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  • Travel by Star: A Journey of Hope and Redeeming Joy

    Travel by Star: A Journey of Hope and Redeeming Joy

    There is a place in C.S. Lewis’ Prince Caspian where Aslan returns after a long absence from Narnia and utter joy ensues. It is a wild passage. Bacchus arrives—young and virile—along with dancing girls known as Maenads. Grape vines begin erupting from the earth and covering anything available. It appears like Lewis’ organized, methodological storytelling is about to detonate into chaos.

    But then in a conversation with her sister, Lucy (the youngest) offers this steadying moment: “I wouldn’t have felt very safe with Bacchus and all his wild girls if we’d met them without Aslan.” And thus we see the redeeming of the recklessness that we perceive into blessed joy.

    Paul Scott Grill’s novel Travel by Star is clearly influenced by many of the works that my writing is also touched by. The Narnia series, Tolkien, Pilgrim’s Progress, and even Louis L’Amour appear to be prominent. This makes for a read that is personally quite thrilling.

    Note that Mr. Grill is a current author who has chosen the independent publishing path. This approach frees one from the conforming biases of the publishing industry and allows full creative control. Unfortunately, it also may discourage the buying public who sees the independently published novel as potentially lesser. I tend to feel the opposite way.

    This is why I will be buying and reviewing (unbeknownst to the author) independent novels here on my site from time to time. I hope this will be a positive deviation from my traditional Classics reviews. Perhaps it will be helpful to both authors and readers who want better content not influenced by “the industry”. Back to the review.

    Western Grit Meets Magical Wonder

    In places, we see the western stability and rugged individualism characteristic of L’Amour and we garner a notion about the type of book this is. But then the magic and joy of Grill’s world building erupts out of nowhere and takes the reader into an exciting new place for a short while. Once control is regained, we resume the main story—or is it the main story? We don’t know for sure because the author maintains suspense for quite a long time.

    Three characters garner the majority of the love from Grill. The main Clint Eastwood plains drifter (or plains Runner as the book describes him) is named Travel. Early on he meets a challenging and powerful young woman named Nichole who has a mission she needs Travel’s attendance to. He has various beliefs about what this mission is, and even though he’s initially reluctant (of course, the heroic journey is featured here as with many of the best novels), eventually he becomes invested, though he still is mistaken about the purpose. Nichole is compelling and surprising throughout, but Travel begins to truly care for her. We learn a truth about Travel and Nichole fairly early on:

    “Nichole lived in a haunted world, as did Travel, as did everyone else. It was a world where nothing beautiful could ever rise up without something coming for it.” (p. 102)

    This is excellent foreshadowing, but as with heroes in our own real world, neither of these two is affected by these challenges, constantly adapting and seeking to overcome.

    My favorite character is perhaps more of a mighty supporting character, a “protector” named Hatchet who is also far more than he appears. What I appreciate about this character is the clothing in humility and grace Grill provides him that enables him to serve and regard the other characters in the novel far higher than himself.

    Magical Realism Done Well

    Magical realism is featured throughout, often in surprising ways. As with García Márquez, the best examples of this are short and never get fully resolved in the book. This lends these moments a great amount of interest.

    Hope as Our Sure Possession

    My opinion on the main theme in the novel is that it continually returns to hope. For example, much of the story revolves around searching for a majestic city (à la the Celestial City from Pilgrim’s Progress). Travel isn’t so sure at the beginning of the book, but we learn his thoughts and get insight into his character:

    “Travel shrugged. ‘I believe there was once a city, and I’m sure it had its day.’ He paused, and the watchfulness returned. ‘But I don’t believe anything can sustain that kind of hope.’” (p. 86)

    I highlighted the theme of hope throughout my Kindle edition of this novel. One phrase that is repeated by many characters is initially thrown out as a surety by Hatchett: “Hope is our sure possession.” How much do we need to hear this in our own era where we have sacrificed hope to the mere tangible? It is food for much thought.

    There are many smaller characters like Nivenna who pursue this hope through strenuous and systematic sacrificial investment in the advancement of others. We learn that Nivenna is training groups of young women to become anchors in the community. Grill writes:

    “For in addition to the well-known work and provision of their land, there was a quiet, lesser-known work that also sustained the town, whereby these four women took in wayward girls and taught them how to set their sights on something more than the day after. Here, they learned to read, to make plans, to keep a schedule, to garden and cook, to care for animals, to care for people, to stretch a coin and mend a seam and close a wound. These were Occam’s Daughters, and they did more to keep the town from descending into a brothel-pocked ruin than most would ever know. It was dangerous work.” (p. 153)

    Those who love horses (like me) will also enjoy this book, for there is a race of horses that are higher and more noble. Perhaps these horses even aspire to the Greek legends of Pegasus, the winged symbol of divine inspiration. What is certain is that they are critical partners to the human teams seeking the blessed city in full hope.

    The Journey’s End—and Beginning

    Near the end of the book, Travel reaches the City. But has he? He is uncertain, for he detects some adjacent injustice. He meets an important character in a dingy room who addresses the whole issue about the City and the remnants of evil:

    “Do not fear him,” he said. “As for you…” he stopped for a moment, and it seemed then that he looked past Travel, at something the horsemaster could neither hear nor see. The Man smiled briefly then returned his gaze. “Did you think I could bring you all the way here, and not finish what I’ve begun?” he asked. (p. 603)

    With this advice, Travel moves forward confidently and hopefully into his new life’s work, no longer unaware of who he is and who he is serving.

    Travel by Star is an enjoyable read that will alternately leave your head spinning and then focus your attention on the reality that underlies and sustains all of the many symbols that Grill sneaks past our attention.

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  • Waverley: When Privilege Meets Rebellion

    Waverley: When Privilege Meets Rebellion

    When Sir Walter Scott published Waverley anonymously in 1814, he ignited a literary sensation across Europe. The novel succeeded for two compelling reasons: it revived historical fiction as a popular genre after centuries of dormancy, and its anonymous authorship sparked intense speculation about the identity of its brilliant creator. By the time Scott’s authorship became known, Waverley had already secured its place as one of the era’s defining novels.

    The Story

    The story follows Edward Waverley, a young English nobleman who becomes entangled in the Jacobite uprising of 1745—the doomed conspiracy to restore the Stuart dynasty to the English throne. Scott drew upon his Scottish heritage and conducted meticulous research and local interviews to capture the Highland culture with impressive authenticity. His descriptive prose brought the fierce loyalty and poetic passion of the Highland clans to life, creating scenes that in retrospect bear striking resemblance to James Fenimore Cooper’s later portraits of Native American tribes. Given Cooper’s known admiration for English novels, one wonders if the young American author found inspiration in Scott’s Highlanders when crafting his own tales of upstate New York’s indigenous peoples.

    At its heart, Waverley traces the maturation of an idle young man of privilege who seeks purpose through an Army commission, only to find himself plunged into the full spectrum of human experience: treachery and self-sacrifice, unexpected kindness and passionate infatuation, and ultimately, genuine love.

    The Characters!

    The novel’s strength lies in its memorable characters—ironically, everyone except Waverley himself, who proves the least compelling figure in his own story. The Baron of Bradwardine, a Scottish lowlander and Stuart loyalist, embodies the old feudal order with his antiquated sense of lordship and love of shifting conversations to Latin. His daughter Rose emerges as a surprisingly strong and capable woman who quietly shapes the story’s resolution. The Highland chieftain Fergus Mac-Ivor offers Edward genuine friendship while drawing him deeper into rebellion, while Fergus’s sister Flora—passionate for Stuart glory—reveals that her interest in Edward stems more from political calculation than romance. The erratic thief Donald Bean Lean rounds out a cast that captures the full range of Highland passion and intrigue.

    Edward’s gradual awakening forms the novel’s emotional core. He discovers too late that Flora views him merely as a political asset for Prince Charles Stuart, who desperately needs English nobles to legitimize his cause. After early rebel successes give way to inevitable defeat, Edward must find his way back to his family and to the woman who protected him and loved him without calculation.

    A Message for Our Time

    Scott illuminates an era of political turmoil where religion and geography fractured the British Isles—a situation uncomfortably familiar to our own age of polarization. Then as now, political gamesmanship drew people into dangerous conflicts over grievances both real and manufactured. Waverley represents the privileged young man caught between warring forces through no real fault beyond his failure to take his responsibilities seriously. And like our own time, countless people suffered for decisions made in rooms they could never access.

    Waverley reminds us that political upheaval has always carried human costs, and that maturity often arrives through painful lessons about loyalty, love, and the true meaning of duty.

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  • A Historically Important Novel you Ought to Consider: “Daniel Deronda” by George Eliot

    A Historically Important Novel you Ought to Consider: “Daniel Deronda” by George Eliot

    Recently I’ve been reading books recommended by Chris Scalia in his guide Novels for Conservatives. George Eliot’s Daniel Deronda stood out immediately. Since Middlemarch is one of my favorites, I was eager to read Eliot’s final novel.

    The Characters

    As with all of Eliot’s work, character building and contrast take center stage. Four fascinating personalities orbit around Daniel Deronda, who serves as the linchpin connecting them all.

    Daniel Deronda is a young man who has grown up as the unacknowledged son—he suspects—of an English aristocrat. He stands apart: patient with people’s idiosyncrasies, thoughtful, and devoted to others. His main foil is Gwendolen Harleth, a character to whom much has been given and who has received it all in great self-devotion. Eliot spends considerable energy convincing us that Gwendolen is shallow and conceited:

    Other people allowed themselves to be made slaves of, and to have their lives blown hither and thither like empty ships in which no will was present. It was not to be so with her; she would no longer be sacrificed to creatures worth less than herself, but would make the very best of the chances that life offered her, and conquer circumstances by her exceptional cleverness.

    Gwendolen clearly sees herself as “the main character”—as our young people might say about our modern royalty of self-centeredness—with everyone else mere supporting players in her drama.

    Two Intersecting Stories

    Deronda meets Gwendolen at the peak of her social success, just before she loses her fortune overnight. That brief encounter stays with her through the ups and downs that follow, including a miserable marriage of convenience to a weak but manipulative British aristocrat. Watching Deronda’s visible kindness and encouragement—qualities she utterly lacks—she begins to recognize virtue outside herself. This recognition is perhaps the best thing we can say about Gwendolen.

    But the novel’s other pillar tells a strikingly different story. The jarring contrast between Gwendolen’s self-absorption and the selflessness on this second side seems intentional. This strand involves Jewish people—folks segregated from polite British society.

    Deronda saves the life of Mirah, a beautiful and talented young Jewish woman who despairs over her lost family. A singer exploited by her scoundrel father across Europe, she escapes to Britain where Deronda rescues her and provides a new family. Though Christian, they are kind, and Eliot uses them to explore the nature of Jewishness in British society.

    While searching for Mirah’s missing mother and brother, Deronda meets Mordecai—a deathly-ill but vividly alive Jewish mystic and Kabbalah student. Daniel finds him remarkable, though he’s puzzled by Mordecai’s disappointment that he speaks no Hebrew. Increasingly, Deronda’s thoughts shift from his aristocratic life toward this unusual man and his urgent vision.

    Transformation and Vision

    Mirah flourishes in the home of Deronda’s college friend, where his mother and sisters adore her. She becomes a blessing, teaching singing to wealthy students. Gwendolen is drawn to her—perhaps due to Mirah’s character, but likely because of her connection to Deronda.

    In one pivotal exchange, Gwendolen reveals her understanding that Deronda admires Mirah’s blamelessness while surely despising her own mercenary marriage. But Deronda sees deeper—that Gwendolen’s real problem is her extreme self-centeredness:

    “Then tell me what better I can do,” said Gwendolen, insistently.

    “Many things. Look on other lives besides your own. See what their troubles are, and how they are borne. Try to care about something in this vast world besides the gratification of small selfish desires. Try to care for what is best in thought and action—something that is good apart from the accidents of your own lot.”

    This exchange gives her food for thought for years.

    Meanwhile, Mordecai reveals that he’s seen Deronda in visions as a kindred spirit who will continue his work for the Jewish people after his death. Though puzzled, Deronda feels an inexplicable empathy for the plight of British Jews. In a powerful pub discussion with Mordecai and his philosopher friends, Deronda is stirred by Mordecai’s fervent dream of a Jewish homeland:

    Let the torch of visible community be lit! Let the reason of Israel disclose itself in a great outward deed, and let there be another great migration, another choosing of Israel to be a nationality whose members may still stretch to the ends of the earth, even as the sons of England and Germany, whom enterprise carries afar, but who still have a national hearth and a tribunal of national opinion.

    After further plot twists, Deronda realizes his calling is now intertwined with Mordecai’s vision. The novel makes an abrupt decision to sunset Gwendolen’s story, which dissipates predictably.

    Historical Impact

    I’m deliberately avoiding plot spoilers—read it yourself for those details. What fascinates me is this book’s influence on world events. Written in 1876, Daniel Deronda was one of the first exposures polite society had to Jewish suffering and the dream of returning to a homeland.

    Many readers actually hated the Jewish plotline, preferring Gwendolen’s aristocratic drama instead. Her recklessness and pride fascinate like a car wreck. But Eliot revolutionized the portrayal of Jewish people in English literature and set events in motion that—regardless of how one views them—have shaped much of world history since.

    Fifty-one years after publication, the British issued their support for establishing a Jewish state in the Middle East. Historian Paul Johnson noted in History of the Jews that Daniel Deronda was “probably the most influential novel of the 19th century” and that “to hundreds of thousands of assimilated Jews the story presented for the first time the possibility of a return to Zion.”

    A Word on Reading This Novel

    This is an important work that should be read. But readers need to know it will challenge our iPhone-depleted attention spans. The writing bears no resemblance to the staccato dialogue patterns of modern novels. Paragraphs stretch on. Dialogue is rich in detail and insight but long in words. Occasionally Eliot dives into reveries the reader struggles to follow. As a writer and student of the classics, I understand her efforts to communicate deeply, though I generally (sadly?) choose to edit such episodes from my own work in response to modern reading fashions.

    I hope potential readers are challenged by this but not dissuaded. I’ll say it again: this is an important book. And it also makes the case that people aren’t always completely reducible to groups. A woman from a Caucasian British background was able to communicate the thoughts and desires of an underprivileged minority group with a very lasting effect. In this sense, Daniel Deronda fulfills the highest goals of a novelist—carefully and graciously stepping into another’s life and earning the right to tell someone else’s story.

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  • The Happy Valley Problem: On Samuel Johnson’s Rasselas

    The Happy Valley Problem: On Samuel Johnson’s Rasselas

    I’m a bit worn out from researching 3rd-century Carthage for my latest “Halls of the Shadow King” novelette, but I still feel like writing before bed. So with a little motivation from my friend coffee, I’m going to share my thoughts on this short novel by Samuel Johnson. You might find it an interesting insight on human nature—particularly modern human nature.

    Legend has it that Rasselas was written by Johnson in a single week because he needed money for his mother’s funeral. Other legends say that Johnson wrote the book rather than spend time with his dying mother. In some ways, for certain, it does feel like a book written in a week—but by someone who had thought very hard for much of his life about the themes within it. Published in 1759, it was regarded as an important work of philosophy in its day. It reminds me of Voltaire in quite a few places (but is less funny).

    The Story

    This is the tale of a prince (and his siblings) whom the King of Abyssinia confines to an idyllic but inescapable valley (The Happy Valley) for his protection. The idea is that the King will summon him if needed. Rasselas is perhaps the least vapid of these royal children and begins questioning the seeming perfection around him. Imlac, a poet who has vividly experienced life and the world and was selected to entertain the royals in this secret valley, becomes Rasselas’ confidant.

    Through Imlac, we begin to see the depth of Johnson’s thinking. When the prince expresses perplexity that someone in the “real” world would harm another person without any real benefit to himself, Imlac explains:

    “Pride is seldom delicate, it will please itself with very mean advantages; and envy feels not its own happiness, but when it may be compared with the misery of others.” (p. 34)

    Thus begins the real education of Rasselas, though he is continually quite surprised to learn how people act outside his pleasant prison.

    The Search for Happiness

    Eventually, Rasselas—with help from Imlac and his sister, Princess Nekayah—escapes and enters the world. Fortunately, Imlac is able to sell wealth the prince can claim, so they’re all accepted in society as wealthy merchants. Rasselas’s goal is to discover how true happiness can be found. When Imlac reveals that “Human life is everywhere a state in which much is to be endured and little is to be enjoyed,” Rasselas responds:

    “I am not yet willing to suppose that happiness is so parsimoniously distributed to mortals; nor can I believe but that, if I had the choice of life, I should be able to fill every day with pleasure. I would injure no man, and should provoke no resentment; I would relieve every distress, and should enjoy the benedictions of gratitude.” (p. 43)

    This exchange encapsulates one of the book’s central themes. Rasselas is hopelessly naive, and though he has been well educated, he is strangely ignorant. Perhaps this is the case for many who have received great amounts of education and been content with what they learned.

    Imlac continues to work vigorously to enlighten his young charge, as we see in this advice about overthinking hopes and fears:

    “Do not disturb your mind with other hopes or fears than reason may suggest: if you are pleased with prognostics of good, you will be terrified likewise with tokens of evil, and your whole life will be a prey to superstition.” (pp. 49-50)

    The Journey Through Life

    Rasselas seeks out a wide range of people representing the variability of human experience. At each turn, he quickly assumes that this culture or community has found true happiness, only to learn from Imlac’s observations: “Believe me, prince, there was not one who did not dread the moment when solitude should deliver him to the tyranny of reflection” (p. 57), or “Very few live by choice. Every man is placed in his present condition by causes which acted without his foresight, and with which he did not always willingly co-operate; and therefore you will rarely meet one who does not think the lot of his neighbor better than his own” (p. 58).

    This pattern continues for quite a while, with Rasselas examining the happiness of monks, philosophers, the highly educated, and even a scientist whose deep study has convinced him that he controls the weather and perhaps even the functioning of the world.

    Johnson’s Philosophy

    Johnson’s melancholy view of the world is evident throughout, for Rasselas’ search remains unsatisfied. Though he is exposed to a great amount of wisdom, he does not find “optimal” happiness anywhere. The modern reader is easily reminded of many fellow travelers searching for their “best” lives while refusing to be patient or content with the life given them—or at minimum, the life within their ability to reach.

    The History of Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia is a philosophical meditation disguised as a travel narrative, and while it may feel hastily written in places, Johnson’s lifetime of contemplation shines through in every conversation and observation. It’s a timeless exploration of human discontent and the elusive nature of happiness.

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  • Grace Spilled Down: A Review of So Brave, Young, and Handsome

    Grace Spilled Down: A Review of So Brave, Young, and Handsome

    I picked up So Brave, Young, and Handsome, the second novel by Leif Enger, after thoroughly enjoying his debut work, Peace Like a River. To put it simply: this is a worthy successor, though it doesn’t quite reach the heights of his first book.

    The Story

    Monte Becket, a former postal worker, struck gold with his first novel—a dimestore western that found success with an undemanding audience. But lightning hasn’t struck twice. Despite his best efforts, he can’t interest his publisher in anything new. Fortunately, royalties from that first book continue to trickle in, allowing him to buy a pleasant home by the river and live a peaceful life.

    It’s there that Monte meets Glendon Hale, a fascinating stranger sailing a homemade boat downriver. Enger describes Glendon as “formal in the way of men grown apart, yet energy teemed behind his eyes and in some ways he seemed a boy himself” (p. 11). This intriguing man quickly captivates not just Monte, but his wife Susannah and young son as well.

    Meanwhile, Monte is hiding his latest of many literary failures from his family. His heroic cowboy character, Dan Roscoe, has been abandoned. His new pirate novel is already showing “signs of decay” at just forty pages (p. 22).

    Then comes an unlikely invitation: Glendon asks Monte to accompany him to Mexico so he can apologize to the wife he suddenly abandoned in his youth. Despite the apparent foolishness of such a journey, Susannah somehow knows that Monte needs this adventure and encourages him to go.

    The Journey

    What follows is a winding odyssey by boat, train, car, and train again—sometimes making little logical sense. The journey grows more complicated when we learn that Glendon has quite a past: he was once part of the infamous “Hole in the Wall” gang in Wyoming, alongside Butch Cassidy.

    At times, you want to shout at Monte to just go home, for God’s sake. But something keeps him going—perhaps the fear of returning to his failures, or recognition that this strange pursuit is exactly what his soul needs. As Monte humbly observes: “I was used to resembling what I was—a well-meaning failure, a pallid disappointer of persons, a man fading” (p. 76).

    Complicating matters further is Charlie Siringo, a rascally Pinkerton detective (and fellow author) devoted to capturing Glendon. (Fans of Larry McMurtry’s Streets of Laredo will recognize Siringo’s name—Captain Woodrow Call dismissed his book as “mostly yarns.”)

    What Works

    The writing is beautiful, echoing the lyrical style of Peace Like a River. Enger has a remarkable gift for seeing truth in his characters without being put off by their surface flaws.

    On an enthusiastic and capable young man who lies to save Glendon from Siringo: “Hood was the purest liar I ever knew. He lied for profit as many do but he also lied for joy, which is less common—it may even be he lied for beauty, by some deeply buried rationale” (p. 96).

    On an aging circus sharpshooter with a wild past: When Monte suggests she should “start thinking about her next act,” Glendon wisely responds, “Maybe she’s tried that, Monte. Maybe she don’t have a next act in her” (p. 115).

    This small selection of a great many moments of insight are where Enger truly shines.

    What Falls Short

    While the prose remains gorgeous, the characters don’t quite achieve the luminous quality of those in Peace Like a River. Enger’s penchant for foreshadowing continues, but he’s largely abandoned the magical realism that gave his first novel such distinctive charm. Monte’s many choices to dive deeper into the madness taking him further from Susannah seem quite far-fetched.

    The Resolution

    Eventually, we see resolution for Siringo, Glendon, and Monte. Monte finally admits to Susannah that his writing days may be finished, humbly confessing “I am very much less than I once believed.” But Susannah shows him extraordinary grace—she was simply waiting for him to find his place.

    In one of the book’s most moving passages, Monte reflects on his transformation:

    “You are also different,” she said. I didn’t try to explain that. You can’t explain grace, anyway, especially when it arrives almost despite yourself. I didn’t even ask for it, yet somehow it breached and began to work. I suppose grace was pouring over Glendon, who had sought it so hard, and some spilled down on me. Susannah said, “You seemed afraid before you left. Now you don’t—that’s what I think.” (p. 271)

    Final Verdict

    So Brave, Young, and Handsome is a thoughtful meditation on failure, grace, and redemption. While it may not surpass Enger’s debut, it’s still a rewarding read that showcases his considerable talents as a storyteller. Recommended for fans of literary westerns and anyone who appreciates beautiful prose in service of meaningful themes.

    Rating: 4/5 stars

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  • A Miraculous Journey: Reviewing “Peace Like a River” by Leif Enger

    A Miraculous Journey: Reviewing “Peace Like a River” by Leif Enger

    This morning I finished reading Peace Like a River, the debut novel by Leif Enger. While he has written plenty since then, I find it quite notable that this is his first published work. The most important thing I can say about this novel (other than that I recommend it wholeheartedly!) is that it is truly beautiful. Enger’s prose is both gorgeous and reserved. He employs metaphors and foreshadowing with masterful precision. When you reach the novel’s conclusion, there’s a bittersweet sadness at finishing, but also a profound revelation—suddenly all those literary devices click into place with perfect clarity.

    As a writer myself, I must admit that reading this book fills me with both inspiration and a touch of envy for my own inability to craft a story of such depth and beauty.

    The Story and Its Heart

    Reuben Land serves as our narrator and, as it turns out, embodies the very soul of the story. His life begins with a miracle: born nearly dead, he survives only when his father Jeremiah holds the “clay child wrapped in a canvas coat” and commands in a steady voice, “Reuben Land, in the name of the living God I am telling you to breathe.”

    Breathe Reuben does, but throughout the story he never breathes easily, severely hampered by asthma. His father Jeremiah becomes his hero, and as Reuben notes with characteristic insight: “there’s nothing as lovely and tragic as telling your friends you were just about dead once.”

    Miracles Woven into Reality

    Miracles occur throughout this novel in ways that seem deceptively simple and completely believable. This brings Gabriel García Márquez to mind, but Enger’s magical realism springs from the Gospel and prayer rather than from magic. These extraordinary events arrive in ways our postmodern minds can accept without question. As Enger reminds us: “Such things are worth our notice every day of the week, but to call them miracles evaporates the strength of the word.”

    Characters Grounded in Grace and Truth

    The characters populating this novel are strong prairie stock who never seek to impress or manipulate. The Methodist pastor, faithful and loyal, “was a great advocate of forgiveness, in which he put a lot of stock. Thrilling he was not.” Throughout the story, we detect a common thread of grace and truth—elements that cannot be easily separated from one another. Reuben’s precocious younger sister Swede, already an incredible wordsmith and writer, observes that “once torched by truth, a little thing like faith is easy.”

    The Central Conflict

    The Land family faces a bitter crisis created by their eldest son, Davy—incredibly capable but seemingly bereft of grace, his tragic, truth-seeking act of revenge poisons their lives. Jeremiah leaves his job and takes the family west in an inherited Airstream trailer, hoping to find Davy and, hopefully, bring him to repentance.

    Davy’s fundamental problem becomes clear: “Davy wanted life to be something you did on your own; the whole idea of a protective, fatherly God annoyed him. I would understand this better in years to come but never subscribe to it, for I was weak and knew it.”

    This confident self-reliance leads Davy through increasingly dangerous circumstances. His competence provides some protection, but forces him to live as a fugitive. The central question becomes: Will Davy ever accept grace?

    The Journey West

    Meanwhile, others who deserve nothing good experience mercy through Jeremiah’s hands. When the evil school superintendent who despises Jeremiah receives miraculous healing from horrible facial sores through Jeremiah’s gracious touch, Reuben struggles mightily with the apparent unfairness: “It was the fact that Chester the Fester, the worst man I’d ever seen… got a whole new face to look out of and didn’t even know to be grateful; while I, my father’s son, had to be still and resolute and breathe steam to stay alive.”

    This gives us insight into Reuben’s heart—his breathing struggles dominate his existence and serve as an overarching metaphor for his spiritual condition, though he doesn’t understand this until much later.

    Finding Refuge and Family

    The Land family (Jeremiah, Reuben, and Swede) eventually reach the badlands of North Dakota, their Plymouth limping along while towing the Airstream. A powerful hand seems to guide them—one that communicates frequently and effectively with Jeremiah. Great miracles occur, perhaps the greatest being their forced refuge during a massive snowstorm in the home of Roxanna, a lonely woman on the wilderness fringe.

    Roxanna experiences transformation through Jeremiah’s presence, and the children quickly see in her the mother they lost when their own inexplicably abandoned them. Though Davy remains at large, the family experiences stability and learns to find peace in the joy of order and purpose.

    The Crisis of Faith

    But eventually, Reuben reaches a dreadful realization: “Since arriving at this house, we’d had no miracles whatever.” He reflects on their journey and concludes: “And I thought, Without a miracle, exactly what chance do I have?”

    Here readers realize that Reuben views miracles as cheat codes for his own life, failing to see how they’re actually preparing him to live and see differently.

    Growth and Understanding

    Reuben slowly learns to value prayer, growing into his father’s example, and realizes his need for repentance regarding harbored hatreds. Through painful circumstances of his own making, he confronts his serious shortcomings. A local sheriff “earnestly told me five or six specific things he found discouraging about my character. If you don’t mind I’d rather not restate them, but they were by and large true… I agreed with them all, as the broken must.”

    Eventually, Reuben stops “whining about what’s fair, begging forgiveness, hoping for a miracle—these demand energy, and that was gone from me. Contentment on the other hand demands little, and I drew more and more into its circle.”

    At last, Reuben learns that “fair is whatever God wants to do.”

    A Powerful Conclusion

    The story’s ending proves wonderful, featuring a powerful twist reminiscent of great self-sacrifice tales from literature’s past. Without spoiling the conclusion, I’ll say that in the distant years following these dramatic events, we see Reuben explaining to his still-elusive brother Davy what their father had done for him. When Davy challenges him to “Breathe… Let’s see you breathe,” we realize the incredible distance Reuben has traveled.

    Despite experiencing great physical damage and displaying moments of cowardice and betrayal, Reuben has learned grace’s proper place as truth’s partner and has found repentance. His breath has been restored through great sacrifice, and he now possesses true life. The greatest miracle of all has occurred—but it happened slowly and collectively.

    Final Thoughts

    In my humble opinion, Peace Like a River stands as a modern masterpiece of American literature, weaving together themes of faith, family, sacrifice, and redemption with prose that feels truly joyful. Enger has crafted a story that operates on multiple levels—as a coming-of-age tale, a family drama, and a profound meditation on the nature of miracles and grace. This is a novel that rewards careful reading and stays with you long after the final page.

    Have you read “Peace Like a River”? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.

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  • The Enduring Power of Place and Memory in Willa Cather’s My Antonia

    The Enduring Power of Place and Memory in Willa Cather’s My Antonia

    Willa Cather has become one of my favorite American writers. After thoroughly enjoying her novel Death Comes for the Archbishop—the story of brave Catholic priests who journeyed from France to the American West—I picked up My Antonia with high hopes. It turned out to be an excellent decision.

    A Portrait of the Prairie

    My Antonia tells the story of its namesake character, the daughter of a Czech pioneer family making their home on the Nebraska plains. Like so many immigrant families, they’ve come to America seeking the chance to build something great. While Antonia’s mother struggles with instability and her father never stops pining for their old life, Antonia herself radiates abundance and potential. She captures the heart of the narrator, Jim Burden, who is four years her junior.

    Jim arrives in Nebraska as a young boy to live with his grandparents at exactly the same time Antonia’s family settles nearby. They become neighbors in the wild prairie, where the expansive landscape dominates young Jim’s imagination.

    Cather beautifully captures this sense of place and movement:

    “I can remember exactly how the country looked to me as I walked beside my grandmother along the faint wagon-tracks on that early September morning. Perhaps the glide of long railway travel was still with me, for more than anything else I felt motion in the landscape; in the fresh, easy-blowing morning wind, and in the earth itself, as if the shaggy grass were a sort of loose hide, and underneath it herds of wild buffalo were galloping, galloping…”

    Through Antonia’s immigrant eyes, we see a romance with the landscape and farmland that Cather suggests had been lost to many Americans. Even Jim, despite recognizing the land’s power, observes with typical American restlessness that “the only thing very noticeable about Nebraska was that it was still, all day long, Nebraska.”

    The Immigrant Advantage

    As Jim and Antonia grow up, they develop a close friendship built on mutual respect. But Jim recognizes the harsh realities Antonia’s family faces—living in a barely functional sod house while his grandparents enjoy a proper home, struggling with language and cultural barriers that require constant navigation by their more established neighbors.

    Yet Cather observes something remarkable: over time, the immigrant families develop distinct advantages on the prairie. The Czechs, Norwegians, and Swedes possess a dogged determination to escape debt and educate their children. The older daughters move to town and send money home, helping their farm families thrive.

    Initially, “The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, unenquiring belief that they were ‘refined,’ and that the country girls, who ‘worked out,’ were not.” This mindset sounds strikingly familiar today, echoing the way many urban dwellers continue to view those in “flyover” states.

    But once these immigrant farm girls establish themselves in the city, they begin captivating the young city men with their unique advantages: fitness from field work, resilience born of struggle, and deep commitment to family. Their families ascend the social ladder:

    “foreign farmers in our county were the first to become prosperous. After the fathers were out of debt, the daughters married the sons of neighbours—usually of like nationality—and the girls who once worked in Black Hawk kitchens are to-day managing big farms and fine families of their own; their children are better off than the children of the town women they used to serve.”

    Two Paths, One Past

    Jim grows up to become a lawyer, his path taking him from Lincoln to Harvard and back east. Antonia stays in Nebraska, marrying a solid Czech man whom she transforms into a successful farmer. While Jim struggles to maintain his connection to the land and his people, visiting old friends scattered across the country, years pass and he misses Antonia raising her large family.

    When they reconnect twenty years later, their different relationships with the past become starkly apparent. For Antonia, the past remains an ever-present part of life, illuminating the future. For Jim, the past becomes something he must work to recover amid the distractions of his successful city career.

    Two quotes illuminate this contrast beautifully. As Jim prepares to leave after Antonia’s first child is born, she tells him:

    “Of course it means you are going away from us for good. But that don’t mean I’ll lose you. Look at my papa here; he’s been dead all these years, and yet he is more real to me than almost anybody else. He never goes out of my life. I talk to him and consult him all the time. The older I grow, the better I know him and the more I understand him.”

    Later, during an extended visit, Jim takes a reflective walk and finds himself in the unchanged landscape: “I took a long walk north of the town, out into the pastures where the land was so rough that it had never been ploughed up, and the long red grass of early times still grew shaggy over the draws and hillocks. Out there I felt at home again.”

    The Wisdom of Staying Rooted

    Jim concludes by recognizing that despite their vastly different life trajectories, he and Antonia still share their past together. The difference lies in how they inhabit that shared history: Antonia lives and breathes within it, while Jim must fight to overcome life’s distractions to reconnect with it.

    This is what I most appreciate about Cather’s writing—her recognition that the past forms the foundation of what we’re building, and that distraction from it can cause us to lose our way. Jim, like all of us should, recognizes that despite the wear and tear of Antonia’s hard life on the soil, she retains a level of greatness that his successful but rootless existence cannot match.

    My Antonia reminds us that sometimes the greatest achievements aren’t measured in professional success or geographic mobility, but in the depth of our connections to place, people, and the continuous thread of memory that weaves our lives together.

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  • When Utopian Dreams Meet Human Nature: Lessons from Hawthorne’s The Blithedale Romance

    I recently discovered Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Blithedale Romance through Christopher Scalia‘s The Good Books, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. The story of a failed utopian community feels eerily relevant as we watch various idealistic movements rise and fall around us today.

    Fighting Through the Victorian Prose

    Let’s get the obvious out of the way first: Hawthorne’s writing style is a challenge for modern readers. Those endless, flowery paragraphs can feel like swimming through molasses. As an author, I have learned to fight against the instincts to write these long paragraphs because if you do, no one will read your work! My friend Elena, an experienced high school English literature teacher, jokes that “this is what you get when authors were paid by the word!” But stick with it—Hawthorne’s insights into human nature are worth the effort.

    The Setup: Young Idealists Meet Reality

    The plot centers on a group of privileged young people who decide to abandon their comfortable lives for “authentic” communal living on Blithedale Farm. They want to work the soil, live simply, and create something pure and meaningful. Sound familiar?

    The narrator (essentially Hawthorne himself) becomes fascinated by Zenobia, the wealthy, charismatic woman who serves as the community’s unofficial queen. But it’s Hollingsworth who steals the show—a serious, middle-aged man obsessed with reforming criminals, which the book calls “philanthropy” (though not quite in our modern sense).

    Early on, the narrator observes something almost sacred about Hollingsworth:

    “It is so rare, in these times, to meet with a man of prayerful habits (except, of course, in the pulpit), that such an one is decidedly marked out by the light of transfiguration, shed upon him in the divine interview from which he passes into his daily life.”

    There’s reverence here, but Hawthorne hints at “great errors” to come.

    The Philosophy Behind the Failure

    Hawthorne weaves in criticism of Fourierism—the utopian philosophy of Charles Fourier (the French philosopher, not the mathematician). Fourier inspired numerous intentional communities with his radical ideas about bringing order to human chaos. Many of his once-controversial concepts eventually became mainstream.

    But Hollingsworth sees something sinister in Fourier’s approach:

    “He has committed the unpardonable sin; for what more monstrous iniquity could the Devil himself contrive than to choose the selfish principle,—the principle of all human wrong, the very blackness of man’s heart, the portion of ourselves which we shudder at, and which it is the whole aim of spiritual discipline to eradicate,—to choose it as the master workman of his system?”

    Here’s the book’s central tension: Hollingsworth condemns Fourier for building a system on selfish motives, yet the reader must ask whether Hollingsworth himself is guilty of the same sin in his obsessive, uncompromising pursuit of criminal reform.

    When Idealism Turns Destructive

    As the story unfolds, the narrator discovers the true scope of Hollingsworth’s plans for the farm—and they’re not pretty. In a confrontation that feels like watching a friendship die, the narrator refuses to support the scheme:

    “Your fantastic anticipations make me discern all the more forcibly what a wretched, unsubstantial scheme is this, on which we have wasted a precious summer of our lives. Do you seriously imagine that any such realities as you, and many others here, have dreamed of, will ever be brought to pass?”

    The Inevitable End

    The Blithedale residents, for all their high-minded talk, prove to be exactly what you’d expect: privileged young people playing at hardship, like “college students with large trust funds.” Their activities are charming but unproductive, and the community drifts toward its inevitable conclusion—a funeral.

    Even in death, the “colonists” of Blithedale abandon their grand ideas about creating new rituals and “symbolic expressions of their spiritual faith.” Instead, they fall back on tradition:

    “But when the occasion came we found it the simplest and truest thing, after all, to content ourselves with the old fashion, taking away what we could, but interpolating no novelties, and particularly avoiding all frippery of flowers and cheerful emblems.”

    Hollingsworth’s Fall from Grace

    The book’s most devastating moment comes when Hollingsworth finally recognizes what his obsessions have cost. He tells the narrator that since their friendship ended, he has “been busy with a single murderer”—meaning himself. This moment of self-awareness is so powerful that the narrator, despite everything, forgives him on the spot.

    Hollingsworth never pursues his reform dreams. His fall is complete, and Hawthorne drives the point home with a reference to Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress:

    “I see in Hollingsworth an exemplification of the most awful truth in Bunyan’s book of such, from the very gate of heaven there is a by-way to the pit!”

    Even those who seem closest to virtue can take a wrong turn at the last moment.

    Why This Still Matters

    Years later, the narrator looks back on the Blithedale experiment with surprising fondness. Age has brought wisdom and tolerance for youthful excess:

    “Often, however, in these years that are darkening around me, I remember our beautiful scheme of a noble and unselfish life; and how fair, in that first summer, appeared the prospect that it might endure for generations, and be perfected, as the ages rolled away, into the system of a people and a world!”

    The Timeless Warning

    Hawthorne understood something crucial about human nature: our highest ideals can become our greatest corruptions. Whether it’s 19th-century commune-building or today’s various utopian movements, the pattern remains the same. Well-meaning people with noble goals can create systems that ultimately serve their own egos rather than the common good.

    The book isn’t a cynical dismissal of idealism—the narrator still cherishes the memory of that “beautiful scheme.” Instead, it’s a gentle warning about the gap between our aspirations and our nature, and the dangerous moment when we stop seeing that gap clearly.

    In our current age of grand social experiments and revolutionary promises, The Blithedale Romance offers a timeless reminder: the road to hell is paved with good intentions, especially when those intentions become obsessions that blind us to their human cost.

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  • The Halls of the Shadow King: The Apprentice by W. Tod Newman

    The Halls of the Shadow King: The Apprentice book cover. Copyright 2025 Desdichado Books

    Here’s the review I gave my own book on Goodreads. I thought anyone stumbling across this blog might find it interesting and amusing to see an author reviewing their own book! 🙂

    Also, funny note. Because I did a pretty poor job on my main character’s right hand in my first book cover, someone accused me of using AI. This bothered me, so I went into GIMP (my image editing tool) and edited the line art layer to make the hands better (apparently AI still can’t do hands?). And then I fixed some other stuff that had been annoying me (too dark, didn’t like the clothes Amal was wearing, background was a bit too formal, etc.). So now the new, improved book cover is loaded here. Let me know what you think.

    My rating: 5 of 5 stars


    I really enjoyed reading this book, but maybe that’s because I also enjoyed writing it! For anyone who is considering taking the time to read it, here are a few of the things I was thinking over the last number of years that I spent writing. (of course, I’m giving it 5 stars; if I felt otherwise I’d still be writing!)

    After spending several years crafting this story, I’m deeply grateful it found its way into the world—and honestly surprised by how much I enjoyed revisiting Amal’s journey as a reader rather than writer. If you’re considering this book, let me share what drove me through those long nights of research and revision.

    Our culture desperately needs more characters who wield great power with genuine humility. It’s perhaps the rarest combination in literature—and life—yet through faithful effort, it remains possible. Amal represents my small attempt to show that extraordinary gifts need not corrupt when carried by someone who truly doesn’t want them and is driven by the service of others.

    I also long to see readers rediscover the magic hidden in life’s unexplainable mysteries. We’ve spent decades drowning in stifling rationalism, forgetting that wonder exists in the spaces between what we know and what we can prove. Gabriel García Márquez was the master of this delicate balance—if my words can someday kindle even a fraction of the awe his prose once gave me, I’ll consider this endeavor worthwhile.

    Most importantly, I hope to bring history alive in ways that point toward something higher than much contemporary literature attempts. The third century was brutal, beautiful, and utterly transformative—a time when ordinary people faced extraordinary choices that echo through our world today.

    If this resonates with you, please join Amal’s journey. I’ve tried to keep the price accessible because stories should build bridges, not barriers. Stick with me, because the next two books will show how determined people, aligned with service and grace, really can change the world—one hard-fought and seemingly-impossible choice at a time.


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  • Book Review – The Lonesome Dove Series

    Book Review – The Lonesome Dove Series

    A Journey Through McMurtry’s American West

    Reading Larry McMurtry’s complete Lonesome Dove cycle—from Dead Man’s Walk through Streets of Laredo—feels like witnessing the birth and death of the American frontier through the eyes of truly unforgettable characters who refuse to leave you long after the final page.

    Brilliantly Envisioned Characters

    While I’d cherished Augustus McCrae and Woodrow Call for years through the original Lonesome Dove novel and its well-received television adaptation, experiencing their full arc across all four books revealed psychological depths of character development I never suspected. Call, in particular, emerges as one of literature’s most complex protagonists—a man whose apparent neurodivergence and emotional rigidity inflict profound damage on those around him, yet who finds a kind of grace in his final years through the devotion of a sweet, blind Mexican girl who becomes his unlikely salvation.

    McMurtry populates this sweeping saga with characters who transcend the typical Western archetype. Famous Shoes, the Kickapoo tracker who threads through all four novels, embodies a vanished wisdom that our modern world desperately lacks—his understanding of landscape and human nature feels almost mystical. Clara Allen stands as one of American literature’s great female characters, simultaneously gracious and irascible, approaching life’s complexities with a pragmatic wisdom that makes her rejection of Gus all the more poignant and understandable.

    Throughout all the books, the author’s gift for capturing authentic frontier personalities shines through his integration of historical figures like cattleman Charlie Goodnight and hunter Ben Lilly—men whose larger-than-life exploits feel both mythic and utterly believable. McMurtry’s settings pulse with life, from the unforgiving Texas plains to the brutal Mexican borderlands, creating a geography that becomes as much a character as any human protagonist.

    Ranking the Four Novels in the Series

    Ranking the four novels reveals an uneven achievement, and the order of composition tells its own story. Lonesome Dove remains the high-water mark, and not by accident—it was the first written, and McMurtry’s engagement with Gus and Call feels undiluted by everything that came after. The characters receive his fullest attention here; nothing feels like scaffolding for a later book.

    Dead Man’s Walk, the first chronologically, is a grueling read in the best sense. The historical material is strong and competent, and the ill-fated Texas Santa Fe expedition gives McMurtry a canvas for genuine brutality—the grizzly attack in the mountains between Santa Fe and Mesilla is one of the more harrowing set pieces in the whole cycle. More importantly, this is where Buffalo Hump enters, and the enmity McMurtry establishes between the Comanche chief and the young McCrae and Call reverberates through the rest of the series in ways that feel earned rather than convenient.

    Comanche Moon is the cycle’s most difficult volume to love. It meanders through the pursuit of Kicking Wolf, the horse thief whose exploits shade into something like folk magic, and the novel’s back half descends into the genuinely surreal camp of Ahumado, a Mexican-mountain despot who rules through pure terror. The book loses its way at times, and readers may find themselves losing the thread along with it. Its lasting contribution is Blue Duck—Buffalo Hump’s deranged half-Comanche son—whose menace pays off in the original Lonesome Dove and gives this otherwise unwieldy novel a reason to exist.

    Streets of Laredo, written second but positioned last in the internal chronology, is the cycle’s weakest entry and the clearest evidence that McMurtry’s attempt to return to Lonesome Dove’s characters came at a cost. An aged Call is hired to track down Joey Garza, a young sniper murdering railroad men, only to discover that the psychopathic Mox-Mox is loose on the same territory, killing simply because he enjoys it. Mox-Mox is a memorably vile creation, and his end is satisfying in the way only a truly earned comeuppance can be. But the novel’s treatment of Call in its final stretch—diminishing a character we’d spent three books coming to admire—lands with the same sour note as the recent Star Wars sequels’ handling of Luke Skywalker. It’s a legacy character put through indignities that feel less like tragedy and more like a failure of nerve about what to do with him.

    Struggles through the Books

    Yet the series isn’t without its flaws. McMurtry occasionally stumbles over continuity between volumes, and his prose—while effective—sometimes feels workmanlike when a more lyrical voice (think Cormac McCarthy) might have elevated certain scenes to the heights that they truly deserved. The emotional undercurrents that drive some of the lesser characters occasionally surface too briefly, leaving the reader hungry for deeper exploration. Some (including me) might also indict McMurty on killing off the very best character he ever dreamed up in the first novel!

    Despite these quibbles, the Lonesome Dove saga succeeds magnificently as both entertainment and (occasionally) literature. It’s a work that honors the brutal poetry of the American West while never romanticizing its violence or overlooking its moral complexities—a fitting epitaph for a vanished world and the remarkable people who shaped it.

    Interested in New Western Literature?

    Let me add before I close, my current series, “The Rim Country” is based off my love for Lonesome Dove and the history of Arizona’s Pleasant Valley range war. For a modern take on the western novel, check out Book One of “The Rim Country”

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