophet” in that line from Chesterton, I tend to listen politely to my own predictions and then go and do something else. So we’ll see what the next year brings. If it’s a crop of reading as good as this year’s, I’ll be satisfied.

In the meantime, I hope y’all have found something good here to read yourself in 2026. Thanks as always for reading—your attention to this blog means a lot to me—and happy New Year!

2025 in books: non-fiction

Die Lebestufen (The Stages of Life) (Detail), by Caspar David Friedrich

Though this has been a rough break with lots of sickness I’ve managed to find time here and there to make sure I at least get my annual reading list put together. But I realized this afternoon, as I was about to rouse a couple of recently sick kids from their naps and go check on the two people who are currently sick, that I wasn’t quite finished with the fiction section and the total post was already pushing 5,000 words. So I’ve done something I don’t think I’ve done since the heady reading days of 2020—split the post in half. This evening y’all will get my non-fiction and “special mentions.” Tomorrow I’ll follow up with fiction and a few other oddments.

After a couple years in which fiction has threatened to overwhelm my reading in history and other subjects, I deliberately tried to steer back to a slightly more balanced mix in the latter half of this year. And good thing, too, as 2025 turned out to be a good year for great big literary biographies and shorter works on a diverse variety of fun subjects. I hope y’all will find something good here for next year. Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

Favorite non-fiction reads

A Time to Keep Silence, by Patrick Leigh Fermor—Beautifully written, evocative, and meditative account of Leigh Fermor’s stays in several monasteries in northern France—twice with Benedictines and once with Trappists—and his visit to the abandoned rock monasteries used by medieval Christian anchorites in the rugged hills of central Asia Minor. A brisk but by no means light read.

The Weimar Years: Rise and Fall, 1918-1933, by Frank McDonough—An exhaustive history, year by year, of the Weimar Republic from Kaiser Wilhelm’s abdication, the German military collapse, and the armistice in the fall of 1918 to the first month of 1933, when Hitler’s rise culminated in his assumption of the role of chancellor. There are isolated passages on cultural trends (e.g. the “New Woman,” cabaret life, Bauhaus architecture, silent cinema like Metropolis, literature like All Quiet on the Western Front) but the emphasis is almost entirely on nitty-gritty party politics. Given the chaos and corruption of the Weimar Republic and the proliferation of parties (at least 41 in one election), McDonough does an admirable job keeping the narrative clear and understandable and emphasizes contingency throughout. A Hitler dictatorship was not a foregone conclusion. But the epilogue, in which McDonough specifically blames Paul von Hindenburg for the death of “Weimar democracy,” is a bit of a fumble, as it is abundantly clear from McDonough’s own narrative—and even the earlier parts of the epilogue—that the Weimar Constitution had built-in weaknesses that were bound to weaken and undermine it. McDonough essentially faults Hindenburg for not believing in democracy hard enough. But if “democracy” in the abstract gave Germany this democracy in concrete, stubborn reality, it deserved to go. The pity is that when it went, it fell to Hitler, who only achieved electoral clout very late. This aside, The Weimer Years is a hefty expert introduction to an important period.

Bad Therapy: Why the Kids Aren’t Growing Up, by Abigail Shrier—A grim but necessary study of the outsized role of therapy and medication in the neuroticism, self-absorption, and worse among modern kids. Highly recommended if you’re skeptical of our therapeutic culture already or openminded enough to question the way therapy has become the panacea for everything we find disordered—or even out of the ordinary—about other people and ourselves.

Cooler Than Cool: The Life and Work of Elmore Leonard, by CM Kushins—A welcome biography of one of my favorite authors, a comprehensive volume that illuminates Leonard’s life, work, and craft in almost equal measure. Most interesting to me were the sections on Leonard’s childhood, education, World War II service, and early career—when he balanced a full-time white collar job, daily Mass, and raising a family with researching and writing the Western stories that put him on the map—as well as insight into his creative process, which changed in slow and subtle but significant ways over the years. Also entertaining: stories of his struggles against Hollywood, including the exasperating abortive collaboration with Dustin Hoffman that inspired Get Shorty. If the book lacks in any area, it’s in the personal as it approaches the present. Kushins gives good attention to Leonard’s religiosity early in the book, so what precisely turned him from a devout Catholic into a gentle agnostic in the 1970s? What was going on with his final marriage? We can only infer. That is, however, a minor problem in an otherwise thorough book. This was very close to being my favorite read of the year.

The Magic of Silence: Caspar David Friedrich’s Journey through Time, by Florian Illies, trans. Tony Crawford—A study of the life and work of German artist Caspar David Friedrich, whose Wanderer Above a Sea of Fog you certainly know even if you don’t recognize his name. Strangely structured but full of surprises and insights. Full review on the blog here.

Ian Fleming: The Complete Man, by Nicholas Shakespeare—Another of the big fat literary biographies I read this year. Not just thorough but exhaustive, Shakespeare having apparently tracked down everyone who had any connection whatsoever to Fleming and his family in order to get insight into the man. This is a brilliant portrait of Fleming, one that emphasizes the pressures and frustrations of his life—especially the domineering, manipulative mother, the wife who despised and mocked his work, and the onetime film producing partner who sued Fleming into an early grave. Fleming, in Shakespeare’s telling, was a gifted man who did great work in a variety of fields, not least in military intelligence, where he was one of a handful of people to know the whole secret of the Bletchley Park codebreaking program, but who lived a fundamentally unhappy life. Some of this was Fleming’s own doing, and the womanizing, drinking, and smoking eventually caught up with him. The Complete Man deepened my admiration of Fleming’s strengths and my appreciation of his work, but troubled me with his tony but self-destructive lifestyle. An absolutely worthwhile read if one can soldier through the genealogy and namedropping in the first chapters.

Henry V: The Astonishing Triumph of England’s Greatest Warrior King, by Dan Jones—A thorough, well-paced biography of Henry V that is both scholarly and approachable, though Jones’s decision to tell Henry’s story in present tense feels like an unnecessary gimmick. More importantly, however, Jones is evenhanded and fair to Henry and his time, avoiding some of the more popular modern misperceptions and false accusations (e.g. calling Henry a “war criminal”) and emphasizing his purposeful embrace of the divinely ordained duty of rule. A refreshing and worthwhile Late Medieval read.

The First Thanksgiving: What the Real Story Tells Us About Loving God and Learning from History, by Robert Tracy McKenzie—A good brief study not only of the First Thanksgiving and the people who experienced it—Pilgrims, Strangers, and Indians—but of how history works and how and why people remember and celebrate the things they do. It also implicitly conveys a truth I realized long ago: the true story of just about anything is always more complicated and much more interesting than the simplified versions people fight about. If I taught at a Christian institution I’d certainly assign this for US History both to give students the straight story on the Pilgrims—and how little we know about the meal mythologized as the First Thanksgiving—and to give them the rudiments of historiography. An excellent little book. I gifted my dad a copy on Audible and he greatly enjoyed it.

The UFO Experience, by J Allen Hynek—An interesting account of some genuinely inexplicable sightings from an astronomer who worked for years, through much frustration, as an expert consultant on the US Air Force’s Project Blue Book, and who sought to apply genuine scientific rigor to a phenomenon that was already evolving into folklore and crowdsourced mythology by the time he wrote this book. Also interesting as a window into a specific period of UFO history. Full review on the blog here.

Runners up:

• UFO: The Inside Story of the US Government’s Search for Alien Life Here—and Out There, by Garrett Graff—Readable, wide-ranging, but flawed overview of the government and academia’s attempts—honest and otherwise—to research and understand the postwar flying saucer phenomenon. Full review on the blog here.

• Van Gogh has a Broken Heart: What Art Teaches Us About the Wonder and Struggle of Being, by Russ Ramsey—Not quite as good as Ramsey’s first book on faith and art—which was easily my favorite non-fiction read last year—but a worthwhile read nonetheless, especially given its more specific focus on art and suffering.

• George Washington: The Founding Father, by Paul Johnson—A good short biography by one of the masters of the good short biography. Thorough (for its length) and, more importantly, evenhanded.

• Frederica: Colonial Fort and Town, by Trevor R Reese, illustrated by Peter Spier—A handy informative booklet about Fort Frederica on St Simons Island, with excellent drawings. Published in the late 1960s so some of the information may need updating from more recent research and archaeological work at the town, but still a solid introduction.

• Caspar David Friedrich: The Painter of Stillness, by Norbert Wolf—Good short overview of the life and work of Friedrich with many, many good color plates of his work. From a series by art publisher Taschen.

Best of the year: Poe vs Poe

This year I read a number of good biographies, several of which I’ve mentioned above, but two of the most enjoyable and with the greatest interest to me concerned Edgar Allan Poe. One book was older, one was brand new; one was shorter and one was long; but both were good. It was hard to select a favorite read this year—especially among a crop of good biographies of writers I love—so I’ve cheated and gone with both of these.

Edgar Allan Poe: His Life and Legacy, by Jeffrey Meyers, is a biography published in 1992. Meyers gives good attention to Poe’s life and work and is fair to this perplexing, exasperating, much-maligned man, especially in controversial personal episodes like his marriage to his first cousin Virginia, his spats with various literary celebrities, the controversy and mudslinging stirred up by the female literary elite of New York City in a strange episode concerning letters between Poe and an admirer, and most especially his tragic final year. Meyers also approaches Poe’s work with good critical sense, avoiding the autobiographical and especially Freudian readings that had been popular with Poe for quite some time. (Not long after Meyers’s book, Kenneth Silverman published Edgar A Poe: Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance, which is famous for going whole-hog into autobiographical and psychological interpretation. That way lies madness.) Short, readable, and comprehensive without being overwhelming, Meyer’s insight and good judgement make this one of the best Poe biographies I’ve read.

But I read Meyers in the first place while awaiting the release of Edgar Allan Poe: A Life, by Richard Kopley, which my wife graciously got me as a birthday gift. This is a massive new biography of the kind usually called “magisterial,” and lives up to the hype. Kopley is a well-established and accomplished Poe scholar and his mastery of every bit of material on Poe’s life and work is evident on every page. Like Meyers, he approaches Poe sympathetically but not uncritically, faulting him where appropriate—e.g. his self-sabotaging tendencies and his violent feuds with former friends—and defending him likewise. This is most evident in his treatment of Poe and race, which had not become the obsession that it is today when Meyers wrote. Kopley, despite some nods to present pieties, situates Poe in his time and place and in the landscape of opinion common at the time, rubbishing simplistic accusations of racism in Poe and his work. Kopley is primarily a scholar of literature and gives more detailed critical attention to Poe’s work than Meyers, including some new and helpful insight into Poe’s use of structure and poetic effects. This is a strong, weighty, exhaustive biography, but I did find Kopley relied heavily—perhaps too heavily—on some late sources for Poe’s friendships and personal character, things like the reminiscences of Poe’s best friend’s stepdaughter, which offered strangely detailed commentary on a man she had never met. Some explanation of the reliability of sources like this might have been helpful, but the book was already over 800 pages long and this is mostly a quibble.

So I got a two ten-gauge barrels of Poe to the face and loved every bit of it. While I appreciate and would recommend both biographies, I think for general purposes I prefer Meyers’s slightly older book as shorter, more approachable, less burdened with present-day anxieties, and with a bit more context and explanation for how Poe came to have the reputation he does today. But either could be a worthwhile read depending on what kind of emphasis you want in a study of Poe or just how much Poe you need.

Special mentions

Here are three favorite reads that don’t neatly slot into the fiction or non-fiction categories: all medieval, all poetic, all with some good scholarly apparatus and/or great artistic merit in translation.

The Divine Comedy, by Dante, translated by Michael Palma—The Divine Comedy is my favorite book, and since I have no Italian I have always read it in translation. That said, I have read enough about the original Italian, the perils of translation, and specific translators’ rationales for their approaches that I thought 1) I had seen everything and 2) that a translation of the Comedy that was both rhymed and faithful to Dante’s original tone and style was impossible. I’m glad to say I was wrong. Palma’s recent translation manages to capture Dante’s force, directness, and vividness while retaining his difficult rhyme scheme, brilliantly conveying not just the feel of the original but its most often neglected formal quality. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve read the Comedy but this is the most I’ve enjoyed it in some years. I reflected in more detail on Palma’s achievement with this translation here.

Waltharius, translated by Brian Murdoch, ed. by Leonard Neidorf—A good English translation—with the original Latin on the facing page—of a lesser-known Early Medieval epic concerning Walthari (Walter of Aquitaine), his beloved Hildigunda, their flight from Attila, and their confrontation with Walthari’s old friend and comrade-in-arms Hagano. I wrote about some of the moral and cultural aspects of the story, especially the binding (and sometimes entangling) role of “unchosen obligations,” here.

Old High German Poetry: An Anthology, trans. and ed. by Brian Murdoch—If you’ve read any medieval German literature it is almost certainly something like Parzival or the Nibelungenlied, Middle High German epics or Arthurian romances. German poetry came into full flower in the High Medieval period, but of course it had much earlier antecedents. This book collects a huge variety of fragmentary poetry in Old High German—bits of epic, devotional verse, charms, prayers, and more—with informative commentary and recommended reading. A great volume, though it is sad and frustrating to look at these fragments, palimpsests, and marginalia and infer how much else was lost to time. Ach, Weh!

Stay tuned

I’m thankful for so much good reading this year and hope y’all will find something in this post to read, enjoy, and think about in 2026. In the meantime, be on the lookout for the second half of this post—fiction, children’s books, and rereads—tomorrow morning, and have a fun and happy New Year’s Eve!