My new book, THE INSPIRATIONAL ATHEIST: WISE WORDS ON THE WONDER AND MEANING OF LIFE (Penguin Random House) will be published in late December.
In the meantime, here’s a little sample of some of the wisdom found inside… The Eleven Commandments of Atheism, each one drawn from a quotation in the book (a version in LARGER TEXT is at the bottom.)
May The Force – or whatever – be with you. Enjoy!
The Ten eleven Commandments of Atheism
from The Inspirational Atheist
- Do unto others twenty-five percent better than you expect them to do unto you — Linus Pauling
- Do not destroy what you cannot create – Leo Szilard
- Be hard on your beliefs. Take them out onto the verandah and beat them with a cricket bat. —Tim Minchin
- We should try to leave the world a better place than when we entered it. — Michio Kaku
- I think a man’s duty is to find out where the truth is, or if he cannot, at least to take the best possible human doctrine and the hardest to disprove, and to ride on this like a raft over the waters of life. —Plato
- Let your credo be this: Let the lie come into the world, let it even triumph. But not through me. —Alexandr Solzhenitsyn
- You cannot save people, you can only love them. —Anaïs Nin
- To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. —Roger Ebert
- The best thing you can possibly do with your life is to tackle the motherfucking shit out of love. –Cheryl Strayed
- Well, it’s nothing very special. Try to be nice to people, avoid eating fat, read a good book every now and then, get some walking in, and try and live together in peace and harmony with people of all creeds and nations. —“The End of the Film,” Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life
- There are far too many commandments and you really only need one: Do not hurt anybody.—Carl Reiner
Book review: WOLF IN WHITE VAN, by John Darnielle (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux: 2014), 209 pp.
I could explain that Wolf in White Van is a beautiful novel about pain. That it’s the story of a teenaged boy who tried and failed to kill himself and has to live with the results. Or that it’s the map of the world a damaged young man creates, first in his imagination, then in the form of a multiplayer mail-order game called Trace Italian, that saves his life — makes his life possible, after the accident — but kills someone else inadvertently. That’s it’s a novel told backwards, all action pulling back toward the horrible event itself, the horrible event becoming a kind of black hole of plot, its gravity drawing the reader through the story steadily, relentlessly, finally. Or I could describe it as a study in Zen, though the word is never used in the book, a lesson in accepting reality and letting go of judgment. It’s a kind of detachment that’s not easy to pull off in any case, but especially when the reaction to your appearance is simply, “Dude, your face.”
“People don’t usually understand this when I try to explain it, which is why I’ve stopped trying, nor will ever try again, no not in courtrooms nor in conferences: but when it came down to the actual moment, I was trying to make the right decision.” This is Sean Phillips, years later, remembering but not exactly explaining, why he picked up that gun one night in high school. Wolf in White Van is Sean Phillips afterward, the Sean Phillips who found, somewhere in the blank – but not actually blank – white ceiling of his hospital room, a way to keep on living after the fact. “You could let your attention rest there for a while; you could imagine the future of the ceiling, the battles playing out up there, camps pitched when the building was new back in unremembered time… You can see the ceiling in the next room, following the splits of the ceiling in its neighbor, and the one beyond that in turn and then the greater canvas, the sky at night gone flat and painted white, the constellations in the cracking paint, the dust the cracks brings into being as they form, finding free land where none had been before their coming.”
In the nothingness that is Sean’s new life, he creates something: Trace Italian, a game of strategy in which players try to make their slow, hesitant, dangerous way to the center of an nightmarish North America and Kansas, where the great walled fortress-the Trace Italian- offers safety at last. In the year after his accident, Sean wrote all the possible moves to the game; now, years later, he mails them out, one by one, to long-distance players he’ll never meet. Trace Italian is his life, metaphorically and really, his livelihood and his place of safety. His players stalk the imaginary landscape, move by move, but not Sean, master of the game. “I remain in the stasis of the opening scene, bits of gravel sticking to my face, cold night coming on. I am strong enough to endure it. I am strong enough to remain in its arms forever. I won’t get up; I have seen the interior once. I’m not going back. One thing I’ve learned is it’s better sometimes, in the weeds, to resist the temptation to stand up and follow the compass.”
I can’t tell you much more about Wolf in White Van other than this: you should read it. It’s a mystery novel, in its own way. As soon as I finished it I was tempted to immediately begin reading again but I stopped myself. I will read it again. But not to solve the mystery, which can’t be solved. At least, I don’t think so. If I find out something different, I’ll let you know.
Welcome to Trace Italian, a game of strategy and survival! You may now make your first move.
Illustration by Kyle T. Webster
Book review: THE SECRET HISTORY OF WONDER WOMAN by Jill Lepore (Knopf, 410 pp.) This review originally ran in the Boston Globe on October 23, 2014.
Who is Wonder Woman? She is, of course, the Amazonian superhero fighting for women’s rights, with a secret agenda that included securing access to birth control, free love, and the importance of erotic bondage — preferably chains — in uniting two (or more) lovers in polyamory. Not what you expected? Harvard professor and New Yorker staff writer Jill Lepore, author of the new book, “The Secret History of Wonder Woman,’’ is here to tell you: You have no idea.
As Lepore explains, Wonder Woman’s history was “a family secret, locked in a closet.” That’s because the trio of people who inspired and created her, renegade psychologist and eventual comic-book writer William Moulton Marston, career woman and editor Elizabeth Holloway, and writer Olive Byrne, beloved niece of birth-control activist Margaret Sanger, were determined that it be so. The three were in fact a threesome (a fourth woman, Marjorie Wilkes Huntley, also lived with the trio off and on for decades) and together raised four children, two of Holloway’s and two of Byrne’s, all sired by Marston. Marston and Holloway were legally married; Byrne was usually described as a live-in governess, widowed with two children. The children didn’t know the truth until they were well into adulthood.
The first half of “The Secret History of Wonder Woman’’ tells the story of these three and the world of radical politics in which they lived. They were activists in the struggles for women’s suffrage, access to birth control, and equal rights of the early 1900s, participating in bohemian Greenwich Village salons in which socialism, androgyny, and free love were explored.
They also shared a belief in what Lepore describes as a “cult of female sexual power,” a vision of a woman-centric world not too different from the kind you’d find in Amazonia, Wonder Woman’s hometown. It was a thrilling time; women were granted the right to vote in 1919, and the Equal Rights Amendment was introduced in Congress in 1923. The prospect of legal gender equality seemed inevitable.
Marston had been a staunch feminist since his undergraduate days at Harvard, where he studied psychology. He was fascinated by the male-female relationship, and his theories of dominance and submission influenced not only his personal relationships but also the superhero he would eventually create. (“Not a comic book in which Wonder Woman appeared, and hardly a page, lacked a scene of bondage,” says Lepore, a fetish that eventually became the target of morality crusaders in the 1950s.) Perhaps because Marston’s private life was kept secret, he was also obsessed with the ways in which people suppress the truth, an interest that led to his invention of one of the first lie-detector tests.
It was only when Lepore encountered Marston’s name in two disparate archives — first in the history of the lie-detector test and then in the papers of Margaret Sanger — that the secret history was revealed. Marston himself was always frank about his political agenda. In the cover letter he wrote to DC accompanying his first “Wonder Woman” script he argued that the comic would chronicle “a great movement now under way — the growth in the power of women . . . Let that theme alone . . . or drop the project.” “The only hope for civilization,” Marston wrote in a “Wonder Woman” press release, “is the greater freedom, development, and equality of women.’’
Marston’s career as a psychologist was hurt by rumors of his unconventional family life, and he struggled to find work. He was eventually hired as a consulting psychologist at DC Comics as a sort of bulwark against the growing societal concerns that comics were immoral and overly violent. Marston answered the critics with the idea for a new character: Wonder Woman.
As Lepore shows, in the original comics created and written by Marston beginning in 1941, “Wonder Woman was a Progressive Era feminist” who fought for justice and also explicitly for women’s rights, “organizing boycotts, strikes, and political rallies” and protesting the wage gap between men and women. “’Girls, starting now your salaries are doubled!’” Wonder Woman proclaimed in a 1942 comic.
What Lepore does so well is to show how Wonder Woman’s career mirrored the hopes, progress, and eventual disappointments of the American women’s movement in the 20th century. When American women began entering the workforce during World War II, Wonder Woman was at her strongest, battling evil and refusing to settle down and get married (Amazonian law forbade it). After the war ended and women were hustled back into the home, Wonder Woman’s power likewise faded.
The big changes took place after Marston died in 1947 and other writers took over the series. No longer a crime fighter, now she was “a babysitter, a fashion model, and a movie star. She [also] wanted, desperately, to marry Steve.” By the late 1960s she had lost her superpowers altogether. Although she was reclaimed by feminists in the early 1970s and appeared on the cover of Ms. magazine’s first issue under the banner, “Wonder Woman For President,” her status as a feminist icon withered.
Marston’s widows lived into the 1990s and remained devoted to each other for the rest of their lives. They “never broke their silence” about the truth of their relationship or of Wonder Woman’s radical past. As women who were young when the Equal Rights Amendment was introduced to Congress in 1923, you have to wonder what they thought about the fact that it was never ratified. And were they depressed by the fact that Americans were still arguing about abortion a century after Margaret Sanger began fighting for women’s reproductive rights? There’s a new Wonder Woman movie coming in 2017. If Lepore’s “secret history” has proved one thing, it’s that at least so far each era has gotten the Wonder Woman it deserves.
Review: NORA WEBSTER, by Colm Tóibín (Scribner, 2014). 237 pp.
(This book review originally ran in the Boston Globe, October 10, 2014)
Colm Tóibín’s new novel, “Nora Webster,” is simply a quiet, microscopically-observed character study of a recently widowed woman in the small Irish town of Wexford in the late 1960s, but as Tóibín proved in previous novels “Brooklyn” and “The Testament of Mary,” the emotional lives of ordinary women can contain as much drama as any tale of war.
We meet Nora just after she has lost her husband, Maurice, a respected local teacher, to a painful illness. She is coping not only with her own grief, but that of her four children. Nora is also endeavoring to hold on to her only recently achieved financial stability; Nora’s mother had been a domestic servant, and Nora is grateful for “the freedom that marriage to Maurice had given her, the freedom, once the children were in school, or a young child was sleeping, to walk into this room at any time of the day and take down a book and read . . . [t]he day belonged to her.” With Maurice gone, Nora knows she must return to work in the office job she held before her marriage. “Now her day was to be taken from her,” she thinks. “Her years of freedom had come to an end; it was as simple as that.”
Nora lives in a world of female surveillance — daughters, sisters, aunts, neighbors, nuns — all watching her actions, her outbursts, any changes in routine in Nora’s newly-widowed life. The book opens on just such a scene: a neighbor knocking on Nora’s door, paying her respects, checking in. “You must be fed up of them,” another neighbor — a man — says: “Just don’t answer the door,” he advises. “That’s what I’d do.” But this is exactly what Nora cannot do, despite that all she craves is solitude, privacy. As a woman, Nora cannot shut the door on the women who watch her without risking her reputation. In this small town, a woman choosing to be alone and independent is the ultimate transgression. “Your mother was the same,” a busy-body nun tells Nora. “It was the pride, or the not liking people knowing her business, that made her difficult. And that did her no good.”
Although the plot of “Nora Webster’’ concerns a widow’s quiet but determined path to independence and personal fulfillment, the story is really that of Nora’s dramatic emotional life roiling beneath her calm surface. Readers who loved (or loved to hate) Elizabeth Strout’s peevish heroine Olive Kitteridge will appreciate the vinegar-tinged humor and pathos of Nora Webster, too.
We follow Nora as she finds a new way to be in this “world filled with absences.” One day she finds herself staring at a record player, transfixed. As the clerk plays a Dvorak recording for her, “[w]hat she felt now more than anything was a sadness that she had lived her life until now without having heard this.” Yet eventually Nora finds the strength to pursue her love of music even to the point of taking singing lessons, literally finding her voice for the first time as a grown woman.
Nora is aware, in a way others around her seem not to be, of the numberless expectations of women in her society. As the men in the house make themselves comfortable, she notices that her mother and sister “hardly ever sat down . . . [they were] always bustling about . . . their mother disapproved of women sitting down when there was still work to do.” Nora has a word for this: “foostering.”
In one of her many silent forms of rebellion, “[a]ll her married life Nora had made sure that she stayed sitting down for as long as possible each evening once the washing-up after tea had been completed.”
Set against the background of the early days of the Troubles, Nora finds herself and her country awakening to a new and uncertain future. A deeply moving portrait of the flowering of a self-liberated woman, “Nora Webster’’ tells the story of all the invisible battles the heart faces every day.
Thomas Cromwell, by Hans Holbein the Younger ca. 1530. Chalk on paper. The Bridgeman Art Library/Getty Images
There Are No Endings
A review of WOLF HALL (2009) and BRING UP THE BODIES (2012) by Hilary Mantel. Henry Holt & Co.
This summer I fell in love with an old man. He had a tough childhood, left home early and took off for Italy and France, where he somehow talked his way into a series of better and better positions, despite having never gone to school. He learned several languages; people said he could recite the entire New Testament from memory. That wasn’t what impressed me. What I loved about him was his sense of humor, his sense of absurdity. He was enormously ambitious and didn’t try to hide it and yes, he was ambitious for money but mostly he wanted power. Not the flashy kind of power — he didn’t want to be King — but the real power that comes from working the levers behind the scenes. As he – Thomas Cromwell, the hero of Mantel’s genius novels WOLF HALL and BRING UP THE BODIES, puts it:
How can he explain to him? The world is not run from where he thinks. Not from his border fortresses, not even from Whitehall. The world is run from Antwerp, from Florence, from places he has never imagined; from Lisbon, from where the ships with sails of silk drift west and are burned up in the sun. Not from castle walls, but from countinghouses, not by the call of the bugle but by the click of the abacus, not by the grate and click of the mechanism of the gun but by the scrape of the pen on the page of the promissory note that pays for the gun and the gunsmith and the powder and shot.
Most critics read these books a few years back, when they were first published. It took me three tries to get into WOLF HALL and it’s not that they’re difficult books, exactly, but they are so much their own thing, nearly their own genre – the super-historical super-novel – that I think I just needed to make a mental switch. And once I did, that was it: two weeks of solid reading (about 11oo pages between the two books) that I wished would never, ever end.
Mantel is telling the story of Thomas Cromwell and his role as advisor to King Henry VIII of England in the early 1500s. What most of us know about this period is Henry’s deadly sequence of marriages and the supposed heroism of Thomas More, the Chancellor who refused to give Henry permission to divorce his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. Mantel’s is a completely different vision, with Thomas More as the priggish fundamentalist eager to torture and kill those who dared to read the Bible in English (as opposed to Latin) and Cromwell as More’s progressive, surely-there’s-a-reasonable-solution-to-all-the-world’s-problems foil and, eventually, successor (More was executed for treason with Cromwell’s help in 1535).
Cromwell is no angel, of course, but he has a few things More lacks: a sense of proportion; a sense of humor; a lack of fanaticism; intellectual curiosity. Here’s Mantel’s version of Cromwell, musing on his rival Thomas More:
He never sees More—a star in another firmament, who acknowledges him with a grim nod—without wanting to ask him, what’s wrong with you? Or what’s wrong with me? Why does everything you know, and everything you’ve learned, confirm you in what you believed before? Whereas in my case, what I grew up with, and what I thought I believed, is chipped away a little and a little, a fragment then a piece and then a piece more. With every month that passes, the corners are knocked off the certainties of this world: and the next world too. Show me where it says, in the Bible, “Purgatory.” Show me where it says “relics, monks, nuns.” Show me where it says “Pope.”
I don’t think it’s possible to fall in love with these two incredible novels without also falling in love with Cromwell. Even as he leads Anne Boleyn to her death, we walk with him, right up to the edge because, like King Henry, we trust Cromwell. Mantel’s description, which is essentially Cromwell’s perspective, of the execution of Anne Boleyn is as intimate, devastating, and surprising as we have been led to expect by this point in the novels. This is Anne with her executioner: “Silent, she steadies herself against his shoulder, leans into him: intent, complicit, ready for the next thing they will do together, which is kill her.”
Yes, Anne Boleyn dies. But we knew that. And we know Cromwell eventually has his day, too (though I try to put that out of my consciousness even now). EVERYONE DIES. Mantel’s magic is in her understanding of the way we are all of humans trapped in linear time. No matter how well we think we understand that every man and woman’s story can end in only one way, we spend our time fixated on the moment, forgetful of the fate awaiting us all. WOLF HALL and BRING UP THE BODIES are studies in this time-shifting consciousness, filled with small moments of passion, sorrow, and humor, like this aside from Cromwell in the midst of a tense secret negotiation: “The trouble with England, he thinks, is that it’s so poor in gesture. We shall have to develop a hand signal for “Back off, our prince is fucking this man’s daughter.”” And yet the momentum of the novels, as with our own lives, is relentlessly forward, rushing to the inevitable end.We know what’s going to happen to Anne Boleyn and yet we hang on the flirtation between Anne and Henry as if anything could happen, something good, even. Despite everything we know.
And this is Thomas Cromwell’s talent, the thing that sets him above his rivals: he knows the only strategy is in playing the game several steps ahead. “They will find him armoured, they will find him entrenched,” thinks Cromwell, “they will find him stuck like a limpet to the future.” Cromwell is above all a realist. Having barely survived a hellish childhood, he’s happy to be alive and wants to stay that way… as long as he can. “He has studied the world without despising it. He understands the world without rejecting it. He has no illusions but he has hopes.” He’s a modern man in a medieval world. He would be modern in a 21st century world, for that matter.
THE MIRROR AND THE LIGHT will be the sequel to BRING UP THE BODIES and it may be published as early as 2015, but who knows? It will be Mantel’s third novel in the series. I can’t bring myself to refer to it as a concluding volume, because I want her to write them into infinity. We know that these books must end — and we know how. Yet even the very last sentence of BRING UP THE BODIES gives us hope (don’t worry, it won’t spoil anything):
There are no endings. If you think so you are deceived as to their nature. They are all beginnings. Here is one.
NATURE’S GOD: The Heretical Origins of the American Republic by Matthew Stewart (W.W. Norton, 2014), 566 pp. This review was originally published in the Boston Globe BOOKS section, July 19, 2014.
“The Government of the United States of America is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion.” So begins Article XI of the 1797 Treaty of Tripoli, which was read aloud in the US Senate and ratified unanimously. Our second president, John Adams, who detested the “spirit of dogmatism and bigotry in clergy and laity” and regarded the resurrection of Jesus as “an absurdity,” promptly signed the treaty into law. It was no big deal then. So why does it all sound so surprising now?
Matthew Stewart’s enthralling and important new book, “Nature’s God: The Heretical Origins of the American Republic,’’ argues that we misremember the philosophical and religious origins of the American Revolution. Stewart, who holds a PhD in philosophy from Oxford University, is the author of previous books on the history of Western philosophy, and once again he happily rips into the original sources of Enlightenment thought, this time discovering a radical and profoundly humanistic worldview underlying the American Revolution.
The book is a pleasure to read, its often surprising conclusions supported by elegant prose and more than 1,000 footnotes. Stewart’s erudite analysis confidently rebuts the creeping campaign of Christian nationalism to “ ‘take back’ the nation and make it what it never in fact was.” The next time someone like Jerry Falwell asserts that the United States is “a Christian nation,” he’ll have to answer to “Nature’s God.’’
The United States, Stewart writes, was in fact founded by a “club of radical philosophers and their fellow travelers” who were known as deists in their day and today would be called “humanists, atheists, pantheists, freethinkers, [or] Universalists.” “America’s revolutionary deism remains an uncomfortable and underreported topic,” writes Stewart, and in his view the Revolutionary leaders — famous men like Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin, as well as “Forgotten Founding Fathers” such as Thomas Young, one of the organizers of the Boston Tea Party — are themselves partly to blame, since for the most part they veiled their religious unorthodoxy for fear of condemnation.
Franklin, for example, urged his friend Ezra Stiles not to “expose me to Criticism and censure” by making his deistic beliefs known. George Washington, who refused to kneel in church or to take communion, simply declined to answer when asked by clerics whether he believed in the Lord Jesus Christ. “[T]he old fox was too cunning for them,” his friend and fellow freethinker Jefferson noted approvingly.
Does it matter in what or in whom the men who wrote our nation’s founding documents believed? After all, we still have the documents; surely those speak for themselves. Yet over 200 years later we are more absorbed with questions about original intent than ever, and the debate in particular over religious freedom — and freedom from religion — grows louder every day. “Nature’s God’’ makes significant new contributions to our understanding of what the founders had in mind.
As Stewart points out, the “broad plurality of people in America remained active and observant within some variety or other of relatively orthodox religion,” and the radical humanism of the Revolutionary leaders “was simply not representative of its people in this respect.” Jefferson nevertheless believed that the Declaration of Independence would inspire people “to burst the chains under which monkish ignorance and superstition had persuaded them to bind themselves, and to assume the blessings and security of self-government.” His views on religion may have differed from most of his countrymen, but in the end he was the one planning and writing the Declaration.
It was Jefferson, too, who invoked “Nature’s God” in the Declaration of Independence’s first sentence. But this was not “the fictitious, meddling deity of the religious imagination but . . . nature itself or the universe comprehended as a whole. It is a way of talking about God long after God is dead.” This is Nature as God, the “presiding deity of the American Revolution.”
To uncover the origins of this revolutionary philosophy, Stewart embarks on a deep investigation into the history of ideas. Just as Stephen Greenblatt argued in 2011’s historical blockbuster, “The Swerve,’’ Stewart cites the the “revival of Epicurean philosophy that followed upon the rediscovery of Lucretius in early modern Europe” as “the decisive episode in the history of modern thought.” He then follows “Epicurus’s dangerous idea” to the 13 Colonies, where its inherently secular, materialist message focused on the importance of attaining a peaceful, happy life during this lifetime, not after death, and inspired a vision of a nation founded on reason, not on faith.
He finds ample evidence of Epicurean influence in the writings of known intellectuals such as Jefferson and Franklin and in some unexpected places, too. “Oracles of Reason’’ (1784), the almost completely forgotten philosophical manifesto of the American revolutionary Ethan Allen, “testifies to the presence in the remotest regions of revolutionary America of modes of thought that have almost universally been regarded as too old, too radical, and too continental to have played a role in the foundation of the American republic.” The thrill Stewart feels upon its discovery is infectious. “Opening its pages,” he exults, “is like discovering an empty bottle of whisky on the moon.”
When he stepped down from his position as commander of the Continental Army in 1783, Washington made a point of reminding his countrymen: “The foundation of our empire was not laid in the gloomy age of Ignorance and Superstition.” The question “Nature’s God’’ implicitly asks is whether we ought to take Washington at his word.
Sylvia, Queen of the Headhunters: An Eccentric Englishwoman and Her Lost Kingdom, by Philip Eade (Picador, June 2014), 362 pp.
(This review originally appeared in the Boston Globe Sunday Books section, June 30, 2014)
Sylvia Brett (1885-1971) and her siblings were born to an aristocratic English family, the kind whose parents who were so consumed with their own social lives that when her father Reggie Brett encountered three children waving at him in the park, he was confused until a friend suggested, “Perhaps they are yours.”  It’s an apt beginning to the biography of Sylvia Brett. Unloved and overlooked as a child, Sylvia was determined to “live flamingly and electrify the world” as an adult.  And after marrying Vyner Brooke, the Rajah of Sarawak, in 1912 she acquired a nation of subjects whom she would neglect in turn.
This is a tale of British colonialism in its waning days. Sarawak, a region in the northwest section of the island of Borneo (now part of Malaysia), fell into the hands of Vyner Brooke’s ancestor James Brooke (1803-1868), who instituted a monarchy in a mild version of the classic British colonial style: three parts paternalism mixed with one part railroad-building and a liberal splash of gin to keep its British administrators cheerful. Luckily for the Brookes, Sarawak was a relatively peaceful place that required little political oversight.
A narcissistic, dramatic young woman, Sylvia was called “a female Iago”  by her own brother and marrying the scion of the Sarawak dynasty proved to be an ideal golden ticket. She was described by one Sarawak official as “one of the most superficial people I have met… with a firm eye on the main chance.”  Had she remained in England she may have remained just another foolish debutante obsessed with lunch dates and nightclubs, but thanks to her status as the Ranee she became, in one American newspaper’s words, “the most charming of despots.” 
While Vyner busied himself with matters of state, including keeping the peace with the infamous local Dayak headhunters who give the book its title, Sylvia wrote novels based on her childhood, played tennis, drank gin slings, and received visitors. Although she seemed to be genuinely touched by the beauty of Sarawak and the kindness of its people, the notion that she should make any personal sacrifice in her service as their queen never occurred to her. Sylvia (and Vyner to a lesser extent) spent more than half of every year away from Sarawak during her nearly thirty-year rule, going “home” to England or on trips to the USA the rest of the time (she adored Hollywood).
And the Brookes chose to leave Sarawak when it really counted. In the autumn of 1941, threat of war with Japan in the Pacific was imminent and it was at this point that both Sylvia and Vyner decided to go on vacation.  At least one Sarawak official balked at the Rajah’s departure, writing that it suggested a lack of a “sense of duty toward [his country] that would have been expected from a ruler really interested in the welfare of his people.”  Vyner had left his chief secretary Cyril Le Gros Clark in charge of things while he was away; during the war Clark was taken prisoner, tortured, and executed by the Japanese. 
What effect this news had on Sylvia and Vyner, Eade doesn’t say, but they were certainly sad to give up their royal status when the war ended and Sarawak was ceded to Great Britain, “shorn of our glory, and faced with the necessity of adjusting to a world in which we were no longer emperors,” as Sylvia wrote. 
There is undoubtedly an important story to be told about the Brookes and their kingdom of Sarawak: How did the native population of Sarawak really feel about the Brookes, one wonders? What was the daily life of a Sarawak citizen like? As a biographer, Eade focuses solely on Sylvia, and since Sylvia focused solely on herself, a deeper understanding of the people, culture, and history of Sarawak is not to be found in these pages. Perhaps it’s not fair to ask for more about the common folk in a book devoted to their queen. But had her life been more connected to the lives of her citizens, her biography and her legacy would be more worthy of remembrance.
Above: Sacheen Littlefeather at the 1973 Academy Awards Ceremony
TAKE THIS MAN: A Memoir by Brando Skyhorse (Simon & Schuster, 2014), 259 pp.
(This review originally appeared in the Boston Globe BOOKS section, June 18, 2014).
“I was a full-blooded Indian boy in a Mexican neighborhood who now had a white older sister that live on another coast,”  writes Brando Skyhorse in his memoir, Take This Man. Only one of those biographical facts turned out to be true: Echo Park was, in fact, a predominantly Mexican neighborhood in Los Angeles in the 1970s and ‘80s where the author grew up. But he wasn’t full-blooded Indian, nor did he have a white older sister. If the young Brando Skyhorse was constantly searching for a stable sense of identity in his Southern California home, his mother – the source of all information true and imagined – was the San Andreas Fault.
What was it like to grow up the son of Maria Teresa Bonaga/Ulloa/Skyhorse/Zamora, et cetera (she was married five times, though she never divorced her first husband, and Skyhorse omits the surnames of most of his short-time stepfathers)? To put it a different way: What was it like to grow up the son of a pathological liar? “Much the way certain singers perform a song a different way each time they sing it, my mother told her stories a different way each time she spoke them,” Skyhorse writes. “Her history and her experiences were mercury in a barometer, fluctuating based on what she felt you wanted to believe.” 
A young, beautiful Mexican-American woman with long black hair, Maria Bonaga grew up in Echo Park with a mother who was obsessed with Hollywood. “A manufactured identity is nothing new in Los Angeles,”  Skyhorse writes, so it follows that Maria would first get the idea to adopt a wholly invented racial identity while watching the Oscars. When the Native American actress Sacheen Littlefeather accepted Marlon Brando’s Academy Award for “The Godfather” in 1973, the pregnant Maria turned to her Mexican husband Candido Ulloa and declared that their baby’s name would be Brando. It was “a great way to honor her own nonexistent Indian heritage,” Skyhorse notes in a rare moment of humor. Then again, a childhood filled with psychological and physical abuse isn’t very funny – or prolonged.  “You’re already five years old,” his mother once admonished him: “You’re not a child anymore.” 
When Brando was three Maria finally ditched not only her husband, but her own name and her Mexican identity, too. Brando Ulloa became Brando Skyhorse Johnson, adopted son of an imprisoned American Indian Movement (AIM) activist whom she met after placing a (dishonest) personal ad: “Young, single Indian mother searching for a good Indian father and devoted husband.”  Maria became Running Deer Skyhorse and she and her son suddenly became Indians.
Skyhorse’s memoir is structured as a succession of portraits of would-be fathers, some sweet, some surly, all hapless and ultimately doomed to dismissal by his mother’s insanity and abuse. “First I was forced to accept” each new father figure, Skyhorse writes, “then slowly I trusted them, then I grew to love them. Then they left.”  The repetition of this theme, while essential to understanding the troubled young man he became, can sometimes be wearing for the reader. We, too, know that each new father, however exciting at first – Frank, the bumbling straight man; Robert, the sexy Aleutian thief – will eventually misstep and then suddenly disappear.
Yet Skyhorse is a thoughtful, lyrical writer and his memoir is filled with epigrammatic observations that keep his story from becoming a mere catalogue of misery. He writes of his family: “The difference between a leap of faith and a leap of madness depends on where you land.” 
Brando Skyhorse never stops loving his mother. If anything, he’s angrier with his biological father for leaving the family; his mother was maddening but she was also always present in his life. And they shared something else, too. “My mother lied in her stories for the same reason I’ve told the truth in this one… stories sustain us,” he writes. Like his mother, Brando became a storyteller. He understands why she couldn’t stop reinventing her own life. “[Stories] carry us through the lives we convince ourselves we can’t escape,” he writes, “to get to the lives we need to live instead.” 
Review: The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt (New York: Little, Brown, 2013). 784 pages.
so many words.
You’ve heard about The Goldfinch, Donna Tartt’s big blockbuster of a novel, her third. Yes, I heard about it, too. People were digging it, they were loving it, they were staying up all night to read it. I wasn’t sure I was ready to commit. BECAUSE IT’S 784 PAGES LONG, PEOPLE. But then one day I noticed it was only $2.99 for the Kindle version (and even 784 pages can’t add more than a few Kindle ounces, I figured) so I took the plunge.
The Goldfinch is the story of Theo Decker, a boy in Manhattan whose mother is killed in a terrorist attack on the Metropolitan Museum of Art when he is 13. “Things would have turned out better if she had lived,” Theo tells us right up front. And he’s right: the novel tells the story of all the bad choices, bad luck, and some good luck, he finds in the decade or so after her death. Sheltered by strangers, some kind and some odd; exploited by his ne’er-do-well father; befriended by freaks and hustlers, Theo somehow manages to keep his head just above water and survive the storm that takes over his life after his mother dies. Just barely.
There’s a lot to like and even love in The Goldfinch. Tartt is a meticulous observer of detail, from the way paint covers a canvas to the subtle interior monologues we have with ourselves, minute by minute each day. “Was it wrong,” Theo wonders, “wanting to sleep late with the covers over my head and wander around a peaceful house with old seashells in drawers and wicker baskets of folded upholstery fabric stored under the parlor secretary, sunset falling in drastic coral spokes through the fanlight over the front door?” Those “drastic coral spikes:” those are so nice.
But the interested reader has heard what’s great about The Goldfinch already: it’s a ripping yarn; it’s a Dickensian tale of morality for our time; it pulls you into its own special world. Fine, if it does that for you. At times, it did for me. But the more I read of The Goldfinch, the longer my list of questions and grievances grew. I didn’t even know I had a list at first, but looking back over my notes, question marks, and increasingly agitated exlamations, I realized I had some Goldfinch Gripes. They boil down to three things: Why Are They Talking Like That?; Snobs; Plot vs. Action.
1. Why Are They Talking Like That?
Tartt is terrific at getting visual details right but not so great at the aural. This is especially the case with the way her characters speak. Theo… Theo’s fine. It’s Theo’s friends who drove me crazy.
Boris, for instance. It makes sense that Theo’s Russian friend Boris would named in honor of the mustache-twirling bad guy of “Bullwinkle” fame, Boris Badenov, because that’s exactly how he talks. “Allow me to introducing myself. I am Boris Badenov, world’s greatest no-goodnik.” This is not a quote from The Goldfinch (it’s from Rocky and Bullwinkle) but that’s what I heard every time Boris opened his mouth. “Likely you will end up in jail, Potter,” is a typical Boris comment. “Loose morals, slave to the economy. Very bad citizen, you.” Pottsylvania is not named as one of the dozen countries in which Boris had lived, but I wouldn’t be surprised; all the Badenovs come from there.
Then there’s Hobie. I can’t tell you how many times I stopped while reading his dialogue and asked myself (and the book): Wait, did Tartt say Hobie’s from upstate New York? She did, didn’t she? She did. And yet everything Hobie says sounds like something my favorite Leeds-born, London-living writer Alan Bennett would say. “Tough pull to get in but then a doddle once you’ve made it,” Hobie tells Theo. I have no idea what that means, not being British myself, but then again NEITHER IS HOBIE.
Nor, for that matter, are the Barbours, the wealthy family that shelters Theo after his mother’s death. Are they supposed to be some 21st-century version of Salinger’s Glass family? I guess not, because the Glass family did not say thing like: “Well, you know, I slightly think she’s out there playing golf today.” (Kitsey Barbour) or “We none of us drink it—Daddy always ordered this kind” (Kitsey again). Keep in mind, Kitsey is supposed to be a twentysomething young woman born sometime during the Clinton administration and raised in New York City, not in an interwar British girls’ school run by Lord Sebastian Flyte and his teddy bear. “You seem in a really dire mood,” Kitsey says. YES, IT’S BECAUSE OF THE WAY YOU’RE TALKING, KITSEY.
Kitsey’s a nice lead-in to the next issue: snobs and snobbishness. When Theo, who is from a lower middle-class family, is orphaned and then taken in by the Barbours, he’s stunned by their wealth. The huge antique-filled apartment on the Upper East Side, the art, the chauffers, the staff… it’s as much of an aesthetic thrill for him as the painting of the goldfinch. Tartt is terrific at describing the textures of life with the ultra-WASPs. But try as she might, she can’t quite make them into the bad guys they really are. At first I thought this was Theo’s issue and it made sense: they did take him in when his mother died, after all. Then they coldly cast him aside as we always suspected they would. Later, he’s brought back into the fold, but only because it suits their purposes and eases their guilt. They’re not good people and yet Theo — and more importantly, Tartt — can’t bring themselves to walk away from the Barbours and their money, their glamor, and most importantly, their status. THE BARBOURS ARE A**HOLES, OK? They’re snobs. But somehow we’re supposed to like them, or if not like them, forgive them, or if not forgive them, find them fascinating?
Meanwhile the poorest people in the novel, Theo’s deadbeat dad and his girlfriend, a stripper named Xandra, are simply pathetic; every aspect of Xandra, from her profession to her self-styled name (it’s really Sandra) to the fact that she hails from Florida are neon signs flashing “CHEAP” and attached to characters about whom we’re not expected to care. Xandra in particular is immediately recognizable as the kind of bimbo usually only seen in Woody Allen movies (think Mighty Aphrodite). We’re supposed to think she’s lame. But a working-class girl from Florida who decides to juice up her name by adding an X to it is light years less phony than someone like Kitsey Barbour–or any of the cold-blooded social-climbing Barbours. An adult woman (Kitsey) who refers to high heels as “Hurty-hurty shoes!” and calls her boyfriend “Meanypants” is not a glamorous ditz. She’s not even a manic pixie dream girl (that honor goes to Pippa–but let’s not even go there). She’s just a fake. While eventually even Theo manages to escape her thrall, one senses that Tartt is never fully out of love with the Barbours. Xandra can be tossed out with yesterday’s newspapers but the Barbours somehow deserve a better fate.”I was only one step away from some trailer park loner,” thinks Theo, musing about his obsession with Pippa, “stalking a girl he’d spotted in the mall.” No, not a trailer park! Not a… a… mall! The horror, folks. The horror.
3. Plot vs. Action
No question, a lot of stuff happens in The Goldfinch; that’s the “ripping” part of the yarn. But action is not the same as plot. And this novel’s plot is beside the point. There’s one MacGuffin that emerges in the beginning of the novel and is never satisfactorily resolved: Theo’s possession of the stolen Goldfinch painting. Yes, he took the painting from the Metropolitan Museum in the aftermath of the explosion. And yes, it would require some explaining on his part to make the authorities understand why a teenaged boy has this masterpiece stored in a pillowcase, but HE COULD JUST RETURN THE PAINTING TO THE AUTHORITIES AT ANY POINT WITHOUT ANY REAL NEGATIVE CONSEQUENCES. They’re not going to throw him in jail or torture him or.. anything! They’ll just be happy to get the painting back. So when, after 780 (!!) pages HE DOES EXACTLY THIS I kind of wanted to throw the book across the room. But as I mentioned, I was reading it on a Kindle and I didn’t want to dent the precious gadget.
With only 5 pages to go, I finished the novel. There’s a lot to admire in this book. But it would have been much better had it been edited more carefully and its length cut by, say, 40 perecent. That would have cut lines like this description of people in Amsterdam: “rosy housewives with armloads of flowers, tobacco-stained hippies in wire-rimmed glasses”– what, no flaxen-braided milkmaids wearing wooden clogs in this Dutch cartoon?–or this internal monologue of Theo’s: “I wanted to say goodbye to Pippa but she was nowhere in sight. Where was she? The library? The loo?” Again: NONE OF THESE CHARACTERS ARE SUPPOSED TO BE BRITISH. Sigh.
A 315-page Goldfinch? Yes, pelase. As Hobie says, it might have been a “Tough pull to get in but then a doddle once you’ve made it.”
AMERICAN FUN: Four Centuries of Joyous Revolt
By John Beckman
Pantheon, 432 pp., $28.95
[This review was originally published in the Boston Globe Sunday BOOKS section, February 2, 2014.]
You’ve heard the story of the Englishman who sailed to North America in the 1620s in search of a new way of life. He looked back on the fraught religious environment of England and swore that on this continent life would be different. He envisioned a civilization based on equality, freedom, and above all, “a barrel of excellent beare [beer].” This man was, of course, Thomas Morton.
In what is now Quincy, Morton founded Merry Mount, “an experiment in insanely energized democracy”  that offered if only for a few years (1627-1630) a different vision of the way American culture might have developed — had William Bradford, governor of the Mayflower Colony, and his fellow Pilgrim killjoys never shown up.
John Beckman’s new book, “American Fun: Four Centuries of Joyous Revolt,’’ is an attempt to drag yahoos like Morton back into the mainstream of American history because, as Beckman writes, “American democracy hasn’t been fortified by passive citizens . . . but by active, resistive, DIY citizens.”  Citizens, he suggests, like Morton, who was “cheerful, curious, horny, and lawless . . . a radical democrat and reckless hedonist.” 
Beckman, an English professor at the US Naval Academy, pits Bradford against his b?te-noir Morton, thus establishing a key conflict in the nascent American psyche: The Man vs. He Who Sticks it to The Man. Bradford battled the native Wampanoag; Morton befriended them. Bradford outlawed “gameing [sic] and reveling in the streets” ; Morton encouraged it. Most significantly, Morton released his English bondsmen from their labor contracts and treated them and the local Native Americans as equal partners in building a new society.
As a result, Merry Mount prospered, celebrating its success with drinking, parties, and a raucous May Day celebration. But this “harmless mirth” brought the wrath of their hardass Calvinist neighbors, who in 1628 attacked with an armed militia and forced the settlement to disband.  When John Winthrop and his fellow Puritans showed up two years later to build their “city on a hill,” one of their first acts was burning what was left of Merry Mount to the ground. 
From our post-“Animal House’’ vantage point we readers already know that Merry Mount was merely the start of the American party. “American Fun’’ takes the reader from the Colonial period (the Boston Tea Party) through the antebellum South (slave gatherings in New Orleans’s Congo Square) through westward expansion (Mark Twain’s reports from the Gold Rush boomtowns and Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show) to 1920s flappers, Woodstock, and finally the punk scene of 1980s California.
Beckman states right away that he’s not interested in mere “entertainment” nor simple “amusement” [xvii] but “outrageous, even life-threatening fun.” [xiii] He isolates “three tributaries” of American fun: “the commercial, the playful, and radically political . . . [that] pour nutrients, pollutants, and sheer life force in to the great American gulf.” [xxiii] The pursuit of happiness is, after all, every American citizen’s unalienable right.
Analyzing fun, however, is no joke: the better one does it, the more one risks sounding like a hungover college roommate describing last night’s epic pub crawl. While Beckman, whose previous book was the novel “The Winter Zoo’’ (2002), writes with wit and energy and mostly rises to the challenge he’s set for himself, it can be a bit of a buzzkill to hear a joke explained.
Beckman wants to show how fun has functioned as an engine of democracy, a unifying force for “the teeming masses, the mixing millions who would exploit the New World as an open playground for freedom, equality, and saucy frolic.” His admiration for the “unsung America of rebels, merrymakers, outlaws, and freaks”  is obvious.
Yet apart from Morton’s quashed experiment, did fun really bring Americans together? Raucous merrymaking helped solidify distinct group identities, but it rarely seemed to unify Americans across racial, gender, or class boundaries.
From the muddled racial politics of the original 1773 Boston Tea Party, which featured white men dressed like Indians (but no actual Indians), or Pinkster, the 19th century celebrations, which allowed African-Americans to celebrate their culture apart from whites, most of the fun times featured here are members-only events. The rough “fun” of the California Gold Rush era was, as Beckman points out, a racially- and gender- segregated phenomenon, not to mention a genocidal tragedy for the Native Californians. And on it goes, from Los Angeles’s anti-Latino Zoot Suit Riots in 1943 to the nearly all-white hippies and Yippies of the 1960s. Did Americans have fun? Sure. Did that fun “allow people to form close bonds in spite of prejudices, rivalries, and laws”? [xiv] Maybe not.
And what’s so American about “American fun,” anyway? Beckman argues that there is a “striking pattern” here: “A group of rebels . . . takes joy in resisting a stern ruling class and entices the people to follow its lead . . . it’s the fun of breaking the master’s laws.” OK, but isn’t that what fun is everywhere? Visions of ecstatic Brazilian samba lines danced in my mind as I pondered this new frontier of American exceptionalism.
Where Americans have really excelled is in the art of making fun pay. P.T. Barnum was famous not only for his circus acts but for his inspirational books, the last of which was titled, “The Art of Money-Getting” (1880).  George C. Tilyou, creator of Coney Island’s modern amusement park, learned Barnum’s lessons well. “We Americans want to be either thrilled or amused and we are ready to pay for either sensation,” Tilyou explained. ”Laughter,” he boasted, “made me a million dollars.”  Not everyone was laughing. When Maxim Gorky visited Coney Island in 1906 it didn’t seem fun at all. “What a sad people you must be,” Gorky said. 
Let’s blame it on William Bradford.