Bill Peschel http://www.planetpeschel.com/index en bpeschel@gmail.com Copyright 2010 2010-08-20T15:36:00-05:00 Man Falls Twice: Milton and Darwin (1667, 1858) http://www.planetpeschel.com/index/site/comments/man_falls_twice_milton_and_darwin_1667_1858/ Writers Gone Wild, 17th Century and Before I'll be dropping in later, but in the meantime, here's a reprint of what happened today in literary history.

On this day were two events dealing with the fall of man: one poetical, the other scientific:

John Milton* The Stationers' Register records on this day in 1667 an entry for "Paradise Lost," a poem in blank verse by John Milton, who was in a sad state at this time of life. He was 59 and had been blind for 15 years. He had buried his first wife 15 years ago and his second six years after that. His support for Oliver Cromwell and the Commonwealth nearly cost him his head. Instead, it cost him his published works, some of which were burned in his stead.

But there were bright spots. He had married the 24-year-old Betty Munshull, and with the help of her and paid assistants, had spent six years on "Paradise Lost," an epic poem of the Fall of Man into which he poured his religious and political beliefs, as well as encoded references to the principles of the Commonwealth.

Charles Darwin* On this day in 1858, the Linnean Society of London published two papers in its magazine that had been presented at a meeting six weeks before. By most accounts, it had been a dull gathering on July 1. The members seemed more interested in honoring the death of the society's former president than to engage in scientific inquiry. Eight scientific papers were read from the podium, and during the socializing afterwards, one visitor noted that there was "no semblance of a discussion." In fact, the president of the society observed that the year observed that 1858 had not "been marked by any of those striking discoveries which at once revolutionize, so to speak, the department of science on which they bear."

It's understandable why the papers didn't make a splash. The titles were long: "Extract from an unpublished Work on Species, consisting of a portion of a Chapter entitled, ‘On the Variation of Organic Beings in a state of Nature; on the Natural Means of Selection; on the Comparison of Domestic Races and true Species' and "On the Tendency of Varieties to depart indefinitely from the Original Type." They took up five pages in the magazine, and were accompanied by a letter written in the long-winded style of letter writers with plenty of time on their hands. Sitting in the audience in an overstuffed hall listening to the drone of the speaker, one can understand why most of the people were not paying much attention. But they would, later.

Of course, the theory the two scientists — you probably recognize by now I'm talking about Charles Darwin and Alfred Russel Wallace — were proclaiming was evolution, and the idea that natural selection and not the hand of God determined what traits were passed from generation to generation, became the biggest bombshell that exploded in western civilization since Galileo and Copernicus rearranged the planets in their orbits.

Also from the Reader's Almanac:
Born: Edgar Guest, poet, humorist, Birmingham, Warwickshire, 1881; Paul Tillich, theologian, philosopher, Starzeddel, Germany, 1886; H.P. Lovecraft, horror author, Providence, R.I., 1890; William Gresham, noir novelist, Baltimore, Md., 1909; Jacqueline Susann, novelist, Philadelphia, 1921.
Died: Martin Opitz, poet, literary theorist, Bunzlau, Silesia, 1639; Charles Sedley, poet, playwright, wit, London, 1701; Friedrich von Schelling, philosopher, essayist, Bad Ragaz, Switzerland, 1854; Dan Andersson, poet, Stockholm, Sweden, 1920; Leon Trotsky, revolutionary, Coyoacán, Mexico, 1940; A(braham) Moses Klein, poet, Montreal, Quebec, Canada, 1972.]]> 2010-08-20T15:36:00-05:00 Clippings, Aug. 12, 2010 http://www.planetpeschel.com/index/site/comments/clippings_aug_12_2010/
* Edward Champions delivers one of his trademark long-form reviews, this time of “The Expendables,” the Sylvester Stallone slugfest that’s true to its name. I had forgotten to mention that his interview with Jennifer Weiner on “The Bat Segundo Show” is well worth listening, even if you’re not interested in her books. They share a great rapport, Jonathan Franzen gets slammed (and Richard Ford praised) and Weiner has a great observation about music mash-ups that made me reconsider some of my opinions about the form, and she has a truly dark idea for a novel that, with the growth of self-publishing, might actually come about.

Not nearly as interesting to me was his interview with Ken Russell. Despite considerable prodding from Ed and Ken’s assistant (who at times answered questions on his behalf), there didn’t seem to be anything of interest to anyone who has more than a vague idea of who he is. You’re better off rescreening “Lisztomania” or (my favorite) “Crimes of Passion” (1984) with Kathleen Turner and Anthony Perkins.

Playboy's The Girls Next Door reality show* No thanks, Ken Levine. There’s nothing so dull going on in my life that would make watching “The Girls Next Door: Bunny House” worth my time. I have a Ken Russell interview that I need to listen to again.

Don’t be too hard on me. At work, I caught a glimpse of the latest “Batchelor/Batchelorette” reality show and I’m having trouble sleeping from the flashbacks.

* Bookslut links to a review of “The Slap” by Christos Tsiolkas at the London Review of Books. The publisher compares this Aussie novel to Jonathan Franzen and Don DeLillo. The reviewer prefers to compare it to porn loops. She also finds Time Magazines “Top 10 Failed Celebrity Political Campaigns”, including, of course, Norman Mailer’s run for mayor.

* Did you know using The Club to protect your car actually increases the chance it would be stolen? So says Freakonomics.
]]> 2010-08-12T16:32:00-05:00 Jonathan Safran Foer’s Big Explosion (1985) http://www.planetpeschel.com/index/site/comments/jonathan_safran_foers_big_explosion_1985/ Writers Gone Wild To novelist Jonathan Safran Foer, it was the Explosion. The knife-edge moment that divided his life.

He was eight, the middle of three boys, growing up in a Jewish household in Washington, D.C. He was not your usual boy. He was flamboyant and sensitive. At 3, he asked his mother for a vest that sparkled; her sister-in-law made one for him.

On this day, his mother drove him to Murch Elementary school, the site of a summer school program. The class was going to learn how to make sparklers. The class was divided into groups of four, and the graduate student who acted as teacher set out the bowls of chemicals to be mixed. On the chalkboard was the recipe, “basically, a recipe for gunpowder, with a little extra,” the kids were told.

One wonders what the guy was thinking, having children mix gunpowder.

The prospect of making things go boom (or sizzle or sparkle) bored Jonathan. He remembered leaving the classroom, dawdling in the bathroom, sipping water from the fountain.

Imagine the scene: the three other kids around Jonathan’s table, chattering and passing around the bowl, taking turns mixing the formula, the empty child-sized chair, the boy who had just finished second grade the month before, back in the classroom, dawdling at the chalkboard, reading the list of chemicals.

There was a blast. Acrid smoke bloomed, filling the room. Jonathan’s world shrank to the rings of the fire alarm, screams and shrieks, the hollow scrape of pushed desks and chairs clapping on the floor. Jonathan reached the hallway, where he
saw his best friend, leaning against the wall, his glasses coated with debris, his skin burned.

Four children were injured, two of them critically. Jonathan had second-degree burns on his hands and face, and for weeks his hands were bandaged. He was also traumatized. For three years, he didn’t want to leave his house; didn’t want to play; didn’t want to go to school. He would wet his pants. Being out in the sun for too long could make his skin feel like it was burning.

He recovered, and his mother could see again the promising, bright child. When he was cast as a hunter in a school play, his mother recalled, “I can still see him taking giant Elmer Fudd steps across a stage. In fifth grade, he was incredibly popular, and he had the makings of being a big-time ladies’ man.”

But something happened inside. In an account he wrote for the Washington Post, Foer writes:

“One of my responses to the explosion was to lose the ability to express, and perhaps even to feel, anger. I never fought with my parents or siblings, and still don't, and don't fight with strangers, friends or my wife. Since I was 9 years old, I have not raised my voice to anyone. But thinking about the instructor, now, brings something ugly to my skin.”

Foer would use these experiences in his second novel, “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close,” in which 9-year-old Oskar Schell, his father dead in the attack on the World Trade Center, wanders New York City, trying to reassembled his life blown apart in light and thunder.

B orn: Robert Southey, poet, Bristol, Gloucestershire, 1813; Helena Blavatsky, theosophist, spiritualist, Yekaterinoslav, Ukraine, Russian Empire, 1831; Edith Hamilton, author, Dresden, Germany, 1867; Zerna Sharp, educator, author, Hillisburg, Ind., 1889; Robert Francis, poet, Upland, Penn., 1901; Wallace Markfield, novelist, Brooklyn, N.Y., 1926; William Goldman, screenwriter, author, Chicago, 1931; Gail Parent, novelist, New York City, 1940; J.D. McClatchy, poet, Bryn Mawr, Pa., 1945; IBM personal computer, 1981.

Died: William Blake, poet, engraver, mystic London, 1827; Helen Hunt Jackson, novelist, San Francisco, 1885; James Russell Lowell, poet, critic, essayist, Cambridge, Mass., 1891; Thomas Mann, novelist, essayist, Zürich, Switzerland, 1955; Ian Fleming, spy author, Canterbury, Kent, 1964; Esther Forbes, novelist, children's author, Worcester, Mass. 1967; B(ernard) Kliban, cartoonist, San Francisco, 1990.

Quote for the Day: "You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness.” — Jonathan Safran Foer

]]> 2010-08-12T16:02:00-05:00 And now, one last poem from my refrigerator http://www.planetpeschel.com/index/site/comments/and_now_one_last_poem_from_my_refrigerator/ Rough Draft The animating spirit that moved my fridge to spout poetry seems to have moved on, but not before leaving one last message, this time with a haiku about Natasha, and her ability to sense the presence of strangers outside our front door.

Refrigerator poetry about cats

A medical update about our kitty. As you know, we took Natasha to the vet, alarmed about her sudden weight loss, and learned that she could have a) a thyroid problem, with is treatable, or b) cancer, which is not.

While all the tests aren’t back in, it is definite that her thyroid is on the fritz. This doesn’t allow her body to process food normally, hence the weight-loss. For the rest of her life, she’ll need two pills a day. This is an interesting, finger-threatening operation, as anyone who has ever tried to jam a pill down a cat’s throat will tell you.

Fortunately, she seems willing to let you do it, once. After that, all bets are off. A few days on the medication, and she seems to be feeling better, no longer breathing heavily and back to demanding attention.

I don’t know whether or not animals have souls ─ the jury’s still out about humans as far as I’m concerned ─ but they do have the ability to inspire feelings in us that don’t show up often, so I’m grateful for that.

And now, back to your regular programming.]]> 2010-08-02T13:14:00-05:00 Let’s send good thoughts http://www.planetpeschel.com/index/site/comments/lets_send_good_thoughts/ Books, Publishing and Writers Judith Fitzgerald took a tumble down some stairs, but she's still healthy enough to write an essay about it.It's got some good information about what writers (and other sedentary folks, who make up most of the population now) can do to keep from ending up like her. (Tip: Books, Inq.)

Clippings



The talented Graham Greene had some siblings who were equally as accomplished. Well, most of them anyway. (Tip: Jessa Crispin)

Janet Evanovich find a new home at Random House. Not surprisingly, Sarah Weinman is there to explain what it's all about, who wins and who could lose.

While Evanovich vs St. Martin's fades, the Random House vs. Andrew Wylie battle heats up over on Twitter.



]]> 2010-07-28T19:47:00-05:00 Cornered by the circle of life http://www.planetpeschel.com/index/site/comments/cornered_by_the_circle_of_life/ Rough Draft Today's episode of Refrigerator Poetry will have to be a bit grimmer than usual, I'm afraid:

refrigerator poetry

The cat was the cause of the doggeral. That's Natasha. She's about 16, and she came back from the vet today. We had noticed she had been losing weight, so she was brought in today. We're still awaiting test results, but at best it's a thyroid problem (a lifetime of pills, twice a day).

At its worse: cancer.

We had to break the news to the kids, of course, and while one pivoted from one possible future to another -- "Aw, we'll be down to two kitties. Can we get a kitten?" -- the other one later crouched in front of the fridge and came up with this.

But as you can see, Natasha is still with us. She lays down a lot, and she's been breathing heavily. Her heart's beating rapidly, and her kidneys don't look too good. When we told the vet that her brother died from kidney problems years before, his prognosis turned much grimmer.

But we're hoping for the best. Vanessa the Mighty Huntress had shown similar symptoms that was successfully treated with thyroid pills, while Natasha's brother, Boris, (yes, named for the Rocky and Bullwinkle characters), when he had the kidney problems, he ballooned from retaining so much fluid.

We'll find out tomorrow.

In the meantime, here's another, earlier, work in the realm of cat poetry:



That verse was inspired by the behavior of one Ivan, aka "the Terrible," who willingly lays on his back in your arms until he's done, and then all the pointy bits come out.

Ivan the terrible]]> 2010-07-28T19:32:00-05:00 Refridgerator poetry http://www.planetpeschel.com/index/site/comments/refridgerator_poetry/ Rough Draft, Writers Worth Reading Every once in awhile, my children surprise me.

On the fridge in the kitchen are a bunch of magnetic letters, the kind toddlers get. We've had them for a donkey's years and they're still there because no one's been bothered to take them down and put them away. Much like the collection of magnetic business cards for the Realtor who helped us buy our house (although we haven't seen her for a decade), and from businesses that we have no intention of using.

One day last week, I'd come into the kitchen in the late morning and found these, a reference to our cats: Ivan the Terrible, Olga and Natasha (who, by the way, are no longer kittens):

Refrigerator poetry

More to come.

Literary birthdays



It should be noted that today (July 27) is the birthday of these celebrated writers: Alexandre Dumas (fils), novelist, playwright, Paris, 1824; Hilaire Belloc, poet, historian, essayist, La Celle-Saint-Cloud, France, 1870; Joseph Mitchell, essayist, Iona, N.C., 1908; and Hubert Selby Jr., novelist, screenwriter, Brooklyn, N.Y., 1928.

Tomorrow, we'll get to celebrate the birthday of William T. Vollmann, who was born in Santa Monica, Calif., in 1959, which makes him 51. In honor of his prolific career, he should be feted with 51 birthday cakes.

Journalism Highs and Lows



There's nothing to a copy editor like the supreme pleasure of knocking a headline out of the park, and Charles Apple found this one from the Beaver County Times regarding BP's CEO finding himself shoved out the door on a greased skid.

Unfortunately, the spoil-sport commenters pointed out that the Times also made two major misspellings in the others headlines, which must diminish the pleasure.]]> 2010-07-27T17:30:00-05:00 CSI condensed http://www.planetpeschel.com/index/site/comments/csi_condensed/ Just dropping in at the moment since I received an interesting e-mail from Pierce Martin of the SR Education Group, linking to a neat infographic on the CSI Effect. If you're interested in criminology and television, this is a pretty good example of the distortion TV shows such as CSI can introduce.

Here's a sample of the graphic. Clink on it to see the original.

The CSI Effect link

In the meantime, I've been working on another project, and working on the marketing of "Writers Gone Wild." In the coming months, there will be some serious changes going on here, so I hope y'all will stay tuned. I'll be back.]]> 2010-07-26T18:38:00-05:00 On the importance of the properly placed comma, or not http://www.planetpeschel.com/index/site/comments/on_the_importance_of_the_properly_placed_comma_or_not/ Writing Advice John McIntyre, the fired-copy-desk-chief-since-rehired at the Baltimore Sun, rages over a reporter's misuse of the common comma in the phrase: his wife Gertrude:

If Gertrude were a daughter and the construction were his daughter Gertrude, we could infer that the man has more than one daughter and we are singling out the one named Gertrude. If the construction were his daughter, Gertrude, we could infer that the man has one daughter, whose name we are supplying parenthetically.

Now, what can we infer from his wife Gertrude? (1) He has more than one wife, and we are focusing on the one named Gertrude, or (2) Our writer has a cloudy understanding of what commas are for.


I tried leaving a comment, but The Baltimore Sun site didn't seem to want it. Clicking "Post" took me to a review screen. When I tried to post, I missed the CAPTCHA box. It warned me that I had to prove my human bona fides, and blocked further attempts to post, despite my following the instructions to the letter.

So here is my response:

"Or, (3), the writer is confident in the reader's cultural understanding that there's only one wife, and will only be one wife unless the subject of the article is a fundamentalist Mormon or a character on "Big Love," or that the reader will never recognize what the comma signals in this construction.

"Note: Much as I'm on your side in this issue -- or at least the side of logic and conformity to grammar rules -- there is a rebellious part of me that wonders how much this really matters."]]> 2010-07-13T16:31:00-05:00 The Unscratchables: Shaggy-Dog Noir http://www.planetpeschel.com/index/site/comments/the_unscratchables_shaggy_dog_noir/ Book Reviews, Humor, Mysteries & Thrillers Cats and dogs don’t live together in “The Unscratchables,” a parody police procedural that deftly and punnily mixes the tropes of the genre with a world in which dogs are downtrodden curs segregated from the cream of cat society, but they do rub along in a way that’ll raise the hairs on the back on anyone’s neck.

The story is told through the color-blind eyes of Crusher McNash, a bull terrier detective for the San Bernardo Slaughter Unit. The short-tempered mutt who bears a temperamental resemblance to Mickey Spillaine’s Mike Hammer goes ballistic when the possible involvement of a cat in a series of dismemberment murders he’s working on gets him assigned a partner: Cassius Lap from the Feline Bureau of Investigation.

There’s a lot of reasons for McNash to hate Lap. The well-bred kitty from Kathattan is intelligent, well-dressed and imperturbable. He is also Siamese, and McNash remembers how he was captured and tortured during the recent war with Siam (yeah, Kane is referencing Vietnam). And Lap, who studied dog psychology in college, knows all the right words to make McNash obey his orders.

Fans of Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child’s books will also see a certain resemblance between Lap and their Southern-fried detective hero, FBI Special Agent Aloysius X. L. Pendegrast (in fact, it seemed like I could read his dialogue in the same cadences Scott Brick uses in his audio versions of the series).

The rest of the book follows McNash and Lap through the underbelly and behind the ears of society as they investigate the killings. They encounter the media magnate Phineas Reynard, and McNash falls hard for the fox’s glamour wife that leads to an assignation in a hotel room. There’s political pressure from above to drop the case as the duo works with Lap’s former partner, the serial killer Quentin Riossiti (think Hannibal Lecter), as they realize that they’re uncovering a conspiracy that reaches those who pull the leash.

As you can see, it’s easy to get into the spirit of the book. Kane ─ actually Australian literary thriller writer Anthony O’Neill ─ peppers puns and animal-associated words in every page, and his freshness and inventiveness is on a part with Jasper Fforde.

I don’t know if McNash and Lap will return, and while the reader in me hopes so, the writer in me hopes not. Kane has created a perfect mix of noir and parody, that it would be a shame to dilute it with sequels. “The Unscratchables” is a shaggy-dog story with not a flea on its glossy coat.
]]> 2010-06-25T16:07:00-05:00