Hard Science and Tall Tales

I've always admired Isaac Asimov's Foundation series of novels for covering such a long span of human history -- as much as 10,000 years, as I recall. Stephen Baxter expands that number by two orders of magnitude, covering five million years of human history, or at least history after the beginning of humanity (hint -- humans may not necessarily be around forever, at least in this universe!). Using wormhole and, later, string theory to explain interstellar ship technology, Baxter tells the story of a humanity that accidentally discovers that its home sun, and its entire universe, is doomed to an early death just a few million years away. How the main characters manage to be there at the beginning and the end of this five million year adventure is difficult to explain. Let's just say that when you combine advanced alien technology, time travel, and hard-wired human determination, such things are possible. If, perhaps, a little creepy when you read about what 1,000-year-old humans look like.

They Should Have Called Him "Fleshman"

This, the second in the Harry Flashman series, covers Flashy's adventures with (or, more properly, against) Otto von Bismarck on the continent. Secret adventures, of course -- you didn't read about any of this in your standard history texts. That's because all of Flashman's deeds are recorded only in the Flashman Papers, discovered years after his death in an attic, and published mostly in the 1970s.

Of the three Flashman novels I've read, the first (Flashman, which covers Flashman's origins and the British withdrawal from Afghanistan) is by far the best. But be forewarned: Flashman is no ordinary hero. In fact, he is, by his own admission, "a scoundrel, a liar, a cheat, a thief, a coward—and oh yes, a toady." Most of the humor arises because virtually no one in Flashman's life recognizes any of these characteristics. It's just you, the reader, who are let in on the big secret that this glamorous Victorian soldier decorated for bravery and accomplishment is a complete and utter coward, whose chief interests in life are protecting his own skin, chasing women, drinking, gambling and letting others take the fall for his actions. Occasionally, another character in the novels sees Flashman for what he is, but the secret never gets out, either because that other character soon dies (though not usually at Flashman's hand; he's not that brave!), lacks the credibility to make a charge against Flashman stick, or has his or her own reasons for keeping quiet.

Parts of these novels are unreadable if you have any moral sensibility if you don't consider it an exercise in seeing deep into the human heart. Even then, it may be questionable as a worthwhile selection. And the sensitive soul will feel for Flashman's many victims, particularly the women he runs over (or at least most of them). But I'm easily drawn in by something that makes me laugh, and these novels certainly do that.

I've recently been thinking that Flashman personifies, if only in a coarse or parodic manner, a central critique of postmodernism -- that most of the explanatory myths people rely on to explain themselves to others are essentially lies, and relationships are really about power and exploitation. (I realize I'm pulling a thread out of the postmodern ball of twine and running down the road with it, but just go with me here.) I suppose a softer way of reading Flashman is that he is just the ultimate illustration of Victorian hypocrisy, an Eminent Victorians in historical fiction, but I was never fully convinced by that attack on the Victorians, as every age and culture has its share of hypocrisy. The postmodern critique carries a little more weight, though of course it has its own problems.

So if you like your historical fiction with a good dose of humor, deep hypocrisy and a frank look into the mind of a man who sees no reason to seek anything beyond his own immediate pleasure, the Flashman series might be for you. Just recognize that we all have a Flashman inside us, and try not to let yours gain the upper hand.

One More Thing

Oh, and possibly this is the only book I have ever bought on the strength of a blurb on the cover:

"I laughed, I cried, and then I read the book."

--Steve Martin

The Road to Mediocre

As a lifetime Monty Python fan (the author being one of the Pythons), I'd hoped for more, frankly. There are a few high notes in this "post-modem novel", mostly involving the quotes at the beginning of each chapter, including this gem:

"Where's the tea strainer?"
"It's his day off."

--Ancient British joke

But that was a lot of pages to read just for this joke, memorable though it is.

There are two spacefaring comedians, one with an ex and a daughter, a robot with academic aspirations (he writes the history of comedy in his head and publishes under controversial circumstances as academia doesn't treat robots as eligible for publication -- kind of like conservatives, I guess), and a diva of sometimes mildly entertaining characteristics. And the diva's husband, and some revolutionaries, and . . . well, it took me a while to get around to reviewing this one, and I've probably forgotten some important details. Lots of talk, some of it on target, about the nature of comedy. But much of it not that . . . funny, somehow.

Eric Idle is one of the funniest people who have ever lived. Or at least in the twentieth century; it's hard to judge before that since you've really got to see -- or at least hear -- humor to appreciate it, outside of the narrow speciality of comic writing, which is a wholly different medium from standup and sketch comedy, where Mr. Idle's talents shine. As this book demonstrates.

On Place and Neighborhood

I suppose it's the mark of the provincial man, but in any case I find that I have a special and lasting love for this place, which is so obviously just a place, which has no particular beauty or grace or grandeur of scene, but which is, quite simply, a neighborhood, my neighborhood, a compound of sights and smells and sounds that have furnished all my years.

--Father Hugh Kennedy in Edwin O'Connor, The Edge of Sadness (1961)

Boom!

I picked up this book on the sale table at Mount Vernon while on a week-long field trip to Washington, DC, with Offspring #1. (Until you've heard 25 fifth graders singing the Preamble to the U.S. Constitution on a school bus, you really haven't lived.)

It was definitely worth the read. I knew much less than I thought about gunpowder (or "black powder", as we now think of it, since most all munitions for the last 100 years or so have been powered with a chemical substitute often known as "smokeless powder"). For example, I hadn't realized that the basic technology of gunpowder changed little from the 14th century to the 19th century. Sure, improved mechanization techniques increased production volume and made at least small improvements in the safety of the manufacturing process (gunpowder having a tendency to explode during manufacturing), but most of the improvement in firepower and accuracy of firearms came about from improvements to the gun itself, not the powder that powered the projectile.

A little dry in places, but overall the book moves along well, introducing fascinating British, French and American personalities along the way. There's also an interesting political observation: gunpowder contributed to the consolidation of nation states in a significant way because its manufacture, storage and transport were very expensive, and only centralizing states and taxing authority could raise the funds to equip and maintain the armies that determined who would control large portions of land.

I'm starting to really enjoy books of this sort that cover hundreds -- or even thousands -- of years of human history by focusing on particular technology or idea. I think it's because a general history of the world, or even a single continent, over such a span of time would be either ponderously unreadable or textbook boring, but the technology/idea focus over a wide span of time does allow the reader to appreciate the flow of history and not get stuck in any one particular era that may or may not be of lasting interest.