James Churchward. The Lost Continent of Mu (1959)

     James Churchward. The Lost Continent of Mu (1959, but published earlier) Churchward is a crank. He believes that there was a continent in the Pacific Ocean that sank some 20,000 years ago, and he jackdaws facts from all over to support this thesis, as well as inventing all kinds of “explanations” to account for the phenomena for which he has no facts. Wonderfully silly stuff, but I fear (after a google on the title) that there are lots of people who believe it. A goldmine for writers of fantasy.
     Churchward also believes in reincarnation, the special creation of humanity (with a soul, of course, which is the only “real life” on Earth), planes of existence, and the superiority of the white race. Besides reincarnation, he also believes that all modern religions are corruptions of the original, pure religion of mankind by a scoundrelly caste of priests who want to enslave people. And so on.
     There is no clear line of argument, but much assertion of “incontrovertible” facts as conclusions. He reproduces what he claims are “glyphs” and “vignettes” from old clay tablets and stone sculptures. These, he says, are really a form of writing, and guess who knows how to read them? As I said, wonderfully silly. It belongs with the class of writings about Atlantis (which Churchward mentions in passing as a colony of Mu) and The Chariots of the Gods. I can see the attraction of such pseudo-archeology, but it's depressing to think that so many people feel the need to believe it. * (2003)

Edited 2026-05-26

Lillian O’Donnell. A Wreath for the Bride (1990)

     Lillian O’Donnell. A Wreath for the Bride (1990) A romance built around a mystery. Three women are killed shortly after or before their weddings, so their husbands are the prime suspects. But Gwenn Ramadge, going on nothing more than a vague hunch, connects the three murders and unmasks the murderer. Along the way she meets Her Man, a pleasant cop by name of Len Sackler. The style is typically romantic, with constant references to clothes and hair, and vague gestures in the direction of police procedural, supported by copious use of technical terms when they aren’t needed. The plot almost falls flat, some essential clues are deliberately withheld, and there are a few careless mistakes. I won’t be reading another by this writer. *½ (2003)

David Cecil. A Portrait of Jane Austen (1978)

     David Cecil. A Portrait of Jane Austen (1978) A charming introduction to Jane Austen’s life for anyone who has fallen under her spell. Cecil certainly has, for he finds practically no warts at all on the amiable Jane. He contends that Austen found her fulfilment as an artist, and if he feels he has to defend comedy generally and hers in particular against the charge of lack of seriousness, that merely reflects the lingering influence of Leavisite stupidity. Leavis explicitly renounced his chapel faith and upbringing, presenting himself as a modern man, but could never escape its suspicion of the imagination and its playfulness. He has had a pernicious effect on a whole generation of scholar-critics.
     The illustrations support the text, especially since many of them show watercolours and drawings made by the Austens, who seem to have been not only a very loving but also a very accomplished family. The maps date from the eighteenth or early nineteenth century.
     The Austen family sounds almost too good to be true; but then we have limited documents on which to base any judgments, as Cassandra destroyed a large part of her correspondence with Jane. Cecil, bless his adulatory heart, thinks the missing letters deal mostly with deeper and more personal feelings, the kind that the Austens (and their class generally) did not exhibit in public and rarely in private; but I think that Jane’s “realism” gave rise to rather harsher judgments of friends and relations than Cassandra was willing to leave as a memorial to her much-loved sister.
     Still, the portrait of Jane Austen that emerges has the ring of truth, largely because Cecil is careful to place her in her time and culture, a time and culture that he presents with admirable thoroughness heightened by an equally admirable conciseness. I enjoyed this book, and now want to read all Austen’s novels, something I have promised myself I would do in the past, but never with real conviction. Some serious printing errors mar the book a little. ***½ (2003)

Agatha Christie. Peril at End House (1932)

     Agatha Christie. Peril at End House (1932) Poirot is, for once, misled by the murderer, but in the end he sees things the right way round and Maggie Buckley’s killer is unmasked.
     Drugs, the frivolous life, elegant hotels, a long low red car, fireworks, and mysterious strangers all figure in this book, in which Christie drops heavy hints that she is about to finish off Poirot. He is supposedly retired, and Japp is near retirement. Hastings has returned from the Argentine, but is as dense and as easily misled by appearances as ever.
     A pleasant confection, even though we see the murderer from a long way off. The typical gathering of the suspects is handled better than in most of the Christies, although she as usual ignores proper police procedure throughout; of necessity, since otherwise Poirot would have nothing to do. This copy is a coverless Crime Club edition, fifth impression, from The New Popular Lending Library of Bertles Drug Store in Camrose, Alberta. I see by the date that I bought it in 1973, must have been in a yard sale. Have no idea where the cover went. **-½ (2003)

Emma Lathen, Emma Going for the Gold (1981)

     Emma Lathen, Emma Going for the Gold (1981) The setting is Lake Placid, the crime is murder. John Thatcher must investigate the problem of a half million dollar scam involving fake Eurochecks. It turns out the two crimes are related, and after an attempted second murder is barely averted, Thatcher gets to explain how the deeds were done, and how he finally solved the puzzle. Lathen is a good crime writer. “She” (it’s actually a twosome) creates characters just believable enough to draw one into their lives, the plotting is brisk and clear, and the red herrings are as carefully placed as the real clues. The addition of social comedy and light satire makes for pleasant reading. **½ (2003)

Jim Davis. Garfield at Large (1980)

     Jim Davis. Garfield at Large (1980) The first of the Garfield books shows very clearly how the drawing has changed. Garfield in 1978 was a fat cat with jowls and a Kliban look. By 1980, his image was simplified, as was Jon’s. The content got a little edgier, too, but in the long run there’s only so much you can do with fat-cat jokes. The introduction of Odie helped a lot, but again, there’s only so much you can do with dumb-dog jokes. I’ve had enough of Garfield. ** (2003)

Michael Pitts, Footprints Through Avebury (1992)

     Michael Pitts, Footprints Through Avebury (1992) This is one of those thorough and beautifully organised and illustrated guide books that the British do so well. I have found no others like it anywhere in the world. This one takes the reader/walker on a series of walks in and around Avebury, noting everything worth seeing (at least to someone – tastes will differ), and providing brief histories of them all. The walks range in length from a few hundred metres to a few kilometres in length. The sights range in age from several thousand years to a few decades. Not the kind of book one reads just for fun, unless one has an obsessive interest in pre-historic Britain; but one that one would re-read after one’s visit as a reminder of the pleasures of seeing what there is to see. As Yogi Berra said, You can learn a lot by just looking; and one can learn a lot more when one has a friendly, lucid guide such as this booklet. **** (2003)

Humbert Fink. Kärnten (1998) (book review)

     Humbert Fink. Kärnten (1998) A book of lovely photographs of the Province, along with an introductory essay which is written in that terribly convoluted academic style that so many educated Germans and Austrians think they must inflict on their readers. It was sent to Mother and Father as a gift, and I got it when Roswita was sorting Mother’s things. It’s worth looking at, and reminds us of our happy visits with our Carinthian cousins. Pictures ****, text * (2003)

Maeve Binchy Heart and Soul (2008)

     Maeve Binchy Heart and Soul (2008) The title alludes to the setting: a newly established cardiac clinic in Dublin hospital. There are hints of office politics, but Binchy’s real interest has always been love and courtship. Bad things do happen (Dr Declan Carroll is severely injured in a car accident), and bad people take advantage of good people (Ania is seduced), but these events are little more than bumps in the road. Dr Carroll makes an almost perfect recovery within weeks, Ania (hard worker that she is) earns enough money to set her mother up in a proper shop, and she and Nick will be married despite Nick’s mother, who gets a well-deserved comeuppance. The cardiac clinic will continue, as Clara discovers that merely setting it up isn’t enough. She now has a team that works.
     Binchy writes the kind of romantic fantasy in which even the most fraught courtships end happily, or at least amicably. No one is permanently deprived of their one true love. Everyone pairs up at the end, and the horizon glows with sunshine and rainbows. One almost sees bunnies cavorting in the lush grass, nibbling the flowers. Bad things happen, but they are almost entirely random accidents. The bad people are either thwarted and disappear, or suffer a change of heart and become nice people (albeit sometimes grudging ones). In Binchy’s world, evil doesn’t exist.
     You might infer from the above that I didn’t like the book. You’d be wrong. I loved it. The fantasy is so disarmingly presented, the narrative moves so swiftly, each character’s backstory is so thoroughly explored, that one can’t help being drawn into the story. Binchy’s world may seem to be a naive fantasy, but the fact is that kindness, decency, joy in simple things, knowledge of what one really wants and willingness to work for it, are virtues that do make people’s lives better. That Binchy can’t bear to look evil in the face doesn’t diminish this truth.
     People with gloomier outlooks writing gloomier books may fancy themselves as being more realistic, but gloom and doom is just another fantasy. I’ve just begun The Murder Room by P D James, and while she is willing to gaze into the face of evil and show us the harm even minor vices can do, James also believes that kindness, decency, and joy in simple things are cardinal virtues. Where she differs is that she’s willing to acknowledge that these virtues don’t guarantee a happy life. At best, they help create islands of delight in the murky stream of time. Binchy presents us with the wish-fulfilment vision that evil cannot win, that we can arrive at and inhabit those islands. It’s pleasant to spend some time in her world. ***

Yoshihiro Tatsumi A Drifting Life (2009)

     Yoshihiro Tatsumi A Drifting Life (2009) Tatsumi is one of the major manga artists of the 20th century. He was one of a group that in the 50s and 60s transformed the medium from short strip comics to full length graphic stories, a development that influenced the growth of graphic narratives in the rest of the world. He was obsessed with manga from childhood. His family was not well off, and somewhat dysfunctional. His father was a feckless man, always looking for the One Big Score, and drinking too much. That left his mother to support the family by doing laundry.
     Tatsumi got his start submitting four-panel manga to the weekly magazines that wanted visual jokes to lighten the mood. His strips often won, which meant some extra income for his family. His older brother competed also, and was annoyed that Tatsumi won more often than he did.
     Tatsumi dropped out of high school for a time to devote himself to writing manga, dropped back in when things didn’t go as well as he hoped, met one of his heroes, an early proponent of extended narrative manga, joined a group of like-minded young men who promoted their own work, acquired an agent, was hired by a publisher who wanted to dominate the manga market, was seduced by his landlady, and so on and so on. Throughout he was obsessed not only by his desire to tell stories but also by his desire to draw them well. He watched a lot of movies, especially American ones, which influenced not only his stories but also his handling of the panels. He realised that a successful graphic novel was in effect an enhanced storyboard. The techniques he and others developed at the time have become standards. Modern graphic novels differ primarily in graphic style and narrative pace. It’s a very flexible medium, available for any genre.
     Tatsumi’s really was a drifting life: one damn thing after another, with failures as frequent as successes. The book ends at the cusp of the success that enabled him to make a living as a manga writer. I know nothing of Tatsumi’s subsequent life, but I do know that manga have become a stereotyped style of graphic story, have been transferred into movies (anime), and I infer that anyone who is famous in this subculture is worth knowing about. This memoir introduced me to a major talent. I will be looking for his work. Jon bought the book some time ago. I don’t know if he ever read it. ***