REVIEW OF COSMIC BANDITOS

ERIC


COSMIC BANDITOS
A.C. Weisbecker


Great literature? No. Not as such. The author is himself perplexed by the havoc he has wreaked, variously describing his work as Crime and Punishment, without the punishment, or even better, a postmodern pulp "tzeuberg." Whatever the hell that is. And he spend a goodly amount of time hawking the work in footnotes (which, it must be said, either annoy or intrigue) and trying to recoup the lousy deal he negotiated when he was a starving spaced-out Californ-aye-eh wastrel during the 70s and didn't know better. 

Which is, essentially, the story of the book. It "lay dormant" (his words) for much of its history, until recently resurfacing as a more than adequate chronicling of the zeitgeist of that era (I love it when I can use that word, and also "tzeuberg" for that matter, in the same review. Brilliant!) Somehow it got a second breath, however. Not really a breath. More like a long toke of a spliff, punctuated by random mutterings about quantum physics, drug smuggling, cartoon characters morphing into novel characters,and...of course (OF COURSE!) the eponymous banditos.

Allow me to digress. In 1976 me and a mate did an epic six week trip from Italy to Egypt to Greece, seeing the Brigate Rosse riots in Rome, the food riots in Cairo, and arriving in Syntagma Square in Athens for Greek National Day, replete with tanks and flybys. Seeking cheap accommodation, we happened upon a large American Hippie with a capital H, long blondish hair, a huge walrus moustache, and faraway (very faraway) eyes. After digesting his considered response, we continued on with the usual niceties. Where are you from? I asked. Cosmos, he replied. Cosmos? I queried (I had heard of Ios, Paros, Naxos...so maybe I was ignorant of yet another Greek island). How long have you been there? He looked up. Well, in reality, man... all my life, but like, when I was a baby in my crib, all I knew was the ceiling of my room, but now I am conscious of the whole cosmos around me, man....nodding his head in agreement with himself.

Uh....ok...well good luck! as we beat a hasty retreat.

My point? There were a lot of people in the 70s like good ol' A.C. He just wrote it down. 

So back to my review. It ain't great literature, but it is an enjoyable romp. Like someone said about particle physics in one of the footnotes (and I reiterate, there are a lot of them): The worldview of particle physics is a picture of chaos beneath order. Indeed.

Is it believable? Who cares? Did I laugh? You bet? To the boo-bears in the group who panned this (and it split the group pretty evenly), I merely pass on another quote from Neils Bohr to Einstein re: Quantum Physics: You are not thinking. You are merely being logical.

I learned something from this book. I am not quite sure what, but one day whilst rummaging through the attic of my cluttered brain, I just might find some nugget....a quote...an image from this nonsensical work, some quanta....smile, and think the whole exercise quite worthwhile, thank you very much.

Then again. Maybe not.

Exactly.

FOUR STARS (JUST BECAUSE)



TOM'S REVIEW

A cult fave in the tradition of Rocky Horror, Hitchhiker's Guide and Mrs. Brown's Boys from a guy who wrote for Disney Inc., on which he has the churlish gall to turn in the Preface, even though it provided him with the stable income he admits this book did not.  I laughed once, because "molybdenum" is a word that always makes me laugh, like "gingivitis" or "styptic." It may not be the best book in the JFDI pantheon but it has spawned a book club embrace of Mexican tipple.  The last time I drank Mescal was at the top of San Marcos Pass in Cold Springs Tavern in 1976 and I sure don't remember it tasting like the fine example of the spirit Joe's daughter Katie gave him at Christmas and he served tonight.  It went down smooth like a rhapsody with a hint of peat.  Joe went on Google to report on the source of the drink.  Based on the piss I just took, I swear it must be Spanish for "Overripe Asparagus," but that won't keep me from drinking it again the next time we have a JFDI meeting at Joe's house.  And that's why I'm giving COSMIC BANDITOS... ONE STAR / FIVE SHOTS

JFDI BOOK NO. 17 COSMIC BANDITOS

COSMIC BANDITOS

A.C. Weisbecker

 

A book which somehow marries quantum mechanics with drug smuggling. The author went on to become a screenwriter on Miami Vice, apparently.

 

AMAZON.COM

JFDI BOOK 16: THE DAUGHTER OF TIME -Josephine They

 

The Daughter of Time

Josephine They

 

 

A detective story about the true history of Richard III

 

AMAZON

Chosen by Philip Maton

REVIEW OF EUROPE IN THE LOOKING GLASS

TOM'S REVIEW

EUROPE IN THE LOOKING GLASS

 by Robert Byron (1926)

EUROPE IN THE LOOKING GLASS is Robert Byron’s account of his travels with two right Charlies, the reckless David and the melancholic Simon, across Europe in the summer of 1925. Robert may be an Eton graduate attending Merton College, Oxford, but he is also a 20 year-old on a road trip in an unreliable car experiencing a rite of passage we’ve all either been on, or wished we had, especially to the places Robert sees at a time when local character and old-world charm did still abide.

Not that Robert much appreciates either. He is quick to scoff at custom, keen to drink more than he can handle and happy to commit acts of petty vandalism. He and his mates are a mash-up of the Bullingdon Club and Dorothy Parker’s Vicious Circle. Robert has high praise for the Sitwell siblings—renowned for their literary, artistic and sexual iconoclasm—and disdain for conventional opinion about almost every city he visits, including Berlin, Munich, Innsbruck, Salzburg, Venice, Florence, Rome and Athens. Not surprisingly, he saves his highest praise for two places not on the traditional tourist map, Ferrara and Revenna. But he also has a precocious appreciation of art and architecture, and he heaps praise on the things he likes, including some that are iconic and time-honored.

Mixed with the Bullingdon Club and the Vicious Circle, though, is a good measure of Beavis and Butthead, namely in the chums’ acumen with routes, car mechanics and relations with locals. David is forever going off-piste onto single-track mountain roads and into dry river beds, where he blows out tires or clogs carburetor jets before receiving help from the local citizenry whom he later pisses off and whose wrath he barely escapes, usually by taking a single-track mountain road that ends in a dry river-bed. But he manages to outdo himself before the trip even begins when, without consulting the most basic travel resource, like a map, he decides that Patras should be the port of destination on the boat ride from Italy to Greece because it just sounds better than Piraeus. Patras in 1924 is a desolate backwater in westernmost Greece, while Piraeus is the port of Athens. Cue calamity: loading the car onto a boat barely bigger than the car in the Italian port of Brindisi; crossing the Ionian in an undersized boat with what must be balsa for ballast; offloading the car in a town with a stevedoring harness Archimedes would have sent to the dump; and discovering that there are no roads from Patras to, well, anywhere. Calamity is a time-honored source of comedy, but I have to draw the line when it’s the product of willful stupidity by Oxbridge Etonians who have the means and connections to avoid any serious consequences. 

While it’s tempting to dismiss this book as a mash-up of BRIDESHEAD REVISITED and DUDE, WHERE’S MY CAR?, this book has stood the test of time, both as a prelude to Byron’s consensus classic THE ROAD TO OXIANA and as a travel book that manages to cross the path of history. For Robert Byron hits Italy during the budding of Fascism, which he dismisses as the post-WWI sour grapes of bitter aristos, thugs and cranks, while not actually condemning it outright. Indeed, he would later befriend the Mitfords and attend the 1938 Nuremberg rally with Unity just as her sister Nancy was hoping for a marriage proposal from Byron that was never going to come (and not because of their political differences). While he did not share the Mitford’s views on the merits of the Third Reich, you might conclude by the company he kept that his antipathy toward Fascism was as tepid in 1938 as it was in 1925. Ironic then that he died in 1941 on a ship torpedoed by a German U-Boat. Or karmic. 

3 stars

REVIEW OF HER PRIVATES WE

TOM'S REVIEW

Her Privates We 

by Frederic Manning

Frederic Manning was a professional poet most of his life and a volunteer soldier in His Majesty’s infantry from October 1915 to February 1918. In 1928, a literary colleague, citing the large public appetite for books about the Great War, urged him to write a novel about his wartime experience. The result was Her Privates We, a title (and the best pun I can remember) taken from dialogue in Hamlet that is the book’s epigram:

Guildenstern: On Fortune's cap we are not the very button.

Hamlet: Nor the soles of her shoe?

Rosencrantz: Neither, my lord.

Hamlet: Then you live about her waist, or in the middle of her favours?

Guildenstern: Faith, her privates we.

Hamlet: In the secret parts of Fortune? O, most true; she is a strumpet.

Each chapter then begins with a passage from Shakespeare, not the pithy aphorisms found in Bartlett’s Book of Quotations but obscure lines with difficult syntax that force the reader to study each word and still wonder at the precise meaning. The passages form perfect companion pieces to a literate memoir that describes war with lyrical dispassion. There is no plot, only an unfolding of events. There is abundant absurdity, but it is the opposite of funny. Death is not the least bit heroic, and there is no glory. 

Reading this book is often a slog, just like the war it describes. The narration can be pedestrian for pages on end, but then Manning will produce something that zeroes in on what makes the soldier’s life unique. Two examples stand out for me. The first appears midway through the book when the main character Bourne is home on leave and is asked if he has a friend among the men. He replies, “In some ways, good comradeship takes the place of friendship. It is different; it has its own loyalties and affections; and I am not so sure that it does not rise on occasion to an intensity of feeling which friendship never touches. It may be less in itself, I don’t know, but its opportunity is greater. Friendship implies rather more stable conditions, don’t you think? You have time to choose.” The second appears in the prefatory remarks that Manning wrote after he had finished the novel and should be inscribed on every war memorial everywhere. “War is waged by men; not by beasts or by gods. To call it a crime against mankind is to miss half its significance; it is also the punishment of a crime.” 

Perhaps the biggest revelation of Her Privates We, though, is the dialogue. Soldiers in 1914 sound just like men in 2014. They make liberal use of the F-word, the C-word and slang that is still alive. There is a school of literature that says an author should never attempt accented vernacular, but Manning has done it in a way that, if not exactly accurate, pinpoints his characters by class, region and temperament. 

Frederic Manning’s lone novel received an initial printing of 500 copies and was credited to “Private 19022.” Manning was not identified as the author until a second printing in 1943, eight years after his death from a respiratory ailment when he was just 52. The novel garnered high praise from Ezra Pound, T.E. Lawrence and Ernest Hemingway, all of whom, it is presumed, read the first printing. Hemingway called it 'The finest and noblest book of men in war.' Make that finest, noblest and truest. 

Five stars

REVIEW: ORYX AND CRAKE

ERIC'S REVIEW

What the hell is Margaret thinking? We have been Atwooded. On her book tour to promote Oryx and Crake a few years back, she unveiled her Long Pen technology, which allowed remote writing by robots. She is head of a high tech company with the same aim called Syngrafii. She has written a book which will not be published until 2114, and which will require what she calls paleo-anthropologists to translate it. She maintains that she is not a science fiction writer, but a writer of  speculative fiction. Science fiction has monsters and spaceships; speculative fiction could really happen, she has said. Nonetheless the book O&C has monsters. Real monsters. We call them humans.

So what is Oryx and Crake, exactly? It is not a love story. None of the characters really provoke a reaction. It is not a story about life and death. It is a story of life and death. It asks the question: what is life?, and tells of the death of society, or man as a species.

And why? The usual suspects. Sex. Greed. Selfishness. Vanity. Hubris. There is love, of a fashion, but no passion. 

The story is about the dystopia the Earth has become because of the monkeying around with nature that man has been doing. Planet of the Apes-esque. The main character is Snowman, aka Jimmy, the lone (or is he?) human survivor of science gone mad. Crake is the evil genius behind the whole mess, but he is just an amped-up version of the way modern man is heading. GM foods. DNA engineering. Internet porn. Mind control. You know, just a typical day on the planet. Mixing animals has gone awry. Pigoons. Wolvogs. Snats. All very nasty. The best of the worst. Or is it the best of the wurst. Jimmy is reduced to living in the trees and surviving off of tins of Vienna sausages and the like. The earth is shite, and global warming has conspired with pandemics to make it pretty much uninhabitable. Picketty-style inequality had taken over completely anyway before the apocolypse, with bubbleland gated villages for the elite surrounded by pleeblands. In the end it is only the mutant Crakers who remain. And Jimmy. His love or should I say the object of his love, Oryx, is a vision, not a person. And when she cops it. Oh well, who cares?

All it takes, says Crake, is the elimination of one generation....Break the link in time between one generation and the next, and it is game over. Forever. 

Game over. The earth is a mephitic mess (look it up! When man as a species dies, it is only words and art which remain).

The doctrine of unintended consequences is in full spate, as Jimmy observes. Atwood is not a cheer leader for humanity. More like a Cassandra. Pay attention, she is saying. This could (will) happen to you. 

All too topical and depressing, really. But plausible. At the end, I was reminded of the lyrics to a country music song. I don't know whether to kill myself or go bowling. 

So I went bowling. Figuratively, that is. 

3.5 stars

JFDI BOOK 14 & 15: A TWOFER: EUROPE IN THE LOOKING GLASS/HER PRIVATES WE

Chosen by Alistair.

 

Two travel books. Very different journeys.

 

6 November 6:30PM at the F&A

 

 

EUROPE IN THE LOOKING GLASS

Robert Byron

 

Buy at Amazon

 

 

and/ or

 

 

HER PRIVATES WE

Frederic Manning

 

Buy at Amazon