"Sons and Lovers" - (1960) Trevor Howard, Wendy Hiller, Dean Stockwell

 

Use this link. https://youtu.be/qVtPAVtucjY?si=ZwAwNceh19ZGKa3Q

Written in 1912 by D.H. Lawrence,  "Sons and Lovers" was controversial when first published. It explores the conflict which exists between the relationships of mothers and sons. One clings, while the other seeks a new love of its own.

I remember vaguely the controversy the film elicited when it was released in 1960. I recall discussions between my parents and their friends about it, though I had no idea what they were talking about. As a teenager I tried to read it, but I was too young to really understand the book to its full extent.

The film has never been remade. I don't think it ever will be. It could never, in my mind, equal the stark reality created here. And though our views of morality and desire have changed drastically in the 65 years since its release, there are still some truths which are eternal. The film is as relevant now as it was then.

Trevor Howard and Dean Stockwell are riveting in their performances as father and son, and both are equalled by their counterparts, Wendy Hiller as the mother, and Mary Ure, as the married woman with whom Dean Stockwell has an affair, and Heather Sears as the girl he once loved.

Bookless

Books on shelves lining walls, tucked in nooks and filling stalls.
One day they'll be gone, so we'll all be reading from our phones.

I miss the paper, miss the smell, of books and ink and words which tell
stories, poems, and news as well. I fear they'll soon be gone.

I love the feel of turning pages, traveling back through distant ages,
reading wise words from the sages. And all things written down.

Knowledge came in stages, and I fear that without pages
It will all be subject to changes. Things of import, ought be writ in stone....

"The Second Coming" by Wm. Butler Yeats (1919)

Every artist interprets events differently. In the First World War two poets went to battle. They both wrote poems which would stand the test of time. Both poems grew out of the same horrors, and yet both perceived their experiences in such different ways. Here we will examine just two; which have both become emblematic of that conflict; the War to End All Wars.

The first one is by W.B. Yeats. He wrote the classic poem “The Second Coming” while still in France in 1919. The horrors of what he has seen and experienced are compared to the end of time as envisioned in the Bible. It is a stark and dreary assessment of what man hopes for as a result of war; yet he is resigned to a fate which he hopes will bring him rebirth.

THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

This second poem is much simpler in construction, as well as message. Joyce Kilmer served with the NY Regiment in the same war. He, too came away with a sense of rebirth and a belief in a better world. But the difference in the two poems and their outlooks is astonishing. You all know this one. It’s from 1^st grade.

Trees

I think that I shall never see

a poem lovely as a tree.

 A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed

against the sweet earth's flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

and lifts her leafy arms to pray;

 A tree that may in summer wear

a nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

who intimately lives with rain.

 Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

"Homer Price" by Robert McCloskey (1948)

I was unaware of the wonderful, wacky world of Homer Price until Glen Slater, a fellow blogger from New York City, called my attention to his book “Homer Price” last week. What a break for me! This book, by author/illustrator Robert McCloskey is nothing less than Dr. Seuss on steroids.

Homer lives just outside the town of Centerburg, or as the author puts it, “where Route 56 meets 56A.” But most of his family and friends live in Centerburg itself, which gives the author plenty of room to work with as Homer gets involved in a myriad of adventures.

From his home bedroom “workshop”, where he builds radios, to the new suburban housing development being built, this book is representative of life in the late 1940’s, just after the Second World War and the beginning of the most prosperous time in American history.

Homer has a pet raccoon named Aroma, which reminded me of Sterling North’s award winning book “Rascal” which won the Newberry Award in 1963. I have no doubt that Mr. North read this book sometime previous to writing his. Together, Homer and Aroma are able to solve a robbery with Aroma using his most potent weapon to nab the culprits.

From his relatives to some of the town’s more odd denizens, Homer is always at the center of something in Centerburg. For instance, there is the tale of the Mystery Yarn, which has Homer helping his Uncle Telly create a huge ball of yarn. This in itself is of no particular interest until you involve the Sheriff; who is also a string saver like Uncle Telly; and then the Town Fair as the backdrop for a contest between the two. They are going to unwind their balls of string to settle; once and for all; which is the most tightly wound of the two. Not the Sheriff and Uncle Telly; but the ball of string.

Then there is the day that Homer goes to the movies to see the latest installment of the series about Super-Duper, a superhero drawn along the lines of Superman. Super Duper is even on hand to greet his fans. When asked to fly, he excuses himself by insisting that he doesn't have time. After the film is over Homer is on the way home with his friends when Super Duper comes up from behind and passes their horse drawn wagon with a SWOOSH. A few miles down the road the boys discover their super hero in a ditch, having driven his car off the road. After seeing that he cannot lift the car by himself,he boys use the horse to pull him back on the road.

Back in town, the grateful Super Duper gives the boys a complete set of his comic books as a reward. But, having seen that Super Duper is really just human after all, Homer decides that by trading those comics before word gets around about the all too human super hero, he may just be able to exact a bit of revenge on his friend Skinny for trading him a bicycle horn which didn't work, for a bugle.

The book also calls to mind the works of Booth Tarkington, specifically the Penrod series. Those books were a fairly accurate reflection of a boy’s life in the early years of the 20^th century. This book does the same thing, only 40 years later.

From donut machines to the post war housing development, this book is a nostalgic look at a boy’s life in the late 1940’s. We had just won the biggest war in history, and life was continually getting better and better for the inhabitants of America. And Robert McCloskey’s  Centerburg is a slightly off kilter version of those times.

This was a delightful book to read. Thanks, Glen! You can follow Glen Slater on his blog, Stickball Hero, located  at;

http://stickballhero79.wordpress.com/2014/01/

Free Books @ The Guttenberg Project

The internet is not just the sewer of porn and political debate it would sometimes appear to be. If you are looking for that sort of thing it’s easy enough to find. But, look a little bit deeper, past all those pop up ads and gossipy tidbits designed to numb your brain and drain your soul, and you can actually be rewarded with some pleasant surprises.

When I first started using the internet in 2004; that’s right, I was one of the last to fall prey to its siren call; I got bogged down in all of the usual stuff, like chat rooms and Classmates, etc. But I also stumbled onto a lot of great things as well. One of those was, and still is, the Gutenberg Project site; which houses many books and works of literature for which there is no current copyright; making them free.

I have downloaded several things from there, which I keep on my computer, and also on a portable flash drive, making some of my favorite works of literature available wherever I go, even when there is no internet service. Some I have even printed out; things like “The Narrative of A. Gordon Pym” by Edgar Allan Poe, or this book of poetry by Edna St. Vincent Millay, the American poet who won the Pulitzer Prize for her 1922 collection of poetry “A Few Figs from Thistles.”

From the opening verse of this collection until the last, these poems reflect the spirit of Ms. Millay and her vibrant way of looking at life. She was way ahead of her time in so many respects, yet her poetry remains timeless. It speaks as poignantly now as it did when she wrote it. I’m pleased to be able to share it here, as well as call your attention to the Gutenberg Project, which can be accessed by the following link. I hope that you will visit their site and I am certain that you will come away with something long forgotten, or perhaps never knew about in the first place.

http://www.gutenberg.org/

A Few Figs from Thistles

Poems and Sonnets

By Edna St. Vincent Millay

This edition of "A Few Figs from Thistles" contains several poems

not included in earlier editions.

First Fig

  My candle burns at both ends;

    It will not last the night;

  But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--

    It gives a lovely light!

Second Fig

  Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:

  Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

Recuerdo

  We were very tired, we were very merry--

  We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

  It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable--

  But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,

  We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;

  And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

  We were very tired, we were very merry--

  We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;

  And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,

  From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;

  And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,

  And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

  We were very tired, we were very merry,

  We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

  We hailed, "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,

  And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;

  And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears,

  And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

Thursday

  And if I loved you Wednesday,

    Well, what is that to you?

  I do not love you Thursday--

    So much is true.

  And why you come complaining

    Is more than I can see.

  I loved you Wednesday,--yes--but what

    Is that to me?

To the Not Impossible Him

  How shall I know, unless I go

    To Cairo and Cathay,

  Whether or not this blessed spot

    Is blest in every way?

  Now it may be, the flower for me

    Is this beneath my nose;

  How shall I tell, unless I smell

    The Carthaginian rose?

  The fabric of my faithful love

    No power shall dim or ravel

  Whilst I stay here,--but oh, my dear,

    If I should ever travel!

Macdougal Street

  As I went walking up and down to take the evening air,

    (Sweet to meet upon the street, why must I be so shy?)

  I saw him lay his hand upon her torn black hair;

    ("Little dirty Latin child, let the lady by!")

  The women squatting on the stoops were slovenly and fat,

    (Lay me out in organdie, lay me out in lawn!)

  And everywhere I stepped there was a baby or a cat;

    (Lord God in Heaven, will it never be dawn?)

  The fruit-carts and clam-carts were ribald as a fair,

    (Pink nets and wet shells trodden under heel)

  She had haggled from the fruit-man of his rotting ware;

    (I shall never get to sleep, the way I feel!)

  He walked like a king through the filth and the clutter,

    (Sweet to meet upon the street, why did you glance me by?)

  But he caught the quaint Italian quip she flung him from the gutter;

    (What can there be to cry about that I should lie and cry?)

  He laid his darling hand upon her little black head,

    (I wish I were a ragged child with ear-rings in my ears!)

  And he said she was a baggage to have said what she had said;

    (Truly I shall be ill unless I stop these tears!)

The Singing-Woman from the Wood's Edge

  What should I be but a prophet and a liar,

  Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar?

  Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water,

  What should I be but the fiend's god-daughter?

  And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog,

  That was got beneath a furze-bush and born in a bog?

  And what should be my singing, that was christened at an altar,

  But Aves and Credos and Psalms out of the Psalter?

  You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe,

  As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby,

  You will find such flame at the wave's weedy ebb

  As flashes in the meshes of a mer-mother's web,

  But there comes to birth no common spawn

  From the love of a priest for a leprechaun,

  And you never have seen and you never will see

  Such things as the things that swaddled me!

  After all's said and after all's done,

  What should I be but a harlot and a nun?

  In through the bushes, on any foggy day,

  My Da would come a-swishing of the drops away,

  With a prayer for my death and a groan for my birth,

  A-mumbling of his beads for all that he was worth.

  And there'd sit my Ma, with her knees beneath her chin,

  A-looking in his face and a-drinking of it in,

  And a-marking in the moss some funny little saying

  That would mean just the opposite of all that he was praying!

  He taught me the holy-talk of Vesper and of Matin,

  He heard me my Greek and he heard me my Latin,

  He blessed me and crossed me to keep my soul from evil,

  And we watched him out of sight, and we conjured up the devil!

  Oh, the things I haven't seen and the things I haven't known.

  What with hedges and ditches till after I was grown,

  And yanked both ways by my mother and my father,

  With a "Which would you better?" and a "Which would you rather?"

  With him for a sire and her for a dam,

  What should I be but just what I am?

She Is Overheard Singing

  Oh, Prue she has a patient man,

    And Joan a gentle lover,

  And Agatha's Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,--

    But my true love's a rover!

  Mig, her man's as good as cheese

    And honest as a briar,

  Sue tells her love what he's thinking of,--

    But my dear lad's a liar!

  Oh, Sue and Prue and Agatha

    Are thick with Mig and Joan!

  They bite their threads and shake their heads

    And gnaw my name like a bone;

  And Prue says, "Mine's a patient man,

    As never snaps me up,"

  And Agatha, "Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,

    Could live content in a cup;"

  Sue's man's mind is like good jell--

    All one colour, and clear--

  And Mig's no call to think at all

    What's to come next year,

  While Joan makes boast of a gentle lad,

    That's troubled with that and this;--

  But they all would give the life they live

    For a look from the man I kiss!

  Cold he slants his eyes about,

    And few enough's his choice,--

  Though he'd slip me clean for a nun, or a queen,

    Or a beggar with knots in her voice,--

  And Agatha will turn awake

    While her good man sleeps sound,

  And Mig and Sue and Joan and Prue

    Will hear the clock strike round,

  For Prue she has a patient man,

    As asks not when or why,

  And Mig and Sue have naught to do

    But peep who's passing by,

  Joan is paired with a putterer

    That bastes and tastes and salts,

  And Agatha's Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,--

    But my true love is false!

The Prisoner

  All right,

  Go ahead!

  What's in a name?

  I guess I'll be locked into

  As much as I'm locked out of!

The Unexplorer

  There was a road ran past our house

  Too lovely to explore.

  I asked my mother once--she said

  That if you followed where it led

  It brought you to the milk-man's door.

  (That's why I have not traveled more.)

Grown-up

  Was it for this I uttered prayers,

  And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,

  That now, domestic as a plate,

  I should retire at half-past eight?

The Penitent

  I had a little Sorrow,

    Born of a little Sin,

  I found a room all damp with gloom

    And shut us all within;

  And, "Little Sorrow, weep," said I,

    "And, Little Sin, pray God to die,

  And I upon the floor will lie

    And think how bad I've been!"

  Alas for pious planning--

    It mattered not a whit!

  As far as gloom went in that room,

    The lamp might have been lit!

  My little Sorrow would not weep,

    My little Sin would go to sleep--

  To save my soul I could not keep

    My graceless mind on it!

  So up I got in anger,

    And took a book I had,

  And put a ribbon on my hair

    To please a passing lad,

  And, "One thing there's no getting by--

  I've been a wicked girl," said I;

  "But if I can't be sorry, why,

    I might as well be glad!"

Daphne

  Why do you follow me?--

  Any moment I can be

  Nothing but a laurel-tree.

  Any moment of the chase

  I can leave you in my place

  A pink bough for your embrace.

  Yet if over hill and hollow

  Still it is your will to follow,

  I am off;--to heel, Apollo!

Portrait by a Neighbor

  Before she has her floor swept

    Or her dishes done,

  Any day you'll find her

    A-sunning in the sun!

  It's long after midnight

    Her key's in the lock,

  And you never see her chimney smoke

    Till past ten o'clock!

  She digs in her garden

    With a shovel and a spoon,

  She weeds her lazy lettuce

    By the light of the moon,

  She walks up the walk

    Like a woman in a dream,

  She forgets she borrowed butter

    And pays you back cream!

  Her lawn looks like a meadow,

    And if she mows the place

  She leaves the clover standing

    And the Queen Anne's lace!

Midnight Oil

  Cut if you will, with Sleep's dull knife,

    Each day to half its length, my friend,--

  The years that Time takes off _my_ life,

    He'll take from off the other end!

The Merry Maid

  Oh, I am grown so free from care

    Since my heart broke!

  I set my throat against the air,

    I laugh at simple folk!

  There's little kind and little fair

    Is worth its weight in smoke

  To me, that's grown so free from care

    Since my heart broke!

  Lass, if to sleep you would repair

    As peaceful as you woke,

  Best not besiege your lover there

    For just the words he spoke

  To me, that's grown so free from care

    Since my heart broke!

To Kathleen

  Still must the poet as of old,

  In barren attic bleak and cold,

  Starve, freeze, and fashion verses to

  Such things as flowers and song and you;

  Still as of old his being give

  In Beauty's name, while she may live,

  Beauty that may not die as long

  As there are flowers and you and song.

To S. M.

  If he should lie a-dying

  I am not willing you should go

  Into the earth, where Helen went;

  She is awake by now, I know.

  Where Cleopatra's anklets rust

  You will not lie with my consent;

  And Sappho is a roving dust;

  Cressid could love again; Dido,

  Rotted in state, is restless still:

  You leave me much against my will.

The Philosopher

  And what are you that, wanting you

    I should be kept awake

  As many nights as there are days

    With weeping for your sake?

  And what are you that, missing you,

    As many days as crawl

  I should be listening to the wind

    And looking at the wall?

  I know a man that's a braver man

    And twenty men as kind,

  And what are you, that you should be

    The one man in my mind?

  Yet women's ways are witless ways,

    As any sage will tell,--

  And what am I, that I should love

    So wisely and so well?

Four Sonnets

I

  Love, though for this you riddle me with darts,

  And drag me at your chariot till I die,--

  Oh, heavy prince! Oh, panderer of hearts!--

  Yet hear me tell how in their throats they lie

  Who shout you mighty: thick about my hair

  Day in, day out, your ominous arrows purr

  Who still am free, unto no querulous care

  A fool, and in no temple worshiper!

  I, that have bared me to your quiver's fire,

  Lifted my face into its puny rain,

  Do wreathe you Impotent to Evoke Desire

  As you are Powerless to Elicit Pain!

  (Now will the god, for blasphemy so brave,

  Punish me, surely, with the shaft I crave!)

II

  I think I should have loved you presently,

  And given in earnest words I flung in jest;

  And lifted honest eyes for you to see,

  And caught your hand against my cheek and breast;

  And all my pretty follies flung aside

  That won you to me, and beneath your gaze,

  Naked of reticence and shorn of pride,

  Spread like a chart my little wicked ways.

  I, that had been to you, had you remained,

  But one more waking from a recurrent dream,

  Cherish no less the certain stakes I gained,

  And walk your memory's halls, austere, supreme,

  A ghost in marble of a girl you knew

  Who would have loved you in a day or two.

III

  Oh, think not I am faithful to a vow!

  Faithless am I save to love's self alone.

  Were you not lovely I would leave you now;

  After the feet of beauty fly my own.

  Were you not still my hunger's rarest food,

  And water ever to my wildest thirst,

  I would desert you--think not but I would!--

  And seek another as I sought you first.

  But you are mobile as the veering air,

  And all your charms more changeful than the tide,

  Wherefore to be inconstant is no care:

  I have but to continue at your side.

  So wanton, light and false, my love, are you,

  I am most faithless when I most am true.

IV

  I shall forget you presently, my dear,

  So make the most of this, your little day,

  Your little month, your little half a year,

  Ere I forget, or die, or move away,

  And we are done forever; by and by

  I shall forget you, as I said, but now,

  If you entreat me with your loveliest lie

  I will protest you with my favorite vow.

  I would indeed that love were longer-lived,

  And oaths were not so brittle as they are,

  But so it is, and nature has contrived

  To struggle on without a break thus far,--

  Whether or not we find what we are seeking

  Is idle, biologically speaking.

"The Land of Lost Content" by A.E. Housman

You can never tell where your next long forgotten memory may crop up. In this case it was while watching an episode of “Inspector Lewis” that I heard the familiar words of A.E. Housman, reminding me that in losing track of him as a poet I had created my own “Land of Lost Content.” This poem was always one of my favorites, and to see it on a television show lends hope to the medium.

The poem speaks to the places and people we all leave behind as we create our own lives.  It’s only in the looking back that one realizes the friendships, and passions, that were for some reason set aside, only to be missed later. This is a very personal poem to me and I was pleasantly surprised to have it appear so unexpectedly on the television. Life is a set of mysteries…

“The Land of Lost Content”

Into my heart an air that kills

From yon far country blows:

What are those blue remembered hills?

What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,

I see it shining plain,

The happy highways where I went

And cannot come again.

A. E. Housman

The Ides of March

One of the most oft used and overly simplified phrases in the English language comes from “Julius Caesar”, the play by William Shakespeare. There has never, in my memory, been a March 15^th that has passed without someone making reference to the phrase “Beware the Ides of March!” We all know, or should know, that on this date in 44 B.C., Julius Caesar, the Emperor of the not yet “Holy” Roman Empire was assassinated by a group of Senators, including his trusted friend Brutus. But that’s about as far as the average person can tell you about the date, or the event; including me. So, I decided to google around a bit and see if I could come up with a more satisfactory explanation of the date and the phrase. Here is what I have found;

In Rome, before the advent of Christianity, there was a festival held each March 15^th to celebrate a woman named Anna Perenna. Just who she was, and whether she really existed is a bit of conjecture involving mythology and also the Roman poet Ovid. He wrote a book of Greek myths which he called “Metamorphoses.” She was also written about by the poet Virgil. In Ovid’s he tells 2 stories about her, which to my un-classically educated mind will require further study to fully comprehend. In his book there was a woman by that name who gave cakes to the Plebeians, who were driven from Carthage in 494 B.C. The Plebeians were the working class, subject to the whims of the more successful Patricians, who comprised the Ruling Class in Rome. Her act of mercy caused her to flee as well after the suicide of her sister Dido. Who Dido was and why she committed suicide is still a nystery to me, but something I will likely look into in the future.

According to Ovid, once Anna arrived in Latium, she ticked off the wife of Aeneas, and then fled, afterward being carried off by someone named Numicus, who was the god of a stream. When Aeneas' servants went to find her, they were able to track her as far as the river, where they found that she had been turned into a water nymph.

It is believed by some historians, that Caesar was killed on the Ides of March because on that day he would have been alone with his leading Senators, while the general populace was off celebrating the holiday. Ovid even wrote about this theory, opining "On the Ides of March the plebs celebrated the Annae festum geniale Perennae near the banks of the Tiber. Rome was, therefore, empty of the lower classes. Is this why the nobles chose the day for the assassination of Julius Caesar?" (Ovid, Fasti iii. 523-42, 675-96).

And then, of course, is the now famous exchange between Caesar and a soothsayer in Shakespeare's immortal play as he left the theater, bound for the Senate, where he was warned not to go;

Caesar:  Who is it in the press that calls on me?

I hear a tongue shriller than all the music

Cry "Caesar!" Speak, Caesar is turn'd to hear.

Soothsayer: Beware the ides of March.

Caesar: What man is that?

Brutus: A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.

(Julius Caesar Act 1, scene 2, 15-19)

All of this has left me with more question than answers, and in the process, has left me doubly beware of the Ides of March!

The Black Box and George Orwell

About 4 years ago Sue and I disconnected from cable TV; our remotes were almost worn out from constant clicking in search of something worthwhile to watch. Think about it; you sit down in front of the television, remote in hand, confident that there is something of interest on at least one of the 150 channels available to you. So, you start clicking away; like a kid at the beach, searching for that one perfect seashell; only to find that they are all unsatisfactory in one way or the other. So, you are left empty handed.

Now I don’t know about you, but we have a TV that is as flat as Twiggy was in 1967; and at the same time; high tech. In other words this means that I have a flat screen 50” television that asks me to “Please Be Patient” when I turn it on, as well as pauses while it locks onto the state of the art digital signal which is supposed to make me feel like I am part of the show. But, with each click taking about 30 seconds to produce an image on the screen, I can click through all 150 stations at the rate of one every 30 seconds, or two per minute. Divide the 150 channels by 2 per minute and that means it takes 75 minutes to cycle through them all, unless I find something that interests me. And to accomplish this feat, I need to add about 30 seconds to each station I land on while ascertaining whether or not I want to remain there. So that makes a total of I minute per station, divided by none, which equals 2 and a half hours to check out all the stations. Phew!! Sounds like work to me.

So, we cut the cable. It was like cutting an umbilical cord, in some ways giving us a bit more leisure time in our leisure time. Of course we had to get one of those “converter” boxes which the government was originally supplying to everyone for free with a voucher. This kind of had me scratching my head a bit, as the government had never before concerned itself with the change from Hi-Fi to stereo; or even helped us out with the switch from vinyl recordings to 8 tracks to cassettes to CD’s and MP3 players. I had to ask myself, “Why the deadline to convert all the TV’s? And why does my government want to give me something that I didn’t need until they made it necessary?” These are two valid questions.

I read a lot, so I always go back in my mind to something I may have read which applies to the situation at hand. It didn’t take me too long to figure it out. The box is a two way system, allowing me to intercept what is broadcast, but also a camera and audio device for Big Brother to look into my living room. Remember George Orwell’s “1984”? Kind of like that, only with better programs.

I know, you’re laughing at me. But all the same, each time I pass the box, I wave and say hello.

"The Screwtape Letters" by C.S. Lewis as Performed by Max McLean

"The Screwtape Letters" is a satirical work comprised of the letters between "Screwtape", a senior demon and his nephew, a demon in training named "Wormwood." I have never read the book, so this is a review of the play as presented by the Fellowship for the Performing Arts at The Knight Theater here in Charlotte.

The original work took place in wartime London, and centers about Screwtape and his nephew, the ill fated Wormwood. Screwtape is mentoring his nephew as the younger Demon attempts to tempt an ordinary man, named "The Patient", into a life which will take him straight to Hell. This should be very simple, according to Screwtape, but as the younger Wormwood learns, is not as easy as it seems. The Patient to which he has been assigned comes from a good family, has an education and falls in love with a Christian woman. In short order he becomes a Church going, God fearing Christian, much to the dismay of Scewtape, who has been charged with training his nephew to corrupt The Patient's life in order to alleviate the hunger for new souls in Hell.

At times comical, and others pensive and revealing, the play explores the hypocrisy and false promise of both Heaven and Hell. On the one hand there is Screwtape, who serves the Devil by tempting people to ruin their own lives in order to gain their souls for himself. And on the other hand, there is Heaven, with it's promises of everlasting Peace and Love. Can one be real, while the other is merely an illusion? What is the purpose of the struggle in which we all live daily?

To Screwtape and Wormwood, greed and self interest are seen as virtues, while The Patient is drawn steadily into a world of Love and Self Sacrifice. When the Patient becomes a Christian, Screwtape is furious with his nephew, but still holds out hope that the hypocrisy of the Church will lead him to Hell. After all, as Screwtape explains, "The safest path to Hell is the gradual one." It is not necessary to have The Patient commit some horrendous deed to obtain his soul. A slight, but constant, chipping away at his morals should suffice.


Ultimately, Wormwood fails in his mission, as The Patient goes off to war and dies for a glorious cause. Screwtape is inconsolable, war is the worst enemy of the Devil. During wars, when both sides think they have the right of it, each side implores God for Victory. When confronted with tragedy, humans tend to do "good works" and help one another. This is just what Screwtape does not want.

When the Patient is killed fighting for what he believes in, his soul goes to Heaven, and the Devil goes hungry. But Screwtape is not that concerned, there are more souls to be devoured, and he just may start with his nephew...

Max McLean, as Screwtape, is impeccable. His diction, timing and poise are incredible and give creedence to his place as one of the world's greatest living narrators. The adaptation was done by Jeffrey Fiske, a former NASA consultant and Drew University Professor.

Of intersting note is that at the conclusion of the play, Mr. McLean stepped forward, out of character, and implored that we remember that he is not really Screwtape. He then invited the audience to remain for an ad hoc discussion of the presentation.

"Uncle John's Triumphant 20th Anniversary Bathroom Reader" by the Bathroom Reader's Institute

This book actually lives up to it's flamboyant cover and really delivers the goods on all sorts of things. Some are topics you have wondered about at one time or another, and some are about things you have never even imagined.

At about 600 pages long, this book will give you the entire history of Peanuts, along with the biographies of Charles Schultz and all of the characters in the Peanuts comic strip. From there it is only a turn of the page that takes you to another topic, equally dissected and examined.

True crimes, sports history, geography, the origins of common phrases (the phrase "bakers dozen" came about as the result of laws enacted to keep the weight of bread regulated- the penalties were so stiff that the baker threw in an extra roll as a precaution), space exploration, sports records, crazy stunts, all of it is crammed into this book.

One chapter, Strange Celebrity Lawsuits, is really interesting. Vanna White sued Samsung for creating a robot that could perform her job of turning the letters on Wheel of Fortune. Although the machine was not in any way a likeness of her, she sued and won $403,000.

The still pending lawsuit between country star Keith Urban and the New Jersey painter with the same name explores the world of web domains. The painter has keithurban.com, while the country star has keithurban.net. The painter has had his site for longer than the country star has been famous. What will happen? I don't know, but it makes for good reading. (This book has a copyright date of 2007, so the lawsuit may have been settled by now.)

Another fun section is the one that deals with famous expressions, such as "The Shot Heard 'Round the World." First coined by Ralph Waldo Emerson in 1837 for his poem "The Concord Hymn", written about the Battle of Lexington and Concord, the phrase has come to mean a variety of things. The Assassination of Archduke Ferdinand that began the First World War, is one example, while another would be when the New York Giants were playing the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1951. It was the last game of the season, 9th inning, when Bobby Thompson, of the Giants, belted out a home run to cinch the game.

If you're a TV buff this book has a very concise and informative section about the Dumont Network of the late 1940's and how it became an independent network, known as Metromedia after Mr. Dumont sold off his stations. Mr. Dumont was one of the early pioneers of the medium, and is credited with the first sitcom, "Mary Kay and Johnny." He also pioneered Soap Operas, Religous Broadcasting, and was the first station to broadcast sports events. Today's Fox Network was built upon the remains of the Metromedia Network by a very saavy Australian named Rupert Murdoch.

From Christmas being banned in Boston early in the 17th century, to the complete text of Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech, this book is packed with things we take for granted, and the stories behind them.

There are lots of books like these out there, but for my money this is the best I've seen yet. I have a belief that if you carry something to read you never have to wait. It's only when you have nothing at hand that you seem to find yourself stranded, sometimes for hours. Think of this book as sort of an insurance policy, and throw it in the back of the car. This is the perfect book to have on hand while waiting for the tow truck to arrive.

Moby Dick by Herman Melville

Today is the 158th Anniversary of Moby Dick by Herman Melville. This astonishing book was unappreciated when it was first released, but over time has become recognized as the true classic it is.

The story of Ishmael, the novice whaler, and his journey through an immoral and indifferent world has never lost it's relevancy or it's bite. We still live in a world of Ahabs chasing personifications of Evil, mostly to the detriment of the innocent.

The questions raised within this book are timeless and universal. Who has the right to Vengeance? Is it the provenance of the man afflicted by Evil? Or does Vengeance truly belong to a Power larger than ourselves?

Truly a literary gem this book is still worth the time it takes to read it. From the naming of Ishmael as the principal character, to the Resurrection of the coffin after the Apocalyptic battle between Ahab and the Whale, the book is filled with references to Scripture and the lessons within.

Happy Birthday to Moby Dick and thanks to Herman Melville for this ever relevant saga of Good vs Evil.