Paste by Henry James

“She had laid the pearls on his table, where, without his having at first put so much as a finger to them, they met his hard, cold stare.”

There is something about the writing style of Henry James that can leave one with the impression that his work exists in the service of the hoi polloi; that his work is snobbish and unrelatable. Respected biographer Carl Van Doren once referred to him as the “laureate of leisure,” and there is surely something rather gilded about many of the narrative backdrops he creates.

Alas, if such a notion has prevented you from delving into James’ work, allow me to open the door to a different view with a reading of “Paste,” a short story published in 1899. Modeled after Guy de Maupassant’s story “The Necklace,” James complimented the younger author by adopting a similar theme, albeit turned upside down. In “Paste,” a woman of modest means is gifted a necklace from the estate of her recently deceased aunt. The aunt was the wife of a pastor, living a rather humble life, and the stepson who gives the necklace expresses his belief that it is “worthless paste” but that some sentimental value may be appreciated from its possession.

As the story unfolds, the origin and value of the necklace are called into question, and the stakes rise. With “Paste,” James creates a tension directly from the characters’ lack of leisure—there is no one in the story for whom resolution is immaterial. In an incredible efficiency of plot development, he puts the psychology of the situation front and center.

I’ll be publishing a reading of de Maupassant’s “The Necklace” next week, so stay tuned for that release and decide for yourself if James’ reinterpretation is an improvement on the original.

Please enjoy…

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The Hounds of Fate by Saki (H. H. Munro)

“Three pounds goes but a little way in the world when there is nothing behind it, but to a man who has counted his exchequer in pennies it seems a good starting-point.”

Hector Hugh Munro had an eye for irony and the humbling tricks that the universe is inclined to play upon its fallible occupants. One gets the sense in reading “The Hounds of Fate” that the story is less about the circumstances that befall this particular man, but rather that there are a million inevitabilities unfolding at any given time, and we’ve simply been handed a microscope to observe this one.

Born in British-ruled Burma (now Myanmar) in 1870 and left motherless at the age of two, Munro was sent back to England to be raised by two “strict and puritanical aunts.” This twist of fate is one he never fully recovered from and continued to include snarled, grim, loveless aunts as characters in many of his stories.

Writing short stories that hone in on life’s absurdities and cruelties, Munro adopted the pen name Saki, allegedly borrowed from a 12th-century Persian poem, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. In it, “The Eternal Saki” is the cup-bearer or Minister of Wine that fills the cups of existence, comparing all of humanity to the “millions of bubbles” unceasingly poured:

‘Tis but a Tent where takes his one day’s rest

A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;

The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash

Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.

And fear not lest Existence closing your

Account, and mine, should know the like no more;

The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour’d

Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.

Was this a signal from Munro that the reader should not take his stories too tragically—that the universe is infinite in its creation and destruction? Is he aligning with the poem’s thrust that life is precious, but none particularly so? Is his stance one of acceptance or rejection? Or, is here merely entertaining, himself as much as us?

These are fascinating questions to consider as you listen to this poignant story unfold.

Please enjoy…

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Peter Pan, An Excerpt, by J. M. Barrie

I was inspired to pick up Peter Pan after reading “What I Learned from Reading Peter Pan to my Children” last year, a most excellent essay from Henry Oliver at The Common Reader. Oliver does a brilliant job reminding us that, beyond the familiar nostalgia associated with the story of “the boy that never grows up,” Peter Pan is a tale that cherishes the intricate temporality of childhood and the nourishing inevitability of motherhood: “What wins out in this story is not the pleasure of Neverland, but the certainty of a mother’s love. The true, original title is Peter and Wendy, and she is our real hero.”

What mother wouldn’t be called to reread such a tribute?

Truth be told, I’m not sure that this wasn’t my first reading of J. M. Barrie’s masterful tale. It is quite possible that I only saw plays and, of course, the Disney animated version, in my youth. Even more unfortunate, I never read it to my own children…ah, to go back in time!

As with my rereading last year of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, I enjoyed this dive back into “children’s” literature immensely. There is such a dearth of wholesome imagination in contemporary children’s entertainment that it is a great pleasure to examine some of the weightier topics (existence, duty, and our place in the world) with writers like Barrie and Carroll, who respectfully traverse that blurry space between the real and the imaginary.

I have plucked an excerpt from early in the book—Chapter 4, The Flight—which picks up just as the Darling children have launched into the night air, destined for the beckoning Neverland (“…the island was looking for them. It is only thus that any one may sight those magic shores”). It is in this chapter that Wendy digests the limitations of Peter’s character and the risks it presents to her brood, initiating a motherly care, both charming in its naiveté and earnest in its delivery, that develops throughout the rest of the book.

I hope this chapter inspires you to revisit the original, cover to cover.

Please enjoy…

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"Leave It to Jeeves" by P. G. Wodehouse

“’Sir?’ said Jeeves, kind of manifesting himself. One of the rummy things about Jeeves is that, unless you watch like a hawk, you very seldom see him come into a room. He’s like one of those weird chappies in India who dissolve themselves into thin air and nip through space in a sort of disembodied way and assemble the parts again just where they want them.”

If you have never experienced a Bertie & Jeeves story firsthand, you are in for a treat. This is comedy, pure and simple. Pelham Grenville (P. G.) Wodehouse did not set out to make satire or social commentary, nor was he concerned with wisdom or subversion. Wodehouse was an entertainer, and he conducted himself in the elevation of this artform with such finesse that we can hardly appreciate the difficulty as we consume it. As he humbly confessed in a 1961 interview, “I haven’t got any violent feelings about anything, I just love writing.”

And, oh, to be loved by Wodehouse, what decadence is bestowed. The author churned out stories of this yin-and-yang pair over nearly 60 years, bringing together the sensibilities of both his inherited English culture and his adopted American one. Bertie, the English gentleman through whose eyes we see the world, is a sort of vapid, bumbling man-about-town. His style of speech is “a blend of [English] clichés, public schoolboys’ tags, and upper-class slang, curiously enriched by a good deal of postwar American slang.” A swell chappie with a social life that is positively brimming and a Rolodex of calls that are always answered.

Meanwhile, Jeeves, Bertie’s butler, is the very picture of refined deportment; judicious in taste, behavior, and intellect. He is a reliable foil to poor Bertie, and the pair are simply topping. While Bertie’s idiocy gives necessary credence to the ridiculous situations introduced by the cast of characters parading in and out of each episode, it is Jeeves that eventually stole the show—Wodehouse called upon him for more and more stage time as the years progressed.

Today’s reading is of “Leave It to Jeeves,” the very first fully developed Bertie & Jeeves story published. Wodehouse hits right off the bat with Jeeves advising Bertie, in his own insistent way, against the error of donning a checkered suit in the modern style (“Injudicious, sir.”). With wardrobe decided, Bertie and Jeeves are thrown into helping Bertie’s pal Corky, a destitute would-be portrait painter, convince Corky’s uncle (and importantly, his only source of income) to accept his marriage to a chorus girl, the aptly named Miss Singer. (“Muriel Singer was one of those very quiet, appealing girls who have a way of looking at you with their big eyes as if they thought you were the greatest thing on earth and wondered that you hadn’t got on to it yet yourself…. What I mean is, she made me feel alert and dashing, like a jolly old knight-errant or something of that kind. I felt that I was with her in this thing to the limit.”)

It’s jolly good fun.

Whether you’re having a bad day, are stuck in bed with the flu, or are in a literary rut, some time in Wodehouse’s world may be just the ticket. His characters are winningly simple, the stereotypes hysterically on-point, and the plotlines unapologetically frothy. It takes great talent to have created such an effect and maintained it over so many years; the result of true love, clearly.

Please enjoy…

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To Build a Fire by Jack London

“At the man’s heels trotted a dog...The animal was depressed by the tremendous cold. It knew that it was no time for travelling. Its instinct told it a truer tale than was told to the man by the man’s judgment.”

Over at Doomberg, where we write about energy as the lynchpin to humanity’s ability to not only survive but thrive (“Energy is Life”), we have often highlighted the concept of “thermal comfort”—the narrow band of temperature conditions in which human life can sustain. It is easy to take such a concept for granted in a world where even the most basic of new cars includes a heated steering wheel and a pair of heated seats. Nonetheless, while human beings are quite hearty in many respects, temperature matters, and exposure to extreme cold has been the death knell to many fingers, toes, and lives.

Enter Jack London. London is famous for his narrative work exploring the great north and was an experienced outdoorsman himself, having joined the 100,000 prospectors heading into the frigid wilderness during the Gold Rush of the late 1800s. It was here that he battled the most extreme elements that Mother Nature had to offer, hauling a year’s worth of food and equipment up the viciously steep Chilkoot Pass, into the Yukon, on his way to Dawson City. Temperatures in the region could reach as low as 70 degrees below zero Fahrenheit, and a man’s spittle would freeze midair. Only a fraction of those attempting the journey, all desperate to mine their way to fortune, survived. London’s stories strike so powerfully because he lived them.

“To Build a Fire” follows an unnamed prospector making his way on a similar path. He has separated from the rest of his group, taking a circuitous route to scope out some logging potential for the coming spring. On this simple, quick trip—“he would certainly be with the boys by six”—he is accompanied by his dog, a beast driven by the strong signals flaring in its instinctual core, unclouded by mankind’s hubris.

This is a visceral anthem to the supremacy of Mother Nature that you won’t soon forget.

Please enjoy…

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The Snow Queen by Hans Christian Andersen

With today’s reading, I’d like to focus your attention on Andersen’s dazzling imagery. This adventurous tale is a treat for our senses and creative instincts.

Andersen, naturally, opens by setting the stage with an enchanted challenge that must be overcome. One day, devilish sprites create a mirror whose every reflection is a twisted and frightful distortion. They revel in their mischievous creation, flying up into the air with delight. “The higher they flew with the mirror, the more terribly it grinned.”

The sprite’s antics end with a crash as the mirror slips from their control and is dashed into “a hundred million and more pieces” that wreak havoc far and wide.

Two splinters of mirror find their way into the heart and eye of a little boy named Kay. He and his dear friend, Gerda, live beside each other—“They were not brother and sister; but they cared for each other as if they were”—and meet often on the roof between the two garrets where “the tendrils of the peas hung down over the boxes; and the rose-trees shot up long branches, twined round the windows, and then bent toward each other; it was almost like a triumphant arch of foliage and flowers.”

With two sharp pains, the lodged shards afflict Kay. He rejects all that is good and pure, including Gerda, and is soon taken captive by the powerful Snow Queen, whose kiss “was colder than ice; it penetrated to his very heart.” In his mirror-twisted vision, it is she who becomes beautiful and clever to him.

“On they flew over woods and lakes, over seas, and many lands; and beneath them the chilling storm rushed fast, the wolves howled, the snow crackled; above them flew large screaming crows, but higher up appeared the moon, quite large and bright; and it was on it that Kay gazed during the long long winter’s night; while by day he slept at the feet of the Snow Queen.”

Little Gerda, full of innocence and determined dedication to her friend, strikes out to find him amidst the vast unknown, leaving behind everything she knows. All manner of fauna and flora awakens to her goodness—“…when her warm tears watered the ground, the tree shot up suddenly as fresh and blooming as when it had been swallowed up”—and royal chambers open to her solicitation—“The ceiling of the room resembled a large palm-tree with leaves of glass, of costly glass; and in the middle, from a thick golden stem, hung two beds, each of which resembled a lily. One was white, and in this lay the Princess; the other was red, and it was here that Gerda was to look for little Kay.”

The fearless Gerda makes her way, mile by mile, from the cherished gardens of her hometown through the frozen great North to rescue Kay, buoyed always by her earnestness and purpose—“’I can give her no more power than what she has already. Don’t you see how great it is? Don’t you see how men and animals are forced to serve her; how well she gets through the world barefooted?’”

This is just a small taste of the banquet laid on Andersen’s narrative table. Surely, Andersen’s story has influenced many a modern cinematic tale, but none capture the glory of that which exists in our mind’s eye, as guided by his words. His expressive scenes breathe life into the many dichotomies suggested in this tale that pits good against evil and logic against faith.

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Christmas on the Roof of the World by Ernest Hemingway

“Chink knocked at the door.

“‘Merry Christmas, mes enfants,’ he grinned. He wore the early morning garb of big, woolly dressing-robe and thick socks that made us all look like some monastic order.”

It is Christmas morning, and, as this reading arrives in your inbox, I will be gathered in the family room with my brood, each in our robes and thick socks, performing the time-honored ritual of gift-giving and hug-receiving. The coffee is brewed, the fireplace is roaring, and the tree is casting an other-worldly glow that will shine forever in our memories.

Should you have 11 minutes for a charming diversion today, perhaps as the egg casserole bakes or while getting spruced up for dinner, I have something well off the beaten path from a familiar name. In “Christmas on the Roof of the World,” Ernest Hemingway shares his diary of a Christmas spent skiing in the Swiss Alps. It beautifully captures the ephemeral freshness—the comfort and joy—of this special day.

Please enjoy…

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A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, 1843

In December of 1843, Charles Dickens gave fresh life and tradition to the celebration of Christmas. The first print of his cherished novel, A Christmas Carol, sold out in a mere five days, and its popularity has continued at a fevered pitch for nearly two centuries.

While there are interpretations and adaptations of his work at every turn, there is no substitute for soaking in the words of the original: the mouthwatering foodstuffs, the magical bells, the mirthful Fezziwigs, the inimitable Scrooge, and the many humble scenes awakening Scrooge’s humanity down to his very marrow.

Of all the entertainments bombarding you this holiday, there isn’t a more worthy one on offer to delight, nourish, and bind your family to the spirit of the season. To borrow a turn of the author’s, if that’s not high praise, tell me higher, and I’ll use it.

I relish in reading this story aloud, just as Dickens himself did, giving hundreds of performances across Britain and America over several decades. The whole endeavor exhausted him, but he took immense pleasure in bringing his characters to life for packed auditoriums, continually revising the text to maximum impact in such settings.

I am grateful to have had two of my loved ones joining me “on stage” to bring this cast of characters to life and can understand what must have drawn Dickens to the art of live readings…suffice it to say we are already excited to sharpen our characters for another go at it next year!

Please enjoy…

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The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry

“And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house...Everywhere they are the wisest. They are the magi.”

Humans are complex beings. We contain multitudes, as Walt Whitman wisely said; some, indeed, more than others.

O. Henry was born William Sydney Porter in September of 1862. His pen name is a familiar one to this day, attributable to his enviable flourish with the pen and imagination. But it is, ironically, because his real name was so well-known that he adopted the pseudonym in the first place.

In 1894, Porter launched The Rolling Stone, a weekly humor publication that gained robust public interest, circulating to nearly 10% of residents in its hometown of Austin, Texas. Publishing turned out to be too tough a business, and The Rolling Stone was shuttered after only a year in print.

Meanwhile, Porter made ends meet by working as a teller at the First National Bank of Austin. Far from developing a hum-drum career there, Porter was arrested in February of 1896 for embezzlement. It is reported that this was perhaps the result of some technical error; however, Porter foolishly fled the state, eventually ending up in Honduras. Compelled to return to the US to support his wife during a terminal illness, he was arrested, convicted, and spent 3 years in an Ohio jail.

Suffice it to say, “imprisoned for fraud” doesn’t serve as a winning backdrop for an author publishing stories as sweetly sentimental as “The Gift of the Magi.” And thus, O. Henry was born (in jail, no less!).

This jail baby made great use of his grey matter, churning out volumes of entertaining short stories. It turns out that Porter possessed one of the most valuable tools for any author: an unending fascination with people. “The Gift of the Magi” was first published in 1905 in The New York Sunday World, and was later included in his 1906 collection Four Million Stories. Why four million? That was the population of New York at the time, where Porter whiled away his days writing and drinking at the long, rosewood bar of Healy’s Café, perched at the corner of East 18th Street and Irving Place. He believed each one of those New Yorkers carried a story worth telling.

Today’s reading, the story of a young married couple struggling to demonstrate their adoration at Christmas despite their meager means, is one such worthy glimpse. It has become one of the most beloved tales of the Christmas season.

Please enjoy…

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"Quality" by John Galsworthy

“Then, placing my foot on a piece of paper, he would two or three times tickle the outer edges with a pencil and pass his nervous fingers over my toes, feeling himself into the heart of my requirements.”

One hesitates to draw too many conclusions about the personality of an author based solely on his or her written work. That said, I was hardly surprised in my research to find John Galsworthy described as a quiet intellectual, somewhat aloof and reserved. It seemed to me only natural that someone inclined to introspection would write a story like “Quality,” which patiently burrows into the modest but artful industriousness of a cobbler’s shop, like a mouse burrowing into the toe of a shoe.

John Galsworthy began writing in the 1890s after meeting Joseph Conrad, with whom he developed a long and mutually supportive friendship. Having been in the midst of a budding legal career, this allowed him to continue working pen-to-paper and simply alter the objective of the output. He nonetheless wrote under a pseudonym initially—John Sinjohn—to avoid disappointing his family with the shift. By 1904, Galsworthy was writing under his own name and in 1906 published The Man of Property, the first book of what became the renowned The Forsyte Saga series, later popularized with a BBC episodic in 1967 (and more recently with the excellent remake starring Damien Lewis in 2002).

Much of Galsworthy’s work circulates around the struggle between the individual and society during a period of rapid industrial upheaval. In “Quality,” originally presented as a play and subsequently published as a short story, we are exposed to the effect of this change on the business of a high-end bootmaker, through the eyes of a lifelong customer. The plight of the hard-working Gessler brothers asks the reader to acknowledge the hypocrisy and trade-offs inherent in “progress.” Galsworthy doesn’t bemoan the progress, per se, simply the associated casualty of quality and the respect its craftspeople once commanded.

Please enjoy…

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