Commander Shears, living like a human being

William Holden as Shears at the beginning of The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957)

Last weekend I rewatched The Bridge on the River Kwai for the first time in several years, and introduced it to my older kids, too—a wonderful experience. As with Lawrence of Arabia, which we watched together earlier this year, they were immediately and totally involved in it even though they only understood some of what was going on.

As for me, I thrilled, as always, to the escalating conflict between Col Nicholson and Col Saito, the struggle to build the bridge, and the commando mission to destroy it. The final unavoidable intersection of all the major storylines, converging on the bridge itself, gives The Bridge on the River Kwai one of the most suspenseful and weighty endings I’ve ever seen. I first watched it in middle school and it still floors me. Like any good story it continues to unfold and reveal itself and, per Flannery O’Connor, the more I see in it the more it escapes me.

What I’ve seen more of in the film as I’ve gotten older is the conflict of worldviews at its heart. Each major character lives according to an ethic that butts up against one of the others’ with little room for negotiation or coexistence. Col Nicholson and Col Saito, both men of honor, discipline, and protocol, are more alike than they are different, though Nicholson stands more for an order born of law and Saito for order born of feudal force. Saito explicitly invokes bushido. Major Clipton, the surgeon, argues for compromise with both Nicholson and Saito along utilitarian, consequentialist lines, an ethic suited for triage but which doesn’t satisfactorily scale to civilizational war—something Clipton, the most self-conscious character in the film, seems to realize. Maj Warden, the adventurer, with his scientific background, thoughtlessness about the consequences of his mission, and his willingness to kill his own teammates in pursuit of an objective, seems firmly entrenched in an optimistic materialist pragmatism. This also proves inadequate, as the reactions of his Siamese bearers to his actions during the climax make clear.

But the character who really struck me this time around William Holden’s Shears. One of only two survivors of the original batch of prisoners who built the camp in the film, Shears is wounded while escaping, nursed back to health by locals, and miraculously reaches British territory, where upon recovering from his ordeal he is recruited by Warden to go back to the bridge and blow it up. During this return, in one of the film’s only moments of speechifying, Shears berates Warden:

You make me sick with your heroics! There's a stench of death about you. You carry it in your pack like the plague. Explosives and [cyanide]-pills—they go well together, don't they? And with you it's just one thing or the other: destroy a bridge or destroy yourself. This is just a game, this war! You and Colonel Nicholson, you're two of a kind, crazy with courage. For what? How to die like a gentleman, how to die by the rules—when the only important thing is how to live like a human being!

It’s a commonplace that The Bridge on the River Kwai is an antiwar film, and, if this is true—and I’m not convinced it is—where Clipton’s closing “Madness! Madness!” might serve as the film’s argument against war, Shears’s speech may serve as the film’s proposed alternative vision. If not honor, discipline, law, and civilization, then what? Living “like a human being,” a phrase that should resonate with our postmodern liberal humanist world.

“You and Colonel Nicholson, you’re two of a kind, crazy with courage. For what? How to die like a gentleman, how to die by the rules—when the only important thing is how to live like a human being!”

Very well—let’s take Shears at his word. What, to him, does it mean “to live like a human being?”

Shears is cowardly, deceitful, venal, obsequious to the Japanese and snide to his fellow prisoners, and willing to submit to any degradation and commit any underhanded act necessary to survive. He claims to be an officer but performs the manual labor required of him by his captors and, when questioned on this by Nicholson, cheerfully admits his contentment as “just a slave—a living slave.” We learn later that he stole a dead man’s rank in order to get preferential treatment.

And what does “living like a human being” look like when, having escaped the camp, Shears is finally free of the coercion of the enemy and the deprivations of the jungle? Stolen liquor and sex, apparently. And his relationship with one of his British nurses doesn’t stop him from starting something with one of the women on the commando mission, either.

Shears has become one of CS Lewis’s “men without chests.” Abandoning honor and law as antiquated absurdities or irrelevant superstitions and substituting something as nebulous as “humanity” leaves one with nothing but base animal appetites. And deprived of carnal gratification, one is left with only resentment and rage. Note that the greatest passion Shears exhibits in the entire film comes in the climax, when he urges one of the other commandos not to blow up the bridge ahead of schedule—Warden’s pragmatic solution—but to kill Nicholson. When the other commando fails, Shears’s last act is to try to kill Nicholson himself.

I think the filmmakers are sympathetic to Shears and, like the rest of the cast, Holden plays his character wonderfully, as a real man rather than the avatar of a philosophical system. But I also think the film stops well short of endorsing his vague, selfish humanism, especially since Nicholson and even Saito are presented with unironic sympathy. (I could, and probably should, write a post just on Saito.) They, and even the doubting Clipton, have a consistent vision of right action and the good life. Shears talks big about humanity but embraces dissipation. A familiar type.

The Bridge on the River Kwai is too great a work of art and too good a story to offer a pat solution to a problem like war, so don’t be deceived by Shears’s plausible, self-flattering, and self-justifying words.

Being shelfish

Alan Jacobs recently recounted the bookshelf woes that have afflicted him since the reopening of the Baylor Honors College following a remodel. During the wait, he learned that he had been allotted two bookcases: “When I pointed out that my then-current office had eight bookcases, all of which were full, I was told that, okay, I could have three in my new space.” And that was all the new office had room for.

The whole situation, while faintly comic, leads Jacobs to some wry and disturbing conclusions about the fate of books in modern academia, so be sure to read the whole post. But I couldn’t help noticing one detail in particular:

I don’t mind moving into a smaller office. My former one was bigger than I needed, and the new one is better situated and is a pleasant, comfortable space—I’ll be happy there. But when I moved in I was a bit surprised to find that the bookcases—and yeah, it would’ve been hard to fit in any more than three—are thin-industrial-steel things instead of the well-made cherrywood ones I had had in my former office. 

When I started my full-time job at my college seven years ago my office had one bookcase of precisely the industrial steel kind shown in Jacobs’s photo. I learned quickly that these bookcases are not only ugly but terrible for the books themselves. The finish of the steel creates friction when one slides a book in or out of place, and unless the shelf is packed full the books will lean and warp in ways I haven’t seen on traditional wooden shelves. I even had the covers of multiple paperback books delaminate in strange patterns suggestive of unaccustomed structural stress.

And did I mention that the steel shelves are ugly?

Fortunately I was able to request an extra bookcase, which was delivered promptly. I was glad to see it was a more traditional—if cheaply made—wooden case. I eventually moved two of my own IKEA Billy bookcases to my office. This gave me a total of four, which was almost enough. For a while.

When our department shifted one hall over a few years ago, the wooden shelf and my two Billy bookcases and an additional waist-high case from Walmart came with me and I ditched the steel one. I managed to requisition a second wooden bookcase as a replacement. This is the most satisfactory office library arrangement I’ve had so far, even with books stacked on top of all of them and a couple of boxes full on the floor by my filing cabinet and more waiting at home.

The unbending, unbeautiful, ultimately damaging utility of the steel bookcase is a pretty good accidental metaphor, especially when the scholar and the lover of literature doesn’t have enough.

Summer reading 2024

Though I’m thankful to say that, compared to where I was at the end of the spring, I’ve wrapped up the summer and begun the fall semester feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, my reading has still been unusually fiction-heavy. That’s not necessarily a bad thing—all work and no play, after all—but I do mean to restore some balance. I look forward to it.

“Summer,” for the purposes of this post, runs from approximately the first week or two of summer classes to today, Labor Day. Since there’s a lot more fiction and non-fiction this time around, I mean to lead off with the smattering of non-fiction reading that I enjoyed. And so, my favorites, presented as usual in no particular order:

Favorite non-fiction

While I only read a handful of non-fiction of any kind—history, biography, philosophy, theology, you name it—almost all of them proved worthwhile. They also make an unusually idiosyncratic list, even for me:

An Illustrated History of UFOs, by Adam Allsuch Boardman—A fun, wonderfully illustrated picture book about UFOs and all sorts of UFO-adjacent phenomena. Not deep by any means and only nominally skeptical, this book is surprisingly thorough, with infographic-style tables of dozens of different purported kinds of craft, aliens both cinematic and purportedly real, and brief accounts of some legendary incidents from Kenneth Arnold and the Roswell crash to Betty and Barney Hill’s abduction, Whitley Strieber’s interdimensional communion, and the USS Nimitz’s “flying Tic Tac.” If you grew up terrified to watch “Unsolved Mysteries” but also wouldn’t think of missing it, this should be a fun read. See here for a few sample illustrations.

Histories and Fallacies: Problems Faced in the Writing of History, by Carl Trueman—A concise, sensible, and welcoming guide to some of the pitfalls of historical research and writing. Trueman is especially good on the dangers of historical theories, which naturally incline the historian to distort his evidence the better to fit the theory. There are more thorough or exhaustive books on this topic but this is the one I’d first recommend to a beginning student of history. I mentioned it prominently in my essay on historiography at Miller’s Book Review back in July.

Three Philosophies of Life, by Peter Kreeft—A short, poetic meditation on three Old Testament wisdom books: Ecclesiastes and Job, two of my favorite books of the Bible, and Song of Songs, a book that has puzzled me for years. Kreeft presents them as clear-eyed dramatizations of three worldviews, the first two of which correctly observe that life is vain and full of suffering, with the last supplying the missing element that adds meaning to vanity and redemption to pain: God’s love. An insightful and encouraging short book.

Homer and His Iliad, by Robin Lane Fox—Who was Homer and what can we know about him? Was he even a real person? And what’s so great about his greatest poem? This is a wide-ranging, deeply researched, and well-timed expert examination of the Iliad and its author, thoroughly and convincingly argued. Perhaps the best thing I can say about Lane Fox’s book is that it made me fervently want to reread the Iliad. My favorite non-fiction read of the summer. Full-length review forthcoming.

Always Going On, by Tim Powers—A short autobiographical essay with personal stories, reminiscences of Philip K Dick, nuts and bolts writing advice, aesthetic observations, and philosophical meditations drawing from Chesterton and CS Lewis, among others. An inspiring short read.

The Decline of the Novel, by Joseph Bottum—An excellent set of literary essays on the history of the novel in the English-speaking world; case studies of Sir Walter Scott, Dickens, Thomas Mann (German outlier), and Tom Wolfe; and a closing meditation on popular genre fiction—all of which is only marginally affected by a compellingly argued but unconvincing thesis. I can’t emphasize enough how good those four case study chapters are, though, especially the one on Dickens. Full dual review alongside Joseph Epstein’s The Novel, Who Needs It? on the blog here.

Favorite fiction

Again, this was a fiction-heavy summer in an already fiction-heavy year, which was great for me while reading but should have made picking favorites from the long list of reads more difficult. Fortunately there were clear standouts, any of which I’d recommend:

On Stranger Tides, by Tim Powers—An uncommonly rich historical fantasy set in the early years of the 18th century in the Caribbean, where the unseen forces behind the new world are still strong enough to be felt and, with the right methods, used by new arrivals from Europe. Chief among these is Jack Chandagnac, a former traveling puppeteer who has learned that a dishonest uncle has cheated him and his late father of a Jamaican fortune. After a run-in with seemingly invincible pirates, Jack is inducted into their arcane world as “Jack Shandy” and slowly begins to master their arts—and not just knot-tying and seamanship. A beautiful young woman menaced by her own deranged father, a trip to Florida and the genuinely otherworldly Fountain of Youth, ships crewed by the undead, and Blackbeard himself further complicate the story. I thoroughly enjoyed On Stranger Tides and was recommending it before I was even finished. That I read it during a trip to St Augustine, where there are plenty of little mementos of Spanish exploration and piracy, only enriched my reading.

Journey Into Fear, by Eric Ambler—An unassuming commercial traveler boards a ship in Istanbul and finds himself the target of a German assassination plot. Who is trying to kill him, why, and will he be able to make it to port quickly enough to survive? As much as I loved The Mask of Dimitrios back in the spring, Journey into Fear is leaner, tighter, and more suspenseful. A wonderfully thrilling read.

The Kraken Wakes, by John Wyndham—Another brilliant classic by Wyndham, an alien invasion novel in which we never meet or communicate with the aliens and the human race always feels a step behind. Genuinely thrilling and frightening. Full review on the blog here.

Mexico Set, by Len Deighton—The second installment of Deighton’s Game, Set, Match trilogy after Berlin Game, this novel follows British agent Bernard Samson through an especially tricky mission to Mexico City and back as he tries to “enroll” a disgruntled KGB agent with ties to an important British defector. Along with some good globetrotting—including scenes in Mexico reminiscent of the world of Charles Portis’s Gringos—and a lot of tradecraft and intra-agency squabbling and backstabbing, I especially appreciated the more character-driven elements of this novel, which help make it not only a sequel but a fresh expansion of the story begun in Berlin Game. Looking forward to London Match, which I intend to get to before the end of the year.

LaBrava, by Elmore Leonard—A former Secret Service agent turned Miami photographer finds himself entangled in an elaborate blackmail scheme. The mark: a former Hollywood femme fatale, coincidentally his childhood favorite actress. The blackmailers: a Cuban exile, a Florida cracker the size of a linebacker, and an unknown puppet master. Complications: galore. Smoothly written and intricately plotted, with a vividly evoked big-city setting and some nice surprises in the second half of the book, this is almost the Platonic ideal of a Leonard crime novel, and I’d rank only Rum Punch and the incomparable Freaky Deaky above it.

Night at the Crossroads, by Georges Simenon, trans. Linda Coverdale—Two cars are stolen from French country houses at a lonely crossroads and are returned to the wrong garages. When found, one has a dead diamond smuggler behind the wheel. It’s up to an increasingly frustrated Inspector Maigret to sort through the lies and confusion and figure out what happened. An intricate short mystery that I don’t want to say much more about, as I hesitate to give anything at all away.

Epitaph for a Spy, by Eric Ambler—A stateless man spending some hard-earned cash at a Riviera hotel is, through a simple mix-up, arrested as a German spy. When the French police realize his predicament and his need to fast-track his appeal for citizenship, they decide to use him to flush out the real spy. Well-plotted, suspenseful, and surprising, with a great cast of characters. My favorite Ambler thriller so far this year. There’s also an excellent two-hour BBC radio play based on the book, which Sarah and I enjoyed on our drive back from St Augustine.

The Light of Day, by Eric Ambler—One more by Ambler, which I also enjoyed. Arthur Simpson, a half-English, half-Egyptian smalltime hood involved in everything from conducting tours without a license to smuggling pornography is forced to help a band of suspicious characters drive a car across the Turkish border. He’s caught—and forced to help Turkish military intelligence find out what the group is up to. Published later in Ambler’s long career, The Light of Day is somewhat edgier, but also funnier. It’s more of a romp than a heavy spy thriller, with wonderfully sly narration by Arthur himself. I greatly enjoyed it. Do yourself a favor, though, and read it without looking at any summaries, even the one on the back of the book. My Penguin Modern Classics paperback gave away a major plot revelation. I still enjoyed it, but have to wonder how much more I might have with that important surprise left concealed.

Runner up:

Swamp Story, by Dave Barry—A wacky crime novel involving brothers who own a worthless Everglades bait shop, potheads trying to make their break into the world of reality TV, a disgraced Miami Herald reporter turned birthday party entertainer, a crooked businessman, Russian mobsters, gold-hunting ex-cons, and a put-upon new mom who finds herself trying to survive all of them. Fun and diverting but not especially funny, which some of Barry’s other crime thrillers have managed to be despite going darker, I still enjoyed reading it.

John Buchan June

The third annual John Buchan June included five novels, a short literary biography of one of Buchan’s heroes, and Buchan’s posthumously published memoirs. Here’s a complete list with links to my reviews here on the blog:

• Castle Gay (1930)

• Salute to Adventurers (1915)

• Sir Walter Scott: His Life and Work (1925)

• The Free Fishers (1934)

• The Island of Sheep (1936)

• The House of the Four Winds (1935)

• Memory Hold-the-Door (1940)

Of this selection, my favorite was almost certainly The Free Fishers, a vividly imagined and perfectly paced historical adventure with a nicely drawn and surprising cast of characters. “Rollicking” is the word Ursula Buchan uses to describe it in her biography. An apt word for a wonderfully fun book. A runner up would be Salute to Adventurers, an earlier, Robert Louis Stevenson-style tale set in colonial Virginia.

Rereads

I revisited fewer old favorites this season than previously, but all of those that I did were good. As usual, audiobook “reads” are marked with an asterisk.

• Casino Royale, by Ian Fleming—Subject of this blog post on Fleming’s poetic attention to rhythm.

• The Whipping Boy, by Sid Fleischman—Read aloud to the kids this time. They greatly enjoyed it.

• Masters of Atlantis, by Charles Portis*—Subject of this blog post about the petty indignities that Portis repeatedly inflicts on his characters, what the kids call “cringe humor” nowadays.

Conclusion

I’m looking forward to more good reading this fall, including working more heavy non-fiction back into my lineup as I settle into the semester. I’m also already enjoying a couple of classic rereads: Pride and Prejudice, which I’ve been reading out loud to my wife before bed since early June, and Shadi Bartsch’s new translation of the Aeneid. And, of course, there will be fiction, and plenty of it.

I hope my summer reading provides something good for y’all to read this fall. As always, thanks for reading!

Master of the petty indignity

This week on my commute I took a break from podcasts to revisit Charles Portis’s oddest novel, Masters of Atlantis. Though I love and enjoy all of Portis’s books and Masters of Atlantis has much of what make his others so good, it has gradually sifted to the bottom for me. One of these days I might write a full review if only to sort out exactly what it is that doesn’t work for me.

In the meantime, one of the things that works brilliantly throughout Masters of Atlantis is Portis’s use of the “petty indignity.” Character after character is embarrassed and deflated in minor ways.

The funniest instances involve the main character, Lamar Jimmerson, perhaps the most passive protagonist of any novel I’ve read. After being duped into founding a secret society based on purported Atlantean arcana, Jimmerson spends most of the book in a state of gentle obliviousness, pottering around the Gnomon Society’s headquarters in Indiana, book in hand, and ballooning in size like Ignatius J Reilly at 1/100 speed. Every few decades, some shady type ropes Jimmerson into a scheme to bring Gnomon wisdom into the spotlight and establish it in its rightful place of influence.

These schemes usually involve politics. In 1942, Jimmerson is convinced to visit Washington, DC, where he believes he’ll give an important speech about America’s path to victory—following the esoteric geometric principles in the Gnomons’ Codex Pappus—and visit important leaders for one-on-one consultation. Jimmerson dutifully dresses in his ceremonial robes and poma, a goatskin dunce cap that signifies his office as master, and sets out.

The trip turns into a conga line of petty indignities. An overcrowded train means he has no berth to sleep in and he arrives in Washington already fatigued. As it turns out, his assistant has not actually contacted Congress or national broadcasters about hosting Jimmerson’s speech, and during their search for someone important to whom Jimmerson can impart his secret knowledge he gets lost. He wanders Washington until his robes are soaked in sweat and his flimsy sandals disintegrate. Everyone in the city gawks at him.

Portis captures the mood perfectly. Upon Jimmerson’s arrival:

Hotel rooms were all but impossible to get. At the last minute their congressman was able to secure them one small room at an older downtown hotel called the Borger. It was a threadbare place near the bus station. The trip was hot and tiring. At the Borger a midget bellboy called Mr. Jimmerson a “guy.”

“Is that guy with you?” he said, in his quacking midget voice, as Mr. Jimmerson, a little dizzy from his long train ride, veered off course in crossing the lobby.

“Yes, he is,” said Popper.

“Hey! Hey! Hey! Yeah, you! Where do you think you’re going? The elevator’s over here!”

And later, after getting lost:

At the zoo a bum called Mr. Jimmerson a “schmo.” The bum was reclining on the grass with a friend and said, “I wonder who that schmo is.” The other bum ventured no guess. Mr. Jimmerson passed the rest of the day there admiring the great cats and looking into the queer dark eyes of the higher apes. There was reckoning behind those eyes but the elegance of the triangle would forever escape them. In the lion house he found a dime. His corset would not allow him to bend over far enough to pick it up. He pushed it along with his foot while trying to form a recovery plan, and then a boy came along and grabbed it.

When Jimmerson finally arrives back at the hotel, he finds that his mission to pass his wisdom to the Federal government has been superseded. His assistant has met an even bigger crank, an ambidextrous Romanian alchemist, and the whole trip has been for nothing—the crowning indignity. Jimmerson ends the chapter a broken man, lying in bed thinking about picking up chocolate for his wife while his assistants natter about gold all night. A later run for the governorship of Indiana and a state senate hearing in Texas go about as well as you’d think.

What Portis does brilliantly is to prepare you to feel the offense of being called a “guy” or a “schmo” by strangers. Jimmerson feels constantly put on the spot. He is so tense, so anxious to complete his exalted mission, that every petty indignity finds its mark. His self-consciousness is his undoing.

But this is about as self-conscious as Jimmerson ever gets. As I mentioned, he spends most of the novel unaware of anything. Here, for contrast, is Ray Midge, narrator of Portis’s previous novel, The Dog of the South:

I ordered a glass of beer and arranged my coins before me on the bar in columns according to value. When the beer came, I dipped a finger in it and wet down each corner of the paper napkin to anchor it, so it would not come up with the mug each time and make me appear ridiculous.

I’ll admit here that this level of detail-oriented self-consciousness is uncomfortably familiar.

But what Ray Midge has that Lamar Jimmerson does not is self-regard. He’s self-deprecating about it throughout The Dog of the South but he can’t resist mentioning his many skills and talents. Jimmerson hardly thinks of himself, or much of anything but Gnomon triangles. Couple self-consciousness and self-regard and you’ve got a volatile mix. The petty indignity can embarrass a character like Jimmerson—who is motivated, when he has any motivation at all, by a pious sense of duty—but self-serving characters like Austin Popper, his assistant and general shyster, or Sir Sidney Hen, Jimmerson’s brother-in-law and chief rival, can be destroyed by it.

After all, destruction follows after pride, which is what we’re really talking about here.

And Portis exploits pride really well. He peopled all of his novels with blowhards, arrogant cranks, self-appointed grandees, and at least one false Messiah—all people who live permanently on their high horse—and all of his novels feature the humbling comeuppance. In that way Portis’s novels, in addition to picaresques, sharply observed local color tales, and comic shaggy dog stories, are also morality plays.

Careful where you aim that historical allusion

This week for my US History II students I’ve been preparing an annotated copy of William Jennings Bryan’s 1896 “Cross of Gold” speech. Giving the text of Bryan’s speech the kind of close scrutiny required to plop explanatory notes into it has brought two things to mind.

First, whether teaching Andrew Jackson, Bryan, or later populists, I emphasize to my students that populism is an attitude or style, not a set of policy prescriptions. Read “The Cross of Gold” closely and yeah, it’s true. The style, posture, or rhetorical mode of populist movements really never changes. But that’s a blog post of its own for… some other time. Probably never.

Second, Bryan, despite being a “Great Commoner,” was a learned man and could count on his audience to pick up a lot of literary, biblical, and historical allusions. Their density in this six-page speech is remarkable—just based on the notes I added to the text, I count three biblical allusions, two to modern French history, three to American history, and one each to Roman and medieval history. His use of these allusions can be pretty sophisticated, as when he suggests that coastal elites (see point one above) not only feel scorn for the poor but also nurse a blasphemous pride by putting the words of Proverbs 1:26 into their mouths.

But not all of these allusions do the work that Bryan seems to think they’re doing. Two in particular stand out.

Early in the speech, in describing the groundswell of populist support for policies like bimetallism and a federal income tax in the months leading up to the Democratic convention, Bryan says that the Populists “began the conflict with a zeal approaching the zeal which inspired the crusaders who followed Peter the Hermit.”

Peter did attract a surprising amount of enthusiastic support through his preaching in 1095, but his ramshackle following made it only as far as Anatolia before they met a smaller but better organized Seljuq army and were slaughtered.

Then again, maybe popular enthusiasm leading to an unsustainable movement that ends in disaster might actually be a good metaphor for the 1890s Populist Party. Not what Bryan was going for, though.

The other allusion comes in Bryan’s admittedly stirring call to defend the common people from the financial rapine of the elites. After invoking Andrew Jackson as a model, Bryan borrows a comparison from an old speech by Thomas Hart Benton, a comparison guaranteed to get my attention:

If you will read what Thomas Benton said, you will find that he said that in searching history he could find but one parallel to Andrew Jackson. That was Cicero, who destroyed the conspiracies of Cataline [sic] and saved Rome. He did for Rome what Jackson did when he destroyed the bank conspiracy and saved America.

As always, I hesitate to entertain a hypothetical, but I doubt Cicero would be flattered.

As with the earlier invocation of amateur crusading zeal, this comparison does work on a superficial level. Cicero was a novus homo, a new man, a commoner risen to senatorial rank and even the office of consul, and Catiline was a corrupt aristocrat. That’s pretty easily mapped onto American populist prejudices, especially since Cicero was able to detect and defeat Catiline’s conspiracy and preserve the Republic—something Cicero never let anyone forget. But…

Cicero also steadfastly opposed the political machinations of other demagogues who made recognizably populist appeals: Clodius early on and, later, Julius Caesar, godlike champion of the Populares. Cicero’s moderation and constitutionalism, Caesar’s resemblance to Andrew Jackson—a beloved general using his success and his popularity with the masses to flout the constitutional limits placed upon him—and Cicero’s eventual murder at the hands of Caesar’s loyal lieutenant Mark Antony not only complicate Bryan’s comparison but more or less rubbish it. If you know more than Bryan uses to make his point, that is.

A final example. This allusion to modern history would turn out, within months, to be grimly ironic:

Mr. McKinley was the most popular man among the Republicans; and everybody three months ago in the Republican Party prophesied his election. How is it today? Why, that man who used to boast that he looked like Napoleon, that man shudders today when he thinks that he was nominated on the anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo. Not only that, but as he listens he can hear with ever increasing distinctness the sound of the waves as they beat upon the lonely shores of St. Helena.

This is, I believe, known popularly as “asking for it.”

Historical allusions are useful, of course, but be sure to think them through. A point worth considering ourselves, since Bryan is often invoked now as a sloppy, imprecise parallel to certain present-day leaders.

YouTube plagiarism

I occasionally dip into the more earnest side of YouTube film criticism through video essays by channels like The Discarded Image, CinemaStix, Thomas Flight—recently recommended by Alan Jacobs here—and Like Stories of Old.

The latter posted an essay earlier this month called “This YouTuber Won’t Stop Plagiarizing,” with an enticing thumbnail of the Dude. After a week or so of YouTube’s algorithm pushing it to the top of my recommendations every day, I finally gave in and watched it.

It’s well put-together and presents damning evidence that a YouTuber calling himself Archer Green has been stealing everything from specific lines of narration to montages from other channels, and it approaches this vexing topic in the most charitable way possible. Certainly more charitably than I would.

While Like Stories of Old does a good job outlining the specific sins of the plagiarist and makes a strong case against such actions, there is one point that deserves more thought but was lost amidst the detail. To judge from the case made against him, Archer Green’s research for his videos consisted entirely of watching other YouTubers’ videos and taking notes on them. I don’t know how deeply Like Stories of Old or Thomas Flight dig when preparing a video, but I’m guessing it’s deeper than that.

Even if Archer Green hadn’t ended up stealing the words and ideas of other people, such a limited, circular, self-referential environment could only end up being intellectually inbred.

Indeed, this is certainly true of other parts of YouTube, where bad ideas or false information are endlessly recycled because, in pursuit of clicks, YouTubers copy and regurgitate sensationalistic material, which other YouTubers copy and regurgitate, which other YouTubers copy and regurgitate, and on and on. Witness this commercial pilot’s frustrated attempt to debunk aviation myths that have been repeated over and over by YouTubers and TikTokers. And that’s not his only video in this vein. Watch this, this, and this as well, and note how often the same misconceptions or outright lies come up.

This is not, of course, limited to YouTube. Check out this recent video—which I’ve already shown students—about a hoax Wikipedia article that was cited by a newspaper, whose citation then became supporting documentation for the fake Wikipedia page’s bibliography. The fake went undetected for over a decade.

If all governments naturally turn into monarchies over time, all online information environments turn into echo chambers or bubbles. Break out. Maybe start by reading a book on a topic rather than clicking the next video the algorithm feeds you.

The Novel, Who Needs It? and The Decline of the Novel

Speaking of the good old days and present decline, this summer I read two books about novels. Or rather, The Novel, in the abstract. The first was The Novel, Who Needs It? by Joseph Epstein and the second The Decline of the Novel, by Joseph Bottum. Though starting from a similar point and assuming both the embattlement and the necessity of The Novel, they are quite different books.

Epstein’s book, which is more of a loosely structured long-form essay on a series of interrelated topics, defends the traditional novel as an essential medium for the exercise of the imagination and the cultivation of moral character. It is quite good, though with its discursive structure and a few other limitations, about which more below, I felt it never cohered into a single compelling argument. So while I may agree with some of the points in The Novel, Who Needs It? more, it was Bottum’s Decline of the Novel that I found more thought-provoking and insightful.

Bottum builds on a thesis from his earlier book An Anxious Age, which looked at the cultural and psychological effects of the collapse of the shared mainline Protestant culture of the US, but narrows his view here to fiction. The novel, Bottum argues, is a fundamentally Protestant form given its interiority, individualism, and concern with personal transformation. Long fictional narratives served to playact the sanctification of souls in individual imaginations. They were a form through which “we tried to explain ourselves to ourselves.”

As such, the novel became the preeminent artistic medium for meaning and self-understanding in the modern world and enjoyed a three hundred-year reign, from the early picaresques and moralistic epistolary novels of Defoe and Richardson to the 800-page potboilers of the 1970s.

But no more. With the decline of a shared culture has come a decline of the narrative form that once fed and shaped its imaginations. Novelists today do not occupy the taste-maker or thought-leader status a John Updike or Norman Mailer once did, nor do the educated need to have read any recent novels to be in the know—what Bottum calls “the Cocktail Party Test.”

In the best chapters of the book, Bottum traces this decline through the careers of four novelists: Sir Walter Scott, Charles Dickens, Thomas Mann, and Tom Wolfe. Faced with a “thin” or disenchanted world, all four sought to infuse meaning into life through fiction, albeit in different ways. Scott sought meaning in stories of the past, inadvertently inventing—to all practical purposes—historical fiction. Dickens, a generation on, strove to make fiction meaningful as a vehicle for pursuing the truth, for uncovering and exposing evil. But both these ends proved inadequate, giving rise to the modernism exemplified, in Bottum’s argument, by Mann, who made the novel its own point—novels for novels’ sake. It may not provide meaning, but it’s all we’ve got—let’s fuss over the artistry. By the time of Tom Wolfe, who attempted the unblinking truth-telling of Dickens in the realistic modern mode of Zola, narrated with journalistic attention to detail and rendered in frenzied prose, neither he nor his characters had the old “vision of the good life” that could give his shambling novels power and his readers no longer believed in the novel enough to take him seriously. Indeed, Wolfe became an object of scorn among the literati, especially when he dared to tip the sacred cow of the sexual revolution in I am Charlotte Simmons.

Successive failed attempts to find meaning, maintenance of empty forms without belief, and finally disbelief and disavowal—this is a deconversion story, a loss of faith. A “failure of nerve,” as Bottum puts it, but ours, not that of the novel. “The novel didn’t fail us. We failed the novel.”

There’s a lot to this argument, and Bottum argues it well. Certainly much of it jibes with my own observations, such as the way novels now tend to mean more to rabid subcultures than to any broadly shared culture—with one or two important exceptions. But I remain unconvinced by the overall thesis. Something is missing, or simply off. His narrative of disenchantment and decline is persuasive, but not because of the evidence brought forward through Scott, Dickens, Mann, and Wolfe. Since reading it a few weeks ago I’ve continued to puzzle over this.

Other reviewers have pointed to The Decline of the Novel’s narrow Anglophone focus, imprecision in how Bottum uses the word Protestant, or over-selective case studies as problems. This criticism has some merit. Here are two reviewers, Darren Dyck at Christianity Today and science fiction author Adam Roberts, who both sympathize with Bottum’s book while raising important questions about his thesis. Both reviews are worth your time for these lines of criticism.

“Ultimately,” Dyck writes in his review, “it all depends on how you define novel.” Whatever other points I could raise, I suspect this is the real problem. The Novel, capitalized, in the abstract, is probably too protean and slippery a form to describe in enough detail to prove a thesis like this.

This becomes especially clear in the book’s final chapter, about popular fiction, in which Bottum points out the way children’s fiction has taken the place of grownup novels as tools of imaginative instruction. Novels do, then, still form part of a broadly shared culture as theatres of moral drama and objects of debate and controversy—it’s just the novels of JK Rowling, not National Book Award or Booker Prize shortlisters, that matter now.

That last chapter works as an important caveat to the narrative that makes up the bulk of the book. It is also one of the several things that make The Decline of the Novel better than The Novel, Who Needs It? For Epstein, popular and genre fiction, which get barely a mention, mostly serve to prepare readers for the exquisite, lip-pursing pleasures of Henry James and Proust. Per Dyck, Epstein’s definition of novel doesn’t seem to include much beneath these delights. Blunter reviewers than I have accused Epstein of snobbery. Though Bottum doesn’t fully explore the implications of his observations in his final chapter, that he meditated on genre fiction at all makes his argument more serious and more open to emendation.

The survival of something of the novel’s function, as Bottum sees it, in however limited and compromised a form in children’s and popular fiction inevitably brought Chesterton to mind. In his early essay “A Defence of Penny Dreadfuls,” Chesterton stuck up for the crude, sensationalistic popular fiction of his own time for precisely this reason:

One of the strangest examples of the degree to which ordinary life is undervalued is the example of popular literature, the vast mass of which we contentedly describe as vulgar. The boy’s novelette may be ignorant in a literary sense . . . but it is not vulgar intrinsically—it is the actual centre of a million flaming imaginations.

Which means that however much The Novel has declined, as long as good stories set young imaginations on fire and keep them lit, there is reason for hope. The task is to preserve and, when possible, keep writing good stories.

Despite the limitations imposed on it by its author’s standards, The Novel, Who Needs It? offers serious, impassioned support to good fiction, and despite my minor misgivings about its overall argument, The Decline of the Novel is worthwhile as a thought-provoking, incisive look at fiction and the role it plays—or perhaps played—in our culture. I hope, alongside both Epstein and Bottum, for the novel’s return.

Shame vs guilt in Homer

A helpful and important distinction in a chapter on glory and guilt in a “shame culture,” from Robin Lane Fox’s Homer and His Iliad:

Shame differs in two under-appreciated ways from guilt. It is not that guilt is a private, internal response, whereas shame always rests on the reactions of others: we can be privately ashamed of ourselves or secretly feel shame inside ourselves before an imagined onlooker. One cardinal difference is that we can be ashamed of something that is done or said by others to whom we relate, whereas we feel guilt only for what we ourselves have personally said or done. Teachers can be ashamed of what some of their pupils have done, but unless they instigated it, they do not feel guilt for it. Captains can be ashamed of some of their team members’ conduct, without feeling guilt, as they have not done it themselves. There is also a difference of scope and timing. We feel shame about something we might otherwise do and we are therefore inhibited from doing it. We feel guilt and have guilty thoughts only about something we have actually thought or done (or failed to do). The responses involve our sense of ourselves in different ways. When we feel guilt, we accept that we, our full selves, are fully responsible. We can feel shame, however, when we feel we have acted out of character, our true self, or fallen short of our best.

“[W]e can be ashamed of something that is done or said by others to whom we relate, whereas we feel guilt only for what we ourselves have personally said or done.”

As examples, Lane Fox brings forward Hector, who is ashamed of Paris and would be ashamed of himself if he hid safely inside Troy, Priam, who is ashamed of his surviving sons once Hector has been killed, and Achilles, who is ashamed of having let Patroclus die. None of these or any other character in the Iliad expresses what we would think of as guilt: “The Iliad has no word for it, but the absence may not be significant, because people can feel more than they express in words.”

Later in the chapter, Lane Fox answers this modern assumption by noting how, in contrast with some other historical aristocracies in which elites did not care what others thought of them, “Homer's heroes, by contrast, worry frequently what others may say of them, even people who are far inferior to themselves,” like Thersites. As if in answer to a modern assumption about the social aspect of shame, Lane Fox continues:

Are they, then, mere egoists? It is a mistake to regard shame as an egotistical or narcissistic response, as if all that matters in it is what others think of one. Shame is linked to the views of others, real or imagined, but it becomes an inhibition, ‘ashamed to’, or a reaction, ‘ashamed that’, only if these others’ views relate to actions and qualities which the person subject to shame values too.

Shame requires a set of shared virtues and the bonds of community. By contrast, virtually the only social dimension of shame that is recognized now is the act of “shaming”—as a verb—a person for something, which is automatically assumed to be wicked on the part of the shamer. (This, ironically, loads them with unforgivable guilt.) In a world with disintegrating community, the sense of shame imparted by the claims we make upon each other cannot be permitted. The assumption is that shame is a tool of malign control and we must be unbound, totally. And so the world demands shamelessness, with all that that entails.

More writing advice from Lewis

Years and years ago I collected lists of writing advice from three authors—CS Lewis, George Orwell, and Elmore Leonard—and shared them here, both for my own reference and for anyone else who might benefit from them. The Lewis advice came from two separate sources, a letter from the 1950s and his final interview in 1963, and came to eight interrelated points about clarity and precision.

This morning I came across the following, from a 1959 letter to an American schoolgirl collected in Letters of CS Lewis. I own this book, so I don’t know how I’ve missed this set of writing advice before, especially since it may be the best and most systematic that I’ve seen from Lewis. I reproduce it here in full:

It is very hard to give any general advice about writing. Here’s my attempt.

(1) Turn off the Radio.

(2) Read all the good books you can, and avoid nearly all magazines.

(3) Always write (and read) with the ear, not the eye. You shd. hear every sentence you write as if it was being read aloud or spoken. If it does not sound nice, try again.

(4) Write about what really interests you, whether it is real things or imaginary things, and nothing else. (Notice this means that if you are interested only in writing you will never be a writer, because you will have nothing to write about. . . .)

(5) Take great pains to be clear. Remember that though you start by knowing what you mean, the reader doesn’t, and a single ill-chosen word may lead him to a total misunderstanding. In a story it is terribly easy just to forget that you have not told the reader something that he wants to know—the whole picture is so clear in your own mind that you forget that it isn’t the same in his.

(6) When you give up a bit of work don’t (unless it is hopelessly bad) throw it away. Put it in a drawer. It may come in useful later. Much of my best work, or what I think my best, is the re-writing of things begun and abandoned years earlier.

(7) Don’t use a typewriter. The noise will destroy your sense of rhythm, which still needs years of training.

(8) Be sure you know the meaning (or meanings) of every word you use.

Excellent, generally applicable advice. I’d say his attempt succeeds. A few of my own glosses:

#1 is a good caution against technological or media distraction. Most of the advice from the last few years will have something about staying off Twitter or putting your phone in another room while writing. Same principle.

#2 is evergreen but perhaps even more important now thanks to the exponential proliferation of trash reading material on the internet. AI-generated textual “content” will only aggravate the problem. Read old books of a wide variety.

Speaking of Elmore Leonard, he’s a good illustration of #3. His dialogue always sounds natural and his third-person narration is so effortlessly conversational that one is not conscious, after a while, of reading it. Great writers can achieve this effect in a variety of ways, not necessarily Leonard’s.

My worst experience with #5 is simply leaving a detail out. Attentive readers of Griswoldville might note the word musketoon in the glossary at the back, though the word appears nowhere in the novel. Well, it was supposed to. One character, a cavalryman who encounters the narrator just before the climactic battle, rests a musketoon on his thigh in my head, but that detail either never made it onto paper or was trimmed and never reinserted in a better place. Fortunately this omission affects nothing in the scene negatively, but it has always bothered me—and cautioned me to make sure I know which details I’ve actually written.

This is where revision and having other people read your manuscript proves most helpful. When writing The Snipers, I had a clear, concrete picture of all of its locations in my head, but I didn’t effectively describe all of them on paper. JP Burten (whose second novel has just come out, by the way) pointed out that the geography of one early scene was totally unclear. I worked hard to fix that, and it strengthened that scene.

#8 has been on my mind a lot recently thanks to YouTube. Listening to—rather than watching—a lot of aspiring YouTube documentarians (I have specifically American YouTubers in mind) has made me wonder whether they know how English works or what words mean. Malapropisms abound. Most often they misuse words as they strain to sound more serious and intellectual than necessary. Basic attention to meaning is sacrificed for a pretentious (or portentous) tone. Which becomes self-defeating, in the manner of Michael Scott trying to use big words.

The mercenary aspect of seeking views by producing videos on the same handful of sensational stories—how many Dyatlov Pass documentaries does a man need?—also plays a role. Per #4, someone who isn’t interested in material for its own sake will not take the care over it that Lewis’s advice requires.

Bold old voices

This week’s episode of John J Miller’s Great Books podcast covers Casino Royale. An instant must-listen, as you can probably imagine. In answer to Miller’s standard opening question, “Why is X a great book?” guest Graham Hillard replies:

“1950s British mass market fiction is written to pretty much the same standard as 21st-century American literary fiction.”

I think it’s great for two reasons: it inaugurates one of the iconic characters in post-war literature, without dispute, and it is surprisingly excellent in its literary virtues, and by that I mean pacing, characterization, even sentence construction. I think I joked with you in an e-mail that Casino Royale would win a National Book Award if it came out today—that’s a slight exaggeration, but there really is something to the idea that 1950s British mass market fiction is written to pretty much the same standard as twenty-first-century American literary fiction. I absolutely think that if Casino Royale came out today, it would occasion massive coverage of the “bold new voice” variety.

Like the first sentences of Casino Royale, which Miller and Hillard go on to unpack, this is a solid opening. I’ve written about Bond creator Ian Fleming’s craftsmanship as a writer before, including at the basic level of sentence structure back in May.

But what struck me in this introduction was Hillard’s point about the generally high quality of mid-century British genre fiction. Having read Fleming for years and a bunch of Eric Ambler (crime and espionage thrillers) and John Wyndham (science fiction) over the last year, I had noticed this as well—author after author turning out brilliantly structured, beautifully and strongly written novels in accessible genres. What was in the water back then? After finishing Epitaph for a Spy and The Kraken Wakes this summer I set each down and considered what it must have been like, in the 1940s and 50s, to have books like these coming out regularly. Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive.

Two things occur to me to complicate my nostalgia:

First, high literary quality in genre fiction was not new at the time. If anything, the Flemings and Amblers were carrying on the good work of the Buchans who came before. Good writing is good writing regardless of whether or not it appears in a highbrow form. Respect it wherever it appears. (If anything, I increasingly like good genre writing more because in addition to good writing the author of a thriller, for instance, has to excite the reader.)

Second, is there a form of survivorship bias at work here? If we read only the good stuff left over from a period, it’s not because no one wrote junk at the time. After all, I’m a big believer in Sturgeon’s Law. And yet…

And yet, the gap in quality between the good genre fiction of Fleming’s time and ours is, in my experience, vast. Insuperable. Whatever it was—a more demanding public, tougher editors, skilled authors willing to use their skills simply to entertain, deeper education on the part of writer and reader, a lack of pretension among both—something is missing now.

The Kraken Wakes

One of my favorite discoveries last year was John Wyndham, an English author of sci-fi thrillers and an uncommonly skillful writer. Back around Christmas I read two of his most famous novels, The Day of the Triffids, in which a worldwide medical disaster turns into an apocalypse thanks to man-eating plants, and The Midwich Cuckoos, in which a small English village slowly figures out that it is the incubator of an otherworldly species’ young. I found these so brilliantly constructed, so subtle, and so absorbing that I got several more of Wyndham’s books with a Christmas gift card or two. I finally got to one of these last month: The Kraken Wakes.

This novel begins, like the other two, with an odd minor incident that the characters only realize later is the first forewarning of catastrophe. Mike and Phyllis Watson, young newlyweds and both reporters for the EBC, an upstart rival to the BBC, are honeymooning on an Atlantic cruise when they sight strange red dots in the sky. The brightly glowing vessels, which can’t be described in any particular detail by any witness and seem to radiate heat, draw closer to both the ship and the ocean before plunging into the water and disappearing. Mike and Phyllis report it as a curiosity, a brief notice to round out the evening news.

Then more of the lights appear. And more. They come out of the sky, dive under the ocean, and no witness ever sees one come back up.

By dint of having been there for one of the first sightings, Mike accidentally becomes a sought-after commentator on the flying red lights. A friend from the Admiralty shows Mike a chart of recorded sightings, which cluster over the deepest parts of the world’s oceans. Whatever this is, it’s not random. Scientists weigh in—and argue, and attack each other. Despite the controversy, no one knows what the lights are but after sightings all over the world, they stop. With their novelty and even their utility as the object of worry used up, the red lights become old news and the public moves on.

Then strange things start happening to the ocean. Vast clouds of mud from the ocean floor—specifically from the abyssal deeps where the glowing red lights had disappeared—cloud the major currents and disrupt fishing. Submarines and bathyspheres lowered to take a look are lost with their crews. Naval vessels explode and sink, and soon cargo ships and passenger liners start sinking. Most disturbingly, small settlements on out-of-the-way islands are found abandoned, their populations never to be seen again.

Mike and Phyllis, through the ups and downs of their journalistic careers and personal lives, witness much of this. And after joining the research team of a controversial scientist whose theories about the origins and goals of the undersea invaders are widely mocked but turn out to be correct more and more often, they become the first people to see and survive whatever is causing coastal populations to disappear. This scene—vividly rendered for the cover of the old Penguin paperback edition (see below)—is one of the most chilling and horrific in any of Wyndham’s books.

Finally, and seemingly too late, the world’s governments fight back. The coastal attacks stop. And the ice caps start melting.

While we haven’t lost our appetite for imagined apocalypse since Wyndham wrote in the 1950s and 60s, some threats have become passé. The large-scale alien invasion seems to be one. If any vision of the end of the world is bound to a former period of our culture, that one—with its fleets of flying saucers, desperate human armies, scientists fretting in labs, generals sweating in bunkers, and “Take me to your leader”—seems utterly inseparable from the early Cold War.

With The Kraken Wakes, which was published in 1953, Wyndham seems to have already sensed this emerging cliché and dodged it. His aliens are never seen and never once communicate with mankind. Their objectives can be inferred only after the fact, based on what they’ve already done, and don’t align with any understandable human goals. They remain alien throughout.

All of which keeps The Kraken Wakes surprising and original. These aliens prove canny and unpredictable and seem to have the upper hand until the very end.

But what keeps the novel’s story engaging, and is one of the most unusual things about it, is Mike’s narration. Wyndham presents the novel as Mike’s account, written down for a readership he may never know, of the catastrophes of the last several years and how and why society has collapsed into isolated bands hiding among islands that used to be hills. Technically, the overwhelming majority of The Kraken Wakes is told through exposition. But Wyndham structures these lengthy histories with crucial scenes of Mike and Phyllis’s work, travels, and personal life, and all of it is plausibly imagined and vividly written. The Watsons’ voyage from a flooded London to the Cotswolds by motor boat, finding their way using half-submerged steeples as landmarks and sleeping in the dry upper stories of abandoned houses, is an outstanding piece of post-apocalyptic writing all by itself. It’s a brilliant miniature of what Wyndham does at novel length in The Day of the Triffids.

My Modern Library paperback describes The Kraken Wakes as “an ingenious early example of climate fiction,” which is a modish thing to say but exactly wrong. The real, pervasive concern throughout the novel, as exemplified by Mike and Phyllis’s work for the EBC, is not climate change but journalism and public opinion. Reporters and governments live in a constant struggle not only with the submarine aliens but with a distracted public whose attention can only be attracted for more than a few minutes by novelty, outrage, or crisis.

Alexandra Kleeman, in a passage of her introduction blurbed on the back cover, is more perceptive. Focusing on a side character named Petunia, who has her own insistently held opinions about the aliens (it’s a Russian ploy), Kleeman suggests that Wyndham offers prescient insight into “anti-vaxxer disinformation and QAnon conspiracists.” Sure, maybe. But if so, Wyndham also correctly shows that this distrust cuts both ways. The government and military repeatedly attempt to control the flow of upsetting information and manipulate—some might say nudge—the public into compliance and approved opinions. But public opinion proves fickle, unpredictable, and intractable. Efforts to control it and save face for embarrassed governments and overconfident scientists don’t go well, something that will come as no surprise after the last few years.

There’s much more to The Kraken Wakes than its excellent writing and thematic insight. I haven’t even mentioned its humor, which is both wryly ironic and sometimes laugh-out-loud funny. Wyndham has great fun poking at Soviet pomposity, anti-capitalist paranoia, and Lysenkoism, among many other targets. And Wyndham, a master of the slow burn, uses his skill in building dread and foreboding to maximum effect.

But what is most important about The Kraken Wakes is that it is vividly imagined, thrilling, and surprising. Tastes in apocalypse—aliens, zombies, viruses, climate change—will shift and the literary establishment will politicize old books, but a good story well told will outlast both trends and politics. And the survival of storytelling beyond these and the apocalypse, as Mike’s narrative survives the floods, is a real reason for hope.

Vindicated by Dr Johnson

Back at the beginning of the summer I briefly meditated on great books that I’ve tried to read but simply can’t. I wrote in some detail about The Grapes of Wrath but also mentioned Paradise Lost, which I have started many times and never finished—a fact I always feel a little ashamed of.

Well, this week I started reading Joseph Bottum’s The Decline of the Novel, which is excellent so far, and in the introduction he included this passage from Samuel Johnson’s Lives of the English Poets:

“‘Paradise Lost’ is one of the books which the reader admires and lays down, and forgets to take up again. None ever wished it longer than it is.”

This has been precisely my experience, and if Samuel Johnson could say the same—with much more besides—I can feel a little better about this gap in my reading.

Addendum: Having read the portion of Johnson’s life of Milton in which Johnson assesses Paradise Lost on the merits, I find some of his criticisms precisely accurate and insightful—the allegorical figures don’t work, Adam and Eve’s situation is literally unimaginable, and Milton has set himself the impossible task of describing at length things that can’t be described—while others are more specious. Maybe what will finally propel me through Paradise Lost is the need to make up my own mind about these controversies. To justify the ways of Dr Johnson, that is.