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Style and the Man by Meredith Nicholson
At the word style the critics at once sit up and take notice. We are all sensitive to style; we either like to drift with an easy, lazy current, or we prefer to fight a turbulent, resisting tide; we enjoy contemplating the moonlight upon tranquil waters, or we find our greatest pleasure in watching the ruffian billows breaking against rough shores. These are largely matters of temperament or of mood. The attitude of many of us changes from day to day, from book to book; but at heart we all have a preference, a prejudice in favor of certain methods of writing, while others awake our antagonism. It has probably been the experience of all of us that books that reach the library table often lie unopened for many days; and then to our own surprise we some day take them up, read them with delight, and wonder why we approached them so reluctantly. In the same whimsical fashion we recur to volumes that we knew in old times, impelled by some instinct that makes us long to experience the same emotion, the same thrill, the same peace that gladdened our souls in happier days. There are books that fit into moods of sorrow, of loneliness, of anxiety; and others are equally identified with moods of happiness, elation and hope. There are in all our libraries, great or small, stern Gibraltars that rise gloomily before us on shelves to which we never turn with pleasure.
Great writers have rarely written of style, perhaps because it is so individual, so intimate a matter; and the trick of the thing may not, except in rare cases be communicated to the tyro. The convenient methods of absent treatment advertised by correspondence schools of authorship are of no avail in the business of style; style can no more be taught than the shadows of clouds across June meadows, or the play of wind over wheat fields can be directed or influenced by the hand of man. To grasp style much is inevitably presupposed,—grammar, sensibility, taste, a feeling for color and rhythm,—of such things as these is the kingdom of style. In children we often observe an individual and distinctive way of saying things; we all have correspondents whose letters are a joy because of their vivid revelation of the writer. In every community there are persons much quoted for their wit or wisdom, whose sayings have a raciness and tang.
The bulk of English is so enormous and increases so rapidly that we have a right to pick and choose and to hang aloof from all that does not please us. The fashion changes in literary style as in clothes, and yet,—to shift the figure,—the snows of yesteryear linger on the far uplands and high peaks, and they are there forever. It is a common impression that popular taste in literature is bad and growing worse. I do not myself sympathize with this idea. The complaint smells of antiquity: every age has had its literary Jeremiahs; the wail that of making many books there is no end is older than American literature; for is it not written: "Many of them also which used curious arts brought their books together and burned them before all men; and they counted the price of them and found it fifty thousand pieces of silver."
It would be instructive, if there were time, to review the labors of those who have first and last written on the subject of style. We might with profit and entertainment discuss the general superiority of English poetry to English prose; but this is a matter conceded, I believe, by sounder critics than your orator; we might linger by the golden coasts of Greece and harken to the voice of Plato who—says Frederic Harrison, alone is faultless; we might follow Cæsar's eagles into Roman territory and hear, at the Sabine farm, Ars Poetica read by a most competent witness on this question of style. Here is a man to our liking, this Horace, and we find him eminently modern in his attitude toward the dictionary: "Mortal works must perish," he says, who was born two thousand years ago; "much less can the honor and elegance of language be long-lived. Many words shall revive which now have fallen off; and many words which are now in esteem shall fall off, if it be the will of custom, in whose power is the decision and right and standard of language." Other witnesses speaking many tongues crowd the door, but we must stick to our text. It is our mother English that now concerns us, and only a few may be allowed to testify at this session of the court. You will not, I pray, take my obiter dicta too seriously. I beg you to deal leniently with my stupidity when I say that such prose as Addison's or Steele's has little charm for me; it is, as Mr. James might say, nice; but it lacks variety, flash, ginger; and if I prefer Swift, Defoe or Carlyle to Milton, pray do not deliver me to the lions. As an advocate of the open shop in criticism I insist on my right to punch and hammer at my own bench in the corner beside yours. In thus frankly divulging my likings and aversions, I hope—to quote Doctor Johnson, that "I am not preparing for my future life either shame or repentance." Let us assume that all the authoritative testimony on this subject is in evidence and a part of the res gestæ,—Newman on Language in "The Idea of a University"; Spencer's "Philosophy of Style"; certain passages from George Henry Lewes' "Principles of Success in Literature"; De Quincey's eloquent and stimulating essay on "Style"; and discussions of the same fascinating subject by Stevenson, Pater and Frederic Harrison, and by Antoine Albalat in French,—these we file with the clerk. And not to know Professor Walter Raleigh's essay on Style is to have missed a discussion of the subject which is in itself a model of graceful, melodious writing, guiltless of preciosity.
There must always be a difference between the style of genius and that which proceeds from ordered, controlled and directed talent. The dead level of mediocrity is easily attained in both prose and poetry, but even persons of little cultivation feel the lure of captivating speech. The world has been swayed by the power of phrase. The trumpet and drum may take hold of man's emotions, but words only can touch his mind with truth. The words of Jesus are marvelously simple; there were undoubtedly those among his contemporaries who could contrive more splendid orations; there were citizens of the Roman empire of which he was a humble citizen who were richer in learning.
Antoine Albalat, in "The Travail of Style," discusses in separate chapters the literary methods of such writers of supreme rank as Pascal, Bossuet, Buffon, Montesquieu, Rousseau, La Fontaine, Racine, Balzac, Chateaubriand, Victor Hugo and Flaubert. And he conducts this discussion in an immensely interesting and original way, namely, by reproducing the actual manuscripts of the great writers themselves, with the countless erasures and substitutions of words, phrases and whole passages they made. What toilers, what galley slaves of the pen, they were! one cries in amazement! The first draught is as nothing. It serves simply as a point of departure, to blot, to cover with spider tracks of erasures and emendations.
"Is this the work of inspiration, this galley-slave toil at the dull mechanic pen?" demands a critic. "Yes," the writer of the book replies. "When Buffon declared 'Genius is but infinite capacity of patience,' do you take him for a fool who meant to say: 'If the veriest dolt sits long enough on a chalk egg he will hatch out a phoenix'? No, he meant that as much inspiration of genius goes into thoughtful correction and brooding revision as into the first jet of composition. When the now more fiery, more pathetic word suggests itself, it is even more a flash of inspiration than the primary suggestion of the older and poorer one." Ah! if ever there was a book to confirm the current saying, "Easy writing makes hard reading," it is this.
There is, as every one knows, an apparent happy luck in writing,—the curiosa felicitas that puts the inevitable word into your ink pot. I offer the suggestion that composition does not begin with the taking up of the pen; that there are untraceable sub-conscious processes that are never idle, whose results illuminate many a treasured book. He were a rash author who would attempt to set apart his conscious felicities from his inadvertent graces. How long do you suppose Shakespeare pondered that most stupendous incident in all literature—the knocking at the gate in Macbeth? Tennyson when questioned as to his own power over words once solemnly answered: "In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God and the word was God"—implying a belief in inspiration.
Veracity is the final test in all art. It makes no difference how trifling or unimportant the thing that we would utter, or whether we express ourselves in the cadences of the symphony, in the militant splendor of the epic, in the careless fling of some vagrant poet's tavern catch; or whether the artist writes a landscape in colors upon canvas, the test of beauty and strength is first of all the test of truth. We measure the far-shadowing spear of Achilles and weigh the gleaming sword of Arthur by the things we know to be beautiful and strong. Words may lie before us like green meadows by peaceful streams, but we must feel the softness of the turf and hear the bubble of the stream or they fail as a vehicle; or, in other departments of literature, they must sweep toward us like a cavalry charge, and we must hear the rattle of scabbards and the pounding of hoofs until we draw back struck with fear at the onset, or the artist, who is like a captain over his troop, has failed of his purpose. "My love for thee," wrote the poet; "my love for thee shall march like armed men."
The power of the printed word has always been tremendous; the authority of type is often excessive and unjustified; yet this only makes more exacting the inevitable standard of truth. Style will forever be challenged by truth, that austere higher critic whose method is so searching and whose judgments are so inexorable. The mere bows and ruffles, the chiffon flounces of composition are easily flung off by the literary milliner, but unless they are essential to the investiture of character they crumple and pass to the garret. It is not enough to communicate to the eye the sense of form, the outward and visible outline of a man; the shop keeper can do that with a dummy in his show-window; but words must go further and produce bone and sinew; we must be able through the writer's magic to clasp a hand that is quick with red blood; whose contact thrills us at a touch.
This is as true in those characterizations that are the veritable creatures of realism as of those that are wrought in the mood of romance. The burden upon your romancer lies, in fact, more heavily, for in his work the spectator, the auditor, the reader, can assist him little. Silas Lapham, for example, is within the range of our common experience; what the author may omit we supply; whereas D'Artagnan rides in from a strange and unexplored land, and we must be convinced of his cleverness, his courage, his skill with the sword. When Beatrix comes down the stair to meet Esmond we must hear the rustle of her skirts, feel the fascination of her smile, and be won by the charm of her voice;—we must hear the pretty click of her slippers on the stairs. And we may say, in passing, that Thackeray carried style as an element of English fiction higher than it was ever carried before and no one since has shaken his supremacy.
Few writers of the Victorian period wielded a more flexible English than Matthew Arnold, and few writers of any period have shown greater versatility. His power of direct statement was very great and he plunged forward to the chief facts he wished to present with the true journalist's instinct for what is interesting and important. As a controversial writer he had few equals in his day, and many philistines went down before his lance. The force of repetition was never more effectively illustrated than in the letters he launched against his assailants. He was a master of irony, and irony in skilled hands is a terrible weapon.
The vivacious Mr. Birrell complains of the jauntiness of Arnold's style in "Literature and Dogma," and we must confess that Arnold pinned his tick-tack on the palace windows of the bishops of Gloucester and Winchester rather too often. But Arnold had, too, the touch of grace and melody. He was a master of the mournful cadence, as witness the familiar and oft quoted paragraph on Newman at Saint Mary's with which he opens his lecture on Emerson; and even more beautiful is that passage in one of the most appealing and charming of his literary essays—the paper on Keats—in which he thus plays upon Keats' own words: "By virtue of his feeling for beauty and of his perception of the vital connection of beauty with truth, Keats accomplished so much in poetry, than in one of the two great modes by which poetry interprets, in the faculty of naturalistic interpretation, in what we call natural magic, he ranks with Shakespeare. 'The tongue of Kean,' he says, in an admirable criticism of that great actor and his enchanting elocution; 'the tongue of Kean must seem to have robbed the Hybla bees and left them honeyless. There is an indescribable gusto in his voice;—in Richard, "Be stirring with the lark to-morrow, gentle Norfolk!" comes from him as through the morning atmosphere towards which he yearns.' This magic," says Arnold, "this 'indescribable gusto in the voice,' Keats himself, too, exhibits in his poetic expression. No one else in English poetry, save Shakespeare, has in expression quite the fascinating felicity of Keats, his perfection of loveliness. 'I think,' he said humbly, 'I shall be among the English poets after my death.' He is; he is with Shakespeare."
The great distinction of Newman's style lies in its extraordinary clarity. He wrote for a select audience; his sermons even were for the scholars of his university, and dealt usually with the fine points of religious philosophy. He was under scrutiny, the chief spokesman of one of the most remarkable movements that ever shook the Protestant world, and of necessity he expressed himself with scrupulous precision. After crystal clearness a certain cloistral composure follows naturally as a second characteristic of his style. He was engaged upon a serious business and never trifled with it. It is unfortunate for literature that he confined himself so closely to theological controversy or to kindred subjects that have lost their hold on popular interest, for in the qualities indicated—clearness and precision, and in melody—he is rarely equaled in the whole range of English prose. Religion in his case was not a matter of emotion but of intellect. Personal feeling flashes out so rarely in his pages that we hover with attention over those few lines in which he tells us of his good-by to Oxford, and of his farewell to Trinity College: "Trinity, which was so dear to me, and which held on its foundation so many who had been kind to me both when I was a boy, and all through my Oxford life. Trinity had never been unkind to me. There used to be much snap-dragon growing on the walls opposite my freshman's rooms there, and I had for years taken it as the emblem of my own perpetual residence even unto death in my University."
But there for a moment he was off guard: and for an instance of his more characteristic manner—for an example of that mournful music which Arnold, in the familiar paragraph to which I have referred, caught so happily,—we do better to dip into such a sermon as the famous one on The Theory of Development, and I read from the page as it falls open:
"Critical disquisitions are often written about the idea which this or that poet might have in his mind in certain of his compositions and characters: and we call such analysis the philosophy of poetry, not implying thereby of necessity that the author wrote upon such a theory in his actual delineation, or knew what he was doing; but that, in matter of fact, he was possessed, ruled, guided by an unconscious idea. Moreover, it is a question whether that strange and painful feeling of unreality which religious men experience from time to time, when nothing seems true, or good, or right, or profitable, when faith seems a name, and duty a mockery, and all endeavors to do right, absurd and hopeless, and all things forlorn and dreary, as if religion were wiped out from the world, may not be the direct effect of the temporary obscuration of some master vision, which unconsciously supplies the mind with spiritual life and peace."
Here in America style was first greatly realized by Hawthorne. Changing tastes and fashions have not shaken his position. He was our first, and he remains our greatest creative artist in fiction, and it were idle to dispute his position. His work became classic almost in his own day. He was no chance adventurer upon the sea of literature, but a deliberate, painstaking artist. Fiction has rarely been served by so noble a spirit; and fortunate were we indeed could we pluck the secret of style from his pages. In his narrative there may sometimes be dull passages; his instinct for form and proportion may seem at times, by our later tastes, to fail him; but his command of the language is never lost; his apt choice of words moves an imitator to despair; and felicity of phrase, balance, movement and color were greatly his. The cumulative power of "The Scarlet Letter" is tremendous,—and it is a power of style not less than of intense moral earnestness. There is something awe-inspiring in the contemplation of that melancholy figure, in whose mind and heart the spirit of Puritanism dwelt as in a sanctuary; and yet he was always and above everything else an artist. He was as incapable of an inartistic idea as he was of a clumsy sentence. Sitting at the receipt of custom in the grim little village of Salem he took toll of stranger ships than ever touched Salem wharves. Other figures in American literature must be scrutinized through the magnifying glass; Hawthorne alone looms huge;—as Mr. James so happily said of Balzac, Hawthorne's figure is immovable and fixed for all time. To mention Irving, Poe or Cooper on the same page is but to betray our incompetence for the office of criticism. There are kindlier and cheerfuller figures among American prose writers, but Hawthorne alone is commanding, noble, august.
After Hawthorne, the prose of Lowell affords, I should say, the highest mark reached by any American writer. The main difference,—and it is a difference of height, breadth, depth,—the difference between them as prose writers lies in the fact that one was a creative artist and the other a critic. And criticism must always be secondary. The enduring monuments of the literature of all the ages were built before criticism was born. The great originals in all literature have paid little heed to criticism. The creator must plow and sow and reap; the critic may only seek the garnered harvest, nibble the hay and chew his cud. The persistent efforts of critics to magnify their own importance proves their sensitiveness and the jealousy with which they guard their self-conferred prerogatives. The criticism of literature is the only business in which the witness is not called upon to qualify as to his competency. Failures at any game naturally turn critic. In science we demand the critic's credentials: in literature we all kick the sleeping lion and inadvertently twist his tail.
Lowell wrote with remarkable knowledge, skill and effectiveness on many subjects, and his political and literary essays are models of form and diction. He was perhaps the most cultivated man we have produced; he drew from all literatures, and not less from human experience; and he was singular among American scholars in his life-long attention to politics. He saw American history in the making through years of great civil and military stress. He was one of the first to take the true measure of Lincoln. He wrote a magnificent prose essay on Lincoln before our martyred chief passed to the shadows; and the postscript to that essay touches, it seems to me, the higher altitudes possible in prose, and deserves to be remembered and repeated side by side with his Commemoration Ode:
"On the day of his death this simple Western attorney, who, according to one party was a vulgar joker, and whom the doctrinaires among his own supporters accused of wanting every element of statesmanship, was the most absolute ruler in Christendom, and this solely by the hold his good-humored sagacity had laid on the hearts and understandings of his countrymen. Nor was this all, for it appeared that he had drawn the great majority, not only of his fellow-citizens, but of mankind also, to his side. So strong and so persuasive is honest manliness without a single quality of romance or unreal sentiment to help it! A civilian during times of the most captivating military achievement; awkward, with no skill in the lower technicalities of manners, he left behind him a fame beyond that of any conqueror, the memory of a grace higher than that of outward person, and of a gentlemanliness deeper than mere breeding. Never before that startled April morning did such multitude of men shed tears for the death of one they had never seen, as if with him a friendly presence had been taken away from their lives, leaving them colder and darker. Never was funeral panegyric so eloquent as the silent look of sympathy which strangers exchanged when they met on that day. Their common manhood had lost a kinsman."
Lowell's prose like his verse was enriched from the soil of many lands, but more and more as he grew older he wore his learning lightly. The self-consciousness of the young professor, ever anxious not to be tripped by the impertinence of some recalcitrant student, gave way toward the end to the easy discourse of a man sure of his ground. A certain tendency to superficial cleverness,—the stinging ironies of a yawning professor with a dull class flash out of his pages disagreeably at times, in odd contrast with his true and always delightful humor. Style must proceed from something solider than mere cleverness. Your tour de force performer is lucky to be remembered in a book of quotations; his definitive edition goes to the back shelf of the second-hand shop. Language with Lowell was a ready and flexible instrument. I have said that he knew men and books; he knew nature also, and he observed the passing pageant of his New England seasons with a shrewd and contemplative eye. The spring sunshine touching the old historic trees at Elmwood; the flashing gold of the oriole, the spendthrift glory of June days,—these things communicated an imperishable sunniness and charm to his writings. How happily, in one of the best of his papers—the essay on Walton—he has constructed for us the character of the delightful old angler. Walton, he darkly hints, is not the artless old customer we have always believed him; and you may be sure that only a lover of letters and a believer in style for the style's sake would chuckle—as we find Lowell doing,—at seeing the angler hesitating between two or three forms of a sentence, solicitous to preserve only the best. In his charming life of Herbert, after quoting a poem of Donne's, Walton adds a few words of characteristic comment. They wear a naïve air; they seem to have slipped carelessly from the pen. Walton wrote: "These hymns are now lost to us, but doubtless they were such as they two now sing in Heaven." "Now"—continues Lowell—"on the inside cover of his Eusebius, Walton has written three attempts at this sentence, each of them very far from the concise beauty to which he at last constrained himself. Simplicity, when it is not a careless gift of the Muse, is the last and most painful achievement of conscientious self-denial."
By the usual tests of style we might easily deal harshly with Emerson; but nothing could be idler than any attempt to buckram ourselves in the rules of the schoolroom in studying the qualities that make for style. Emerson's diction was happily adapted to the needs of his matter. His essays are like the headings for homely lectures or jottings from notebooks, and are almost as good reading when taken backward as forward, so little was he concerned with sequence or climax.
The roaring, steaming style of his grim old friend Carlyle never wakened any desire for emulation in the sage of Concord. Carlyle drives or drags you under the hot sun of mid-day, and if you falter or stumble he lays on the lash with a hard, bony Scotch hand. He was what Sydney Smith called Daniel Webster—a steam engine in trousers; but Emerson addresses you with a fine air of casualty when he meets you in the highway; and if the day be fine, and if you are in the mood for loitering, he will repeat to you the Socratic memoranda from his notebook. He is benignant, sanguine, wise, albeit a trifle cold with the chill of winter's last fling at the New England landscape. His usual essay reminds me of a string of icicles on the eaves of a white, staring New England house, aglitter but not yet adrip in the March sun. He is as careless of your attention as Walt Whitman when the good gray poet copies the names of "these states" from a geographical index. In spite of his fondness for references to the ancients he suggests Plato and Socrates far less than Poor Richard or Abe Martin. He contrived no new philosophy but he was a master-hand at labeling guideposts on the dusty highway of life. He could not build a bridge to carry us across the stream, but he could paint a sign—"no thoroughfare" or "A fine of ten dollars for driving faster than a walk": and happy is the youth who heeds these amiable warnings. Proverbs fell as naturally to his pen as codfish balls to his Sunday morning breakfast. He is as wholesome as whole wheat bread; but he has a frugal method with the bread-knife and the slices at his table are thin.
The more genial Lowell produces a cobwebbed bottle from his cellar and takes care to push it to your plate; he plies you with cakes spiced from far lands, and rises anon to kick the logs upon the hearth into leaping flame that the room may be fittingly dressed for cheering talk. Emerson patronizes you and advises a sparing draught from the austere-lipped pitcher of icy spring water. At seventeen (I give you my personal experience for what it may be worth), there is something tonic in the very austerity of his style,—his far-flung pickets that guard the frosty hills. Later on, when the fires of youth have cooled somewhat, and we march beside the veterans in the grand army;—when proverbs have lost their potency and the haversacks hang empty on our lean and weary backs, we prefer, for the campfires, authors of more red blood, and pass our battered cups for literary applejack that is none the worse for us if it tear our throats a little as it gurgles down. Once he might throw up his windows and call to us: Virtue is the soul's best aim; adjust your lives to truth; and so on. But now that we have tasted battle and known shipwreck, we present arms only to the hardier adjutants of the army of life who gallop by on worn chargers and cry: "Courage, Comrade, the devil's dead."
Eloquence of the truest and finest sort we find in Ruskin at his happiest. He could be as wayward and as provoking as Carlyle; but he founded a great apostolic line of teachers of beauty, and when he was most abusive he was at least interesting, and when he was possessed, as so often happened, by the spirit of lovely things, and color and form and light wove their spell for him and he wrought in an abandon of ecstasy, we are aware of eloquence in its truest sense and see style rising to its noblest possibilities. His tremendous earnestness, his zeal, his pictorial phraseology, the glow of language struck off at heat,—these are things that move us greatly in Ruskin. In his armory he assembled a variety of weapons suitable for various uses; he could administer mild rebuke; he could expostulate a little stridently; he could deliver us up to prison and slam the door of a mediæval dungeon upon us; whereas the sour old Scot used one bloody bludgeon for all heads. Carlyle was, to be sure, capable of tenderness—there were, indeed, few feats possible in the literary gymnasium that he could not accomplish; but when Jeannie got on his nerves there was something doing in the Recording Angel's office. Keble, he declared, was an ape, and Newman was without the brains of a rabbit. He praised as violently as he denounced;—everything was pitched in thundering hyperbole. The great men of the ages slunk through Carlyle's study like frightened steers through a slaughter house. Where he hid his own iniquities during his life time the genial Froude exposed them in a new chamber of horrors at his death.
Macaulay always reminds me of a gentleman whip driving a coach and four. He manages his horses with a sure hand. His speed is never too high; he knows the smooth roads and rumbles along at a comfortable gallop, swinging up to tavern doors with grand climaxes. He writes as a man writes who dines well and feels good; he piles up a few pages of manuscript after the supper gong has sounded just to show that his head is still full after his stomach is empty. He can turn his horses in the chancel of a cathedral without knocking out a single choir stall; he can drive under low arches without ruffling his hat; his knowledge of the road is complete; his confidence reassuring. As you roll over the road with the whip lash curling and cracking and the horn blowing blithely you submit yourself to his guidance with supreme faith that he will never spill you into the ditch or send you crashing into a fence corner. English history unfolds before him like a charming panorama. We smile but are not convinced by that reference of Dr. Holmes to the Macaulay flowers of literature. You are proud of yourself to be reading anything so wholly agreeable and apparently so wise. The later scientific method of historical writing can not harden our hearts toward Macaulay. A man whose pen never scratched or squeaked is not to be set aside for a spectacled professor in a moldy library. His facts may be misleading but—he's perfectly bully reading!
It is difficult to speak of Stevenson, for he has been so much cited, and his admirers praise him with so much exuberance that many are on guard against what is called his charm. He has undoubtedly been praised by some who liked his velvet coat better than his writings; and yet when we have dismissed these triflers and have locked away the velvet jacket we must admit that the applause of the tavern idlers is not without reason. We have to do now only with his style,—the style that is indubitably there. It not only exists, but there is an eerie, luring, Ariel-like quality about it that can not readily be shaken off. He has told us with a frankness rarely equaled by men of letters of the methods he employed in learning to write: his confessions have been quoted ad nauseam,—I refer to those paragraphs in which he tells us how he played the sedulous ape to many accepted masters of style in the hope of catching their tricks.
The gods of his youth were certainly respectable,—Hazlitt, Lamb, Wordsworth, Sir Thomas Browne, Defoe, Hawthorne, Montaigne and Obermann. He not only confesses that he aped these models; he defends the method: "Nor yet," he says, "if you are born original, is there anything in this training that shall clip the wings of your originality."
Stevenson liked a good phrase just as he liked a good inn, or winter stars or a long white road. A zest for life,—for the day's adventure, for the possibilities of the next turn of the highway, for a pungent saying that might fall from the lips of a passing beggar,—such things as these interested him, and he accommodated his style to the business of setting them forth in melodious language. He realized in a fine way that which we heavily call the light touch,—a touch firm in its lightness and instinct with nimbleness and grace. We should know from his writings, if he had not been described with so much particularity, that he was a person of keen humor and delightful vivacity. Everything that may be done with the light touch he did and did well. He renewed our interest in the essay; he wrote poems marked by a shy but bubbling joy in simple things; he mounted the fallen lord of romance upon a fresh charger and sent pirate caravels forth again to plunder the seas. And as he sails the wide waters of romance under flags not down in the signal books, we may be quite sure that every bit of brass is polished to the utmost, that every rope is in place and neatly coiled and every sail furled tightly in the nattiest manner or bent to catch the gale. Those cheerless souls who never heard a whip handle rattle a tavern shutter at midnight, who never prowled about old wharves and talked with tattooed sailormen; who are grim seekers after realities and have no eye for the light that never was on sea or land have no business with Stevenson and had better stick to tea, muffins and The Ladies' Home Journal. And finally—for we must hurry on lest we fall under that spell of his, let me say that the sense of form and the instinctive blending of word colors,—things of no light importance in consideration of style, have not in our time been better exemplified than in the writings of Stevenson.
You will observe that I have been calling the roll of names near to our own generation, for these we may bring to a more intimate scrutiny; and I am not among those who are confident that the last word was said in English style before the Victorian era. The nervous energy of our later English comes naturally with the quicker currents of life. Milton, himself, if he might reappear from the shadows, would be sure to delatinize his speech, and accommodate his manner, in all likelihood, to the requirements of less monstrous subjects than those offered by the decadent years in English history which saw the blackguard roundheads sticking their bloody spears through cathedral windows.
The style of Mr. Henry James is much discussed, frequently execrated and often deplored; and even in a hasty glance like ours over the bookshelves we must linger a moment beside his long line of volumes. Whether we admire or dislike him he is not a negligible figure in contemporaneous literature. He is one of the most interesting writers of his time; he has uttered himself with remarkable fullness; he has attempted and succeeded in many things. His influence upon younger writers has been very great. Mr. Owen Wister has lately acknowledged his own indebtedness; Mrs. Wharton's obligations are written large on all her pages. Mr. James is, to use a word of his own, immensely provocative. The range of his interest is wide and his cultivation in certain directions great. He is not a scholar in the sense that Lowell was; he has observed life in shorter perspectives; his literary criticisms, which we may take to be a key to his personal interests, have dealt with nearer figures,—with Tourguenief, Balzac and Stevenson. His paper on Stevenson remains and will long remain the most admirable and the most searching thing written on the lad in the velvet jacket. Herein we find an instructive and illuminative denotement of Mr. James' own attitude toward this trade of writing; every writer, he declares, who respects himself and his art cares greatly for his phrase; but Stevenson, he finds, cares more for life. Mr. James is no scorner of phrase for the phrase's sake or of form for form's sake. The essays collected in "Partial Portraits" and "English Hours" are written in a far directer and simpler manner than his later tales. There are few lean streaks in Mr. James' writings. He sees through and all around the things he writes about, whether it be a city, a bit of landscape, a character of fiction, or an author. When a subject takes hold of him the aroused thoughts tumble about in tumultuous fashion; he is not a little cistern easily emptied but a great flowing well. Most of us complain that in later years he has been inarticulate, or obscure, and often utterly incomprehensible. There is some justice in the charge, and it can not be pretended that "The Golden Bowl" or the essays he has recently printed on American cities are easy reading. The style of these later writings is radically different from that of "Washington Square," "Roderick Hudson" and "The Portrait of a Lady." But the difficulties of this later manner may be accounted for, I believe, on the theory that his own amazing abundance throws his powers of expression into confusion. We must admit that Mr. James often stammers, sputters and sticks. His creative vision is so wide that his expression is often unequal to representing it in the familiar symbols of speech. It is at moments of this sort that he leaves us to stumble in a dark stair-case; then suddenly we are aware of his leading hand again, urging us on, and down the hall a brilliant light flashes forth, and we are able to see things again with his eyes as his expression once more catches step with his ideas. His power of phrase is very great indeed. Certainly no other American writer equals him in the knack of flinging into a few words some positively illuminating idea. A phrase with him has often the brilliancy of the spot light in the theater, that falls unexpectedly upon the face of a concealed player and holds for a moment the attention of the spectators. I take up without previous examination a paper on the City of Washington in "The American Scene" and read this passage: "Hereabouts," he writes, "beyond doubt, history had from of old seemed to me insistently seated, and I remember a short springtime of years ago when Lafayette Square itself, contiguous to the Executive Mansion, could create a rich sense of the past by the use of scarce other witchcraft than its command of that pleasant perspective, and its possession of the most prodigious of all Presidential effigies, Andrew Jackson, as archaic as a Ninevite king, prancing and rocking through the ages."
He seems, in this later manner which has been so much discussed, to have lost his contact with the old familiar symbols of feeling and sense and to have resolved the world into a place of sublimated abstractions, which he describes sometimes with a stammering and inadequate tongue and again in bursts of rugged eloquence and with amazing penetration. The smoothness of the ordered thought, the pretty balances, the march and swing of the old cadences of our speech are either beyond him or beneath him, and in a man of so acute and full a mind and with a sophistication so complete in all that makes for beauty, we can not do less than subscribe to the theory that he knows what he is about and that his style, in the curious phase to which he has brought it, is a true expression of the oddly oblique lines and strangely concentric circles of his matured mind.
Eloquence is, I have sometimes thought, the rarest quality that may be embraced in the essentials of style. We need not quibble over definitions. "Eloquence," said Dean Farrar, "is the noble, the harmonious, the passionate expression of truths profoundly realized, or of emotions intensely felt"; and it is sufficient for our purposes. The term is applied commonly and uncritically in oratory. I have not myself found the reading of the speeches of great orators profitable, charmed they never so marvelously in their own day. The old school readers served us well in this particular by their admirable selections.
Judgments of the ear and of the eye vary widely. The sentences that read well will as likely as not fall flat when spoken, even when uttered with force. The oration delivered on the field of Gettysburg by Edward Everett is commonly spoken of in contemptuous contrast with Lincoln's utterance on the same occasion, but there can be no fair comparison between the two performances. Everett was indisputably one of the greatest forensic orators of his time,—scholarly, elegant, impressive. What Lincoln wrote and read at Gettysburg was not an oration but—to use Carl Schurz's happy characterization of it—a sonorous and beautiful psalm. The familiar story that Lincoln began and finished that address on the train between Washington and Gettysburg was denied by Mr. John G. Nicolay, who has somewhere written a most interesting account of its preparation.
It is difficult to imagine a severer test of the mind's gift of expression than the extemporaneous speech, evoked by some emergency and spoken without premeditation. Such instances are indeed rare, for your orator is, I find, something of a liar. He likes to give the impression of readiness of tongue and wit; whereas the speech he has flung off at some crisis of a debate, seemingly produced on his feet, may have been carried in his mind for weeks.
We Americans have long been accustomed to florid style of public address. I remember hearing it said often in my youth that the newspaper was driving out the orator, but I do not believe that this is true, or that it will ever be true. The glow and passion of the spoken word must always hold a fascination for men that is not possible in the printed appeal. The general rise of popular intelligence raises the standard somewhat; mere bombast and spread-eagleism—the nimble ascent to pyramidal climaxes,—is less effective as the years go by; but the spell-binder has not yet been superseded. He may not always convince, but he dare not be dull, and he now and then rises to the level of a Benjamin Harrison, who combined the cogent reasoning of the deeply philosophical lawyer with a rare art in marshaling his facts, and addressed himself to the conscience and the reason of his audiences.
Terror and horror are rarely evoked by our later orators. Even the slaughter of the innocents in the Philippines in the amiable Christian effort to extend our beneficent empire to Asia has brought forth no really striking protest worthy of the cause. In the same senate chamber where the hired counsel of the railways and other trust-protecting and subsidy-hunting felons subsequently thwarted the will of the American people, Thomas Corwin, a senator in congress from Ohio, on the th of February, , thus delivered himself on the continuation of the war with Mexico. I quote this paragraph from Senator Corwin's speech in reply to Senator Cass of Michigan merely to illustrate the possibilities of passionate oratory skillfully employed:
"Sir, look at this picture of want of room! With twenty millions of people, you have about one thousand millions of acres of land, inviting settlement by every conceivable argument, bringing them down to a quarter of a dollar an acre and allowing every man to squat where he pleases. But the Senator from Michigan says we will be two hundred millions in a few years and we want room. If I were a Mexican I would tell you, 'Have you not room in your own country to bury your dead men? If you come into mine we will greet you with bloody hands and welcome you to hospitable graves.'"
And while we are touching upon the literary style of statesmen you will pardon me for quoting further, in illustration of the reluctance, caution and restraint that may check the exuberance of personal feeling, from a statement made by Colonel Theodore Roosevelt in January,: He said:
"In John Hay I have a great Secretary of State. In Philander Knox I have a great Attorney-General. In other Cabinet posts I have great men. Elihu Root could take any of these places and fill it as well as the man who is now there. And, in addition, he is what probably none of these gentlemen could be, a great Secretary of War. Elihu Root is the ablest man I have known in our Government service. I will go further. He is the greatest man that has appeared in the public life of any country, in any position, on either side of the ocean, in my time."
Criticism offers no adequately descriptive word for this type of reserved, unventurous statement. Let us consider whether it may not properly be styled the imperial theodoric.
Now, in conclusion,—if such disjecta membra as these may have a conclusion—we have only skirted the nearer coasts; what you have heard has been the merest memorandum of a somewhat haphazard voyage. No hour's excursion can carry us far in our quest of the secret of style.
If the wide sea of literature could be charted, then we all might find the ports into which the master mariners have sailed their crafts; but we labor with a broken oar and our log book is a tame record of vain attempts to land on impossible shores. We see many great ships hull down on the horizon, but dare not follow them far;—the majestic caravel of George Meredith bearing ingots of pure gold, as rough and clean as Browning lyrics; and close beside it the stately craft of George Eliot,—would that there were time to go aboard and wrest their secrets from them! And I must not omit that rarely gifted English woman, Mrs. Alice Meynell. Her prose happily expresses the delicacy and grace of an imagination whose province lies beyond the Ivory Portal of the Realm of Dreams.
Turning inland we see deploying upon a glittering plain an army with banners, preceded by a mitered host chanting in deep Gregorian. Entre per me! shouts a charging knight galloping forward with a great clatter of arms and armor. We recognize one of Maurice Hewlett's many inventions. Hewlett manages an archaic manner admirably; a trifle over-elaborate maybe, but there is muscle beneath the embroidery. Afar off steams the battleship Rudyard Kipling, and we know the young Admiral for a man of high courage, at home on land or sea, in the air above or in the waters under the earth. And if we may pause for one word, we may say that the tremendous importance, the hardly calculable influence of the English Bible on English style has nowhere in our generation been better evidenced than in the writings of Kipling. Not merely that he so often quotes from the Bible; not so much that biblical phrases abound in his pages; but that the directness, the simplicity, the rugged power of Hebrew narrative imparts a singular distinction and force to all he writes. Young writers, intent upon the best possibilities of our mother English, do well to leave all that the great Greeks, the great Latins, the great Italians and French have written until they have wrought,—into the very alphabet of memory,—the innumerable lessons and high examples of that imperishable text book of English style.
Ah, if it were a mere pagan chronicle; if it were the least spiritual book in the world, still we who love English literature must go to it, as one who thirsteth, to a familiar and well-loved spring, longing for it verily as "David longed, and said, oh, that one would give me drink of the water of the well of Bethlehem, that is by the gate!"
Essay on George Meredith
The Steppe by Anton Chekhov
An Anonymous Story by Anton Chekhov
The Turn of the Screw by Henry James
Trent's Trust by Bret Harte


A creepy house, a dying General, his strange but beautiful daughter, and a series of petty theft. Just the place our favorite fantasy P.I. for hire finds himself having to visit to pay off a debt owed to his old army sergeant. But naturally, once Garrett arrives, the small favor turns into a major job, because the simple investigation takes a turn for the worst with a hauntingly, beautiful spirit appearing and a series of unexplained murders breaking out. And the worst part is Garrett didn't get paid a large enough upfront fee to cover all this! What is a sentimental but street smart p.i. to do in such a situation? Why dig in deeper if you are Garrett - even when you find out things you'd rather never have known.Great book. Several Goodreads friends had said this was one of the best Garrett stories if not the best, and I have to agree with their wisdom. Highly recommend this one for an enjoyable read.
Not a nero wolfe homage as the Dead Man stays dead to the world until the final scenes, this one's all Garrett and Morely in a country manor like Christie's "And Then There Were None". Of course it's a fantasy so there is a lot more going on then would in a normal mystery.This fourth volume in the series is where Cook really starts to shine, this is by far my favorite volume so far, I'm looking forward to the next in the series.reread 8/1/17 Just as good as the first time I read it.
Garrett gets hired by the aid of an aging millionaire general to find out who's poisoning him and gets a lot more than he bargained for. The general's heirs keep dropping like flies and what part, if any, does a mysterious woman in white only Garrett can see play in things?While I enjoyed this entry in the Garrett Files, it's not as good as the previous two. The first third of the story moves really slowly and most of the general's heirs are little more than cardboard targets for the killer. I did enjoy Morely Dotes's part in things, as well as the return of Djongo and the grolls.To sum up, I wasn't as enamored with this Garrett Files book as I was the previous two but it's still entertaining and I'm looking forward to the next one.
Glen Cook is one of my favorite authors. Old Tin Sorrows is a great read. Old Tin Sorrows is the fourth book in the Garrett Files collection. Garrett is a tough ex-marine, private investigator in the mold of Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer. The series is set in a fantasy world that has faeries, trolls, sorcerers, wizards,elves and humans living in one city. Garrett's adviser is "the Dead Man" who is really not a man at all and isn't exactly dead. Old Tin Sorrows is arguably the darkest volume in Glen Cook's Garrett, P.I. series but it is a murder mystery set in a haunted house so that is to be expected. Garrett solves the murders in his typical and self described way, "by stirring things up like a bull in a china shop". He also enlists the help of some of his friends. A must read for fans of Glen Cook.
I really enjoyed my first Glen Cook. Which is good, since he's a friend of mine. This was not what I expected from a PI book, which is because it's original but the one struggle was the world building. The author obviously established this world in prior books but his assumption that we'd pick it up was a bit ambitious. I found it confusing because I never got a real sense of the world at large. The story is set on a large estate and thus, we never see the world outside of it. So that's partly the nature of the story. But as an entry point in this series, I found myself a bit confused as to what era or period this world relates to in our own world's history. And thus, had trouble grounding myself with it. That aside, the characters are well developed as was the mystery. And the pacing was good as well as the humor. A solid read. Recommended.
I loved the nod to Raymond Chandler with the introduction of the old and sick general with a heat penchant, a huge house and a wayward daughter. Later , Cook goes his own way , weaving the noir atitude with the high fantasy / supernatural setting.Garrett remains in top form with his snarky remarks, a bunch of his friends put in cameo roles, the ladies exert the same fatal attraction.The series lost a little steam in the investigative department, where Garrett is more clueless than usual and the bodycount gets a tad out of control.But I'm looking forward to more adventures of our beer swilling flatfoot.
A little more of a straight whodunnit for the Garrett, P.I. series, but despite the solid writing and a few differences from the normal formula, I feel like the series is already wearing a little thin on me and I might not make it through. I just greatly prefer his Black Company and Instrumentalities stuff.
A good read. Moves along with lots of mystery for our characters. A sad but understand ending. A good read.
I'll add more about the actual story when I have time. So for now you just get what I thought about it. This particular book takes more of a turn into the Mystery genre for the majority of the book and less a turn in the fantasy. Most of the players are Human with the exception of Cook who is a troll (or part troll) and Morley Dotes who is of course part Dark Elf. What seems to be an investigation into some thievery in the house of a certain retired General of the Karentian military and unrelated mysterious illness suffered by said General turns into somewhat fantastical in the end, but the majority of the story is a lot of poking around by Garrett and trying to find angles and motives for what seems to be three unrelated nasty events transpiring. My mind got to work on the mystery immediately. I assumed that old boy was being poisoned and short of that, he was cursed by someone. We all know that this being a fantasy universe there are magic users, so it wasn't too far fetched an idea. I was surprised that most of the story took on a less fantastical tone but before we even get to the end, I already knew at least part of the truth, even if Garrett is too blind to see it. Which brings me to my next point. Garrett is usually pretty slow on the take. As per usual he's the last one to figure it out. What's more, Garrett can't go a single book without meeting a double-lovely woman and eventually fooling around with her, no matter how many sour grapes she'd eaten prior. In this book Garrett Darling manages to woo two different women, and that's not even counting the rendezvous he has with Maya at the end of the book which alludes to more than just pleasant company. Even so, I do love that poor Garrett has a soft side. He manages to get his feelings all caught up in the events which not only blinds him, but leads to what was a very tender moment at the end of the book that actually made me tear up a little bit. Even more, I always love Garrett's narration of events. They aren't always on the money, but they are full of clever quips and euphemisms that just keep me laughing or interested to read just to see what else he'll say. It was a very good mystery.
I seem to be running against the grain on this one. I didn't care for it much, probably because I missed the Raymond Chandler homage and allusions to older noir novels.The setup was very good: Garrett is dragged out of voluntary unemployment by an old war buddy, calling in a favor. There's a large, mostly vacant estate barely kept running by a skeleton crew, while the old war horse who owns it is on death's door due to mysterious circumstances. The old warhorse, who may be paranoid, focuses on petty theft. Meanwhile people are dying mysteriously in unexplainable ways.Garrett is particularly dull witted and sluggish to work out what's going on. Perhaps it's because the Dead Man isn't around to pester Garrett (a point in favor for this story; it threatened to be a crutch), perhaps it's a restriction of Raymond Chandler meets old haunted house plot, I dunno. I found Garrett's disbelief of ghosts and possession in a fantasy world replete with vampires, zombies, sorcerors, witches, and necromancers to be a frustrating example of Arbitrary Skepticism (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php...). Only a few of the characters in the mansion were memorable; otherwise, they had little to distinguish themselves from one another except for the manner in which they died. I feel like an opportunity was missed with the child of a necromancer and stormwarden not exhibiting any magical powers that would explain matters. Likewise, the motives of the murderer were completely hidden until the big revelation.This is definitely a mood piece. I guess I wasn't quite in the mood for the brooding over death nature, although I did rather enjoy the big confrontation, where the old warhorse gets his comeuppance.
I noticed Glen Cook had a new Garrett, P. I. novel out. I went to my bookcase and looked to see if I had kept any of the Garrett novels of the past and could I figure out where I left off. OLD TIN SORROWS was the oldest that I found, published in 1995 when paperback books were $3.95 a copy. Remember those days?! I started to read OLD TIN SORROWS and didn't remember the story, so I continued reading. What a fun ride. It was everything I remembered about the Garrett novels. Great one liners. Fun characters (elves and all sorts of critters). Garrett is hired by his old marine sarge, Blake Peters. Peters has retired from the marines and is now working for the "old man", General Stratnor. Peters believes someone is poisoning the General and he hires Garrett to found out the truth. What's the saying -- the truth will set you free -- nothing stranger than the truth ... you get the drift. Garrett moves into the Stratnor mansion where he finds one surprise after another and Garrett thought he had seen it all. Morley comes to help (Garrett's elf friend who owns a bar and who is always after Garrett to eat better). I found a few more Garrett novels that I'll be reading in order to catch up to the new one. I'll be laughing all the way. Fun fantasy, mystery.
This is my favorite Garret Files book to date! Garret must solve who is robbing from and poisoning an old retired general. This case has a different pace and feel to it that was somewhat more bitter and less cynical than the ones that have preceded it in earlier books. The environment is changed up as well: instead of wandering around the city or the countryside Garret is confined to a large haunted mansion for the duration. His style of investigation is still to wander in and shake things up just to see what falls out, yet he actually begins to realize his do-good nature as well as just how much he is often in over his head as a result of that. In this one we see only a mention of the Dead Man, who is sleeping, so Garret cannot rely upon the Dead Man's intellect to help him out. There is deep mystery, creeping suspense, intense danger, and even (hopeless) bittersweet love that Garret is willing to admit to for the first time ever. I'd already the guessed the identity of the murderer very early in the book, although those of the thief and "poisoner" were a surprise.
A big fan of Cook's "Black Company" books, I decided to give his Detective Garrett a try. Maybe I should not have started with #4, [i]Old Tin Sorrows[/i]. I enjoyed the book, but never felt enamored with the characters, not even the protagonist. Perhaps if I had started at the beginning of the series, I might have felt more of an affinity with Garrett.The story is written as black humor, a fantasy that involves numerous characters. With the exception of Cook and the protagonist, and toward the end Morley, we never see or know enough about the characters to really care what happens to them—and stuff does happen to them. The ending is supposed to be a twist, and though we might not expect how it does end, the book lacked intrigue and suspense. Instead of, "oh my gosh, how could I not have seen that," at the end we are left saying, "Well, okay, that makes sense."I enjoyed the book enough to try another in the Detective Garrett series. I just hope it grabs me more than [i]Old Tin Sorrows[/i].
4 1/2 stars for my favorite PI. I love Garrett because I always have the most fun reading his exploits, he is such a romantic, aggravating, womanizing character. Here he goes to help a fellow Marine who has a dying boss and former commanding officer. Garrett thinks it will be a simple matter to figure out who the culprit is, but of course he should know that when he gets called in things get weird fast. His world is populated with all manner of fantastic character like Morley Dotes, a black elf who owns a health food restaurant and does assassination work on the side, when he's not sleeping with married women. The woman are all shapely and rarely human but he goes for them no matter what they are, as long as they are beautiful.This is just a fun read with elements of mystery, the supernatural, and mythical creatures. Enjoy it if you like a good noir type mystery with a fantasy twist. Think Raymond Chandler.
&back to my 2nd discovered lite read, smart humor, happy writer.And another mystery...with fantastical elements (elves&trolls&gnolls&'draughs'&more) in an apparently classic medieval setting, and some new characters(hopefully recurrent). And its all in the title :) I mean the plot and the mood... Surprising but rewarding....in a burn after reading kind of way.Different from the others... Structurally there are a couple of things...- nodeadman ergo no brain(no need it's all in the title...all about emotion and reluctance to accept the obvious because it might be hurtful)- no traveling/location change(again to keep you stressed)- no magic (except the introduction of a new dimension in the allegorical side of the writer's universe)To read...definitely ... But take it as a small trip into Garret's hart with all it parts hurting and being outside in a Suspects form.And because it was a trip on the down-low yes quite eagerly lookin' twds the next 1.
This is, for me, one of Cook's best Garrett novels. Why? It begins with a wonderful homage to Chandler's classic, the Big Sleep. That book, if you recall, begins with Marlowe entering the Sternwood mansion and being taken to the greenhouse where General Sternwood resides. Chandler captures (and foreshadows) in a few sentences the desperation and decay that has permeated the Sternwood clan. Garrett is much like Marlowe, a knight errant and a soldier in battle against lost causes. He is called to help a celebrated General under whom he once served.Garrett is without his friend, The Dead Man, but Morley and Saucerhead are brought in when desperation demands it. This book, at its core, is a unique noir ghost story that slowly builds momentum until the final fifty pages crash into a satisfying resolution.
This is one of my favourite books.....ever! For fans of everything noir, you will note it has a very strong connection to Raymond Chandler's The Big Sleep.This book is such an influence that when I finally got to write my own murder mystery, The order of the DRAGON, I wrote a chapter that is heavily influenced by both Cook and Chandler's scenes. I cannot recommend this book enough- funny, thrilling, heart breaking and you get a very real sense of the friendship that underlines the entire series between Garret and Morley Dotes.
This series is not for everybody. There is a bittersweet undertone that makes them worth reading - and re-reading - but you have to have a certain amount of... life experience, I guess, to really get it.The cynical take on war, immigration, and the economics thereof could have been written yesterday. Yet, the series began in 1987. Very prescient, but then Glen Cook has an almost depressingly accurate understanding of human nature.Also, although the dead Loghyr is supposed to be the center of the stories, Garrett quickly becomes the main character, and the star, of the series. The fact that he gets through the day without losing his humanity keeps you waiting to see what he'll live through next.
This book is the 4th in the Garrett PI series, and a series that's proving very good at delivering an intriguing mix of fantasy/Noir detective tropes this book is no exception. Garrett has a new case to find out whose stealing from an Old General and to try find out whose trying to kill the man at the same time, however he seems to step into a full on murderfest when he reaches the property, and then has to try work that one out as well, and if each of these cases are related. Glen Cook does a good job of immersing you in the world and situations he creates and the appearance of familiar characters in the book helps with this immensely. The story was good, kept you guessing at the suspects until the very end, and helped develop Garrett and his friends further as characters.
This one is much darker than the first three novels in this series. Rather than crusading about the countryside, Garrett is committed to a classic haunted mansion where he is retained--by a former fellow Marine who he owed, big time--to find who, or what is killing retired General Stantnor.As in his previous adventures, Garrett soon finds himself in way over his head.I found the atmosphere more somber in this novel. Garrett seems to trudge along with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Even the lighter moments seem to be toned down. I found this story to be closer to the horror genre than the dark fantasy. But it still held my interest as it showed even a successful case doesn't have to end happily.
This is not the first of the series I have read, but it was an improvement because it didn't focus so much on The Dead Man, although there were an unfortunate number of dead men in the story.The setting is another universe nearly, where silver is the currency and the rich just get richer. Garrett is hired to find out why someone is killing the General and stealing from him too, both of which tasks he resolves in his own bumbling, lovable way. Entertaining with a surprising twist at the end. Yes, I guessed the identity of the murderer but it still surprised me - as did the identity of the thief. You have vampires, elves, thieves and cutpurses, goblins and ghosts. What more could you want in this light read?!?
The more of the books in the Garrett series I read, the more I like it.After three books in which Garrett gets to bull his way through cases with a bit of luck and some brute force (very much in the manner of the noir detectives he is modelled on) we have this case:Country house, retired general, butler, Cook ... much more Agatha Christie than Raymond Chandler; Garrett is totally out of his element.This book shows the versatility of Glen Cook as a writer and demonstrates the great fun to be had in a series when you establish patterns for the characters over several books and then drop them into something completely different.
I read most of the series before getting to this one, including the later books. This is probably the grimmest, with a final end body count worthy of Hamlet (except, obviously, that the lead character survives in this book). I probably enjoyed it more out of sequence than I would have enjoyed it had I read the books in order. The mystery is not all that mysterious, and the grim tone almost outweighs the usual humor. But, read out of sequence, it also seems clear that this is the book where some of the characters start moving beyond the somewhat static molds in which they were originally cast.
Mix up a fantasy setting with noir crime novels and one tought PI and you get the Glen Cook's Garret series. As a fan of both fantasy and classic PI fiction, it's almost as if the series was created for me. There are some ups and downs in the series, of course, but Old Tin Sorrows is a personal favorite of mine.This book borrows rather heavily from Raymond Chandler's The Big Sleep and then adds good old Garret and his friends to the cast. As a fan of Chandler, I found I wasn't offended by the homage, and in fact it's a great book on it's own, whether you've read The Big Sleep or not. Highly recommended to fantasy PI fans, such as fans of Jim Butcher's Dresden series.
3 & 1/2 stars. this one is a good example of throwaway pulp fantasy/sf from the 40s. we don't really need it, but it's a fun read the author had some fun with too. sharper quippage (and a more interesting central character) might have taken this one to a slightly more exalted level, but as it is it's a really good pastiche of a style that's pretty much gone now, and i always have a soft spot for fantasy/sf p.i. series, so i'll keep it as a bit of a curiosity, and even pick up the remainder should they come to hand, though it's not in say the Randall Garrett class, for instance..
I really do enjoy the Garrett PI books. A high fantasy setting with a noir aesthetic makes for an entertaining read. This entry in the series is perhaps a little darker than the previous volumes (although they are all a little darker than the cover and blurb might lead you to believe) but it is none the worse for that. An ideal read for the fantasy fan who likes a bit of crime, or vice versa.
The first novel included in the Garrett, P.I. omnibus that I picked up last week at the Petaluma library's bookstore, but the fourth in the ongoing series. Fantasy meets noir, but much closer to Rex Stout than Dashiell Hammett. A fun read, even if it is just high fantasy with an affected hardboiled drawl. Swords and Sorcery purists would probably prefer A Cruel Wind: A Chronicle Of The Dread Empire.
Picked this up on a whim. It took a little getting used to - since it's not the first in the series and I've never read any of the others. All in all, though, it was a pretty good mixture of old hard-boiled detective and the paranormal. Almost makes me want to hunt down the rest of the 'Garrett, P.I.' novels. I just don't have the time. Still, well worth the read and more than worth the cost. If I happen to see another one of these in the bargain bin, I'll definitely pick it up.


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Preheat the oven to 425°. In a medium bowl, stir together the panko, Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, sea salt and freshly ground pepper.
Rinse the chicken breasts under cold running water. Press the panko mixture evenly onto both sides of each chicken breast.
In a medium nonstick or cast-iron frying pan, heat the oil over medium high heat. Sear the chicken for 3 minutes per side, until browned and crispy.
In an 8-inch-square baking dish, combine the pasta with the marinara sauce, onion, garlic and water and mix thoroughly. Arrange the chicken breasts on top and cover the baking dish with aluminum foil.
Bake for 20 minutes, then uncover the baking dish and stir. Return the dish to the oven and bake, uncovered, for 10 minutes, until the pasta is soft.


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Lasker ist der Familienname folgender Personen:

 Albert Lasker (1880–1952), US-amerikanischer Werbeproduzent
 Amanda Lasker-Berlin (* 1994), deutsche Schriftstellerin
 Anita Lasker-Wallfisch (* 1925), deutsch-britische Cellistin
 Bertold Lasker (1860–1928), deutscher Schachmeister
 Eduard Lasker (1829–1884), deutscher Politiker und Publizist
 Edward Lasker (1885–1981), deutsch-US-amerikanischer Schach- und Go-Spieler
 Else Lasker-Schüler (1869–1945), deutsche Schriftstellerin
 Emanuel Lasker (1868–1941), deutscher Schachweltmeister, Mathematiker und Philosoph
 Jonathan Lasker (* 1948), US-amerikanischer Maler
 Julius Lasker (1811–1876), deutscher Schriftsteller
 Lawrence Lasker (* 1949), US-amerikanischer Drehbuchautor und Produzent
 Martha Lasker (1867–1942), deutsche Schriftstellerin
 Mary Woodard Lasker (1900–1994), US-amerikanische Aktivistin für medizinische Forschung
 Maya Lasker-Wallfisch (* 1958), britische Psychotherapeutin und Autorin
 Renate Lasker-Harpprecht (1924–2021), deutsche Journalistin, Überlebende von Auschwitz

Lasker ist der Name eines Ortes in den Vereinigten Staaten:
 Lasker (North Carolina), im Northampton County

Siehe auch:
 Lasker Foundation

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


U.K. Links: Frauds & Scams – Personal Finance Employee Education Fund, Inc.
Resources for residents of the U.K.
Click a title to learn more.
No one likes to feel that they've been conned but unfortunately there are an increasing number of scams designed to cheat you out of your money, empty your bank account, or steal your identity. However, you can avoid being deceived by scams if you know what to look for. This guide explains the different ways you might be contacted by a fraudster, some of the most common scams and what you can do if you fall victim to one. This guide is applicable across the UK.
Action Fraud is the UK's national reporting centre for fraud and cyber crime where you should report fraud if you have been scammed, defrauded or experienced cyber crime. Although fraud comes in many forms, here are some simple steps you can take to protect yourself from the crime.
Barclays is committed to helping people, families and businesses move forward with confidence, to make the most of the digital world, and to do so safely. That's why we've put together these guides and tools – take a look through them to help you learn how to protect yourself from fraud and to stay digitally safe.
Follow these 9 steps to make sure you are dealing with an authorised firm, and to protect yourself from scams, fraud and unauthorised activity.


Cornouaille,a region to discover without any degree of moderation!
Make the most of your stay at the Le Letty campsite to discover the Cornouaille region! The south-west of Brittany conceals a multitude of treasures and tourist sites, which you can discover during your stay in Bénodet. Whether lovers of old buildings, legendary tales, natural sites, art or folklore, you will simply fall in love with our beautiful Breton countryside!
Bénodet is the main seaside resort in the Cornouaille region within southern Finistère. Each year, several thousand holidaymakers come to spend their holiday in this gem of the Breton Riviera.
From the banks of the Odet to the beaches of golden sand, succumb, to the charm of this fishing port which became one of most most sought-after holiday resorts, for both sailing and sea swimming, at the end of the 19th century.
The combination of the ocean and the river gives this seaside resort undeniable advantages, and you can do a multitude of activities here. These include sailing, horse-riding, golf and many others.
Its name comes from the Breton "Benn Odet" or "Penn Odet", which means head or estuary of the Odet river. Its location and climate enabled rapid development of seaside tourism. This was reflected in the construction of beautiful residences and hotels, the planting of avenues of pine trees and the erection of beach huts.
Located 10 nautical miles from the mainland, off Fouesnant and Bénodet, the Archipel des Glénan is a must-see in the southern Finistère region. The latter is made up of seven large islands and an infinite number of islets, surrounding an "inner sea" of crystal-clear and transparent water. The beaches of the Archipel des Glénan (Glénan Islands), with their white sand, give those curious a similar impression to the heavenly landscapes of tropical islands.
From April to September, boats leave from Bénodet, but also from Concarneau, Loctudy, Port La Forêt and Beg Meil serving the Île de Saint Nicolas, the main island of the Glénan Islands. This is a fantastic idea for a day excursion. For further information as to the sea-shuttle crossings ensuring the link with the Île de Saint Nicolas and to book your tickets, feel free to go to the reception on the Le Letty campsite (there is an automatic ticket machine on-site)!
As the prefecture of Finistère, Quimper conceals a rich past which is reflected, in particular, by the presence in its centre of a considerable historic heritage. As a city of art, history and legend, Quimper comes from the Breton "Kemper", which means confluence. The city is indeed at the confluence of the Steir and the Odet, two major rivers in Finistère, the banks of which conceal numerous legends.
Every summer, a multitude of tourists stroll in the medieval alleyways of Vieux Quimper (the old town). With half-timbered houses, the footbridges spanning the Odet and the Cathédrale Saint Corentin (a magnificent cathedral), having spires that reach their highest point at more than 75 metres above the ground, Quimper city centre is indeed a genuine tourist attraction.
Every year, during the last weekend in July, Quimper accommodates the Festival de Cornouaille (Cornouaille Festival). This major event in Brittany gathers together nearly 200,000 people for 180 concerts, shows and other street activities. You can celebrate the full diversity and wealth of Breton culture here.
The creeks of Beg Meil are amongst the treasures of the Breton Riviera. These stretch from the Pointe du Beg Meil, from where they get their name, up to Cap Coz, and are opposite Concarneau. The area includes Bot Conan, La Roche Percée, Lantecoste, Les Pyramides, Les Oiseaux, and other such locations. There are as many coastal names as lovers of white sand and turquoise waters can dream up!
Walking or cycling are often the only means enabling you to get to these coastal locations. However, the reward makes it worth your while! The creeks, which are each more lovelier than the others, are sheltered and partly shaded by coastal maritime pines. These can boast offering swimmers clear and limpid waters, but also fine and soft sand and a much enjoyed tranquillity!
The Musée Bigouden (the Bigouden Museum) is inside at the château in Pont l'Abbé, or around twenty minutes by road from Bénodet and the Le Letty campsite. This museum reveals to the curious the wonders and treasures of the Pays Bigouden (known simply in English as Bigouden), a cultural strip which stretches out over the south-west of the Finistère département. The area was, in particular, made famous by the high headdress which was traditionally worn by the inhabitants of this so-called micro-region.
The Bigouden Museum has magnificent collections of headdresses, but also traditional costumes which are lavishly hand-embroidered, carved furniture, archive photos and other exhibits.
A visit to the Bigouden Museum during your stay at the Le Letty campsite, is to treat yourself to a journey through time at the heart of Bigouden culture. You might even consider it a journey to understand traditions, culture and local folklore!
Just under twenty kilometres from the Le Letty campsite, the town of Concarneau is one of the major tourist destinations of the Armorican coast. The walled town, located deep in a sheltered bay, and fortified between the 15th and 16th centuries, each year has more than 1.5 million visitors, which makes it one of the most visited tourist attractions in Brittany.
A seaside resort of the utmost importance, Concarneau is an active and dynamic town. The town entices visitors thanks to its coast, its large and beautiful sandy beaches, its marina, its coastal paths, but also thanks to the significance and the quality of its architectural and cultural offer.
A stroll along the wall walk offers those curious magnificent viewpoints over the Baie de Concarneau (Concarneau bay), one of the most beautiful bays in Brittany, and its two fishing ports and marinas. Once you have entered the walled town, the narrow streets enable you to access numerous shops and restaurants.
Located just under 30 kilometres from Bénodet and the Le Letty campsite, nestled amongst the green Aven estuary, a water course not devoid of charm, the small town of Pont Aven is one of the most beautiful charming towns in Brittany.
Nicknamed "The Town of Painters" owing to the incredible number of artists who stayed there, the town is behind the creation of the Pont Aven School. This gathered under one umbrella painters of different styles, who stayed in this small town in the Morbihan département, at the end of the 19th century.
Amongst these Paul Gauguin, Emile Bernard, Paul Emilie Colin and Paul Sérusier are some of the most famous. The town still fascinates artists today and many come from the four corners of the world to find inspiration here.
In strolling through the alleyways of the town, on the quays along the river, and by crossing the bridges, Pont Aven reveals to the curious all of its treasures, starting with the art galleries and the 14 mills which still continue to operate!
The leading fishing port in France, Le Guilvinec is located hardly half an hour by road from the Le Letty campsite.
Located in the southern part of the Pays Bigouden, this commune attracts a multitude of visitors every year. They come to discover its port facilities but also its wild coast and its beaches, which are highly enjoyed by surfers.
A member of the network of "Petites Cités de Caractère" (small character villages and towns), the village of Locronan is one of the most beautiful villages in France. Located around 40 kilometres from the Le Letty campsite, on the road linking Quimper to Crozon, just a stone's throw from Douarnenez, this commune of barely 800 inhabitants has a significant architectural heritage.
Around the Saint Ronan church, a multitude of houses in granite stone offer passing visitors a sense of the wealth of sails merchants and the important people for whom the houses were built during the during the 17th and 18th centuries.
Moreover, the village beach accommodates a magnificent well which was, for many years, the sole and unique source of drinking water in Locronan.
Cradle of the Kouign-Amann and maritime festivals!
Located on the west coast of Finistère, around 40 kilometres from the Le Letty campsite, the town of Douarnenez is a tourist hot spot in Brittany. Known for its maritime festivals and for its Kouign-amann (Breton cake), this town shelters within it no less than three ports of which one, the Port-Musée de Port-Rhu, gathers together in one place an entire ancient flotilla, as well as the maritime workshops of yesteryear.
The town is constructed in the depths of a magnificent bay. Since its origins it has developed owing to coastal navigation and fishing. During the 19th century, Douarnenez became one of the largest sardine ports in France, and more than a dozen canneries opened in the region. However, the virtual disappearance of the sardine shoals from the Breton coastline led to a significant crisis, ending with the closure of the majority of the canneries.
A Grand Site de France (conserved and managed with a view to sustainable development), the Pointe du Raz is a natural site which is truly exceptional! This rocky promontory is the most westerly of the Cap Sizun headland. It faces the Mer d'Iroise and hence attracts several thousand curious visitors each year, who come to admire the imposing panorama which the Pointe du Raz offers over the latter, from the summit of its abrupt cliffs, which rise more than 70 metres above the sea.
The most famous of the ports of the Île du Ponant is now a maritime city fully focused towards the future! Located at the extreme west of Brittany, and an hour by road from Bénodet, Brest combines a historical heritage and exceptional culture with a multitude of natural treasures.
Focused on the sea, Brest has numerous museums, as well as an ocean discovery park, which is unique in Europe - Océanopolis.
At the heart of Brest harbour, the city has a military port, a medieval château steeped in history, and even a cable car! This is the first urban cable car in France. It offers the curious a journey of 2 minutes and 30 seconds, and breathtaking views across the harbour at more than 65 metres above ground! The cable car enables you to go to the historic quarter Recouvrance and Ateliers des Capucins (formerly the main industrial area in Brest). This amazing maritime industrial building has now been renovated into a cultural hub.


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Agency Profile: Jeslyn Gorman
Awards, Taylor Swift
The People's Choice Awards 2015 Swiftlist: What you need to know tonight
(Source: CBS)
Welcome to the year of 1989, Taylor Nation.
Here at the Swift Agency's mobile command (ok, my laptop), just a guy who's still in an extended holiday break, we're always a bit wary of fan-voted awards.
The Blonde With The Sparkly 1989 Microphone is nominated for the People's Choice Awards for Favorite Female Artist, Favorite Pop Artist and Favorite Song for "Shake It Off". The show airs live from the Nokia Theater in Los Angeles, California tonight, January 7, from 9pm to 11pm Eastern time on CBS. The show will be delayed for Pacific time.
The Enchantress' chances are fair. Taylor's not in the last attendees list updated on January 5. A performance from Lightning-On-Her Feet from her appearance on Letterman did air on CBS' Thanksgiving Day Parade Special. It could go either way, but I think it would benefit the PCAs more to give her an award than for her to receive one. If Taylor wins tonight, the PCAs will be the first award to recognize the 1989 Era. If they don't, they've missed the boat. Taylor's a winner already awards or not.
January 7: People's Choice Awards. Taylor is nominated for Favorite Female Artist, Favorite Pop Artist and Favorite Song for "Shake It Off".
February 8: The 57th Annual GRAMMY Awards. Taylor Swift is nominated for Record of the Year, Song of the Year and Best Pop Performance for "Shake It Off".
February 25: Taylor Swift will perform at the BRIT Awards 2015.
(Sources: People's Choice Awards)
January 7, 2015 People's Choice Awards 2015, Taylor Swift
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redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


85%48°44°Cloudy with a high of 48 °F (8.9 °C) and a 65% chance of precipitation. Winds variable at 11 to 16 mph (17.7 to 25.7 kph).Night - Rain with a 85% chance of precipitation. Winds variable at 6 to 23 mph (9.7 to 37.0 kph). The overnight low will be 41 °F (5.0 °C).
Today - Cloudy with a high of 48 °F (8.9 °C) and a 65% chance of precipitation. Winds variable at 11 to 16 mph (17.7 to 25.7 kph).
Tonight - Rain with a 85% chance of precipitation. Winds variable at 6 to 23 mph (9.7 to 37.0 kph). The overnight low will be 41 °F (5.0 °C).