Fiat Money

I just finished reading the historian Andrew Dickson White's Fiat Money Inflation In France, a distillation of lectures on the French Revolution he gave in the 1870's. It begins this way:

Early in the year 1789 the French nation found itself in deep financial embarrassement: there was a heavy debt and a serious deficit.

It ends this way:

There is a lesson in all this which it behooves every thinking man to ponder.

What a wonderful little book. It is beautifully and clearly written, with that serious moral tone common to 19th century history. It puts me in mind of one of my favorite books of history: Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds. White in fact refers at several points to the John Law's paper money scheme that opens Mackay's book.

Witness

I am re-reading Whittaker Chambers' Witness, the best autobiography I have ever encountered. The drama of the man's life was his accession to, then flight from, the American Communist party underground. It seems to have the lugubrious tone appropriate to this election season. I will be excerpting it as I go. This from the first page, as he describes decidingt to break with Communism:

I wanted my wife to realize clearly one long-term penalty, for herself and for the children, of the step I was taking. I said, "You know, we are leaving the winning world for the losing world." I meant that, in the revolutionary conflict of the 20th century, I knowingly chose the side of probable defeat...But nothing has changed my determination to act as if I were wrong -- if only because, in the last instance, men must act on what they believe right, not on what they believe probable.

Fortifying words for a pessimistic conservative.

RRS RSS

The first five episodes (consisting of eleven chapters) of my book are up on podiobooks.

Excuses, Excuses

Have you noticed the slow down in posting here? I thought not.

I have been spending inordinate chunks of time preparing my book for podcasting. At this point I've probably earned the right to offer advice. Start with this: there are two introductory podcast rigs you can get for about $100. M-Audio Podcast Factory and Behringer PodcastStudio. Both represent marketing departments' urge to throw together some disparate existing products into a box with some new buzzword on the outside. The difference is M-Audio's actually works, while Behringer represents the black side of high tech. Poorly translated instructions, inadequate driver support, incompatible software - it's all here.

As a software engineer, I often shudder when I think of lay people struggling with stuff like this. May I offer an apology on behalf of the industry I have served for a couple of decades?

In any case, podiobooks will not release a new author's work until they have at least five episodes on hand. I hope to reach that milestone some time next week.

Giving It Away

I am a great believer in the new distribution mechanisms for creative content that are ripping through the old-line media conglomerates. Everyone younger than 55 understands how this is affecting music and even movies. For books, print-on-demand outfits like lulu are changing the game (but look out, here comes the 800 pound gorilla).

Another avenue authors are using to bypass the traditional publishing game is free podcasts. Check out this site. Some writers have developed such a following this way that the dead tree guys are now knocking at their doors.

About halfway through writing my book, I thought it would be cool to record my story as an audiobook and post it on my website. Looks like I'll be doing something like something like that, but using more tested infrastructure. This should be fun!

Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Children's Illistrators

I put up a guru project invitation for a cover for my book (I'm going to be using lulu to print copies for friends, families, and the beta test*). So far, I have over forty proposals, and more come in every day. As a point of comparison, I regularly post programming and graphic arts projects, and I rarely get more than ten submissions. Even sadder for them is that an old friend has agreed to do the cover for me as a favor.

* I will be having a number of boys (and maybe some brave girls), most who don't know me, read the book and provide feedback.

The Bad War

George Orwell once said, "To see what is in front of one's nose needs a constant struggle." For some people that struggle is a life-long ordeal.

Take Nicholson Baker and credulous reviewer in the LA Times. Baker's new book Human Smoke purports to show that:

World War II was one of the biggest, most carefully plotted lies in modern history. According to the myth, British and American statesmen naively thought they could reason with such brutal fascists as Germany's Hitler and Japan's Tojo. Faced with this weakness, Hitler and Tojo tried to take over the world, and the United States and Britain were forced to use military might to stop them.

The facts are powerful. Baker shows, step by step, how an alliance dominated by leaders who were bigoted, far more opposed to communism than to fascism, obsessed with arms sales and itching for a fight coerced the world into war.

Where does one begin? With Germany's agression in Eastern Europe, telegraphed by Hitler 15 years in advance? Or maybe Japan's brutal war with China, which began in 1937*? It is so tedious to point out that Germany, Japan, and Italy were run by militaristic gangsters who were loud and proud about their plans to take over the world, or at least their neigborhoods of it. It has been documented ad nauseum and it was no secret then or since.

The Allies were flawed, both in individual leadership and as nations. Is that news to anyone? The war is inherently inhumane and the "good guys" didn't always wear white hats**. Is that some kind of revelation? But to say WWII was optional, and sitting it out was a morally acceptable alternative is nuts.

I'll take this opportunity of throwing my wild and crazy opinion on 20th century European history: I wish Germany had won World War I. Just think of all the bad things that would not have happened had von Moltke reached Paris in September 1914, like his uncle did in 1870. Of course, one might argue that you can never know the bad things that might have happened had Germany won, but since the 20th C. was pretty bad, it's hard to imagine it being worse.

*That's more than two full years before the conventional date for the start of World War II, for those of you who need reminding.

**For example, in my humble and not very important view, area bombing of cities was not morally justified.

Trashing Simon Brett

If my last post seemed a bit splenetic* to you, I apologize. In my defense, I feel more than usually provoked these days.The cultural producers of our times sweat great rivers of oily self-righteousness and that putrid flow sometimes overwhelms my delicate equilibrium.

As an example, I hold before you one Simon Brett, a British author of murder mysteries. I recently went on vacation and one of my favorite ways to relax on holiday is work through a small pile of fiction. I usually include at least one murder mystery and this time I chose an author totally unfamiliar to me. As I read The Body on the Beach, I became increasingly agitated. Let me tell you why.

This author is competent if uninspiring as a mystery writer. He does exhibit that fraternity's (or should I say sorority?) annoying habit of periodically inserting let's-summarize-what-we-know-now interludes, as if the author's duty were to help the reader cram for a final exam. But what led me to consign the book to the landfill was a steady drip of left-wing condescension that served no literary function. In fact, I imagine Mr. Brett probably was unconscious of his sanctimony as he wrote - it undoubtedly comes as naturally as breathing.

For example, he is indignant that the Council Flat dwelling proles stick satellite TV dishes on the sides of their homes. Not because they are filling their heads with cultural garbage, but because of the shillings pouring into Rupert Murdoch's pockets. He draws one of his peripheral characters as snobbish, domineering, materialistic, gossipy, judgmental, gauche, and shrewish. She treats her servants poorly, runs down her husband, and goes out of her way to look down her nose at everyone. It would be one thing if she were funny, in a Dickensian sort of way, but it's clear that Brett either couldn't pull that off, or actually thought he was painting a believable portrait. Oh yes, I almost forgot. He applies one other characteristic to this thoroughly repellent creature. Can you guess what it is? The most natural thing to go along with those other traits would be...her devout Christianity.

The final straw for me was a throw-away line regarding "Bourgeoisie virtues, which are for the most part financial virtues." It told me in one sentence how shallow this man is; how little thinking he has done about the Bourgeoisie, about virtue, or about finances. Bah. When I could stand it no more, I threw the book into the rubbish half-read, which afforded me the most pleasure I received from Brett's labours.

* pertaining to the spleen, also ill-humoured.

Snicket the High Brow

I admire what Lemony Snicket has done in his "Series of Unfortunate Events". He developed a unique style and format for Kid Lit that incorporated humorous pessimism and an intrusive narrative voice into the standard serial cliffhanger genre. When I first encountered it, my reaction was, "Why didn't I think of that?" What I most like about his writing, though, is his evident love for words, and a determination to teach kids vocabulary through reading.

There is however, something not quite right in "Events." I've listened to the first book on tape, and browsed through a number of the others (one of my children is a fan). What I noticed is the tendancy to insert references to serious literature in the stories (Tolstoy, Melville, etc.). There's nothing wrong with that, many of them are so offhand, kids won't have any idea to what he is talking about. I can't be sure without reading all 2000 pages of the series, but I think this technique becomes more explicit and even troubling as the series progresses.

For instance, I stumbled on this in Book 12, "The Penultimate Peril":

Richard Wright, an American novelist of the realist school, asks a famous unfathomable question in his best-known novel, Native Son. "Who knows when some slight shock," he asks, "disturbing the delicate balance between social order and thirsty aspiration, shall send the skyscrapers of our cities toppling?"

He then goes on for an entire page to explicate this "unfathomable" quotation. These books, I have to remind you, are intended for readers age 9-12. Nine years old to twelve years old. Native Son deals with racism, murder, institutional injustice, sexual violence (allusions to), and is informed by the communist world view of its author. The quote is famous, but not as impenetrable as Snicket implies - it's simple Marxist apocalyptic wishful thinking.

Once again, Snicket is writing for children, ages nine through twelve.

Lest you think this an isolated example, I offer this bizarre passage from the Slippery Slope:

The writer who can most accurately and elegantly describe the path of the three orphans was an associate of mine who, like the man who wrote "The Road Less Traveled," is now dead. Before he died, however, he was widely regarded as a very good poet, although some people think his writings about religion were a little too mean-spirited. His name was Algernon Charles Swinburne.*

Many of you may not be familiar with the 19th century poet Swinburne who celebrated sadomasochism, lesbianism, and atheism in his work. Now my second born at least knows his name (or would if he were paying attention, which I know he wasn't).

I guess this is what happens when one becomes a best-selling children's author. Your editors no longer have any hold over you. In Snicket's case, you can see this when you glance at a shelf of the "Series", arranged in order - they grow more corpulent with each volume.

I think what is on display here is a person who really wants to be a college English professor, but wound up a writer of juvenile fiction. Or maybe he is a professor (that would explain the pen name and the funny sub rosa biographical bits).

* Those who have been reading my blog for a while might recognize a certain similarity between his style of writing and my own. Another reason I have can't condemn the man in toto. Also I must get in this dig - Because M. Scott Peck had not died yet when the Slippery Slope was written, he must be referring to Frost's The Road Not Taken. More evidence for substandard editing.

Being Frank

As I have been immersing myself in the life and work of Francis Schaeffer lately, his son Frank's memoir Crazy for God came to my attention in early November. From my extensive search for book reviews, I understood the book to accomplish two things: A) an unexpurgated revelation of the elder Schaeffer's flaws B) a venting of Frank's spleen toward all things Evangelical. My initial reaction, before I'd read the first page, was revulsion. But a curious thing happened during my trip through the book. The revulsion remained (and was even reinforced), but a certain amount of understanding, agreement, and sympathy arose. In the end I think it a poor book, and needlessly damaging to many, but I can't dismiss it completely.

There were three things in this book that resonated with me. The first was Frank's reaction against the lack of openness about and acknowledgement of human weakness in much of American Christian life. He rejects disgust at phony piety, hidden sins (that are not even that well hidden), and the masks worn to impress and intimidate. I loathe the same things in others, but even more in myself. The second is the way Christian groups use social control to enforce an oppressive conformity to Pharisaical rules made by men. I'm with Frank in resenting those who would bind our conscience on their own authority. The last was the temptation to pride that haunts those who think theology is important. Here is Frank commenting on his parents' involvement in the endless denominational splintering Presbyterians have engaged in over the past century:

A church split builds self-righteousness into the fabric of every new spliter group, whose only reason for existence is that they decide that they are more moral and pure than their brethren. This explains my childhood, and perhaps a lot about America, too.

I believe there is some truth there, but Frank neglects to explain how conflicted his father was over the rancor and ill-will all this splitting caused, and how much it informed his approach to ministry.

On the other hand, his portrait of his parents spares no detail, no matter how degrading to their dignity. He expresses some respect, admiration, and affection for his father, which puts the negative anecdotes in some context. It is his mother Edith, who really suffers at her son's hands. He portrays her as vain, conceited, extremely spiritually prideful, condescending, mildly devious, impressed by wealth and social position (a "respecter of persons" sums it up), and much given to using spiritual language on any and every occasion. In the end she comes across as slightly mad (which I don't think is an exaggeration given he labels her "a nut" more than once, and the book's title). I was forced to credit these extreme assertions by the evidence he presents, including a sample of one of her letters to him.

But assuming the truth of all this, there is something missing here, which brings me to the first criticism. Frank does not tell us what about his parents that brought thousands and thousands of people over forty years to a difficult-to-reach Swiss village to sit and listen to an intellectual defense of Christianity. There is no glimpse into what people really saw in Francis and Edith, their attraction, their magnetism. From my reading and study, I know it wasn't just his Father's brilliance. Edith was popular in her own right, both as an author and as worker at L'Abri. Aside from a throw-away line about his mother working late scrubbling floors, we get no idea of the passion, the empathy, the charisma this woman and her husband must have exuded. From this standpoint, the book is extremely unfair. But setting aside the unfairness, he had no business publishing these details to begin with. I understood Francis was imperfect before I read this book (for instance, his father's temper was no secret and is acknowledged even by his most ardent admirers). Frank justifies it with a lame appeal to artistic truthfulness, which is worth a couple of blog posts in itself. In a way, all these backfired with me and in some ways had the opposite of their intended effect. Francis Schaeffer was a depressive (even suicidal), introverted, bad-tempered man who woke every morning determined to place himself at the service of strangers in an effort to advance the Gospel. And I'm supposed to admire him less?

There is something else entirely missing from this book, and the cover curiously hints at it. It shows a picture of a child on his father's shoulders. But it's not Frank. It's his sister. And I believe this highlights how unaware and unsympathetic Frank is to his parents as parents of a self-admitted jackass. He shows no empathy at all for their position as his parents, the father and mother of a very, very difficult child. He doesn't seem at all curious about his father's state of mind after discovering his son in flagrante with a female L'Abri guest, just relief that he wasn't hassled. Frank self-importantly attributes his father's involvement in right-wing politics to his own persuasion. Can't he see at least the possibility that his father might have been encouraging a wayward son to particpate in something worthwhile? This seems to me, is a blindspot on Frank's part, though he is hard on himself in numerous other respects.

I approached the book with the idea that Frank was trying to get back at his parents for subjecting him to an unconventional and difficult childhood. After getting about half way through it, I realized that all the gossip was included for a different reason. This is a hateful book, and the hate is directed at Evangelical Christians, and tarnishing a couple of Evangelical heroes is just another way Frank can stick it in the eye of right-wing Christian America. There are many, many pages just oozing baleful condescension toward everything about conservative Protestant Christianity in America - the way they look, talk, walk, pray, worship, believe, write, sing, and on and on. The book contains a lot of profanity, but most of it comes at the end, when he's discussing his involvement with the Evangelical political movement in the early '80's. It's as if he can't restrain himself any longer, and his bile boils over. It is also during this second part of the book when the editing process broke down under his tirades:

And I learned that if you talk "too fast," all those huntin', fishin', shootin', lifetime-NRA-member types, the ones that worry about the United Nations, have their eyes too close together, and have wives caked with about forty pounds of makeup per square inch, start to look at you funny.

This really hurt:

I learned that the worst audiences, like talking to a roomful of pickled fish wearing down parkas, were in Minnesota.

His hatred of Evangelicals puts Frank in a bit of a bind, but it's hard for him to reconcile his respect for his father with his father's theological commitments. Frank's solution is to claim his father was not as committed as he seemed, and that he was sort of tragic figure - trapped by his own success in a cul-de-sac of fundamentalist dogma. Frank claims over and over that his father was not really happy in the role he found himself in and would have been better off as an art historian or philosopher. I find this the least persuasive part of the book and attribute it to wishful thinking on the son's part.

The saddest and most unintentially poignant part of the book comes at the end, when it becomes evident that Frank has learned nothing important from his father. Here he is at a museum, and he remarks about the exhibits:

and many of those artifacts - from Syrian gods to Italian Virgin-and-Childs - reflect the fact that we humans take hope in the irrational.

It's hard to think of a statement more at odds with Francis Schaeffer's legacy.