Musings from Brian J. Noggle

My goodness, if you’ve ever wanted to read a book composed of 88% bullet points, look no further. I’d hoped this book would be a thoughtful exploration of things Americans believe, but this is no Jan Harold Brunvand book. The authors have modeled it upon a book by H.L. Mencken from the 1920s. It lists, sorted by chapter, a variety of things they say Americans believe ca. 1983. A few of the credos have parenthetical notes to pooh pooh the rubes who believe it, but most are just bullet points of statements such as “That it does not bother a lobster to be boiled alive.”

The end of the book has an actual chapter of paragraphs talking about modern fables, i.e., urban legends. It even includes outlines of a couple of them (not in actual outlines, you know, but I could see why you would expect it with this book). Then there’s an extensive index to the bullets.

It’s a quick read and a good nightstand book with easy places to break off, but seriously, in the 21st century, you get more from Snopes.com and its thousands of pop-under ads.

This book follows the story of the sons of a tribal chief in prehistoric England. The oldest brother is banished; the lame brother hides in the old temples and gets visions. The protagonist middle brother falls in love and gets his tribal scars of manhood. The oldest brother returns and slays the father, assuming tribal leadership and selling the middle brother as a slave. The middle brother’s girl is used and then runs off to a rivalling tribe to become the sorceress there. The lame brother gets painfully healed and grows in stature as a religious visionary whose goal is to reunite the Sun and the Moon, banishing winter. To that end, he leads the middle brother into a series of plots and programs to build the great temple–Stonehenge.

It’s a long convoluted tale, and the reader does not really get a sense of where they’re all going. I found the book close to Warriors of the Way, but without actual divine intervention. Cornwell spends a lot of time going into a lot of detail with the sacrifices, which I could have done without. Also, since it’s clear that Cornwell is making it all up, it lacks the historical detail interest that I take from the Sharpe series.

Ultimately, I was disappointed.

This book was sold by Doubleday Science Fiction, but really it’s a mystery set at a science fiction convention. The book is thus very reminiscient of Murder at the ABA.

In it, a professor who has written some science fiction becomes embroiled in a series of murders that seem to revolve around a rare science fiction pulp magazine.

Not a bad read, ultimately. It’s an old science fiction book, though, in its pacing and printing. Do you know what I mean?

Another Star Trek book “by” William Shatner (see also Star Trek: The Return). This one is the middle of a trilogy, so I’m in a world of challenge already. I’ve missed much of the set-up and back story, and brother, that book must have taken plenty. Not only do we have nods to all of the Star Trek series to that time (even Voyager), but the book deals with the universe from the “Mirror, Mirror” episode of the original series, so there are doubles of some of the characters in play.

In the book, Kirk chases his alter-ego, the emperor from the dark universe. Then Kirk’s new bride, a Klingon-Romulan hybrid(!), is endangered. Then they go off in space.

Come on, does the plot really matter? We’re here to see an episode with familiar characters, and we get it. We also get a little of space origins philosophy and a bit of nature/nurture stuff with the alternate universe musings, but it doesn’t detract from the story too much. At least no one is writing papers on it and holding conferences about it instead of, I don’t know, leading with his phaser.

Okay book, but you should really be careful about plucking a book from the middle of a trilogy. I should be, but probably won’t take care in the future, either.

Now this is premium 80s pulp fiction. The bad guys are obvious, and everyone aside from a few academics and maybe Teddy Kennedy agreed the Soviets were the bad guys. In this book, the mercenary band Soldiers of Barrabas (SOBs, you see) go into Siberia to rescue a dissident scientist.

The book deals with the way which the team gets into Russia–through a phony computer deal that lands them in a tank factory. They steal a plane and fly to Siberia, engaging in a fight for their lives as they try to find on emaciated political prisoner from a haystack.

It moves quickly, lights on some of the characters, and jumps between scenes to create adequate suspense. The author isn’t afraid to sacrifice series characters to make a point that there are bullets flying and this is war-ish.

Good stuff. I look forward to others in the series. I see they’re going for $30 each on Amazon, but I know somewhere where I can get them for a quarter (nyah, nyah!).

As you might recollect, this book was made into two films. One was made in the Eastern bloc the year I was born; the other starred George Clooney and was made in 2002. I haven’t seen either, but I remember it was a big deal because it represented something of the pinnacle of Eastern European science fiction.

The result is a mixture of Event Horizon, The Forge of God, and The Unbearable Lightness of Being. All it lacks is aliens bare of anything but a bowler.

To recap: a scientist rockets out to a scientific station orbiting the planet Solaris, which has an ocean which might be a sentient thing inscrutible to humans. The scientist finds out that his mentor has committed suicide, and that his two fellow residents of the space station fear phantasms apparently spawned by the ocean below. Soon, his ex-girlfriend who committed suicide begins to appear to him.

Gimlet said, “i liked lem’s idea that alien intelligence is probably incomprehensible to us, and vice versa.” I tell you what, kids, it’s not just the alien intelligence that is incomprehensible to me. The actions of the people on the station don’t rise above the level of “healthy cyphers” either. Instead of huddling together, one locks himself in the lab with whatever phantasm the ocean spawned for him, the second drinks himself blind and pops up sometimes to counsel the protagonist, and the protagonist goes to the library and researches 80 years of scholarship regarding the planet while musing about his relationship with his ex. Who is there, partly, recreated from his memories by the ocean below.

Instead of trying to communicate through the avatars, the scientists try to dispose of them (we’re told) and go mad. We’re not told what they’re supposed to represent, what the others’ phantasms are, or anything like that. No, the scientists, when they come together, theorize and then make up experiments. Then, the book sort of ends when the protagonist’s phantasm gets some degree of self-awareness and ‘kills’ itself.

Frankly, it’s not the sort of book that I prefer to read, and I only got out of it the ability to say I’ve read it and that I’ve grappled with the author’s point. I had more trouble grappling with the author’s writing, though. You cannot blame the substance on the translator.

So if you’re a Serious Student of Eastern European or Science Fiction Literature, it’s probably for you. Otherwise, stick to the Star Trek novels.

I found this book at my first book fair in the Springfield area. The Friends of the Christian County Library book sale was laden with series pulp like The Executioner, so how could I not grab one entitled Missouri Deathwatch and set in St. Louis.

Sort of. Aside from the title and the character mentioning that the action takes place in St. Louis, there’s no real sense of place. Descriptions of locations are stock. It could have been Philadelphia Deathwatch for all intents and purposes. On the other hand, it’s better than getting details wrong so that you get a sense of misplace (see Blood on the Arch).

This book is somewhere in the 80s in the Mack Bolan series, and with any series like this run through a set of different authors pounding out a wordcount for a paycheck. This book falls toward the bottom of the range. The author pads it out with musings about Mack Bolan’s purpose for the war on the Mob and repeating the arms he carries and whatnot. So it’s not the best in the series, and it’s not bad for what it is: a short pulp novel with some action and some explosions.

I read this book after my experience with The Ruins, and I was pleased to remember how good fiction should roll. This is my first Orson Scott Card book (although it’s a collaboration), so I didn’t know what to expect. But it’s a well-paced science fiction bit. The main character is a mute enhanced monkey who acts as a “witness” for an important scientist as she and her family join a one-way expedition to the stars on an extremely large vessel called The Ark.

The monkey becomes sentient, starts breaking his bonds and conditioning, and outwits most of the people in the book. Additionally, the family breaks down under the strains of the preliminary steps to space travel. And then the book sort of ends without any real resolution or major plot arc settlement, as this is the first of a trilogy. Still, the book was fresh enough and paced well enough that I did not mind.

I might have to pick up the others in the series to see what happens next; however, the book ended without a cliffhanger or anything, so I’m not driven.

This book puts Scott Smith into some mighty fine company. Along with the complete works of Algernon Blackwood, I put this book down with no intention of finishing it.

It is a slow mving, chapterless tale of some American students who go into the interior of Mexico and encounter something horrible. It’s a horror book, blurbed by Stephen King for crying out loud. I meandered through almost a hundred pages of it, not pulled by the plot and not liking the characters much. I turned to find out how many pages the book was, and I caught a sentence beginning the last section of the book: The Greeks arrived three days later. And I knew then how the book ended, with all the characters dead.

So I read the Wikipedia entry for the book to see if I would have liked it. And you know what? It didn’t get better from where I left off reading the book. The conceit behind the book doesn’t lend itself to much scrutiny, ultimately: a strange vine takes over people. It’s only at this one place, the ruins of the title. The local natives have salted a ring around a hilltop to keep the vine there, and they prevent anyone who crosses the threshold from leaving and carrying the eldritch vine with them.

Come on, that’s a conceit for a screenplay, which no doubt is what Smith had in mind. But if the freaking vine kills everyone who comes there, how come people keep saying they’re going there? How do the natives know to keep the vine at bay? I doubt the book answers anything; the plot on Wikipedia seems to be nothing but getting young, attractive Americans up to the Ruins to kill them.

I wasted a couple nights slogging through the first hundred pages. I’m glad I didn’t waste many more finishing the book.

This is the second book in the Tarzan series. Given its origins in pulp fiction, one must forgive some of the circumstances that come around for no other purpose than to spin a good yarn.

Tarzan leaves the United States after leaving Jane to his cousin, who has assumed Tarzan’s birthright. Then, he enlists in the French secret service. Stop snickering. Then he goes to Africa on a mission, meets some of the desert nomads, is almost killed, and then catches a ship that also holds Jane’s best friend. Tarzan is pitched overboard by bad guys, but he survives by swimming to Africa and then has some adventures becoming the king of a tribe and going to a lost city of gold. Meanwhile, Jane meets her friend, who tells her Tarzan has died. They start cruising up the west coast of Africa and are shipwrecked near where Tarzan’s cabin from the original book lies. Then Tarzan comes back, finds his cousin has died, rescues Jane from some bad men, and they are married.

Man, if I were Jane, I would never get on a boat again. I wonder what will happen in the next book, too. These pulp adventures are a guilty pleasure.

This is a collection from one of those poetry contests that makes everyone a winner and then puts all the winners into a book and then sells the winners copies of the book for $50. Full disclosure: I appeared in one of these books in 1984, and my sainted mother bought a copy. I probably even still have the copy of the Henderson Highlighter that reprinted the poem. But I digress. As for book quality, this isn’t the phone directory of the olden days like my poem appeared in, with 15 poems to a page of newsprint. This is actually like a real book of poems, with one or two per page.

Unfortunately, the poems aren’t that much better than I could have written in the sixth grade. I’m sorry, that’s not true; some of them are on more sophisticated subject matter, but that doesn’t mean that many of them are any good.

On the one hand, it really is awful that I subjected my children to hearing these as I read them aloud. On the other, it’s good to run through a bunch of these poems, especially after one has gotten a little bored with Ogden Nash, to recognize, again, what good poetry is.