Books to the Ceiling

I always look forward to the new Peter Lovesey because I know I am virtually guaranteed to enjoy an engrossing story, intriguing characters, lots of atmosphere, and exceptionally fine writing. The Headhunters delivers on all those expectations, and then some.

Often in good series fiction, the reader encounters at least one variation on a theme in each series entry. In this novel, we get to know Jo Stevens and her friends Gemma, Rick, and Jake well before the police come into the story. Jo is an earnest, decent young woman who is somewhat confused as to what shape her life is going to assume. One thing she does know: she is attracted to the taciturn, somewhat mysterious Jake Kernow. Jake works in a nature preserve located near the Selsey beach. Not long after their first meeting, Jo takes a walk on the beach hoping to run into him, but instead, she makes a terrible discovery: a woman’s body floating in the shadow of a breakwater.

This gruesome find precipitates Jo’s first encounter with the Chichester police. It’s an offputting experience; Jo finds herself on the defensive, although she has done nothing except act the part of a public-spirited citizen. She is then asked to come to the station in order to observe a group of men in an identification parade (Britspeak for line-up). She agrees, with great reluctance, to this request. Sure enough, her part in this proceeding upsets her even more - and with good reason.

What’s interesting here is that my sympathies were enlisted so strongly on Jo’s behalf that I found myself sharing her fear and resentment of the police, with their aggressive interrogations and frightening insinuations. To me, they didn’t seem like the heroes of the story - at least, not at first.

But eventually, as they showed themselves capable of both subtlety and compassion, Henrietta “Hen” Mallin and her team grew on me. Mallin first appeared in The House Sitter, where she supported an investigation headed up by Lovesey’s series protagonist Peter Diamond. Then, in The Circle, their roles were reversed. Peter Diamond does not appear at all in The Headhunters.

In yet another change, the series venue has moved from Bath to Chichester, a cathedral city located in West Sussex, in the South of England. This is an area rich in both history and legend. Early in their acquaintance, as they walk along the beach, Jake tells Jo something about those legends:

“He stretched out his arm and made a sweeping movement in the direction of the sea. ‘Somewhere out there is a deer park’

She laughed. ‘Oh, yes?’

But he was serious. ‘In the time of Henry VIII, it was hunting country. Fisherman still call that stretch of sea “‘the park.’”

‘Hard to imagine.’

‘And still further out is a cathedral, they say.’”

Jo is understandably incredulous, especially about this latter tale, but Jake is dead serious. Later he tells her that over the years, people claim to have heard church bells at low tide!

( I’ve expended a good deal of effort trying to obtain further information about the legend of the sunken cathedral off Selsey Bill in West Sussex. Information was elusive; I felt as though I were going around in circles. The Wikipedia entry on Selsey has a short section entitled “Early history, prior to inundation.” Also I kept encountering references to the lost city of Ys, which was supposedly built on the coast of Brittany and then swallowed up by the sea. Here’s how that legend goes.

All the while I was doing this research I kept hearing in my head the haunting strains of “La Cathedrale Engloutie” by one of my favorite composers, Claude Debussy. This work was inspired by the legend of the city of Ys.

Click here for the sound file. )

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I love it when writers of fiction reference the history and lore that’s connected to the setting of their work. In Ian McEwan’s On Chesil Beach, the village of Ewelme in South Oxfordshire appears briefly in the novel’s narrative; the author throws in, almost as a careless aside, that the Church of St. Mary the Virgin in Ewelme is where the poet Geoffrey Chaucer’s granddaughter Alice lies buried. One feels instantly thrown back to a time several centuries distant.

[Church of St. Mary the Virgin in Ewelme]

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As more killings occur, the plot of The Headhunters becomes increasingly convoluted; at the same time, the sense of urgency is greatly heightened. But the murderer’s identity is only part of what makes this novel suspenseful. One of the problems Jo Stevens has with the local police is that they persist in their belief that the culprit is Jake Kernow. Jake is an interesting character, a shy introvert whose passion for the natural world could not be more genuine. Jo’s unshakeable faith in his goodness is the lodestar of this novel. And yet, as I read, I became increasingly anxious: is Jo in fact right about Jake? Is she willing to stake her life on her conviction? This is the point of tension that kept me glued to the pages of this novel right up to its harrowing conclusion.

In which your Faithful Blogger and her spouse wander through the house alternately singing “Ferry Cross the Mersey” ( See the post just prior to this one) and “Amazing Grace:”

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Horse racing is the only sport I care about. This interest is a legacy bequeathed to me by my Dad, who went to the track religiously every Saturday. (This led me as a child to believe that everyone’s father worshipped at the shrine of Belmont, Flamingo Park, Hialeah Raceway, etc. etc.)

So yesterday, we watched the Kentucky Derby and witnessed the triumph of Big Brown and the simultaneous tragedy of Eight Belles. Veterinarian Larry Bramlage called the breakdown of Eight Belles “almost inexplicable,” but according to Sally Jenkins’s angry hit-’em-where-they-live opinion piece in today’s Washington Post, it was anything but.

Big Brown, winning the Kentucky Derby

Eight Belles, as horse lovers will want to remember her

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Since leading a discussion of The Professor’s House, I’ve been needing more Willa Cather in my life. Recently I listened to a wonderful reading by Barbara McCulloh of O Pioneers. Then last night we watched the Hallmark Hall of Fame production made in 1992 and starring Jessica Lange and David Strathairn. It was, quite simply, outstanding.

O Pioneers is the story of Alexandra Bergson and her family, immigrants who came to America in the late 19th century in order to farm the rich, open prairie lands of Nebraska. The Bergsons are Swedish, but they count the French and Bohemians among their friends and neighbors. This is a tale of struggle, conflict, sorrow, and ultimately, endurance. The film brings Cather’s story vividly to life: it is beautifully acted and visually very compelling. The drama is abetted by Bruce Broughton’s surging soundtrack- maybe too surging, in some spots? - but never mind; it was great, too, Mr Broughton seems to have channeled Aaron Copland in this magisterial score, for which, BTW, he won an Emmy.

O Pioneers was shot entirely on location in the Cornhusker State. There’s plenty of “waving wheat” - the place looked gorgeous! If you have a chance to see the film, watch for the scene in which several dozen young men on horseback ride out to meet the bishop. They have come to receive his blessing and escort him safely back to their church, where is to officiate at a funeral. It is a deeply stirring sequence.

There is much great writing in the novel. I was really pleased that the film included this sentence: “The history of every country begins in the heart of a man or a woman.”

And speaking of terrific writing…

I continue to make my way, slowly and carefully, through The Age of American Unreason. Susan Jacoby’s erudite book - is it a treatise? a jeremiad, perhaps? A polemic? - demands close and careful reading, filled as it is with history, philosophy, and portraits of fascinating - and often infuriating - people.

Anyway, in order to describe certain metaphysical theories, such as social Darwinism, that fly in the face of actual facts, she came up with a phrase that I just love: “bloviating arrogance.” From now on, I shall have my antennae attuned to pick up signs of bloviating arrogance in everyday life. Something tells me I won’t have to look far!

Ron and I spent Easter Sunday at home, just the two of us. We made beef bourgignon and listened to music. First, the Mozart symphonies, starting with number twenty. We made our way through to the mid-thirties before switching gears and putting on the ‘Prelude and Good Friday Spell’ from the opera Parsifal by Richard Wagner.

The Mozart symphonies were performed by the Prague Chamber Orchestra conducted by Sir Charles Mackerras. The recordings were made in the early 1990’s. The clarity and exuberance of the playing - perfectly captured by Telarc, that home of sonic wonders! - fills the house.

The delicious aromas of the mingling stew components are equally pervasive. As dinnertime draws near, we put on the Wagner. I like to listen to this at Easter time. The recording we have features the Columbia Symphony Orchestra conducted by the great Bruno Walter. Here is what the liner notes - uncredited, alas - say about this music:

“Like Tannhauser, the last of Wagner’s music dramas, Parsifal is built around a story of the Knights of the Holy Grail, and concerns itself with the conflict of spirituality and earthly passion. It contains some of the greatest music Wagner ever wrote, particularly the spiritual Prelude and one of the most awe-inspiring religious pieces of music ever penned–the ‘Good Friday Spell’ in Act III.”

This recording, released by Columbia Masterworks, was made in 1959. It is the only version of this sublime masterwork that I will ever need to own.

If there is one thing I have learned in my life, it is cherish days like yesterday for their simplicity and for the peace and love with which they are filled.

I’ve already written about “Living with Geese” by Paul Theroux; now, I’d like to recommend several other pieces that are included in this outstanding anthology. (Where possible, I have linked to the stories that are full text online.)

“Murdering the Impossible” by Caroline Alexander (National Geographic) is a riveting profile of mountaineer Reinhold Messner. Messner was born in northern Italy’s South Tirol, a region that identifies almost as strongly with Austria as it does with Italy. Writes Alexander: “To non-climbers it may be difficult to convey the extent and grandeur of Reinhold Messner’s accomplishments.” He is especially famous for climbing Mount Everest without oxygen, a feat he achieved in 1978 with his longtime partner Peter Habeler. Messner’s life story is studded with similar triumphs - and one terrible tragedy.

[On its website, National Geographic has posted an excerpt of "Murdering the Impossible." I found the full text of the article on the proprietary database Academic ASAP, available through many public and academic libraries.]

In “Russell and Mary” (The Georgia Review), Michael Donohue literally stumbles on a box of papers belonging to his newly deceased landlady. The papers pertain to her long dead husband, Russell. From these fragments, Donohue reconstructs an entire life. At first, I wasn’t sure why I should care about Russell - there were aspects of his personality that were repugnant and unsavory. But this essay has a cumulative power, and by the end, I found myself immensely moved by Russell’s sad story.

“Inside Scientology” by Janet Reitman (Rolling Stone). I don’t want to say say much about this piece except that Reitman was granted unprecedented access to the inner sanctum of scientology. Her fair-minded report back to the rest of us is a real eye-opener.

On a lighter note, I thoroughly enjoyed “Rhymes with Rich” (The Atlantic Monthly), in which Sandra Tsing Loh takes cheerful aim at well-to-do wives and mothers who bemoan the logistical challenges of their lives, all the while consoling themselves with high-end brand name purchases and other perquisites of the monied classes.

There were two essays that I found immensely provocative and disturbing: “Our Oceans Are Turning into Plastic…Are We?” by Susan Casey (Best Life) and “Prairie Fire” by Eric Konigsberg (The New Yorker). In the first, Casey describes the discovery, in 1997, by California sailor and sportsman Charles Moore of an enormous accretion of junk in an area of ocean called the North Pacific subtropical gyre:

“It began with a line of plastic bags ghosting the surface, followed by an ugly tangle of junk: nets and ropes and bottles, motor-oil jugs and cracked bath toys, a mangled tarp. Tires. A traffic cone. Moore could not believe his eyes. Out here in this desolate place, the water was a stew of plastic crap. It was as though someone had taken the pristine seascape of his youth and swapped it for a landfill.”

This spot in the Pacific, presently called the “Eastern Garbage Patch,” is now roughly twice the size of Texas.

Casey goes on to describe the deleterious effect that an enormous quantity of non-biodegradable plastic is having on other aspects of the environment - and on us, as it insidiously infiltrates our own bodily systems. Very, very scary.

In “Prairie Fire,” Eric Konigsberg writes about the death of child prodigy Brandenn Bremmer. Brandenn, whose IQ was measured at 178, “…liked the musician Yanni, medieval history, making jewelry, baking cheesecake, lifting weights, playing video games (especially SimCity, SimFarm, and the Command and Conquer series) and Late Night with Conan O’Brien. He was intersted in animals, gross-out humor, and science experiments that he could devise at home.”

But that immense vitality was extinguished by a single violent act. Brandenn was fourteen years old when he died. “If you have tears, prepare to shed them now…”

Brandenn Bremmer (1992-2005)

[As with "Murdering the Impossible," only an abstract of "Praire Fire" is posted on the New Yorker site. It too is available full text on Academic ASAP.]

From the depths of sadness engendered by “Prairie Fire” to the exalted heights of artistic brilliance, from one prodigy to another: in “The Storm of Style” (The New Yorker), Alex Ross shares with readers his wonder at the fireworks display of Mozart’s genius. Along the way, he treats us to some verbal pyrotechnics of his own, and more of the same by other Mozart scholars. To wit:

“The scholar Scott Burnham recently observed that Mozart offers the ’sound of the loss of innocence, the ever renewable loss of innocence.’ There is no more potent subject for an artist, and it explains why Mozart remains so vivid a presence. As ever, the slow movement of the Piano Concerto No. 23 sends us into a wistful trance; the finale of the ‘Jupiter’ Symphony wakes us up into a uniquely Mozartean kind of intelligent happiness; and the apocalyptic climax of Don Giovanni stirs our primal fear of being weighed in the balance and found wanting. The loss of innocence was Mozart’s, too. Like the rest of us, he had to live outside the complex paradise that he created in sound.”

[That finale of the Jupiter Symphony is incredibly sublime. Get the recording made by George Szell and the Cleveland Orchestra in the early sixties. By all means, listen to the entire symphony. Then brace yourself for the incandescent conclusion]

Alex Ross seems to have ready just about every book ever written about Mozart. Even more impressive: he has worked his way through virtually all of Mozart’s oeuvre. In 1991, the Philips label issued the complete edition of the composers works on 180 CDs; we are informed that the set has recently been reissued “in a handsome and surprisingly manageable array of seventeen boxes.” Ross transferred all of it to his iPod and informs that “Mozart requires 9.77 gigabytes.”

Alex Ross is a terrific writer on a subject - music - that is very hard to write about. His book The Rest Is Noise: Listening to the Twentieth Century made several Best of 2007 lists. I very much look forward to reading it; meanwhile, I’ll continue to enjoy his columns in the New Yorker.

I particularly appreciate what Ross has to say about Don Giovanni: “In a jubilee year, when all the old Mozart myths come rising out of the ground where scholars have tried to bury them, the usefulness of Don Giovanni is that it puts a stake through the heart of the chocolate-box Mozart, the car-radio Mozart, the Mozart-makes-you-smarter Mozart.”

This splendid essay concludes thus: “Don Giovanni, which is many people’s choice for the greatest opera ever written, ends with something like a humble gesture: it dissolves its own aura of greatness.Having marched us to the brink of Heaven and Hell, Mozart abruptly pulls us back, implying that, in the manner of Shakespeare’s epilogues, all is show, a pageant melting into air. ‘I’m just the composer, I don’t have any answers,’ he seems to say. ‘Life goes on!’ And he walks away at a rapid pace, his red coat flapping behind him.”

Last night we attended a performance by the U.S. Army Field Band. The Field Band has four separate components; on this occasion, it was the turn of the concert band to strut their stuff. And did they ever!

Imaginative and varied programming was one of the chief pleasures of this concert. First, we all stood and joined the players and their conductor Lieutenant Colonel Beth T.M. Steele in singing the National Anthem. This is not a moment to be lightly glossed over; I surprised myself by tearing up. Lieut. Colonel Steele then welcomed us warmly and introduced the evening’s guest conductor, Dr. Mallory Thompson of Northwestern University.

          [Lieutenant Colonel Beth T.M. Steele, left, and Dr. Mallory Thompson]

The concert got under way with two short pieces by Aaron Copland: An Outdoor Overture and Variations on a Shaker Melody. Of course, it’s hard to go wrong with Copland; even harder to go wrong with that strangely irresistible little Shaker tune. I first heard it on Judy Collins’ Whales & Nightingales . It was the penultimate selection on the album and was followed by a memorable performance of Amazing Grace, in which Judy began by singing a capella and was then joined by a choir. For decades, those two pieces have been inseparable in my musical memory: both immensely moving, in entirely different ways.

The third selection was the Concertino, op.107 by Cecile Chaminade, a piece for flute and orchestra. We were informed that our soloist, Marissa Plank, a junior at Charlottesville High School in Virginia, was the winner of a Young Artist Competition recently held in the mid-Atlantic region. Then on to the stage strides an absolute vision of blonde loveliness in a knockout red dress. “Wow!” I exclaimed involuntarily. “You mean she can play an instrument too?” Can she ever! The Concertino is a showpiece for the flute and a real challenge as well, studded with swooping melodic lines, trills, and numerous other embellishments. It was a delight, and Marissa Plank breezed through as though it were a walk in the park. A bravura performance!

The second half of the program consisted of Bach’s famous Toccata and fugue in D minor, transcribed for wind band by Donald Husberger, and the Symphony in B-flat by Paul Hindemith. If Chaminade’s Concertino was a showcase for the solo flute, the Bach was a showcase for the entire ensemble. The rich sonorities achieved by these wonderful musicians were thrilling! At the conclusion of this splendid performance, Dr. Thompson spoke to us briefly.

“Did you hear the organ?” she asked. “There was no organ! That’s what truly great intonation can achieve.”

My only objection to the Toccata and Fugue is that it ended too soon. I wanted them to play it again!

Instead, they proceeded with the Hindemith Symphony, with which I was unfamiliar. This work offered some great solo opportunities for these outstanding musicians, and I appreciated it from that standpoint. But I didn’t love the piece itself. Part of the problem, at least for me, was that came right after the Bach. Call me old-fashioned: the Bach gave me goosebumps; the Hindemith didn’t. (I very much like another piece by this composer, Metamorphosis on Themes of Carl Maria von Weber. I probably need to listen to the Symphony in B-flat again.; my husband assures me that it is considered a classic work for wind bands.)

The band played “Start and Stripes Forever” as an encore. In the course of this performance, the audience was treated to a really special variation: four band members and Marissa Plank stepped out front and center to play the famous piccolo part in this beloved march tune. Five piccolos for Sousa’s famous March!

Like October’s powerhouse performance of Mendelssohn’s Elijah, this concert was presented at the Rouse Theater, which is about fifteen minutes from our house. This is a small auditorium with marvelous acoustics, a great venue for this kind of music-making.

You can find out more about the U.S. Army Field Band at their site; you can also be apprised of their performance schedule by placing yourself on their e-mail list.

I was working on something else, but..STOP THE PRESSES!! We are listening to Sir Edward Elgar’s Symphony No.1. It is the final movement. We turn up the volume; the house is filled with the mighty sound of the London Philharmonic, led by Sir Georg Solti. The crescendo of brass in the last moments of this work is…well, you have to hear it to believe it.

As soon as I finished Phil Rickman’s latest Merrily Watkins novel - the first I’ve read in this series - I fired off an e-mail to him. This is how I began: ” Every once in a while you come across a book that seems to have been written especially for you. The Remains of an Altar, for me, is just such a book.”

What a rich concoction Rickman serves up here! Earth mysteries, clerical mysteries, the possible presence of the ghost of one of my favorite composers, an intense Anglican priest who lights up when she’s uneasy, which she is often and usually with good reason. This last would be Merrily Watkins, a widow and single mother - and a professional exorcist, of sorts. The term currently in usage is “deliverance minister” (or “deliverance consultant”). Such a person is called in if the presence of ghosts or demons is suspected - or simply if a premises seems to be afflicted with bad karma. (I obtained much useful and interesting background information on Merrily Watkins from Clerical Detectives.)

These books have been recommended to me by several people, but I’ve been leery of them because I normally do not care for the presence of supernatural elements in mystery fiction. But I decided to make an exception for this particular series entry. I was intrigued by what I read in the reviews. Yes, there’s a ghost - or rumors of a ghost, but it’s a quintessentially English ghost: none other then Sir Edward Elgar!

In addition, the action takes place in a storied region, one which my husband and I brushed up last year while we were in the Cotswolds but did not have time to explore: the Malvern Hills.

It seems that several individuals who have had recent mishaps in cars or on bicycles claim to have been thrown off course by the sudden appearance of a late-Victorian gentleman on a bicycle with a bright light attached to the handlebars. This mysterious cyclist bears an uncanny resemblance to Elgar. Merrily does not propose to exorcise the composer’s ghost - after all, this is not a presence they wish to banish in any case - they just need it it to behave itself! Merrily offers to perform a Requiem Eucharist, which she defines as “a sort of minor exorcism.” Two of the accident victims were killed; she is proposing to bring peace to their troubled spirits, and to the village of Wychehill in general.

Merrily is proposing this to the Rev. Syd Spicer, Rector of Wychehill, a former military man whose mordant, melancholy manner seems disctinctly at odds with his current profession. Of him we will learn more in the course of the novel.

In an article on the Cello Concerto, Julian Lloyd Weber relates the following:

“Lying on his deathbed, 15 years after the concerto’s completion, Elgar ‘rather feebly’ tried to whistle the first movement’s haunting 9/8 theme to his friend, the violinist William Reed.

‘Billy,’ he said with tears in his eyes, ‘if ever you’re walking on the Malvern Hills and hear that, don’t be frightened. It’s only me.’”

Rickman alludes to this anecdote in this novel and I just assumed he was making it up. But apparently not…

One of the chief pleasures of this novel is Merrily’s daughter Jane. Jane is the kind of teen-ager that causes parents plenty of anxiety, but for all the best reasons. She is a young woman of firm convictions, on which she is not afraid to act. Or rather, she is afraid - certainly she is in the situation that develops in this novel - but she takes action anyway because she believes it’s the right thing to do. In short, she bestows fear and pride in equal measure on her (already quite beleaguered) parent.

The Remains of an Altar features two plots running concurrently and semi-independently: the one which centers on Merrily, and the other, which primarily involves Jane. The ghostly element is only one interesting feature in this rather complex scenario. Through the angst and anger of some of the country-dwellers in the novel, Rickman addresses issues that are, I believe, quite vital in the countryside at present. Two such are the interference of the European Union in British farming practices and the recently enacted ban on the hunt.

(I think I’m right to use the phrase “the hunt” to refer specifically to hunting foxes with hounds rather than just to hunting in general. Please correct me if I’m wrong, anyone. Having traveled to England three times in the past three years, I’ve become deeply interested in these issues. Suggestions for further reading on the subject would be welcome.)

Weighing in at about 500 pages, Remains is a hefty volume, especially for a murder mystery. Granted, this is not a conventional example of the genre, touching as it does on a wide range of subjects and issues, such as the above mentioned. Having said this, I must admit that Merrily Watkins did remind me of some of my favorite fictional policemen in that she seems to harbor a secret sorrow that pulls her down and dilutes her moments of joy, which seem few and far between at any rate. I like her tremendously. In fact, one of the great strengths of this novel is its large and varied cast of characters, each of whom is possessed of a distinct personality, often with intriguing eccentricities thrown into the mix. They weren’t all likable, but they were all, at least to some degree, interesting. So, is the book too long? Well, maybe. It dragged a bit about two thirds of the way in, and I can’t claim to have followed all the twists and turns of the plot - or plots. But on the whole, I thoroughly enjoyed reading it and look forward to reading yet another account of Merrily Watkins, her clerical adventures, and her intrepid offspring!

Oh - and I want to mention the quality of the writing. It’s something I’m finicky about, and frankly, I’m dismayed at the amount of bad prose I’ve encountered lately (sloppy editing and proofreading, too, including mistakes with the names of characters). Phil Rickman writes beautifully.

Soundtrack suggestion: The Elgar works of primary importance in this novel are the cantata Caractacus and the oratorio The Dream of Gerontius. For beginners, though, I would suggest heading straight for the glorious Enigma Variations. There are many fine recordings of this work; a favorite in our house is with the Baltimore Symphony - our home team! - conducted by David Zinman, on Telarc. And while you’re at it, listen to the splendid Cockaigne Overture as well. (Yes, I know, a bit excessive with the hyperbole - but this is Elgar we’re talking about!)

Phil Rickman replied to my e-mail promptly and with great warmth. As an aside, he alerted me to the existence of a new film on Ralph Vaughan Williams entitled O Thou Transcendent. This revelation caused great excitement in our British-music-loving household! Thank you, Phil - and thank you for this wonderful book.

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Below are two YouTube videos. The first is a montage of scenes of Elgar country, with pictures of Elgar (and one of his wife Alice) interspersed. The second is a rather amazing film of Elgar conducting Pomp and Circumstance March No.1 in 1931. The occasion was the opening of EMI’s Abbey Road Studio. (I have been there!)

Away is the story of Lillian Leyb, a Jewish woman who has recently fled Russia after the massacre of her entire family. Or nearly her entire family…

Lillian’s first port of call is Manhattan, where, by dint of her artless but irresistible charm, she gains entree into a circle of people involved in the Yiddish theater. Amy Bloom’s vibrant re-creation of this lost world was for me, hands down, the best part of the book. And I have to say here that there is a good deal of subjectivity in this response. Suddenly I was seeing Yiddish words and phrases - keine hora, zay gezunt, mamzer - that I had rarely encountered in my adult life but remember as the background noise of my childhood. (So, hello, Grandma Mary! Yes, my mother’s mother was named Mary; go figure.) Bloom reproduces not only the language but also the speech patterns of these passionate, boisterous, sometimes despairing immigrants with uncanny accuracy.

This portrait of Jewish New York in the 1920’s is filled with affection and humor. One of my favorite characters is Yaakov Shimmelman. Here’s what it says on his business card:

“Yaakov Shimmelman

Tailor, actor, playwright,

Author of The Eyes of Love.

Pants pressed and altered.”

Poor Shimmelman, a hopeless romantic who gets just a little - precious little - in return for his devotion to Lillian!

About half way through the book, Lillian is told by a new arrival from the old country that an especially cherished member of her family might still be alive and currently living in Siberia. The source of this intelligence, her cousin Raisele, is an opportunist of dubious veracity; nevertheless, Lillian knows at once that must get to Siberia somehow and find out the truth for herself. Thus begins a cross country odyssey filled with adversity and incident. Some of the incidents were, for this reader, simply too outrageous (not to mention sordid) to be believed. That was part of my problem with the book’s second half. The other problem was that I wanted to be back in New York, among the immigrants, who might, in my imagination, cross paths with my own grandparents.

[Left to right: my maternal grandmother Mary in 1935; my mother, probably around 1934; my grandmother, my mother and myself, some time in the mid-1950's. My mother's name was Lillian.]

Well, as I said, that was my problem. I stayed with this novel because of the compelling nature of Lillian’s quest, and because of Lillian herself. Although her adventures at time strain credulity, I found myself nonetheless rooting for her and admiring her. This, I thought, is the gritty stuff that immigrants must be made of if they hope to survive in their brave new world. I was deeply moved by the novel’s concluding scenes; in them, the author won me back.

[ Soundtrack: the third and fourth movements of Symphony No.1 by Gustav Mahler. The dirge-like sonorities of "Frere Jacques" transposed to a minor key, the jaunty, swooping clarinet - why, it's klezmer music, smack in the middle of this gigantic orchestral opus! If you can, get the classic recording with the Columbia Symphony led by the legendary Bruno Walter. Walter, in his youth, knew Mahler. Listen to the entire work, and be grateful that this complex, charismatic man lived among us and gave us this masterpiece.]

( Follow this link and click on the picture of Amy Bloom and “Barnes & Noble Media” to hear an interview with the author about Away. But be warned: IMHO, the interviewer relates rather too much of the novel’s plot in her introductory remarks.)

I’ve written before about Inspector Morse, both the books by Colin Dexter and the television series. Now comes this delightful news item from Martin Edwards. How I wish I’d been one of the party that he accompanied to The Trout Inn! The Trout is located near Oxford, in Lower Wolvercote actually, as in TheWolvercote Tongue, one of my favorites from among the TV episodes. Morse/John Thaw can frequently be seen downing a pint at this idyllic spot on the River Thames.

As for Morse and More by Patricia Buchanan and The Oxford of Inspector Morse by Antony Richards, they can be purchased from The Inspector Morse Society.

One of the many joys of the Morse films is the way in which they are enriched and enhanced by music. This music is available on three discs, all of which I own. My favorite is Volume Three, largely because it features the stunningly gorgeous Andante movement from Brahms’s Sextet No.1, heard in the film The Day of the Devil. ( You can listen to this music on Amazon. ) I am in awe of chamber music, like this Sextet, that conveys the same power and majesty as a full orchestra.

In addition to orchestral music, chamber works, and opera from the Inspector Morse films, all three of the above-mentioned discs feature the original music composed for the series by Barrington Pheloung. It is always a pleasure, albeit a melancholy one, to hear Morse’s signature tune, with Morse code woven seamlessly into the melody.

[While trawling through the web for pictures of Barrington Pheloung, I happened upon this rather wonderful Inspector Morse Picture Gallery. ]

[The Prophet Elijah and the Widow of Sarepta, by Bernardo Strozzi]

This past Saturday night (10/27), my husband and I were privileged to attend a performance Felix Mendelssohn’s oratorio Elijah. The evening was a tremendous success in every way: glorious choral music supported by the outstanding Festival Orchestra and stunning vocalizing by the four principal soloists.

[From left to right: April-Joy Gutierrez, Mary Ann McCormick, Todd Geer, Lester Lynch]

Although I love choral music, this is not a work with which I was familiar. Our understanding and enjoyment of it were greatly facilitated by the pre-concert lecture, given by David Smooke of the Peabody Conservatory in Baltimore.

In the program notes, we learn that Elijah was originally commissioned by the Birmingham (England) Choral Festival and first performed there in 1846. It was an instant hit. The following year the oratorio was performed for Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. The latter was moved to write a letter to the composer in which he averred that Mendelssohn “…has been able, by his genius and science, to preserve faithfully, like another Elijah, the worship of true art, and once more to accustom our ear, amid the whirl of empty, frivolous sounds, to the pure tones of sympathetic feeling and legitimate harmony: to the Great Master, who makes us conscious of the unity of his conception, through the whole maze of his creation, from the soft whispering to the mighty raging of the elements.”

Only a few months later, in 1847, Felix Mendelssohn was dead. He was 38 years old.

Special mention must be made of the baritone who sang the role of Elijah. Lester Lynch conveyed tremendous feeling in softer passages, but he really wowed the audience in the more forceful ones. His voice so filled the auditorium that it seemed too big for the space. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could be heard in the parking lot! I was touched at the end of the performance when the other soloists - soprano April-Joy Gutierrez, mezzo-soprano Mary Ann McCormick, and tenor Todd Geer - turned to Lynch and applauded his performance along with the audience. Lynch accepted this tribute with the modesty of a true artist.

As for the Columbia Pro Cantare, one can but express delight and gratitude that this home grown organization has achieved such distinction - and right here in our own backyard! Assuredly, we can thank the artistry and hard work of founder and artistic director Frances Motyca Dawson [pictured above] for this happy state of affairs.

Not to go too swiftly from the sublime to the prosaic, but usually when we want to attend this kind of event, we have to travel to Baltimore or Washington and take the risk of getting mired in sludge-like traffic. Instead, it took us fifteen minutes to drive to the high school auditorium (with an exceptionally good acoustic) that was the venue for this performance. And when we got there, we were treated to world class music-making.