The Demon-Haunted World - Science as a Candle in the Dark, by Carl Sagan (read in the spring 2011)

An eye-opening, clear introduction to the merits of a rationalist approach to the world. Why do we think “ghost” or “monster” when something in our closet creaks? Why is not just the wind? Or the house slightly shifting? Sagan explores our propensity/need/impulse to assign extraordinary explanations for phenomena more simply explained by the mundane. He takes us into the Inquisition, the burning of witches, reports of alien abduction, and many other fantastic beliefs which, he would argue and I would agree, impede our social evolution. His is a lucid and engaging writing style, a clear articulation of the struggle between the rationalist and those around us who see conspiracy in every government action, a space alien in every light in the sky.

Drood, by Dan Simmons

Fourth time is not the charm. I’ve devoured three other Simmons’ novels in the past year (The Terror, Hyperion and Fall of Hyperion) – all great reads in their own way. Drood is about Charles Dickens and a strange man named Edwin Drood told from the perspective of one of Dickens’ close friends. If you are a Dickens fan (I am not) this tale may be to your liking. It was not to mine. Not to take anything away from Simmons – his other works have treated me well. This novel is slow. I gave it 300+ pages before retiring. Too many other tales to read and too little time.

The Tipping Point, by Malcolm Gladwell

Serial-esque foray into the psychology of epidemics. Fashion, business, TV, cigarettes, suicide, crime, and disease are among the areas of fodder for Mr. Gladwell’s persuasive and artful dissection of what makes certain ideas take off and others stall on the launching pad. Failure doesn’t always have a lot to do with how good the idea is. Plenty of good ideas never make it because they don’t take root in the collective conscience of the public or because necessary influential people aren’t involved. The author identifies three different key components of why things may go “viral” and gives us examples of each. “The few” are those influential people who have connected themselves more widely and effectively in their world and become the catalyst for a new idea taking root. The “stickiness” is how well something retains its allure after people are exposed to it. A great idea might be compelling for a short period of time, but it has limited value if it doesn’t remain in the audience’s mind. The “context” is the environment in which the idea resides. Sometimes success of an idea or product can be achieved simply by changing the context of how it is marketed. Mr. Gladwell provides a different way for us to look at what makes good ideas work (and fail) with evidence and research to support his claims. There is likely something in here for most everybody, both in work and home life. Of particular value to me are the sections in which he discusses early childhood learning (Sesame Street and other TV programs) and adolescent smoking. A quick and thought-provoking read.

The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho

A wonderful message simply delivered in fable format. Lacking nuance, Coelho takes us on a journey with a shepherd boy to find his own “personal treasure” – predictably, the treasure is both everything and nothing that you had expected (they seldom are in fables). I found the lesson of the tale satisfyingly a reinforcement of my own beliefs. But also a little disappointing. It reminded me a bit of Jonathan Livingston Seagull and Illusions, two similarly crafted tales by Richard Bach. Another comparison that came to mind was a more sophisticated novel, The Good Earth by Pearl Buck. Would I recommend this novel? Perhaps. Are you spiritually starved? It might help.

The Control of Nature, by John McPhee

I am down in Florida for a few days having just taken my Anatomic and Clinical Pathology Board exams. My father lives 2.5 hours due south of Tampa in the sunny confines of a Naples housing development and I decided to shoot down Rt. 75 for a two day visit before returning home to Watertown, Mass. For diversion I brought along a copy of John McPhee’s The Control of Nature, a three story foray into man’s efforts to subdue enormously powerful natural events. What timing! Now in the spring of 2011 we have historically high water levels on the Mississippi and a volcano exploding in Iceland. By all rights, the events McPhee narrates seem, at times, futile, full of hubris, dangerous, and ridiculous if not outright insane. The first tale concerns the lower Mississippi and the Army Corps of Engineers’ efforts to control its flow. When I was eighteen years old I visited New Orleans and made my way to Jackson Square in the French Quarter. I asked a passerby where the river was – I couldn’t find it. Pointing, she directed me up a series of stone steps – 20 or 30 of them – at the top of which I found myself standing on the concrete bank of the river flowing by just a yard or so below my feet. I turned and looked way down at the city of New Orleans and laughed. Apparently, the lower Mississippi is leveed for hundreds of miles along both sides to protect the hundreds of thousands (millions) of people who have settled the land along and in the “shadow” of the river. Before we came along and built levees, the river flowed where it wished, always seeking the easiest and fastest route to the Gulf of Mexico. The main branch hasn’t always flowed to New Orleans and without the Army Corps of Engineers’ intervention in the 1960’s it likely wouldn’t now. McPhee’s first story is a tale of the Atchafalaya river which branches off the Mississippi three hundred miles above New Orleans. In the 1960’s fully 30% of the river flow diverted down this sizeable branch - a number that was increasing. If the Atchafalaya took over the main flow, the old main river would diminish, taking with it the thriving port city of New Orleans and all the industry that had been built along the banks over the preceding decades. Unacceptable. So they built a massive barrier that controlled the flow of water into the Atchafalaya, forever affecting the lives of the people for hundreds of miles around. For better and worse. McPhee’s second tale is about a volcanic eruption on a small island south of Iceland on which there lives a community of 5000 people. The harbor is among the best in the world and supports a thriving fishing community essential to Iceland’s financial well-being. The explosion of the volcano launched flaming boulders thousands of feet and unleashed rivers of slowly advancing lava toward the harbor. The people of the island undertook a massive engineering project of cooling the lava by pumping millions of gallons of seawater at it. They bulldozed it. They stood out on those hardened lava fields, only recently cooled by seawater with still molten lava flowing inches below their feet, directing hoses as new lava flows advanced. They worked in shifts for months. They saved the harbor and, in doing so, reshaped, together with the volcano, the geology of the island. The third tale is of Los Angeles and the city’s efforts to control or, at least, minimize the damage of the mud/boulder/water flows that occasionally devastatingly rumble down from the San Gabriel mountains north of the city and oftentimes into the city. The most remarkable aspect of this third tale is the willingness (blindness?) of the locals to continue to build homes and communities in the shadow of great masses of boulders perched on tenuous steep terrain. Apparently the views (and air) are worth the risk. All three tales are full of geology, history, entertaining and fascinating personalities and, most of all, tasty prose. McPhee’s style is great fun and a joy to read. I devoured another of his works, Coming into the Country, a series of tales of Alaska, many years ago and am glad that I found him again. This great book made the torments of my two exam days in Tampa a bit easier to bear.

Killer of Crying Deer, by William Orem

Late 17^th century Caribbean piracy and lawlessness are the backdrop for this interesting and well-crafted tale of a boy’s intellectual and physical growth among the native peoples of the Florida Keys. Abducted by pirates early in his trip to the “new world,” the boy Henry becomes a favorite of the pirate captain Whitepaul who, seemingly, exists without moral compass, compassion, fear or obligation to any established mode of conduct. In short, a truly lawless man whose only custom appears to allow captured prisoners the opportunity to fight their way onto his crew. At times, Whitepaul reminded me of other archetypal fictional characters such as Conrad’s Kurtz (Heart of Darkness) and McCarthy’s Judge (Blood Meridian). Pillaring Whitepaul is the equally dangerous and vile Catholic Albenix, also in command of his own ship, doing the “Church’s work” with terror, torture and murder. Albenix is so deranged, in fact, that Whitepaul appears a sympathetic character in comparison. Slave trade abounds and the world is a nasty and brutish place. Death comes suddenly. Against this backdrop, having survived a terrible storm after being swept overboard, Henry finds health, peace and beauty among “the People,” native islanders who live a rich and spiritually fulfilling life. He falls in love. He also learns of the randomness of life and how decisions born of good intent may sometimes have terrible consequences. Orem tackles many themes – colonialism, slavery, Catholicism and the dichotomy between its precepts and actions, and the needs of the individual versus those of the group - all worthy of occupying an entire novel. In this regard, perhaps, the novel may fall a bit short – I sometimes felt that there was not enough breathing room for these myriad themes. But this is a minor criticism. The prose is consistently fluid, elegant and often surprising. A pleasure to read not only for the tale, but also the uniqueness of the writing. Well worth the time.