Tuesday, April 26, 2011

20 Classic Novels You Can Read in One Sitting - DailyWritingTips

I would love to tell you that I came up with this on my own.  In fact, I could just tell you something like that and you'd really have no way of knowing otherwise unless you:
a. Subscribe to the same internet/electronic e-mail newsletters I do, or
b.  know anything at all about me and would, therefore, know I'm not at all that clever.
Therefore, I confess.  I have blatantly stolen this from Daily Writing Tips, a free English language  newsletter of which I am a subscriber/recipient.  (subscribee?) It is frequent enough as to be an annoyance yet useful enough to assist you in overcoming the aforementioned annoyances.  I stipulate 'English language, meaning American English and not UK English, with the proviso observed by the Very Proper English Gentleman's Butler (VPEGB) in Dame Agatha Christie's timeless masterpiece, Murder on the Orient Express, in which, the VPEGB, that is, and not Dame Agatha, when queried  "Does Signor Foscarelli speak English?" replied with "A form of it, Sir.  Signor Foscarelli is from Chicago." as are the publishers of the missive from which this article has been appropriated.
The title is confusing, as are most AP Style Guide titles.  It's not entirely clear whether the writer means that you can read all twenty books in one sitting, presumably intertwined with a catheter, colon bag and IV- drip to  ensure hydration and nourishment, not to mention a healthy serving of caffeine or no-doze, or, more likely, spread this over twenty independent sessions, one per book.  This is the more likely recommendation, especially in Chicago.
Not being entirely certain of the un-named columnist's preference or intent, I can only answer for my ‘self’, who, in response to the question, "Self, what do you think it means," replied thus:
"Well, Boyo (Self calls me that a lot),  as you well know, we, which is to say 'Self' which is to say, 'You' read most of these during the summer of 1965.  You were thirteen at the time, and they came from the adult section of the Library, a location whose title implied something very different forty-six years ago than it does today."
And that, as a Pastor friend of mine is known to say with alarming frequency, is the introduction.  Here's the main bit:






You know that in order to become a better writer, you need to become a better reader — and so polishing off some classic novels is in your future. But who has the time?
You do. Nobody’s admonishing you to get your book report in within two weeks. But if you still feel pinched between the hour hand and the minute hand, ease into great English literature with these short novels (most have fewer than 200 pages):
1. A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens
Spectral visitors take miserly businessman Ebenezer Scrooge on a tour of the past, present, and future to prompt his reevaluation of the wisdom of his skinflint ways in this Victorian fantasy that helped usher in the nostalgia-drenched Christmas tradition. To this day, innumerable stage adaptations knock elbows with ballet productions of The Nutracker Suite and singing of Handel’s Messiah. Dickens’s Hard Times is another relatively quick read.
2. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, by Mark Twain
The intrepid young hero, a half-feral but good-hearted boy, flees the deadly embrace of civilization, takes up with a freed slave and a couple of con men, and, with the assistance of one Samuel Langhorne Clemens, makes a library’s worth of observations about the human condition in one thin volume — a triumphant survivor of censorship and political correctness. (The n-word pervades it — quick, hide the children’s eyes and make reality go away!) See also The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, which this book is a sequel to, and Pudd’nhead Wilson.
3. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll
A young girl wanders into the woods and falls down a rabbit hole into a disconcertingly absurd hidden world in Oxford mathematician Charles Lutwidge Dodgson’s satirical romp, laced with contemporary caricatures and poking at problems of mathematical logic. Like many great works of art, it was a critical failure but a popular success — and, in the long term, the critics have come around. See also the sequel Through the Looking-Glass.
4. Animal Farm, by George Orwell
A modern fable by the author of Nineteen Eighty-Four relates what happens when communism comes to Manor Farm: “All animals are created equal, but some are more equal than others.” Orwell (birth name Eric Blair), a proponent of democratic socialism — by definition, the antithesis of Stalinism — wrote the story in response to his disillusioning experiences during the Spanish Civil War, when totalitarianism cast a shadow over socialist ideals. British publishers concerned about the manuscript’s frank condemnation of the United Kingdom’s World War II ally the Soviet Union rejected it, but you can’t suppress the truth down for long.
5. Around the World in Eighty Days, by Jules Verne
Fastidious Victorian gentleman Phileas Fogg makes a foolhardy wager at his club: He will circumnavigate the planet in eighty days. With resourceful French valet Passepartout by his side and a Scotland Yard detective — who mistakes him for a fugitive from justice — on his heels, he sets out with his fortune, his freedom, and, most importantly, his honor on the line. These and other novels by Verne have, from the beginning, fired the imaginations of readers from all over the world, though poor early English translations led to them being long mischaracterized as juvenile pulp fiction.
6. Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley
After an introduction to a horrifyingly regimented future “utopia,” readers meet John, a young man who has grown up in an isolated, unenlightened community before being brought back to civilization, which, shall we say, does not match his expectations. Huxley’s novel, one of the most celebrated in twentieth-century literature — and also impressively high on the lists of books targeted for censorship — depicts a future in which hedonism, not repression, is the greatest threat to humanity.
7. Candide, by Voltaire
Everybody’s favorite scathingly funny French philosopher introduces a young man raised in indoctrinated, isolated innocence who is repeatedly blindsided by reality when he becomes a citizen of the world. Anticipating the antipathy with which secular and religious authorities would condemn his work, Voltaire published it under a pseudonym, but everybody knew who had done the deed. Candide was widely banned, even in the United States into the twentieth century — high praise, indeed.
8. Cannery Row, by John Steinbeck
A run-down street in seaside Monterey, California, is as colorful a character as any of the people who populate it in this sweet Depression-era story about a community of the world’s cast-offs. This semiautobiographical novel, a warm wash of nostalgia, also serves as a requiem for a lost world the author could never find again. Steinbeck often kept it short and bittersweet: Look also for The Moon Is Down, Of Mice and Men, The Pearl, The Red Pony, and Tortilla Flat.
9. The Catcher in the Rye, by J. D. Salinger
Reading this mid-20th-century anthem of adolescent angst remains a rite of passage for high school literature students, who get a thrill out of reading one of the most frequently banned books of all time. The narrator’s sour sensibilities and his frank assessment of the world’s crapitude captivate many young readers, although the author (who exacerbated the allure of the book through his notorious reclusiveness) intended the book for an adult audience. Salinger’s other works include novellas and short stories, including Franny and Zooey, Nine Stories, and the twofer Raise High the Roofbeam Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction.
10. Ethan Frome, by Edith Wharton
This flashback novel immerses the reader in the tragedy of a romantic triangle, as the title character agonizes over his affection for his sickly wife’s cousin, who has come to live with them and help around the house. Warning: Things don’t end well. The critical reception to Wharton’s work was mixed, but those who praised it recognized it as a compelling morality tale (though based on a real incident and thought to allude to the author’s own unhappy marriage).
11. Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury
In a dystopian future where firefighters ignite inflammatory books (that is, all of them) rather than suppress conflagrations, one member of the book-burning brigade, increasingly alienated in his decadent society, is lured to the light side. Bradbury initially denied that the theme of the story is censorship, fingering the boob tube for libracide instead, but he later graciously realized he could have it both ways.
12. Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley
A scientist conceives the idea of creating a man constructed from body parts and bringing him to life but is disgusted by his creation, which, devastated by the scientist’s and others’ rejection as it struggles to learn what it means to be human, exacts vengeance. The novel, written by the daughter of philosophers who began working on it when she was still in her teens, initially received mixed reviews, but its stature has steadily grown, aided by its wealth of classical allusions and Enlightenment inspirations, not to mention its profound psychological resonance.
13. The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald
A young man gets caught up in the world of wealth during the Roaring Twenties, especially that revolving around the enigmatic millionaire Jay Gatsby, but he discovers how superficial and hollow the American dream is after observing the petty passions of the rich. Fitzgerald’s novel was well received but did not fare as well as his earlier works, and when he died in relative obscurity years later, he believed himself a failure. During and after World War II, however, The Great Gatsby experienced a resurgence, and it is now accounted one of the great American novels.
14. Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad
A riverboat captain in the Belgian Congo, looking forward to meeting Kurtz, the manager of an isolated upriver colonial station, is devastated when the man he meets turns out to be quite different from the imagined ideal. Conrad’s story, overshadowed by Francis Ford Coppola’s loose film adaptation, the antiwar epic Apocalypse Now, should be read on its own merits. Though much praised for its psychological insight, is also considered one of the most potent criticisms of colonialism in literature.
15. Night, by Elie Wiesel
The author’s harrowing account of his early adolescence spent in Nazi concentration camps — during which his father, with whom he was incarcerated, gradually becomes helpless, and young Elie rejects God and humanity — is full of raw, stark power. Its critical reception was complicated by various factors: It is a memoir that contains a great deal of fiction, and it was published in quite different forms in Yiddish, then a pared-down French translation, from which a further abridged English version was derived. But that form at least is widely acknowledged as great art.
16. The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde
A beautiful young hedonist sells his soul for the price of agelessness, while a portrait of him painted by an admirer marks his physical dissipation. Wilde’s first novel was attacked for its homoeroticism and the scandalously frank depiction of debauchery but was received more favorably when the author toned down the former. Rich with allusions to, among other works, Faust, The Picture of Dorian Gray stands on its own as a tragic morality tale.
17. The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane
A young Civil War soldier overcomes his initial cowardice, but, despite the fact that he acts heroically in a later battle, his humanity is diminished. Crane, who finished the novel when he was only twenty-four (he would die just five years later after a series of debilitating lung hemorrhages), was celebrated for its authentic detail about the conduct of war, though he had never experienced it himself. It was also hailed as a triumph of both naturalism and impressionism, as it realistically portrays the ordeal of battle while achieving allegorical stature.
18. The Sorrows of Young Werther, by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Written primarily in the form of a series of letters, this semiautobiographical story relates the tragedy of a young man who falls in love with a woman already betrothed to another. Although it made Goethe’s reputation at a young age, it also precipitated “Werther Fever,” prompting a fad of overwrought young people lamenting the vicissitudes of unrequited love, and Goethe later disavowed it and decried the Romantic literary movement it epitomized.
19. The Stranger, by Albert Camus
This existentialist classic chronicles the nihilistic life of an apathetic man who aimlessly commits murder and, once incarcerated, renounces humanity, which he has passively estranged himself from. Camus’s portrait of a man without a soul was a manifesto of his belief that life is bereft of meaning, and that the efforts of humans to find meaning are futile.
20. Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte
This complex melodrama about the compounded consequences of acting on selfish and vengeful motives has been overshadowed by Hollywood’s treatment of the thwarted love between a young woman named Catherine and her untamed foster brother, Heathcliff. But the story boasts an unflinching honesty about its deeply flawed protagonists, and though critical response to its publication was mixed, it has lived on as an expression of star-crossed ill fortune.




Monday, April 25, 2011

Moonbeams - Review

When I reviewed her first book, Jewels,  I said “I won’t tell you anything more because I don’t want to spoil the fun.  Just take my word for it and get yourself a copy of Jewels by local author Lakisha Spletzer.”
When I reviewed her second book, Werelove: Dusk Conspiracy, I wrote “…when Ms. Spletzer matures as a writer and finally finds her groove, hers is a voice that will be reckoned with.”
I have just finished Moonbeams, which the writer tells me is book one of a trilogy, and I’m here to tell you that with this offering, the Inverness, Florida writer and single mother of two can, in this reviewer’s opinion, be honestly and favorably compared to a young Ann McCaffrey!  If I need to be more specific than that for you, pay attention TOR, Penguin, Random House, Bantam, Earthlight, etc.  This is the coming out party,  and this is your chance to pick up a smoking hot new Sci-fi/Fantasy writer.
It is the end of a long, hot muggy summer in a small Virginia college town.  It’s Friday night, and friends Cory, Rob and Megan are tired of playing cards, and Cory and Megan are tired of losing to Rob.  Their decision to pack up the cards and drive to the next town over to do a little clubbing abruptly turns their world – and their lives upside down.  Cory sees a flash of light in a dark field, and convinces Rob to pull his car over and sets off to determine the source.  Rob follows Cory to assist his friend dragging a kicking, screaming, and whining  Megan, every step of the way.
They’re not quite certain of the source of the flash of light, but when they arrive at where Cory believes was its source, they are physically drawn into the Veil, a brilliantly crafted middle earth sort of place with elements similar to those worlds fashioned by the likes of Tolkein, Lewis, Goodekind, Anthony and McCaffrey, yet done so in a way that is fresh and new even to a reader intimately familiar with those names and places.
Moonbeams and all its descendant manifestations is uniquely the world of Lakisha Spletzler.  My only disappointment with Moonbeams will be remedied when part two of her trilogy is ready for prime time.  I grade on a half step five-star scale, so I give Moonbeams 4 ½ of five.  If I used an incremental 10–point scale, this would have been 9 out of 10.
Moonbeams, ISBN 1451559852, ©2011 Lakisha Spletzer, is available through the author’s website, CreateSpace.com and Amazon.com, including trade paperback and Kindle® version.  Other e-pub versions are available at Smashwords.com.  Cover art for Moonbeams was created by J.D Holyfield.

Friday, April 22, 2011

Three O’Clock

A Poem for Good Friday
By David Roth
© 25th March, 2005


Three o’clock, the bell did toll
Gathered crowd around, below
Hammer pounding, here it ring,
This day would salvation bring.

Crown of thorns upon his head,
Streams of life flow, crimson red,
Jeering crowd, some laugh, some cry,
As they raise Him to the sky,

Four o’clock; now cries the thief,
‘Save us, man, then I’ll believe,’
Prisoner on the other cross,
Declares Him Lord, accepts his loss.

Lifts his voice, speaks to the man,
Tells of Heaven’s glory plan,
Seeks the dying prisoner’s eyes,
‘Today, we’ll be in paradise’

Five o’clock, the guards cast lots,
Who will take the winner’s pot,
Dice are tossed, the runes unfold,
Winner takes the Savior’s robe.

Game is over, now they stand,
Darkness spreads across the land,
Three men writhe in searing pain,
Clouds roll, laden, dark with rain.

Six o’clock, a voice is heard,
Listen, tarry to His Word,
‘Forgive them’ is his dying cry,
Looking upward to the sky,

‘It is finished,’ He proclaims,
Man’s redemption He became,
Lightning strike and thunder roll,
Rain pours while sin takes its toll.

Three o’clock the end would start,
Life for Life and heart for heart,
Man of Sorrow, God’s own Son,
God Incarnate, Holy One,

Bringer of redemption’s plan,
Son of God, to sons of man.
Three days hence to greet the dawn,
Vanquished death!  New life begun!

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Were You There

By David Roth
© 18 November, 2003

The lone singer took the stage
The orchestra stood mute
A tiny choir huddled near
Intent and resolute

The singer paused and took a breath
Determined to be heard
“Were you there” he asked the audience
“When they crucified my Lord?”

I’d heard the hymn oft times before
And softly sang along
Without the deep conviction
I felt now within this song

A shiver trembled down my spine
I drew a shallow breath
Tears coursed down in burning streams
Envisioning His death

The singer pondered, “Were you there?”
His eyes gazed into mine
And caused me to consider
My appointment with the Divine

The Psalmist wrote that long before
I voiced my newborn cries
He knew me in my mother’s womb,
He saw me through His eyes

And now the image of the song
That caught me unaware
Reminded me that in His eyes
Most surely, I was there

For as each nail was driven home
As each drop of blood was shed
As surely as three days later
He rose up from the dead

I stood there on the somber day
He hung upon the tree
Aware that in His grace and love
He did it all for me

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

It Was...Something

It was a warm and sunny day.  Suddenly a bell rang out.  A cruise ship appeared on the horizon, and a frog croaked somewhere in the distance.  I did what anyone would do.  Tossed the alarm clock through the window and went back to sleep.  In retrospect, it may have been better to have opened the window first, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.  A very good idea.  Aspirin may have been useful as well, but don’t they always say hindsight is always 20-20, and furthermore, does that proverbial old wives tale include the eyes in the back of your mother’s head? 
I ask only because this was the morning of my 18th birthday, and much like the rest of the world, I’d stayed up far too late the night before, or more accurately, the morning following the night before, celebrating the rollover from 1970 to 1971.  I am certain that my impending birthday played no small part in the worldwide celebration.
I had two items on my to-to list for that Sunny first day of January, 1971.  Well, three if you include repairing the window.  Register for the Viet Nam draft, as required by law, and register to vote.  As it happened, both had to wait until the second day of January, 1971, because the world was taking the day off to celebrate my birthday with me, or without me, as it turned out.
As I said, I went back to bed.  You never can store up enough sleep.
I did accomplish the things on my task list with mixed repercussions.  When I went down to register, I was given a very high number in that year’s lottery, and Mr. Nixon, for whom I cast my first ever vote in a presidential election, returned the favor by ending the Viet Nam draft just days prior to my number coming up.
The other thing was registering to vote.  I cast my first vote, as I said, for the Nixon-Agnew ticket.  That didn’t work out so good.  Still, I did vote, as I have in every presidential election since, including the one when I was in Europe, and almost every local election.  Although I am a registered Republican, I have voted for Republicans, Democrats, Independents, Write-in Candidates, Libertarians, and on at least six occasions, the last presidential election included, for myself.  I have voted for men and women, White, Black, Hispanic, Irish, Italian, Polish, and undetermined.  I take this privilege as a responsibility.  I research the candidates and the issues and vote accordingly.  There are only two things I am fairly certain I have never done in any election.  I have never voted Tea Party, nor have I ever voted straight ticket.
If the truth bothers you, you might want to stop here.
If, in 2008, you voted for John McCain and the only reason you know is true in your heart of hearts, is that John McCain is white, you are a disgrace to our nation, and a racist bigot.  Having said that, if you voted for Barack Obama, and you know in your heart of hearts that the only reason you voted for him is because Barack Obama is black, you, too, are a disgrace to our nation and a racist Bigot.   And don’t give me any of that George W. Bush bull crap.  He wasn’t running.  If you’re voting color or gender, you are a bigot and that’s all there is to it.  Furthermore, you don’t have the brains to deserve the privilege of voting.  Hey – I warned you.
And, come to think of it, it may have been a dark and stormy night, that cruise ship may have well been the Black Pearl, and it could have been a fire cracker, or perhaps a shot that rang out, but I’m pretty sure about the bullfrog.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Overwhelmed

My wife says it’s because of the second stroke – the one that paralyzed my left side.  I don’t know if that’s the reason, but it seems that I’m more emotional since that auspicious event on 20th April, 2008 – in other words, three years ago tomorrow.  I seem to be more sensitive to things, and I cry more often, and sometimes it seems that almost anything will set it off.
I spoke with a wife and mother of three today whose husband and father of those same three children went off to Afghanistan to do his duty to defend our nation.  I also spoke with his mother, and had an opportunity to spend a few moments in prayer with wife/ mother and the mother of the departing soldier.  I am overwhelmed with humility for the sacrifice of three children, a wife, and the mother and father left behind to worry and pray for their loved one.  It was a privilege to speak with them and pray with them.
I had a similar privilege with two others from back in Pittsburgh, and a friend from back in college who is a pastor now, and whose father is in his last days.
I find myself both humbled and overwhelmed by the strength of those I sought to comfort, instead finding strength and comfort myself in their collective strength and faith.
And as I think of them and how they blessed me when I was attempting to be of some comfort and blessing to them, I find myself humble and overwhelmed by the mercy and grace of my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, and this I am reminded how unworthy I am of his gift of salvation.
As you read this, it is my prayer that He who spoke he universe into being, will speak to your heart.