The current book on the reading table is Measuring America, Andro Linklater’s account of how surveyors, land agents, speculators, squatters and others moved west across North America from the late 1700s onward.
The tale of what Linklater calls “the greatest land sale in history” covers the long development of tools of measurement, looking at how a pound became a pound, an acre became an acre, and so on; the development of the idea of private citizens, rather than the Crown, owning land; the creation, in most of the United States, of the grid system that anchors many states, cities and individual lots of property; and the long sad tale of the dispossession of North America’s native cultures.
It was during Linklater’s discussion of the outcome of the Mexican-American War of 1846-48 that I came across the two words that reminded me of sixth grade social studies at Lincoln Elementary School just down a couple streets from here: “manifest destiny.” I learned the words during that sixth grade school year of 1964-65, and we in my class – every one of us Caucasian – learned that those words were somehow tied to the expansion of the United States from an Atlantic seaboard nation to a trans-continental empire.
I don’t know if any of us grasped what the words really meant or what they implied. I was a smart kid, and I think I had a handle on “destiny,” meaning something foreordained, but I don’t think I really knew what the word “manifest” meant, and I don’t recall that our teacher, Miss Hulteen, ever defined it for us. Google tells me this morning that the word means “clear or obvious to the eye or mind.”
In Measuring America, Linklater notes that the two-word phrase came from John L. O’Sullivan, who said that it was the United States’ “manifest destiny to overspread the continent.” As Wikipedia notes, O’Sullivan first used the words in the July-August 1845 edition of his magazine Democratic Review during the discussion over the potential annexation of Texas. The two-word phrase came to wider attention when O’Sullivan used it in a column in the December 27, 1845, edition of the New York Morning News. In that piece, O’Sullivan addressed the ongoing boundary dispute with Great Britain in what was called the Oregon Country:
And that claim is by the right of our manifest destiny to overspread and to possess the whole of the continent which Providence has given us for the development of the great experiment of liberty and federated self-government entrusted to us.
Okay, so I didn’t need all of that in sixth grade, but it would have been helpful if our teacher had interpreted the words for us, helping us understand that they reflected the mid-Nineteenth Century belief that the nation was clearly meant to stretch from Atlantic to Pacific. And it would have been even better, of course, had she told us that the implementation of that idea, the expansion of the United States across the continent from the already settled eastern portions, would continue the dispossession and destruction of native cultures that began soon after Caucasians first came ashore.
We didn’t get any of that, not even a clarifying definition. And of course, relatively few people in 1964-65 were thinking about imperialism or the fate of Native American cultures, and certainly none of them were in the classrooms of Lincoln Elementary School. I have a sense that the story of the westward expansion of the United States is told at least a little differently in schools these days. And that’s good.
Here’s “The Indian Prayer” by Richie Havens. Written by Roland Vargas Moussaa and Tom Pacheco, it’s from Havens’ 1974 album Mixed Bag II. Knowing at least a little bit about Havens’ and Pacheco’s world-views, I would guess that the song’s purpose was to offer respect to the Native Americans whose similar prayers in previous centuries were not answered in any affirmative way.
My library bag was getting full. I’d already picked up the items I had on hold – five CDs, four by the Native American artists who record as Brulé and a posthumous release of music by Pops Staples – and had added three or four novels.
Then, in the new non-fiction section, I saw Coventry: November 14, 1940 by Frederick Taylor, an account of the German air attack against Coventry during World War II. I’ve read and enjoyed Taylor’s accounts of the Allied attack against the German city of Dresden in 1945 and of the history of the Berlin Wall, so I tucked Coventry into my bag and moved on.
And then I saw The Man With The Golden Typewriter, subtitled Ian Fleming’s James Bond Letters. I pulled the book from the shelf, replaced a couple of the novels on the new fiction shelf and headed home to begin reading Ian Fleming’s letters. Fans of James Bond – and I am one, as I’ve noted here several times – will have caught the title’s reference immediately: Fleming’s final Bond novel was the 1965 title, The Man With The Golden Gun. And I learned very early in the book – edited by Fergus Fleming, the late author’s nephew – that Ian Fleming did indeed have a golden (actually gold-plated) typewriter, purchased in 1952, when his first James Bond novel, Casino Royale, had been accepted for publication by the Jonathan Cape firm.
That was almost too good an alignment of life and art, and I dove into the nearly four-hundred page book, rarely coming up for air in these past few days. (I in fact got so involved in Fleming’s letters that I found myself not reading the Thursday and Friday editions of the Minneapolis Star Tribune until late Friday evening.)
The book is arranged in chapters corresponding to the thirteen Bond novels Fleming published between 1953 and 1965, so any letters from the author about, say, Casino Royale are collected in the first chapter even though the letter might have been written in 1957. There are some side trips, as well. Chapter Four is titled “Notes From America,” and includes letters Fleming wrote to and from American friends as well as missives written during several trips stateside, during which he did research for the novels Live And Let Die (1954), Diamonds Are Forever (1956) and Goldfinger (1959).
I get the sense that America in the 1950s both appalled and fascinated Fleming, who moved in generally rarified circles in England – not quite the top shelf of that very stratified society, but not too far below that level either. Our loud and busy cities, especially New York and Las Vegas, seem to have both attracted and repelled him at the same time. A portion of Live And Let Die takes place in the Florida city of St. Petersburg, which Bond and his American companion, Felix Leiter, find an unpleasant place. That was how Fleming found it, as well; comments in Fleming’s letters and in his nephew’s commentary make clear his great disdain for the city. The younger Fleming notes that the author “wrote on the flyleaf of his personal copy, with an ill-disguised shudder, ‘St. Petersburg is just like I say it is’.”
Another “side trip” chapter in the book is Chapter Seven, titled “Conversations with the Armourer,” which details a lengthy correspondence between Fleming and Geoffrey Boothroyd, a firearms expert from Glasgow, Scotland. Boothroyd noted in a letter that Bond’s choice of guns was poor. The .25 Beretta pistol was not powerful enough and, given its design, could become caught on Bond’s waistband or shoulder holster. Boothroyd suggested several alternative weapons for 007 to use.
Boothroyd’s letters to Fleming – some of which are also included in the book – began in early 1956, when Fleming was working on revisions to From Russia With Love. At the end of the book, which came out in 1957 (and any Bond fans who are reading this are smiling or at least nodding their heads, for they know where this is going), Bond’s Beretta pistol does get snagged on his waistband, and he nearly dies from the effects of Rosa Klebb’s poisoned shoe stiletto.
And in the opening portions of the next book, 1958’s Doctor No, Bond is lectured on proper armament by M, the head of the Secret Service, and one Major Boothroyd, the Secret Service’s armourer. Even though it’s been at least thirty years since I re-read Doctor No (and I first read it after Christmas 1964, when it showed up in my stocking), as soon as I saw the name “Boothroyd,” I remembered the scene. I especially remembered Bond reaching to take his Beretta with him at the end of the meeting, and I recalled M’s curt “Leave it.”
I’m about halfway through the book, and there have been a few other little treats like that, moments when I recognize a name, place or event in Fleming’s letters that then showed up in Bond’s adventures It’s been a treat so far, and I have no doubt that the remaining half of the volume will be, as well.
I do know, though, that as the 1960s dawned and Fleming found himself and his creation becoming world-famous, the author became a bit weary of telling the tales; his letters even before 1960 occasionally worry about how fresh the novels could remain, given the fact that the tales were in many ways the same story: grand villain in an interesting location with the addition of at least one beautiful woman who falls for the hero. (Bond fans will recall that there is at least one exception to that last; Gala Brand of Moonraker remains loyal to her fiancé even after she and Bond save England from a nuclear missile.)
It will be interesting to see if Fleming’s later letters reflect his weariness with his creation. I imagine they will. I know Fleming tried to kill Bond in the 1964 novel, You Only Live Twice, even offering Bond’s obituary as one of the final chapters (perhaps the final chapter; it’s been years since I read the book). As was the case with another British literary favorite, Sherlock Holmes, the reaction by Bond fans around the world resulted in Fleming finding a means to resurrect his creation for the 1965 book The Man With The Golden Gun.
That was Fleming’s last novel. He’d survived a 1961 heart attack, but a second one in 1964 was fatal. I remember reading at the time – perhaps in Time magazine, which we got at home – that Fleming’s final words were “It’s all been a tremendous lark.” I don’t know if that’s accurate or not, and I’m not sure that I’ll find out in the second half of The Man With The Golden Typewriter.
As I’m only up to 1960, I’ve yet to read anything from Fleming on how he viewed the Bond films – only Doctor No and From Russia With Love has been released by the time of his death. Both of those hewed fairly close to the source novels, unlike some of the later films, so I think he might have been pleased. I’ll find out.
Anyway, it is a Saturday, and here, from John Barry’s soundtrack to 1963’s From Russia With Love, is a bit called “James Bond With Bongos,” and it’s today’s Saturday Single.
As noted here before, I read a lot. My reading time is generally lunch time and an hour or so before bed, and as I’ve also mentioned here before, I generally have bookmarks in three or four books at a time and move among those book pretty much on whim.
But every now and then, a book comes along that grips me enough that it’s the only thing I read, and as I get into it, I find myself squeezing out another ten or fifteen minutes of reading time here and there. And when I read late at night, I find myself reluctant to stop, moving my bedtime back bit by bit, just to absorb another twenty pages or so.
That’s what happened last week with A Life In Secrets: Vera Atkins and the Missing Agents of WWII by Sarah Helm (2005). In Britain during World War II, Atkins climbed from a clerk’s position to near the top of the Special Operations Executive, the organization that sent agents behind the lines into Nazi-occupied Europe to work with local resistance movements. Atkins’ work focused on France, the most important of the occupied nations in the view of the SOE. Many of the agents Atkins sent into France were women, a fact that caused some consternation among British officials, who ended up classifying the women agents as non-military because, you know, we can’t have people thinking we sent women into dangerous combat-like situations.
Many of those agents were captured by the Nazis, and when the war ended, no one took the responsibility to look for the missing women. Except Atkins. After the liberation of France and on through the aftermath of the war, Atkins went looking for clues and information to solve the mysteries of her missing agents.
All that in itself would make for a gripping tale. But Atkins herself was mystery. No one who knew her – and Helms managed to interview a fair number of folks who knew Atkins before, during and after World War II – seems to have known her well at all. A trove of documents left with a relative seems to leave more questions than it answers. But by putting together bits and pieces from those and other documents and from interviews – and talking the reader through the process as she does – Helms assembles a story that takes us places as widely scattered in place and time as the Pale of Settlement in 19th century Russia, Bulgaria before World War I and Canada after World War II.
Along the way, it becomes clear that Vera Atkins had her own secrets, some of which Helms uncovers and some of which Helms can only offer as speculation (although with evidence that seems persuasive).
Atkins doesn’t come across as likable; she seems to have been unable – to name just one of several noted flaws – to admit to being wrong, either personally or professionally. There are several indications of the latter but only a few of the former, as Atkins seems to have let very few people very far into her life. Helms, however, isn’t interested in liking Atkins. She’s interested in solving Atkins’ mysteries. In the end, Helms seems to have solved them, which is quite a feat for a writer working sixty or more years after the fact, researching a subject who seems to have worked hard at not leaving any clues behind.
One of the things that first drew me to A Life In Secrets was the speculation I saw somewhere that Vera Atkins was the model for Ian Fleming’s Miss Moneypenny, secretary to M and gentle foil to James Bond. It’s possible, Helms notes, but unlikely, and in the end, it doesn’t matter. None of the tales Fleming created for 007 were as complex and intriguing as Vera Atkins’ own story.
Some folks binge-watch TV shows. I binge-read books.
Much of the last two weeks has seen me making my way through the Inspector Pekkala mystery/suspense novels by Sam Eastland (the pen name of Paul Watkins for the series). Set in the Stalinist Soviet Union, the five novels in the series chronicle the life and work of Pekkala – his first name is never mentioned – as chief investigator for Tsar Nicholas II, the last tsar of Russia, and later for Soviet dictator Josef Stalin.
The first novel – Eye Of The Red Tsar – sets the back story: Born in the later years of the Nineteenth Century, Pekkala is Finnish at a time when Finland was part of the Russian Empire. Sent to join an elite military regiment in St. Petersburg, his intelligence and memory catch the attention of the tsar, and after training in police work and espionage, he becomes the tsar’s secret investigator. After the Soviet revolution of 1917, Pekkala is sentenced to thirty years in a Siberian labor camp, but Stalin – whom Pekkala had met during the revolution – brings the Finn to Moscow and asks him to serve the Soviet state as an investigator whose role is limited only by what Stalin needs investigated and accomplished.
One of the quibbles I sometimes have with historical fiction is the way fictional characters meet historical figures; it often seems forced and implausible. I think of how Herman Wouk’s fictional naval officer Pug Henry met nearly every famous personage of the World War II era in The Winds Of War and War And Remembrance. Even as I enjoyed Wouk’s massive works, it sometimes felt like Wouk was moving Pug Henry around like a chess piece; Henry’s meetings with Hitler and Stalin and others often felt forced.
That’s not a problem with Inspector Pekkala. The first meeting with Tsar Nicholas II flows naturally from the story, and Pekkala’s meeting Stalin – during a post-revolutionary interrogation – also seems like a natural outcome of Pekkala’s post and personality combined with the chaos of post-revolutionary Russia and the omnipresent surveillance and brutality of the nascent Soviet regime. That’s a fine line to find as a writer – realistically bringing historical figures into a work of fiction – and Eastland does it well.
Another difficult task that Eastland accomplishes is making Inspector Pekkala a sympathetic, even admirable character, even though his work is done in the service of the Russian Empire – with those tales shown mostly in flashbacks – and the Soviet Union, two of the least humane governments in modern history. But Pekkala’s innate integrity – reinforced by memories of his undertaker father – equips him to deal with the tsar of a threatened Russian Empire, and the later lessons of surviving the Gulag further equip Pekkala to deal with the paranoid and brutal Stalin. As unlikely as that all seems, Eastland makes it work.
Although the books do detail some of the work Pekkala did for the tsar, the focus of the books is on his work as Stalin’s investigator. The stoic Finn is, of course, up to nearly every task that Stalin lays on him, from investigating the murders of Tsar Nicholas and his family to trying to protect the famed Amber Room during the Nazi invasion in World War II. And the history into which Eastland inserts Pekkala seems accurate (as displayed in the appendices Eastland occasionally provides).
Eastland also manages to avoid one of the traps that threaten authors of historical fiction: All too often, historical figures come off as props to move the story forward instead of as characters in their own rights. That’s not the case in the Pekkala novels.
Tsar Nicholas comes across as an uncertain man, presented at times as an almost reluctant dictator and at other times as blinded by greed; Eastland’s Stalin is less conflicted, clearly the brute that history has judged him, and yet, Eastland manages to make the Soviet dictator human. In the fifth volume, The Beast In The Red Forest, Stalin is listening via radio as Pekkala, his assistant Kirov and Kirov’s fiancée eat dinner:
He opened a drawer in his desk, removed a can of sardines in tomato sauce and peeled back the top with a small key . . . But before he began his meal, Stalin lifted the headset, with which he had been listening to the conversation in Pekkala’s office . . . Now, as Stalin heard the sound of cutlery on plates, he slipped one of the greasy, headless sardines into his mouth. While he chewed, he felt the soft bones crush between his teeth. Pausing to lick the tiny, glistening fish scales from his fingertips, Stalin imagined he was there among them in that cosy little room, sharing the warmth and the laughter.
A writer who can make Josef Stalin a sympathetic character, even if only for an instant, knows what he is doing.
The mystery/suspense genre is one of my favorites; I appreciate a well-crafted tale in nearly any genre; and, of course, all things Russian fascinate me, which makes Eastland’s series a perfect fit in these parts. The sixth novel in the series, Red Icon, is set to be released in April, and when its title shows up among the upcoming acquisitions at my local library, my name will be one of the first on its waiting list.
And just to end things with music, here’s the Russian folk song, “Ah, The Steppe So Wide,” as performed by the Sretensky Monastery Choir of Moscow for its 2007 album Favorite Russian Songs:
Here is Eastland’s website for the Inspector Pekkala novels.
Among the volumes on my reading table these days is a book titled simply Football with the subtitle “Great Writing About The National Sport.” The pieces in the book start with a portion of a 1954 memoir by Grantland Rice about Notre Dame’s 1920s player and frequent reprobate George Gipp and end with a 2012 piece by Roy Blount, Jr., contrasting the players and team of the modern era Pittsburgh Steelers to those of the 1970s.
Maybe the best piece I’ve read so far – I’ve gotten through about half of the book – is Gary Smith’s “Moment of Truth,” a 1999 Sports Illustrated piece that begins with a picture taken in the locker room of the Texas Christian University Horned Frogs moments before they took the field against Jim Brown and the rest of the Syracuse Orangemen in the 1957 Cotton Bowl. From there, Smith spins a gripping set of tales – tales that would be remarkable in fiction but are more so because they’re built on facts that Smith had to gather through reporting – that relate the stories of the 1956 TCU football team, its coaches, the photographer and, peripherally, Jim Brown.
As I said, I’m about halfway through the book (although I’m not reading it sequentially; I’m jumping back and forth, having first started on Page 355 with Pat Forde’s piece for ESPN.com about the 2007 Fiesta Bowl between Boise State and Oklahoma). I might yet find a piece as affecting as Smith’s take on TCU and marvel at that. But the one thing I keep coming back to is the picture on the book’s dust jacket.
If you’re a sports fan, you know the picture: Dwight Clark of the San Francisco 49ers, reaching high in the air to grip a football for the decisive touchdown of the NFC Championship Game in January 1982, with Everson Walls of the Dallas Cowboys earthbound and reaching for Clark in vain. We’ve all seen the picture thousands of times in the last thirty-two years, and it’s still an astounding shot. But the version of the picture on the cover isn’t cropped as tightly as usual, and what catches my attention these days is not the ballet of Clark and Walls, but one of the players standing utterly still in the background, watching the play: No. 71 for the 49ers, Keith Fahnhorst.
Why? Well, I watched that NFC title game back in 1982, of course, the Other Half and I cozy in our mobile home just outside of Monticello and making plans for our annual Super Bowl party. And as we partied with a few friends two weeks hence, we watched the 49ers defeat the Cincinnati Bengals for their first Super Bowl championship. In the aftermath of that game, as we and our friends scooped up the last of the chip dip, one of the players interviewed on television was 49ers tackle Keith Fahnhorst, battered and jubilant.
I knew him and had followed his football career. I knew that he’d played tight end at the University of Minnesota, and I knew that after the 49ers drafted him in 1974, they’d moved him to the offensive line. I knew that before he’d been at the University of Minnesota, he’d played on the offensive line at St. Cloud Tech High School. That was where my first year as a manager for the football team coincided with Keith’s senior year, a season when the Tigers were ranked as one of Minnesota’s top ten teams by the Minneapolis Tribune. So there was a little bit of vicarious joy on that long-ago Sunday when I saw Keith’s champagne-drenched grin on my television.
That’s a pretty slender thread, I guess. And I don’t know that it’s all that important. But seeing Keith Fahnhorst on the cover of Football this week, seeing him looking on in the background as one of the most important moments of his football life was taking place, reminded me of a lot of things, things like the skrich sound that athletic tape makes when it’s pulled off the roll; the celebratory feeling of a winning locker room and the tomb-like atmosphere in that same room after a loss; the intimidation of being an underclassman manager in an organization dominated by senior athletes; the visceral tug I still get when I think back to the sight of the Orange & Black under the lights at St. Cloud’s Clark Field; the pleasant but odd feeling you get when someone you knew years earlier reaches the apex of his very public profession; and the comfort of small gatherings of friends, a comfort that was absent from my life for many years but one that has now returned in greater measure than I once might have hoped.
I keep kicking around in 1974 these days. The most interesting book currently on my reading shelf is Elizabeth Drew’s Washington Journal: Reporting Watergate and Richard Nixon’s Downfall. The bulk of the book comes from Drew’s reporting for the New Yorker magazine from September 1973 through August 9, 1974, the day President Nixon resigned and left Washington.
The first time I saw the book on the shelves of the local library, I was hesitant. “I lived through that,” I thought, adding to that thought the memory of reading maybe a half-dozen of the other books that arose from the vast swath of illegalities and misdeeds that were eventually clustered under the label of “Watergate.” “Is there more I should know?”
Actually, there is. I told myself that I’d lived through it, and that’s true, but I was out of the country from September 1973 into May 1974, and I didn’t experience Watergate the way folks did here at home. The big pieces came to me in Denmark, including the resignation of Vice President Spiro Agnew, the Saturday Night Massacre and the gaps in the White House tapes, and those big things surprised me and worried me, but there were gaps as well in what I learned, as the flow of news in those days was delayed and diminished by my being overseas in a way that it would not be today. So I’m filling those gaps as I read, and I get the real sense from Drew’s account of how unsettling it was when each new week – at times, each new day – brought new and often multiple revelations and accusations; numerous times, Drew writes that she pretty much thought things were as bad as they could get, and the next day (or week) things got worse.
My reading has so far brought me into the spring of 1974, and soon, I’ll move into reports about things that happened after I got back to the U.S., and it will be interesting to see if my perception of those things is different in any way.
As is often the case, it’s hard to find a way from the reading table to the mp3 shelves. So we’ll just take a look at the Billboard Hot 100 from this week in 1974 – with St. Cloud State’s fall quarter either imminent or already begun – and see what treasure we might find in its lower levels. And we come across “America” by David Essex sitting at No. 109. Sonically, it’s nearly a twin to Essex’ “Rock On,” which went to No. 5 in early 1974, but I have no idea what the lyrics mean or if they mean anything at all. (And that’s appropriate, as that’s kind of how things felt in 1974.) “America” never hit the Hot 100, bubbling under at No. 101.
If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore, and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God! – Ralph Waldo Emerson
John W. Campbell, the editor of the magazine Astounding Science Fiction (later called Analog Science Fiction and Fact) from late 1937 until his death in 1971, didn’t agree with Emerson. Rather, he said, “I think men would go mad.”
That contention formed the basis for Isaac Asimov’s 1941 short story, “Nightfall.” As related in Asimov’s autobiography,* Campbell asked Asimov to write the story after the two discussed Emerson’s quote. And Asimov put together a story that combines psychology, astronomy, archeology and religion, a story that remains potent today, even more than seventy years after its publication. How potent? It’s been some decades since I last read the story, but it’s stayed vivid enough in my memory for me to discuss it at length yesterday with a clerk at a downtown used bookstore.
Asimov’s story takes place on a planet called Lagash. Here’s the synopsis, somewhat abridged and edited, from Wikipedia:
The fictional planet Lagash . . . is located in a stellar system containing six suns (Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta are the only ones named in the short story), which keep the whole planet continuously illuminated; total darkness is unknown, and as a result so are all the stars outside the planet’s stellar system.
A group of scientists from Saro University begin to make a series of related discoveries: Sheerin 501, a psychologist, researches the effects of prolonged exposure to darkness; Siferra 89, an archaeologist, finds evidence of multiple cyclical collapses of civilization which have occurred regularly about every 2000 years, and Beenay 25 is an astronomer who has discovered irregularities in the orbit of Lagash around its primary sun. Beenay takes his findings to his superior at the university, Aton, who formulated the Theory of Universal Gravitation. This prompts the astronomers at Saro University to seek the cause of this anomaly. Eventually they discover that the only possible cause of the deviation is an astronomical body that orbits Lagash.
Beenay, through his friend Theremon 762, a reporter, has learned some of the beliefs of the group known as the Cult. They believe the world would be destroyed in a darkness with the appearance of stars that unleash a torrent of fire. Beenay combines what he has learned about the repetitive collapses at the archaeological site, and the new theory of potential eclipses; he concludes that once every 2049 years the one sun visible is eclipsed, resulting in a brief “night.” His theory is that this “night” was so horrifying to the people who experienced it that they desperately sought out any light source to try to drive it away, particularly by frantically starting fires which burned down and destroyed their successive civilizations.
Since the current population of Lagash has never experienced general darkness, the scientists conclude that the darkness would traumatize the people and that they would need to prepare for it. When nightfall occurs, however, the scientists (who have prepared themselves for darkness) and the rest of the planet are most surprised by the sight of hitherto invisible stars outside the six-star system filling the sky. Unfortunately, because the inhabitants of Lagash never saw other stars in the sky, their civilization had come to believe that their six-star system contained the entirety of the universe. In one horrifying instant, anyone gazing at the night sky – the first night sky which they have ever known – is suddenly faced with the reality that the universe contains many millions upon billions of stars: the awesome, horrifying realization of just how vast the universe truly is drives them insane. The short story concludes with the arrival of the night and a crimson glow that was “not the glow of a sun,” with the implication that societal collapse has occurred once again.
I first came across “Nightfall” in the early 1970s, when nearly all of my leisure reading was science fiction, clearing the shelves of the work of Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, Robert A. Heinlein, Ray Bradbury (whose fiction, as I’ve noted here before, frequently crossed the barrier into fantasy) and any other writer whose work crossed my path in company with the work of those four giants. And one day, I chanced in a bookstore to find a volume titled The Science Fiction Hall of Fame. And in its pages, I found “Nightfall.”
It turns out that, in 1965, the Science Fiction Writers of America had established the Nebula Awards, a science fiction equivalent of the Grammys or the Oscars. (The Nebula Awards thus joined the Hugo Awards given by the World Science Fiction Society since 1953.) And in 1968, in an attempt to honor deserving work published before the Nebula Awards were established, the American writers group selected the contents of, and then published, three volumes of its Hall of Fame: one volume of short stories and two of novellas. I had chanced upon the first volume, and in its foreword, I believe, it was noted that of all the short stories selected for the Hall of Fame, Asimov’s “Nightfall” had received the most votes and was thus considered the best science fiction story written before 1965.
I finished the first volume, concurring with the voters’ opinions about the quality of “Nightfall,” and I soon bought and read the two companion volumes. About twenty-five years later, during my scuffling in the mid-1990s, I sold the three volumes and the rest of my science fiction collection so that my cats could eat. In recent years, I’ve thought about replacing those three volumes, perhaps in hardcover. And I’ve pondered the tale of “Nightfall” at various and odd times over the years; like all good fiction, it’s stayed with me. And in an entirely unexpected manner, it came back into my life again yesterday.
I had books to return to the public library, and the Texas Gal and I had things to get at the grocery store, so I thought I’d run to the library, find something new to read and then pick her up from work. A fine plan, except that the library was closed for yesterday’s Presidents Day holiday. I put my books into the exterior book drop and looked at my watch. I had more time available than I wanted to spend sitting in the car with nothing to read, and not quite enough time to make it worthwhile to go home. So I headed to the used bookstore on St. Germain, a couple blocks upstream from the Texas Gal’s office, looking for something in paperback that I’d not read before or at least for a few decades.
I’d recently posted at Facebook a meme offering a cogent quote from Isaac Asimov, so I headed to the beginning of the science fiction shelves. And I found Nightfall, a 1990 novel written by Asimov and Robert Silverberg, another name well-remembered from my early 1970s’ science fiction binge. The blurb on the back cites the 1941 short story, and goes on: “But the short story isn’t the whole story. Now, Dr. Asimov has teamed with multiple Hugo and Nebula Award winner Robert Silverberg to explore and expand one of the most awe-inspiring concepts in the history of science fiction. In this novel, you will witness Nightfall – and much more. You will learn what happens at Daybreak.”
There are a few changes: The planet is now called Kalgash, and the suns have different names, but there are familiar characters beginning to face familiar circumstances. I’m forty pages in, and I’m hooked.
And to close this with music, here’s the spare and somewhat unsettling track “Nightfall” by the Incredible String Band. It’s the last track on The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter, which came out, coincidentally, the same year as that first volume of The Science Fiction Hall of Fame: 1968.
*Wikipedia does not specify which of Asimov’s autobiographies includes the tale of the writing of “Nightfall.” Asimov wrote three autobiographies, and after his 1992 death, his widow, Janet Jeppson Asimov, edited the three into one volume, supplemented with some of the writer’s letters. That fourth volume is titled It’s Been A Good Life.
A couple weeks ago, I went down to the local drug store to get my prescription filled. There was a line – I saw no sign of Mr. Jimmy – and then the pharmacist said that it would take at least twenty minutes to fill my order. So I headed to the magazines to see if there was something I wanted to buy; that way I could at least have something to read as I waited for my pills.
And there was a Rolling Stone special: The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time. I thought: Didn’t they just do that not so long ago? But the copyright date was 2012, which meant I didn’t yet have it, so I pulled the publication off the rack and looked at the foreword from Elton John as I waited for my prescription. And when I got home, I went to the bookshelf.
I was right. It truly was not that long ago that RS compiled a similar list: For its edition of December 11, 2003, the magazine put together a list of five hundred albums after polling a pretty wide-ranging group: writers and critics, working musicians and folks from record companies and the world of radio. The publication I picked up the other day has the exact same cover art and mostly the same copy as the 2003 list, offering historical and critical commentary about each of the five hundred albums – ranging from a couple of pages for the big guns to a paragraph for most of them – with lots of photos and some sidebars thrown in here and there. As for updating, the new edition is a combined version of that original 2003 survey and a 2009 survey that looked at the best albums since 2000.
And the results are pretty much the same as in 2003, at least at the top of the list. Here are the albums that RS says are the top twenty-five of all time:
Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band by the Beatles  Pet Sounds by the Beach Boys  Revolver by the Beatles  Highway 61 Revisited by Bob Dylan  Rubber Soul by the Beatles  What’s Going On by Marvin Gaye  Exile on Main Street by the Rolling Stones  London Calling by the Clash  Blonde on Blonde by Bob Dylan  The White Album by the Beatles  Sunrise by Elvis Presley  Kind of Blue by Miles Davis  The Velvet Underground and Neco  Abbey Road by the Beatles  Are You Experienced by the Jimi Hendrix Experience  Blood on the Tracks by Bob Dylan  Nevermind by Nirvana  Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen  Astral Weeks by Van Morrison  Thriller by Michael Jackson  The Great Twenty-Eight by Chuck Berry  The Complete Recordings by Robert Johnson  Plastic Ono Band by John Lennon  Innervisions by Stevie Wonder  Live At The Apollo by James Brown 
With the most recent album – Nirvana’s Nevermind – having come out twenty-one years ago, that’s an old bunch, to be honest, and it’s made even older when one recognizes that three of those albums are compilations of music recorded during even earlier years: Sunrise is a collection of the work Elvis Presley did at Sun Records in the 1950s, The Great Twenty-Eight is made up of recordings Berry made from 1955 to 1965, and The Complete Robert Johnson presents recordings from 1936 and 1937.
That kind of temporal dislocation is prevalent in both the 2012 and 2003 lists: A quick glance at portions of both found many compilations listed with issue dates falling long after the original recordings. They included albums from Patsy Cline, Ray Charles, Hank Williams, James Brown, Buddy Holly, Linda Ronstadt, ABBA and Sam Cooke, among many others.
Comparing the two lists, the top twenty-five are almost identical. The only change in the 2012 list is the presence of the Robert Johnson collection; it displaced Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours, which fell to No. 26.
Oddly, the 1990 Robert Johnson collection wasn’t included in the 2003 ranking. Instead, two separate albums of Johnson’s work were mentioned: King of the Delta Blues Singers, a 1961 release, was ranked at No. 27, and King of the Delta Blues Singers, Vol. 2, a 1970 release, was ranked at No. 424. I’m guessing that the editors of Rolling Stone decided to combine the votes for the two and consider those as votes for the 1990 set of complete recordings, a decision that is at least a little dubious and should be explained somewhere. But if there’s an explanation anywhere in the new book, I can’t find it. (A note at Wikipedia states that the substitution of The Complete Recordings for the two earlier albums took place and was explained when the 2003 list was published in book form in 2005.)
Something similar took place with Sunrise, the Presley collection from Sun Records. It wasn’t mentioned in the 2003 poll. In that survey, the 1976 collection The Sun Sessions sat at No. 11, and the RS editors replaced it with Sunrise, although this substitution – also dubious to my mind – was at least noted.
I mentioned earlier that the list was revised to include more albums from 2000 on than were present in the 2003 package. So where did the albums from the 2000s end up? Well, the highest ranked album of newly recorded material from those years was Radiohead’s 2000 album, Kid A, which landed at No. 67. Why do I specify “newly recorded material”? Because in another case of temporal displacement, The Anthology, a 2001 collection of Muddy Waters’ recordings from the years 1948 to 1972, was ranked at No. 38, and that was the highest ranking given to an album released in 2000 or later years.
For a historian, the many cases of compilations being credited to years far removed from the time of the original recordings skew things when one looks at the decades that birthed the five hundred albums listed in the new book (and in the 2003 magazine as well, for that matter). Nevertheless, here are those counts as RS presents them in the back of the new book:
1950s: Eleven albums; highest ranked is Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue.
1960s: One hundred and five albums; highest ranked is the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
1970s: One hundred and eighty-seven albums; highest ranked is Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On.
1980s: Eighty-two albums; highest ranked is the Clash’s London Calling.
1990s: Seventy-five albums; highest ranked is Nirvana’s Nevermind.
2000s: Thirty-eight albums; highest ranked is Muddy Waters’ The Anthology.
2010s: Two albums; higher ranked is Kanye West’s My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy.
So what is it about the 1960s and 1970s? Was the music truly that much better then? Are those who were polled weighted down by the mythologies of those decades?
I really don’t know the answers. I do know that the audience for pop/rock/soul music in the 1960s and 1970s was more unified. There were outliers, yes (like the kid who listened to John Barry and Al Hirt), but for the most part we all listened to the same things on the radio and on the stereo. Today, there is no mass audience, and that’s something that’s been increasingly so for, oh, at least twenty years if not more. So I would guess that, year by year, there would be fewer and fewer albums that would catch the critical ear of enough of those polled to be included on a list like this. And then, historic assessment takes time. Listeners have had roughly forty and fifty years to consider stuff released in the 1960s and a shorter twenty to thirty years to assess the music of the 1980s. I think that matters.
Beyond those points, there may be some generational blindness. When I looked at the names of those who were polled, however, they seemed to cut wide generational swaths, and none of those who were polled – as far as I know – have reputations for fuddy-duddy-ism. So maybe these rankings are a relatively accurate picture of the critical merits of the greatest albums in rock, pop, soul, R&B, jazz, blues and all the rest. Or it might all be commercially inspired hogwash. I don’t know.
I do know that I’m a little baffled by the continued presence of Sgt. Pepper atop the heap. I think that every major survey of pop-rock albums I’ve ever seen has that 1967 album at No. 1. Is it great? Yes. Is it that great? I tend to think not. I’ve written at least once in this space that Sgt. Pepper isn’t even the Beatles’ best album, much less the best of all time. I’d put Revolver and Abbey Road and possibly Rubber Soul higher among the Beatles’ work, and over the past few years, I’ve concluded that the Rolling Stones’ Exile on Main Street is the best album ever. (And I think those statements are congruent with others I’ve made over the years here.)
I would guess that Sgt. Pepper gets votes for the top spot at least as much for how it affected its audience and how it influenced the making of albums as for its musical quality. And that may be a fair assessment. It’s a great album, and the fact that its place in history is a topic worthy of discussion almost forty-five years after its release underlines that greatness. And my opinion that six other albums are greater – the four mentioned above, Blonde on Blonde and Born to Run – does nothing to negate either the album’s greatness or the usefulness of the discussion.
And there I ultimately find the value of books like the one I bought the other week and the one from 2003 that I pulled from my shelves for comparison: discussion. Those of us who love music – who listen to it, write about it and read about it as much as we do – might never resolve the questions raised by The Five Hundred Greatest Albums of All Time and similar lists. But it’s worthwhile, I think, to spend time trying to – in effect – separate myth from music. That gets harder to do as the years pass, whether we’re talking about the Beatles, Bob Dylan, Hank Williams or Robert Johnson (and maybe ten or twenty or fifty others).
Along the way, I learn. I know the top twenty-five albums – maybe even the top hundred albums – pretty well. Beyond there, in any list of this magnitude, there are records I don’t know that I probably should. I might not like them all, but I should check them out. That should keep me busy for a while. And all of that newly focused listening should bring me at least a few insights into the development and direction of the various types of music I love.
To close, I decided to let the RealPlayer find a tune from one of the five hundred albums listed in the 2012 list. I did veto a few that seemed too obvious, so it took some time, but eventually, the player settled on “Don’t Forget About Me” from Dusty Springfield’s 1969 album Dusty in Memphis, which wound up ranked at No. 89.
Something kept nagging at me as I edited this post this morning and then again when I was out running errands. As I left the Ace Bar & Grill after lunch, I realized what it was. The 2012 edition of The Five Hundred Greatest Albums of All Time clearly says that the listing was compiled from polls of experts in 2003 and 2009. How, then, can two albums from 2011 be included? They are the Beach Boys’ Smile (2011 Version) at No. 381 and Kanye West’s previously mentioned My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy at No. 353. I find no explanation in the book, and that bothers me.
In the category of things I learn from readers: A frequent commenter who calls himself “porky” dropped by Tuesday after I wrote about “This Diamond Ring” by Gary Lewis & the Playboys and the nearly simultaneous answer record by Wendy Hill.
He said that there was another version of the song out there at about the same time – Musicor put out a single by R&B singer Sammy Ambrose – and that both singles were highlighted in Billboard magazine the same week. He also said that Lewis got to perform his version of the song on Ed Sullivan’s influential television variety show. That exposure, along with Lewis’ Hollywood connections – his father was comedian Jerry Lewis – might have provided the younger Lewis’ version of the tune with a significant boost, porky said.
After reading porky’s note, I was a little annoyed with myself for not checking to see if any other versions of “This Diamond Ring” had made the charts. Muttering at myself, I wandered off to YouTube and found Ambrose’s version. It turns out that the record spent one week in January 1965 at No. 117 in the Bubbling Under section of the Billboard Hot 100. It’s a decent take on the song.
Early this month, I saw the news that on March 5, Robert Sherman had passed on, and there was a twinge. Along with his brother Richard, Robert Sherman wrote many of the songs and soundtracks for Disney’s movies. A list at Wikipedia of major film scores to his (and his brother’s, I assume) credit run from The Parent Trap in 1961 through The Tigger Movie in 2000 to an announced 2013 release titled Inkas the Ramferinkas. The Shermans also wrote what is perhaps the most annoying song in show-biz history, “It’s a Small World,” used first for the Pepsi pavilion at the 1964 World’s Fair in New York and then at rides at Disneyland in California and at other Disney parks around the world.
But that annoyance aside, the Shermans’ work resonates most loudly for me in their work for the 1964 film Mary Poppins. The duo won Academy Awards for “Best Substantially Original Score” and for Best Song, with “Chim Chim Cher-ee” winning the latter honor. For a few hours after I read of Robert Sherman’s passing, that tune and the others from Mary Poppins were roaming through my brain. Along with “Chim Chim Cher-ee” came “A Spoonful of Sugar,” “Let’s Go Fly A Kite,” the mammoth nonsense tune “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” and a few others.
But the song in my head that augmented the twinge of sadness I felt at Sherman’s passing was “Feed the Birds.” From the first time I heard the song in a movie theater in La Crosse, Wisconsin, in 1965, it’s been a favorite of mine. Here’s the scene from the movie in which Julie Andrews’ Mary Poppins sings “Feed the Birds” as a lullaby to Jane and Michael Banks (played by Karen Dotrice and Matthew Garber).
I think I’ve probably seen the word “dystopian” in the news more this month than I have in the 702 months of my life that came before this one. The word’s use has come, of course, in descriptions and reviews of the film The Hunger Games, which comes out tomorrow. That’s not to say that “dystopian” isn’t a perfectly accurate description of the world that Suzanne Collins has created in her trilogy of young adult novels. (The Hunger Games, 2008; Catching Fire, 2009; Mockingjay, 2010.)
The first of the three – and forgive me if you’ve read or heard this elsewhere – introduces readers to the land of Panem, a nation on the North American continent where things have gone horribly wrong. Each of twelve generally poor districts is required to send two children each year to the Capitol, where residents live lives of excess. Those twenty-four children compete in the Hunger Games, a nationally televised lethal competition that ends when only one child – the winner – survives. The series’ heroine, Katniss Everdeen, comes from District 12, the poorest of all districts, which is somewhere in what used to be called Appalachia.
I’ve read The Hunger Games and I enjoyed it. It didn’t pull me in so hard that I’ve had to go find the next two books without having breakfast, but I will likely read them soon. And I think I’ll get to the movie, though probably not for a few weeks; I’m going to give the crowds of young’uns time to thin. One thing I likely will do soon, however, is get hold of a copy of the film’s soundtrack, which I’ve been listening to bit by bit on Spotify.
Produced by T-Bone Burnett, the soundtrack – titled The Hunger Games:Songs from District 12 and Beyond – in fact sounds like the book felt, with strains of Appalachian music and other Americana combining with tougher and disquieting rock songs. The roster of artists on the soundtrack is pretty impressive: Neko Case, Arcade Fire, Secret Sisters, the Decembrists, Miranda Lambert, the Pistol Annies, Maroon 5, Taylor Swift, the Civil Wars, the Carolina Chocolate Drops and more.
Heather Phares of All-Music Guide likes the soundtrack, too: “The Hunger Games: Songs from District 12 and Beyond would be an impressive collection even if it weren’t associated with one of 2012’s most anticipated films, but the care put into the soundtrack makes it an experience that much richer for fans of the books, the movie, and any of the artists here.”
There are a few tracks that don’t seem to work. One of those is Taylor Swift’s “Eyes Open,” though I suppose it might grow on me. Her collaboration with the Civil Wars on “Safe & Sound” is, however, one of the album’s highlights. Other tracks that caught my attention positively during the first couple of listens were “Abraham’s Daughter” by Arcade Fire, “Dark Days” by the Punch Brothers, “Just A Game” by Birdy and “Come Away to the Water” by Maroon 5 featuring Rozzi Crane. Here’s that last:
I spent a good portion of last weekend reading Stephen King’s newest novel, 11/22/63. It tells the tale of Jake Epping, a disaffected English teacher from Maine who is given a chance to go back in time and prevent the assassination of President John Kennedy.
I like time travel tales, and I like King, and, caught up in the story, I pushed onward late into the evening Sunday and then early into Monday morning, finally sitting at the dining room table, rereading the last five pages with my eyes more than a little misty. I’ve read almost everything King has ever published. The series about Roland the Gunslinger left me cold, and I’ve not read all of that, nor have I been able to read Duma Key on my first two tries. There may be a few more things I’ve missed, but I’ve read nearly all of King’s substantial output and enjoyed most of it. But 11/22/63 was the first time a Stephen King book made me cry.
Now, I’m a sentimental guy. Lots of stuff can make my eyes leak more than a little bit: songs, movies, novels, memories. But along with the damp eyes early Monday morning, I read the last pages of 11/22/63 shaking my head with some admiration. As the story came to its climax and made its way through its dénouement, I had been baffled how King was going to pull the story to an end that would be acceptable both to readers and to the demands of his tale. I saw several possibilities, some of which would be pleasant but not sufficient to the tale and others that would be good on a critical level but leave me – and most readers, I think – not only unsatisfied but dissatisfied.
I should point out that King’s time-travel mechanism – though it’s never fully explained – has a couple of useful conditions: First, the traveler from our time always emerges into the past at the same time on the same autumn day in 1958, and when he returns to the present, two minutes have gone by here, no matter how long he might have spent in the past. Second, the next time the traveler goes back and emerges in 1958, things are re-set; anything the traveler did in his previous jaunts is erased.
What that entry date means to Jake, of course, is that he’ll have to spend more than five years in the past to get from September 1958 to November 1963. And a man, even when he’s spending his time in an era not his own, lives a life. Things happen. Jake falls in love. And King’s book, as well as being a thriller about a man trying to erase one of the greatest crimes in American history, becomes a meditation on love and responsibility and on the question: Which matters more, individual happiness or the needs of society?
As I said, I was baffled how King was going to pull things together at the end to satisfy the reader and the needs of the story. Once I got there, I re-read the last few pages several times, partly to figure out how he did it but mostly to re-enjoy the great ending of one of his best books.
My favorite passage? It comes when Jake – as a schoolteacher in 1963 small-town Texas – is watching two of his students dance:
For a moment everything was clear, and when that happens you see that the world is barely there at all. Don’t we all secretly know this? It’s a perfectly balanced mechanism of shouts and echoes pretending to be wheels and cogs, a dreamclock chiming beneath a mystery-glass we call life. Behind it? Below it and around it? . . . A universe of horror and loss surrounding a single lighted stage where mortals dance in defiance of the dark.
Here’s Eric Bibb with “Dance Me To The End Of Love” – it’s a Bibb original, not the Leonard Cohen tune – from his 2004 album Friends.
Now that we’re here, let’s take our time.
No need to hurry anymore.
There’s no other place I’d rather be,
No other face I’d rather see than yours.
Hold me as only you can do
And dance me to the end of love.
Dance me to the end of love.
I’ll follow you when you want to lead. You’ll follow me sometimes too. There’s no other body I’d rather hold. My heart, soul and body’s been waiting on you. So hold me as only you can do, And dance me to the end of love. Dance me to the end of love.