After finishing my summer reading project, I wanted something light and fun. What I really wanted to read was The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark, but since I’ll be reading that soon enough for book club, I decided instead to read another of her books, Aiding and Abetting.
Aiding and Abetting recreates the true story of Lord Lucan, an English earl who, in an attempt to murder his wife, killed his children’s nanny instead and only severely wounded his intended victim. “Lucky” Lucan was pursued by the police from the time of the murder (1974) to the time of his declared death (1999), and despite frequent Lucan sightings, he consistently eluded capture with the help of his “aiding and abetting” aristocratic friends. Spark takes the barebones of this case to form the background of her darkly comedic tale of guilt, connivance, and retribution.
The start of the book finds Lucan visiting a famous Parisian psychiatrist, Hildegard Wolf, whose unorthodox method of psychoanalysis involves talking about herself for several visits before she asks the patient a single question. Lucan visits her for psychiatric help, but also for money, since as he ages his friends are dying and funds are running short. Lucan knows Wolf’s secret, that she was formerly Beate Pappenheim, a fraudulent stigmatic who used her fake wounds to solicit money in exchange for prayers and whose police warrant is still active. A game of cat-and-mouse between the fugitive felon and fugitive fraud ensues. Complicating matters is Lucan’s double, Walker, whom Lucan hired in Mexico to mislead the police, but who now insists on getting a bigger cut of the “aiding” and who also starts seeing Dr. Wolf for psychiatric guidance. Spark further introduces readers to Joe (one of Lucan’s original “aid- and abetters”) and Lacey (the daughter of one of Lucan’s helpers), who follow Lucan’s trail in order to interview him for the book Lacey is writing.
Joe and Lacy are not the most interesting characters, but they provide the author a decent device for “interviewing” Lucan’s supporters. Most of Lucan’s contacts do not claim friendship with him, nor do they know why they helped him. They think it poor form that Lucan never stood trial, but they also almost unanimously believe in his innocence. (An interesting point here is they point out that Lucan didn’t succeed in killing his wife, in almost every case passing over the nanny’s death as unfortunate, but also inconsequential.) Even Joe and Lacey are unsure whether they would turn Lucan in if they found him, and the chase forms the circumstances necessary for their romance. In other words, the purpose of their pursuit becomes excitement and entertainment rather than justice or information.
And this seems to be part of Spark’s point. The particulars of the Lucan case are known by almost everyone in the book. He has a kind of celebrity because of his crime, and in a way those entertained by Lucan’s exploits are involved in the “aiding and abetting” themselves. Keeping newspaper clippings, monitoring the news, giving the case attention can be—and in the case of the people in this book, often is—a wish for Lucan to evade capture in order to prolong the entertainment. The reader, too, is implicated in this—without Lucan’s running, there would be no plot, no basis for the work of fiction being read. The characters are interesting only while they are doing, even though their activities are less than wholesome.
Aiding and Abetting is entertaining and even humorous, but not in a conventional way. Spark’s humor is more a humor of the gaps: what she isn’t saying is funnier than what she is saying, which illustrates her great gift of restraint. Behind her humor is a decidedly moral purpose; the evil and unrepentant are punished in a way Dante would approve of, and those not beyond repentance are left to their screaming consciences. I like Spark’s writing style, which is often described as sparse (an apt description). Her whole way of writing is filled with restraint, giving the reader only what is necessary. I enjoy this because it allows my imagination to run free within the boundaries of the story. Spark’s style fits especially well with the story of Lord Lucan, about whom few details are known after his initial escape.
I don’t think Aiding and Abetting is as good as The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, but it was an enjoyable read nonetheless, and it still has me thinking about its themes. I will definitely seek out Muriel Spark’s other books in the future.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Manalive Review
Murderer. Thief. Deserter. Polygamist. Innocent?
Manalive begins in a way similar to Dr. Seuss’s The Cat in the Hat, only the tenants of Mrs. Duke’s boarding house have no rainy-day excuse for their inactivity. The day is nearing its completion, and the boarders are divided into male and female, the females languishing inside, the males in the garden, neither group saying or doing much of anything. Into this "dead" setting blows (literally) Innocent Smith, a man so fully alive that those he comes in contact with seem like statues compared to him. (On his arrival at the boarding house, he climbs a tree in pursuit of a hat, and one of the boarders says, "I never even noticed that tree before." This is typical of the experiences to follow.)
After Innocent’s arrival, "there was a crazy sense that it was everybody's birthday." One by one, Innocent’s contagious life revives most of the boarding house’s tenants. He has a picnic on the roof, begins a boarding-house habadashery, and encourages those with musical talent in their concerts. Every latent talent, desire, or interest comes alive in the presence of Innocent Smith, which explains the romantic pairings that soon result. Innocent himself proposes to Mary Grey, one of the boarders.
Innocent’s proposal prompts one of the tenants to suspect that Innocent is insane. She calls Drs. Warner and Pym to investigate. They arrive, notifying the boarders that Innocent Smith is not who he seems to be. They claim to have evidence that Innocent is one of the most dangerous, bloodthirsty criminals in all of England and deserves nothing short of being locked away for life. They charge him with murder, theft, abandonment, and polygamy. The boarders must decide whom to believe: the new arrivals with their evidence or themselves and their own experience. What results is Mrs. Duke’s boarding house’s first court case, with reason mitigating the claims of science and faith.
Manalive is a story of a holy fool, one who seems upside-down, but is really the only one right-side-up. Innocent Smith “breaks the conventions but keeps the commandments,” and for this reason it is easy for those around him to speculate that he is insane (especially those who like their topsy-turvydom).
Chesterton does an excellent job, particularly in part one, of creating a character that is fully alive. One of my professors said it’s very easy to create a villain who steals the show; it is much harder to create a good character with equal force and gravity. Chesterton, I believe, succeeds in this regard in his portrayal of Innocent Smith. Smith not only draws the characters in the book to him, but the reader as well. Perhaps the reason for this is Smith’s root in Chestertonian philosophy, principles, and paradox. Innocent Smith seems an aggregate of Chesterton’s most famous paradoxes, even embodying the novel Chesterton said in Orthodoxy he should like to write. Thus, Smith exudes the joy and dizzying logic that one comes to expect from Chesterton (more famously displayed in his characters Father Brown and Sunday).
Manalive is at times slow (some scenes in part two dragged on a bit longer than I would have preferred) and at times predictable, but its originality in spite of these criticisms is enough to recommend it. Chesterton has written a truth-telling story that is a joy to read. It provides a reminder of something Chesterton once said: “A dead thing can go with the stream…but only a living thing can go against it.”
Manalive begins in a way similar to Dr. Seuss’s The Cat in the Hat, only the tenants of Mrs. Duke’s boarding house have no rainy-day excuse for their inactivity. The day is nearing its completion, and the boarders are divided into male and female, the females languishing inside, the males in the garden, neither group saying or doing much of anything. Into this "dead" setting blows (literally) Innocent Smith, a man so fully alive that those he comes in contact with seem like statues compared to him. (On his arrival at the boarding house, he climbs a tree in pursuit of a hat, and one of the boarders says, "I never even noticed that tree before." This is typical of the experiences to follow.)
After Innocent’s arrival, "there was a crazy sense that it was everybody's birthday." One by one, Innocent’s contagious life revives most of the boarding house’s tenants. He has a picnic on the roof, begins a boarding-house habadashery, and encourages those with musical talent in their concerts. Every latent talent, desire, or interest comes alive in the presence of Innocent Smith, which explains the romantic pairings that soon result. Innocent himself proposes to Mary Grey, one of the boarders.
Innocent’s proposal prompts one of the tenants to suspect that Innocent is insane. She calls Drs. Warner and Pym to investigate. They arrive, notifying the boarders that Innocent Smith is not who he seems to be. They claim to have evidence that Innocent is one of the most dangerous, bloodthirsty criminals in all of England and deserves nothing short of being locked away for life. They charge him with murder, theft, abandonment, and polygamy. The boarders must decide whom to believe: the new arrivals with their evidence or themselves and their own experience. What results is Mrs. Duke’s boarding house’s first court case, with reason mitigating the claims of science and faith.
Manalive is a story of a holy fool, one who seems upside-down, but is really the only one right-side-up. Innocent Smith “breaks the conventions but keeps the commandments,” and for this reason it is easy for those around him to speculate that he is insane (especially those who like their topsy-turvydom).
Chesterton does an excellent job, particularly in part one, of creating a character that is fully alive. One of my professors said it’s very easy to create a villain who steals the show; it is much harder to create a good character with equal force and gravity. Chesterton, I believe, succeeds in this regard in his portrayal of Innocent Smith. Smith not only draws the characters in the book to him, but the reader as well. Perhaps the reason for this is Smith’s root in Chestertonian philosophy, principles, and paradox. Innocent Smith seems an aggregate of Chesterton’s most famous paradoxes, even embodying the novel Chesterton said in Orthodoxy he should like to write. Thus, Smith exudes the joy and dizzying logic that one comes to expect from Chesterton (more famously displayed in his characters Father Brown and Sunday).
Manalive is at times slow (some scenes in part two dragged on a bit longer than I would have preferred) and at times predictable, but its originality in spite of these criticisms is enough to recommend it. Chesterton has written a truth-telling story that is a joy to read. It provides a reminder of something Chesterton once said: “A dead thing can go with the stream…but only a living thing can go against it.”
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
A Canticle for Leibowitz
In the twenty-sixth century, the world is barren, having been destroyed by the “Flame Deluge,” a worldwide nuclear holocaust in the twentieth century that leaves few survivors. Those who survive decide to end the possibility of further destruction: They burn all books, all knowledge, all possessors of knowledge, and forget their past. This becomes known as the “Simplification.” But not everyone is interested in forgetting. In the midst of the Simplification, I.E. Leibowitz, one of the fathers of nuclear weapons and a recent convert to Christianity, forms a monastic order to protect knowledge from the “simpletons.” It is in the process of memorizing and booklegging (a book rescuing and smuggling operation) that Leibowitz is martyred for his faith, leaving his order to persevere without him.
All this comes out gradually through the story of A Canticle for Leibowitz. The reader is transported to this postapocalyptic world without being given a roadmap; the reader must discover the truth behind the events as the story unfolds. For example, there are passing references made to new Church encyclicals dealing with care for the mutant, documents that sound like Scripture but are really attempts by the Church to understand the events of the past (e.g., there are frequent references to the demon Fallout), and, after 600 years have passed, the reader is left to wonder what is truth and what is legend about Leibowitz (now Blessed Leibowitz, soon to be Saint Leibowitz). Luckily for the reader, Walter M. Miller is an excellent guide through this unfamiliar territory, and his writing is engaging enough to keep the reader intrigued.
Miller structures his story in three parts (Fiat Homo, Fiat Lux, and Fiat Voluntas Tua [“Let him become man,” “Let there be light,” and “Thy will be done,” respectively), each part taking place six hundred years after the prior part. The structure works well, especially considering that the parts are three sixes, representing the number of man (who is responsible—twice!—for destroying the world). The three parts are snapshots rather than a flowing narrative, but there are recurring symbols, characters, and events that give the novel a structural unity that makes the whole greater than the sum of its parts. One of the more interesting aspects of the book is that the reader sees events as they are happening but also gets to see how six hundred years bury or soften the truth through legend and midrash.
Perhaps the most interesting point of structure is who Miller chooses to set at the center of the story: the Church. One of the only institutions to survive the Flame Deluge is the Roman Catholic Church, which, Rome having been destroyed, is forced to start again at a new location in the U.S. The story is a testament to how the church has adapted through world history, dealing with problems as they arise. Reference is made to new Church edicts focusing on the treatment of mutants (no doubt a result of the radiation from the Flame Deluge) or the restoration of “ancient” documents, and new saints are canonized. At one point, a priest debates whether a woman’s second head (whom she names “Rachel”) should receive baptism. In many respects, the Church keeps doing what it has done, even in the face of such catastrophic destruction. Miller gives the story an air of authenticity by frequently interjecting Latin. (This can be frustrating at times, especially if you, like me, don’t speak Latin. I found this page a bit too late in my reading.) The story is bathed in religious imagery that may be lost to some modern readers unfamiliar with the Bible, but for the reader of faith, this infuses the story with a richer, broader meaning and application.
Within the structure of the story, the interaction between the Church and the outside world changes. The opinion of the Church changes from veneration to indifference to sycophancy (because of the Order’s holding all the documents from the past) to, ultimately, opposition. The seeds of the final feeling of opposition are sown in the second section, when a new, “scientific” theory is introduced that man after the Flame Deluge was not created in the image of God, but created by prior men in their own image. Thus, the scientific community tries to sever the connection between God and man, cutting also the ties to morality. (The effects of this are very apparent in the last section, where the Church, while present, is not seen as the authority it once was.) There is a very poignant scene in which the abbot of the Order of Saint Leibowitz forbids a woman and her child from accepting the government-sanctioned red ticket, which qualifies them for a mercy killing due to radiation overdose. A police officer sees this and “overrules” the abbot, forcing him to stand back as the woman enters the assisted suicide camp. The officer then chides the abbot for being so unmerciful. (I couldn't help but see the parallel in our own day, when holding to strict morality is seen as prudery at best and tyranny at worst.)
The story flounders at some parts, namely the beginning of each section, mostly because the reader is thrust into the narrative without any guidance as to what the world is like (but, as mentioned before, while this is confusing, it is also one of the novel’s strengths). At some points, it is difficult to understand the political climate of the time because of a hazy geography. Also, the character names are true to the sci-fi genre, that is to say, a bit cheesy at times. Still, the strengths of A Canticle for Leibowitz make it a worthwhile read, and the confusion at first and the apt commentary on modern society make it ripe material for rereading.
All this comes out gradually through the story of A Canticle for Leibowitz. The reader is transported to this postapocalyptic world without being given a roadmap; the reader must discover the truth behind the events as the story unfolds. For example, there are passing references made to new Church encyclicals dealing with care for the mutant, documents that sound like Scripture but are really attempts by the Church to understand the events of the past (e.g., there are frequent references to the demon Fallout), and, after 600 years have passed, the reader is left to wonder what is truth and what is legend about Leibowitz (now Blessed Leibowitz, soon to be Saint Leibowitz). Luckily for the reader, Walter M. Miller is an excellent guide through this unfamiliar territory, and his writing is engaging enough to keep the reader intrigued.
Miller structures his story in three parts (Fiat Homo, Fiat Lux, and Fiat Voluntas Tua [“Let him become man,” “Let there be light,” and “Thy will be done,” respectively), each part taking place six hundred years after the prior part. The structure works well, especially considering that the parts are three sixes, representing the number of man (who is responsible—twice!—for destroying the world). The three parts are snapshots rather than a flowing narrative, but there are recurring symbols, characters, and events that give the novel a structural unity that makes the whole greater than the sum of its parts. One of the more interesting aspects of the book is that the reader sees events as they are happening but also gets to see how six hundred years bury or soften the truth through legend and midrash.
Perhaps the most interesting point of structure is who Miller chooses to set at the center of the story: the Church. One of the only institutions to survive the Flame Deluge is the Roman Catholic Church, which, Rome having been destroyed, is forced to start again at a new location in the U.S. The story is a testament to how the church has adapted through world history, dealing with problems as they arise. Reference is made to new Church edicts focusing on the treatment of mutants (no doubt a result of the radiation from the Flame Deluge) or the restoration of “ancient” documents, and new saints are canonized. At one point, a priest debates whether a woman’s second head (whom she names “Rachel”) should receive baptism. In many respects, the Church keeps doing what it has done, even in the face of such catastrophic destruction. Miller gives the story an air of authenticity by frequently interjecting Latin. (This can be frustrating at times, especially if you, like me, don’t speak Latin. I found this page a bit too late in my reading.) The story is bathed in religious imagery that may be lost to some modern readers unfamiliar with the Bible, but for the reader of faith, this infuses the story with a richer, broader meaning and application.
Within the structure of the story, the interaction between the Church and the outside world changes. The opinion of the Church changes from veneration to indifference to sycophancy (because of the Order’s holding all the documents from the past) to, ultimately, opposition. The seeds of the final feeling of opposition are sown in the second section, when a new, “scientific” theory is introduced that man after the Flame Deluge was not created in the image of God, but created by prior men in their own image. Thus, the scientific community tries to sever the connection between God and man, cutting also the ties to morality. (The effects of this are very apparent in the last section, where the Church, while present, is not seen as the authority it once was.) There is a very poignant scene in which the abbot of the Order of Saint Leibowitz forbids a woman and her child from accepting the government-sanctioned red ticket, which qualifies them for a mercy killing due to radiation overdose. A police officer sees this and “overrules” the abbot, forcing him to stand back as the woman enters the assisted suicide camp. The officer then chides the abbot for being so unmerciful. (I couldn't help but see the parallel in our own day, when holding to strict morality is seen as prudery at best and tyranny at worst.)
The story flounders at some parts, namely the beginning of each section, mostly because the reader is thrust into the narrative without any guidance as to what the world is like (but, as mentioned before, while this is confusing, it is also one of the novel’s strengths). At some points, it is difficult to understand the political climate of the time because of a hazy geography. Also, the character names are true to the sci-fi genre, that is to say, a bit cheesy at times. Still, the strengths of A Canticle for Leibowitz make it a worthwhile read, and the confusion at first and the apt commentary on modern society make it ripe material for rereading.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
So Brave, Young, and Handsome
I feel lucky to be one of the last to find out about Leif Enger's Peace Like a River . My initial thought after finishing that book was, "Wow.
That was great." My second thought was, "Has he written anything else?"
The reason I call myself lucky is because I didn't have to wait so long for Enger's second book. So Brave, Young, and Handsome was released April 22, 2008. It's not often that I'm on the cutting edge of the book world: Most of my favorite authors have been dead for some time, and I rarely buy new books. But there was something in Peace Like a River that captured me and compelled me to get Enger's new book.
The plot goes something like this: An aging train robber decides to head west before the end of his life to make amends with his estranged wife. Coming along for the journey is his unlikely friend, the one-hit-wonder writer Monte Becket, whose first book was a runaway success, but now he feels a failure, having used up all the "medicine" in his first effort. The two travel together, joined by the impetuous Hood Roberts, a would-be cowboy in a world where cowboys are fast becoming extinct, and pursued by the undaunted Charles Siringo, an ex-Pinkerton agent trying to relive his glory days (and possibly seek revenge?).
At first, I thought the characters had cheesy names: Monte Becket. Glendon Hale. Redstart. Hood Roberts. Royal Davies. Blue. But each person's name, like many biblical names, says something about them. Most of the characters also have aliases that are employed at different times throughout the story, and at that point, the names become very important (especially in a beautiful scene at the end that depicts the importance of names before God). And, as Redstart, Becket's son, says, you have power over a person if you know that person's name. (A side note: I also found out that Charles Siringo is a real real person, and his memoirs are also real.)
The path to reconciliation is a hard one. At first, Becket is ignorant of Hale's train-robbing past. When he finds out, he wonders that he continues along the trail and avoids the temptations to return to his wife. In fact, it's somewhat unclear why Becket does continue with Hale. The first image we have of Glendon Hale is his rowing upriver—going against the current—standing up as he rows. Monte Becket is his
opposite: You'd find him sitting in the boat without a paddle—wherever the current goes, he follows.
This leads Becket into the company of Siringo. Glendon enjoins Becket to return to his wife, which he agrees to do, but is instead "captured" by Charles Siringo, who forces him to travel with him in order to find Glendon. It is an unlikely team-up, but their varying personalities—Siringo the take-charge and Becket the go-with-the-flow type—and similar avocations (both being writers on the side) makes their travels together interesting, to say the least. I especially enjoyed their conversations about writing.
The story has many twists and turns, but it ultimately reaches an uneasy climax with Glendon face to face with his former wife, who has moved on with her life and remarried. I call it an "uneasy climax" because their reunion is not a one-moment event. It isn't that Glendon receives what he seeks (or is rejected) in an instant and the story ends. Glendon instead stays, with the permission of Blue's abundantly gracious husband, on Blue's property, waiting for the grace and forgiveness he so desperately needs, or waiting to be turned away with finality. It is ultimately an act that would seem to turn Glendon away from Blue that results in their reconciliation (which is a paradox of grace, that we find it when it seems we would be least likely to).
The story is told from Monte Becket's perspective, and thus it is full of literary allusions and lofty vocabulary (which I found different from the narrator in Peace Like a River). Glendon Hale is implicitly and explicitly compared to both Peter Pan and Don Quixote, both apt comparisons. Glendon Hale is in many ways quixotic: He is living in a world in which the glory of the old west is coming to a close under the rise of technological innovation, and his quest is a "quest of honor," of seemingly little value to what is going on around him. But he is like Peter Pan in that, even in this changing world, he is the unaging spirit of youth, sprightly even in his advanced years. This is contrasted to Charles Siringo, who, driven by resentment and reputation, seems nothing more than old bones and leathery skin. Having nothing to live for but immortality, he shows his age through every wrinkle of his face. He is like Javert, inexorably tracking Glendon even when his reason for doing so is unclear to himself. There is no room in him for grace.
The book is fairly fast-paced, though not in a traditional sense (i.e., the plot is not convoluted and mysterious to keep the reader engrossed). What keeps the reader reading is attachment to the vivid characters. The chapters are all very short (attributed to the galloping, page-turner nature of old westerns [an alternate theory is that each chapter is around 1,000 words, the number Becket vows to write each day until his book is finished]). Most chapters end on a cliffhanger, but the suspense at the end of the chapter is not of the kind manufactured by withholding necessary information. Instead, the chapter endings generate a natural curiosity about the characters and the events that will befall them next. Enger writes the story in such a way that it is hard to put down.
So Brave, Young, and Handsome is not about the unbelievable, at times fantastic, miracles of life, but is more about the subtle miracles that happen in our everyday lives—the miracles of love, fidelity, friendship, forgiveness, and grace. None of the characters seem deserving of any of these, but it is the divine nature of the Giver that allows them to be recipients of the gifts. Because of the subtlety, the book does not seem as grand in scale as Enger's last book—and it isn't. There aren't as many powerful images that stick with the reader upon finishing. But rather than this being a step backward, So Brave, Young, and Handsome seems more a step to the side: It is a beautiful book in its own right, and it shows that there is beauty even in the seemingly mundane. Grace is within everyone's reach, if only they would respond.
That was great." My second thought was, "Has he written anything else?"
The reason I call myself lucky is because I didn't have to wait so long for Enger's second book. So Brave, Young, and Handsome was released April 22, 2008. It's not often that I'm on the cutting edge of the book world: Most of my favorite authors have been dead for some time, and I rarely buy new books. But there was something in Peace Like a River that captured me and compelled me to get Enger's new book.
The plot goes something like this: An aging train robber decides to head west before the end of his life to make amends with his estranged wife. Coming along for the journey is his unlikely friend, the one-hit-wonder writer Monte Becket, whose first book was a runaway success, but now he feels a failure, having used up all the "medicine" in his first effort. The two travel together, joined by the impetuous Hood Roberts, a would-be cowboy in a world where cowboys are fast becoming extinct, and pursued by the undaunted Charles Siringo, an ex-Pinkerton agent trying to relive his glory days (and possibly seek revenge?).
At first, I thought the characters had cheesy names: Monte Becket. Glendon Hale. Redstart. Hood Roberts. Royal Davies. Blue. But each person's name, like many biblical names, says something about them. Most of the characters also have aliases that are employed at different times throughout the story, and at that point, the names become very important (especially in a beautiful scene at the end that depicts the importance of names before God). And, as Redstart, Becket's son, says, you have power over a person if you know that person's name. (A side note: I also found out that Charles Siringo is a real real person, and his memoirs are also real.)
The path to reconciliation is a hard one. At first, Becket is ignorant of Hale's train-robbing past. When he finds out, he wonders that he continues along the trail and avoids the temptations to return to his wife. In fact, it's somewhat unclear why Becket does continue with Hale. The first image we have of Glendon Hale is his rowing upriver—going against the current—standing up as he rows. Monte Becket is his
opposite: You'd find him sitting in the boat without a paddle—wherever the current goes, he follows.
This leads Becket into the company of Siringo. Glendon enjoins Becket to return to his wife, which he agrees to do, but is instead "captured" by Charles Siringo, who forces him to travel with him in order to find Glendon. It is an unlikely team-up, but their varying personalities—Siringo the take-charge and Becket the go-with-the-flow type—and similar avocations (both being writers on the side) makes their travels together interesting, to say the least. I especially enjoyed their conversations about writing.
The story has many twists and turns, but it ultimately reaches an uneasy climax with Glendon face to face with his former wife, who has moved on with her life and remarried. I call it an "uneasy climax" because their reunion is not a one-moment event. It isn't that Glendon receives what he seeks (or is rejected) in an instant and the story ends. Glendon instead stays, with the permission of Blue's abundantly gracious husband, on Blue's property, waiting for the grace and forgiveness he so desperately needs, or waiting to be turned away with finality. It is ultimately an act that would seem to turn Glendon away from Blue that results in their reconciliation (which is a paradox of grace, that we find it when it seems we would be least likely to).
The story is told from Monte Becket's perspective, and thus it is full of literary allusions and lofty vocabulary (which I found different from the narrator in Peace Like a River). Glendon Hale is implicitly and explicitly compared to both Peter Pan and Don Quixote, both apt comparisons. Glendon Hale is in many ways quixotic: He is living in a world in which the glory of the old west is coming to a close under the rise of technological innovation, and his quest is a "quest of honor," of seemingly little value to what is going on around him. But he is like Peter Pan in that, even in this changing world, he is the unaging spirit of youth, sprightly even in his advanced years. This is contrasted to Charles Siringo, who, driven by resentment and reputation, seems nothing more than old bones and leathery skin. Having nothing to live for but immortality, he shows his age through every wrinkle of his face. He is like Javert, inexorably tracking Glendon even when his reason for doing so is unclear to himself. There is no room in him for grace.
The book is fairly fast-paced, though not in a traditional sense (i.e., the plot is not convoluted and mysterious to keep the reader engrossed). What keeps the reader reading is attachment to the vivid characters. The chapters are all very short (attributed to the galloping, page-turner nature of old westerns [an alternate theory is that each chapter is around 1,000 words, the number Becket vows to write each day until his book is finished]). Most chapters end on a cliffhanger, but the suspense at the end of the chapter is not of the kind manufactured by withholding necessary information. Instead, the chapter endings generate a natural curiosity about the characters and the events that will befall them next. Enger writes the story in such a way that it is hard to put down.
So Brave, Young, and Handsome is not about the unbelievable, at times fantastic, miracles of life, but is more about the subtle miracles that happen in our everyday lives—the miracles of love, fidelity, friendship, forgiveness, and grace. None of the characters seem deserving of any of these, but it is the divine nature of the Giver that allows them to be recipients of the gifts. Because of the subtlety, the book does not seem as grand in scale as Enger's last book—and it isn't. There aren't as many powerful images that stick with the reader upon finishing. But rather than this being a step backward, So Brave, Young, and Handsome seems more a step to the side: It is a beautiful book in its own right, and it shows that there is beauty even in the seemingly mundane. Grace is within everyone's reach, if only they would respond.
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