If you frequently listen to audio books, you no doubt appreciate how critical the narrator can be to your experience. Reference Jim Dale, the actor who so brilliantly narrated the Peter and the Starcatchers series for Ridley Pearson and Dave Barry.  This guy was amazing.  He had (for me) as much to do with my enjoyment of these books (all 4 of them) as did the authors.

The same could be said for Simon Vance, narrator of The Girl Who Played with Fire.  I strongly urge you to listen to these novels, even if you prefer a quiet sitting with the written word.  His ability to capture the essence of each character and seamlessly weave back and forth across gender, education, age, dialect, and even speech impediment is truly entertaining.

And then there’s the book itself.  I have NO idea why I’ve been sucked into this series like I have.  Aside from my comments regarding the first book, I honestly have no real investment in the subject matter, the author, or the works themselves.  At least, I didn’t when I began.  But now, I’m hooked.  I will be with this neurotic, misanthropic heroine until the bitter end of book three, which sadly is the end given the author’s untimely demise.

So what is it about this character, Lisbeth Salandar, that I find so intriguing? Good question.  To tell you the truth, I’m still not sure.  She’s tenacious. She has a photographic memory, and she’s a brilliant computer hacker.  I like all that.  I once took a strengths assessment that labelled me a “maximizer,” which basically means I look for and am attracted to the strengths in others.  Maybe that’s why I like this girl.

On the flip side, she’s rude, self-serving, dresses like a vampire, and is completely anti-social. She shuns those who love her, lives strictly within her own rules of social justice, and administers this justice without regard to law or any one else’s opinion.  This justice is also often very violent.

But if you believe that we are not accountable for our faults when they’re the result of some injustice committed against us, then she is as blameless as anyone.  She has been betrayed, abused, violated, abandoned, deceived, forgotten, dismissed, and insulted.  And this was all before the age of 13.  It gets worse from there.

So perhaps I’m rooting for the underdog.  Perhaps I’m waiting for this misfit of society to turn her circumstances around and live a “normal” life, whatever that means for her.  Or perhaps I’m hoping that she will prove for me that there is justice in an unjust world, even if that world is fictional.

Either way, you go, Lisbeth!  Just do whatever it is you’re gonna do, ’cause after a third 20+ hour novel, I should probably return to reality and actually do stuff.

And so it is my interest in – not my understanding of – most things tech that keeps me in the geek column. This is why I listened when Leo Laporte of This Week in Tech recommended the Millennium Trilogy by Steig Larsson as a great read for geeks who like a good story. He also bragged on the incredible narration of Simon Vance in the audiobook release. Well, twist my arm.

So when my monthly Audible credit rolled around, I dove into the world of the Swedish underground with book one, The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. At the same time, I discovered the Swedish film adaptation available on Netflix for instant viewing. Normally I would read the book first, then catch the movie. In this case, I’m glad I broke protocol.

The movie was excellent. The casting was spot on in my opinion having now completed the novel. The story was followed with fidelity on everything critical to the plot. There were a few variations, but that kept it interesting for me.

The plot and sub plots get a little complicated only because they take a long time to develop as one story. The movie condenses this of course. So having seen the movie helped me keep it all straight. (Remember, I’m good with people.)

Story aside, the book was interesting for a number of reasons. I’m one of those dumb Americans who thinks the whole world is just like me. So it was intriguing to watch the Swedish (perhaps simply European) way of life become a character. Dialogue (even post-translation) as well as attitudes about social structure, sex, and professional ethics, all had a distinctly different flavor than a book by Patterson, Turrow, or Clancey.

Also interesting to me was the picture of Stockholm with this seedy underbelly of corruption and crime. Not once did anyone yodel from a mountaintop. No one even yelled “ricola!”

But I can see why these novels are so popular. I’m interested to see what happens to the American film adaptation, rumored for a 2012 release. Early indications peg Natalie Portman for the lead, with the typical leading guys on the short list too (Pitt, Clooney, yada, yada).

Next up for me is The Girl Who Played With Fire. Can’t wait.

NB: These books center on characters with pretty liberal morals. Scenes are graphic and situations can be uncomfortable. Just saying, don’t buy it for your 12 year old daughter.

Honestly, I’ve never been much of a reader.  I’m more of a start, get distracted, lose interest kind of guy.  But I did just finish reading my first complete eBook. (No, it wasn’t Winnie the Pooh.) And I’m not alone.  Amazon now tells us that they’re selling more eBooks than regular books.  Author’s Guild President, Scott Turow (Presumed Innocent, Burden of Proof, et al), is worried what eBooks will do to piracy and writers’ royalties, and eBook makers are slashing their prices left and right.  So what’s the big deal about eReading?  Seems like yet another bleeding edge novelty that frankly isn’t all that new anyway.

So, I gave it a shot . . . a really good shot.  I read an entire novel, cover to cover (so to speak). More about the actual book later.  But more relevant to this post are the observations I took from this experience. As I read this novel on an iPhone 4 using the iBooks app, I noted the following.

First, the good.

1. Portability.

I’m frequently finding myself with 5-10 minutes to kill during the day as I wait on something or someone.  I call it “gap time.”  I have a routine to deal with such productivity synapses.  Email, Drudge, blogs.  But sometimes I prefer to fill my gap time with something a little less heavy, like knocking out a quick chapter of the latest Michael Crichton novel.

Carrying around one or two thick books on the off change you might catch a few pages seems a bit cumbersome. So whether you’re using a iPhone, iPad, Kindle, Nook, or any of the many other eBook readers on the market, there is something to be said for having your library in your pocket.  Just launch the app and you’re instantly right where you left off.  Viola! Five care-free minutes in some far away fictional world before being wrestled back to the land of the living. And at a footprint of 2-3 MB per book, your pocket-sized bookshelf could be roughly the size of a small municipal library.

2. Environment.

Let’s face it. Size matters, especially when it comes to text on a page.  Use an eBook and control not only the size, but also the font. (Even margins and text color are fair game on some eReaders like Stanza for the iPhone). Do you prefer stark white pages or that old crinkly paper look?  No worries.  Got you covered there too.

Prefer reading in a dark room by a dim light? Maybe you’re sitting in a doctor’s office being hammered by harsh fluorescents.  Adjust the brightness, and you’re good to go. Lastly (although I could go on), pop in your headphones, fire up the Ambient music channel on Pandora, and you’ve got music to read by. I won’t mention how nice it is to “turn the pages” on the beautifully designed iBooks app. But we could talk about that too.

3. Connectivity and Mark Up

I’m not sure why an author would insist on using a word like “verisimilitude,” but let’s say he did.  And let’s say you, like me, had no idea what that word meant.  Simply touch the word, read the definition, then continue with your book.  “Oh, so that’s what the author is saying.”

Or maybe the author sparks a question for you, one that you’re certain the Internet could easily answer.  Again, touch the word, tap “search,” and just as easily head back to your book.  Now you’ve gone from reading to actually researching. And you haven’t even put down your device.

Thanks to Mortimer J. Adler, I’ve gotten quite used to marking up my books as a form of reading.  So I was a little reluctant to adopt eReading, which seems in large part to limit my ability to employ this new habit.  That’s why I limit my eReading largely to fiction and periodicals.  But even then I’m not without means to annotate.  I can add highlights (in a variety of colors) and annotate those highlights as well.  As of the writing of this post, iBooks doesn’t allow for export of these notes, but I’m hopeful this will be a part of some future update.

4. Instant Gratification

Ah, my favorite vice.  I want it, and I want it now.  Hear or read about a new book you want to check out?  Fire up iBooks, touch “Store” and download the first chapter . . . for free! It’s like having Barnes and Noble with you all the time – second only to having Bartles and James with you all the time, assuming you’re so inclined.  (Oh, wait! Barnes and Noble has an app too!) I have now purchased two eBooks after downloading the first chapter. Others I simply delete from the library then move on.

Now, the not so good.

1. Screen Vs. Paper

Studies seem to indicate that we read faster on paper than on the screen.  Despite all the gadgets, systems, and technology designed to minimize our dependence on paper, we keep coming back to it.  We can hold it, touch it, smell it, display it on a shelf.  It makes us happy.  And I’m not giving it up anytime soon.

2. Size

Again with the size thing. But can I just say that I really wish I had an iPad?  I just can’t pretend that reading an entire novel on a 4.5 x 2.31″ iPhone screen wasn’t at times fatiguing.  My hands suffered a little more than my eyes. But it wasn’t as bad as I imagined. I got used to it.  On several occasions near the end of the novel, I sat for 30 minutes or more reading with no real taxation on my eyes, neck, or hands. Even still, I must say that a larger screen would have made the experiment more bliss and less bother.

3. Bookshelf Envy

Just because the whole world is on Facebook doesn’t mean we’re not still primarily brick and mortar consumers.  We tend to feel the need for some physical representation of the money we spend and the knowledge we gain.  If I buy a book and read it, I want to hold it. I want to see it.  Shoot, I want YOU to see it. In that light, eBooks seem so ethereal, so distant, so  . . . e.

Luckily we have websites like Shelfari, which I use to not only remind myself of books I’ve read, but to serve as a launching pad for discussion or recommendation.

Not Just For Books

Magazines

I also recently downloaded a handful of PDF magazines to my iPhone. I’m thoroughly impressed with how well iBooks handles these large, highly graphic files. Zooming in on a page is as easy as double-tapping.  Unlike other PDF viewer apps for the iPhone, iBooks zooms directly to the area you choose, not to the center leaving you to move the page around to find your spot.

I also tried Zinio, an app designed to allow you to purchase and read  magazines. I was a little disappointed by the limited selection of titles, although I understand the selection is greater on an iPad. And after using iBooks to read PDF magazines, I have to admit that I’d much rather see iTunes begin selling these through the iBooks store.  No word on this yet.  But some “unrelated” news stories are making me go hmmmm.

RSS Feeds

I’m also a big fan of RSS.  I love that I can grab the latest posts from any blog and most major websites, organize them, and read them right on my phone, or anytime I’m on the web.  I currently subscribe to over 30 feeds ranging from College Football sites, to iPhone news, to my friends’ blogs.  It’s a great way to custom-tailor my daily intake of news and information and keep it synced wherever I am.  I can also easily share what I read with Twitter, Facebook, and email.  Or I can use a great service like ReadItLater or InstaPaper to save it offline and spend more time with it later. For the record, I use MobileRSS to handle RSS feeds on my iPhone, although there are other other good options like Reeder. On the web, it’s Google Reader all the way.

In Conclusion

When I began this process of evaluation, I was excited the way we get excited by anything new. But now, on the other side, I’m excited because this works.  It really works.  I’m reading more, I’m learning more, and it doesn’t feel like a burden.  I truly believe there is a future for me and eReading.  The good news is that most analysts seem to agree.  Let’s hope this continues leading to cheaper (and better) devices, greater title availability, and new technology that makes it a little easier to walk away from those tired old tomes of the past.

Are you reading eBooks?  If so, what are your thoughts?  Obviously I didn’t cover every app or every device.  So if you have a favorite, share that too.

To my friends who may find this story less than tasteful, my apologies.
To my friend upon who’s experience this story is loosely based, you are my hero.
To other readers (all 6 of you), I hope this story reminds you (as it did me) of the following . . .

We are who we are. And that is that. So loosen up, learn to laugh, and live a little.

Wait Till You Hear This

I was in pain. This I remember well. I also remember the cold vinyl of the chair and the peculiar smell that always seemed to accompany such places. I opened the only periodical left on a nearby table, an out-dated issue of “Gastroenterology Digest.” Desperate to occupy my mind, I searched the magazine with the truly tragic title for anything of interest. Unfortunately, the publication’s personality ended just beyond the cover, and so I turned my attention to the other patrons along the walls.

Many of the patients were elderly, a fact I had anticipated. Yet at 40, I was learning that my condition was far less exceptional for men my age than I might have imagined. Far less exceptional perhaps, but no less embarrassing.

I am a discreet individual. Matters of this nature have always been treated in my family with certain furtiveness. Bodies being what they are, some things can’t be helped. However even the most unmentionable of bodily functions should be treated with dignity, if for no other reason than out of respect for those around you. My condition, however, had grown so problematic as to prevent this kind of discretion and thus had begun to hinder not only my physical, but also my social well-being.

My wait was growing more painful by the second, and I was never more relieved (a poor choice of words, I admit) when a nurse called my name. With no small amount of effort, I inched my way toward the door praying for an uneventful journey. I considered it a personal triumph to have made it past the nurse. I considered it a true miracle to have made it to the privacy of the small examining room.

Once secluded, I could stand it no longer. Almost immediately upon the nurse’s departure and the subsequent closing of the door, I relaxed my body and allowed my condition to fill the silent room. The physical relief was second only to the knowledge that I was saved from the embarrassment of an audience.

“Good one,” a voice boomed from behind. I whipped around to discover a doctor emerging from a previously concealed supply closet. I was instantly horrified, a fact which my face apparently made no secret.

“Oh, relax,” the doctor said. “You think you’re the only man to ever have gas?”

His manner was disconcertingly familiar. I would not have thought a topic as sensitive as this would have been treated with such informality, especially by a physician. This man, however, was unlike any physician I had ever patronized.

A tall man with a broad build, his hair was as white as his coat. Yet what stood out was his voice, loud, deliberate, and anything but discreet.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, trust me. Most guys I know would be proud to claim what I just heard.”

I was shocked and tried to protest. But I was not given the opportunity.

“Yes sir. I see it all in my line of work. You know what?”

He did not wait for my answer.

“I have yet to meet a man, regardless of his age, station, or sophistication, who did not laugh at the passing of gas. No sir. Premeditated, accidental, or involuntarily habitual, flatulence is funny. For a man, few truths are more universal or eternal.”

“Doctor, I . . .”

“Levon Daniels!” He stated, as if the mere mentioning of the name proved his point.

“Excuse me?”

“You want to talk about funny, now that was funny!”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Absently, he began his examination by listening to my heart.

“Levon and I went to school together down in Tuscaloosa. He and I both worked on the side for this short lanky guy. What was his . . . ? Oh yeah, Strickland. Strickland’s Piano. Anyway, there were four of us that day, including myself and Levon. We had to move one of those big baby grands. Know what I’m talking about? Stick out your tongue.”

I tried to answer yes, but “Ahhh Huuhh” was all I could manage as he looked at my throat.

“Good. Good,” he said and proceeded to search the cabinets. “All we had to do was lift this piano off the dollie and onto this truck bed for the customer, see?”

I nodded, the taste of wood still fresh in my mouth.

“Well, the customer turns out to be Franklin Ledbetter, who was buying the piano for his daughter, Julie.”

He turned back to face me and lowered his voice as if sharing a secret.

“What you gotta know is . . . Levon had been trying to turn Julie’s head since the first day of school. But what you also gotta know is . . . Levon was on the backside of the piano, holding it up like this.”

He spread his arms up and down and bent his knees slightly. The secret part of the story apparently over, he resumed at full volume.

“So Levon couldn’t see squat, right? And what he didn’t know was that Julie was on the other side of that piano waiting for him to notice her.”

Suddenly he shouted. “There they are!”

With more enthusiasm than I would have preferred, he snapped on one of the newly-located rubber gloves.

“Drop your britches for me.”

I braced myself and complied as he continued.

“So, earlier that day, Strickland got in this gift basket from the Methodist Church to thank him for his help with their new organ, see. Darn thing was full of pistachios (the basket, not the organ). So all afternoon, the four of us filled up on pistachios and root beer, which as a physician I can tell you is one toxic combination. Turn and cough now.”

I prayed that he would be silent during this part of the exam, which he was. After a few merciful moments, he disposed of his glove with a dramatic snap.

“Okay. You can get dressed now. So boys will be boys, I guess.”

“Huh,” I said at first, then “oh, yes.”

“Well, we’d been horsing around all afternoon, making the most of our” (he cleared his throat) “potency, so to speak. You with me?”

It was obvious that Levon and his potent pistachios were standing between me and a potential remedy for my condition, so I nodded. I was with him, though a wave of discomfort was building once again.

“Well, like I said, there we were ready to hoist up that baby grand when one of the boys, I think it was Dewayne or, no! It was Ritchie Blackman. Just as we lifted the piano, Ritchie let one slip. And boy did it sing!

“We could hardly hold on for laughing. I mean, it would have been funny anyway, but Julie Ledbetter was standing right there on the other side. And she was horrified.”

My discomfort was building. It was now clear that I would not make it out of the examining room without one more embarrassing episode. Normally, this situation would have been my undoing. Yet, for some reason, I was not undone. I can’t explain why except to say that perhaps the good doctor was right. Maybe there was some primordial part of me that actually found humor in this crude story, even humor in my condition. At that moment, I reconciled myself to the inevitable and just smiled. As if taking my smile as his cue, he continued.

“But the best part was ole Levon, blind as a bat behind that big keyboard and totally oblivious to it all. He cocked his head back and said, ‘Hey! If ya’ll thought that was funny, wait till you hear this one!’”

With that, I gave in to my discomfort and provided the doctor’s story with the most realistic sound effect one could have ever imagined. I’m not sure which of us was most shocked. We locked eyes for just a moment before each erupting into uncontrollable laughter.

If laughter is in fact the best medicine, then I was cured at that very moment. Whatever pretense I brought with me into the examining room that day left with the howls of amusement the good doctor and I shared. Closing my chart, he handed me a slip of paper and shook my hand.

“Good to see you today, friend.” He smiled and slapped me on the back. I returned the gesture with a smile of my own.

As I left, I took one last survey of the waiting area. Another white-haired man stood at the check-in counter with a woman who appeared to be his wife. They looked so pleasant, so comfortable with one another and with themselves. I looked down at the slip of paper the doctor had given me.

The first line was a prescription for some medicine I hoped the pharmacist would be able to decipher. The second line read simply “Remember Levon.” I folded the paper and made my way to the door. From behind I heard the nurse address the couple at the counter.

“Good to see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Daniels.” I paused for a moment; not long, but long enough to hear the words I somehow knew would follow. They came in a woman’s voice, gently, like the upper register of a baby grand piano. “Oh dear, just call me Julie.”

The End

So then what? You want to talk about it, right? Find someone somewhere who can say, “Oooo, Oooo. What about chapter three? Wasn’t that awesome?” Or even “Could you believe that trash? I mean who writes this stuff?”

If you’re like me, it’s hard to find people with whom to share these conversations. But thanks to shelfari.com, my search is over. I now have a catalog of many recent books on my reading list. Some complete, some in process, and some I honestly will probably never get to.

But I can see comments from others about these books. Others can make comments about my books. Others can make comments about others. (This is of course discouraged).

So check it out. And if you’re into 2nd Grade level Cam Jansen chapter books, I’ll meet you in the chat room.

I Remember This Tree

By Brandon Abbott

I remember this tree.

It stood way up all by itself on top of Harper’s Hill, right in the center of Knox Creek.  That tree was huge.  Bigger than life itself.  It had strong, thick branches that started low and spread out wide.  You could climb it, hide up in it, sleep under it.  It was perfect for just about anything.  I reckon everybody in Knox Creek knew that tree.  People’d come and picnic under it, play around it, lean on it.  Yes sir, that was a good ole’ tree.

We used to pass that tree some Saturdays when me and Daddy would drive out to Ule Craddok’s place to do some fishing.  Ule lived just outside Knox Creek, about 10 miles before you get to Station City. He owned what I figured was the biggest catfish pond in the whole dadgum county.  Best part was, he wouldn’t let nobody fish it ‘cept us.

Daddy said Ule fought in the War, which was why he limped around like he did.  To hear Ule tell it, he signed up for a site-seeing tour of Europe and all he brought back was a great big pain in the ass.   But he liked Daddy.  And Daddy liked him. So, ‘bout every other week, me and Daddy would get up early and drive out 71 to see about wettin’ the line with our buddy Ule.

On our way, sometimes we’d stop by at the Kwik Sack to get us some groceries.  I’d always go for an RC Cola and a moon pie (or two if I could get away with it.)  But Daddy, well he’d get him a Pepsi and a pack of salty peanuts.  Now, I don’t know what ever gave him the notion to try this, but Daddy would pour them peanuts down that bottle of Pepsi cola and drink it all down at once.  I always screwed my face up and shivered like it gave me the heebie-jeebies.  It didn’t bother me near like I let on, but it made Daddy laugh, so I did it anyway. 

‘Course, we’d always get a couple of cold drinks for Ule, too.  RC’s mainly.   We used to get him a six pack of beer, ‘cause he likes it so much.  But after a while, Daddy stopped taking it to him.  Said Ule wasn’t that kind of thirsty no more.  Back then I didn’t think much of it.  Just figured Daddy knew best ‘bout what Ule wanted.  Looking back, I reckon it was more about what Ule needed than what he wanted.

To get to the pond, we’d usually take the shortcut at Solley’s crossroads, turn right, and follow the signs for “Troy’s Taxidermy.”  Troy Hollis went to school with Daddy, but I don’t think he ever finished.  I’ll tell you what, though.  You kill somethin’; you take it to Troy.  He’ll mount that sucker so that you’ll swear it was still breathin’.

Daddy always said Troy never got along too well with the living, so it made good sense he’d take up company with the dead, animals or otherwise.  I guess animals just cause Knox Creek already had a funeral home director, and Troy didn’t own a tie or suit or nothing like that anyway.  But folks around here was always catchin’ fish and killin’ deer and drivin’ all the way into Station City to get ‘em stuffed.  So Troy figured he’d sit a sign out on 71 and send people down the shortcut past his place and stop ‘em before they ever get to town.

‘Course, even with all the fine hunting and fishing in Knox Creek, it was still pretty normal to pass by and see Troy sittin’ on the porch doing just about nothing.  Well, nothin’ ‘cept talkin’ to old Beulah, childhood friend, companion, and guard dog.  Troy’d wave.  Beulah’d raise her head just enough to let us all know she wasn’t dead . . . yet.

About the only time she ever moved at all was when Ernie Wells came around.  Ernie started delivering mail on Rural Route 2 about three years back.  And for some reason Daddy and I ain’t never quite figured out, he managed somewhere along the way to make a lifelong enemy of Beulah, the sometimes vicious yet otherwise lethargic guardian of everything  posed and stuffed.

Why, Ernie’d no sooner turn the corner of the dirt driveway what Beulah wouldn’t go near rabid trying to get at him.  Ernie swore Troy trained her that way.  Troy said he’d never bury that dog.  He’d just stuff her and mount her up by the mail box just to see ole’ Ernie piss his pants every time he tried to deliver the Publisher’s clearing house.

I don’t blame Ernie much.  Beulah was a lot like our buddy Ule.  She had people she liked and people she didn’t.  I never got too close to her, but Daddy did alright with her.  Course, Daddy did alright with just about everybody.  Folks looked up to him, I guess.  They was all the time coming to him for help or advice or whatnot.  He kind of had this way of just knowing the right thing to do.

This one time Doc Hollis (no relation to Troy) was off at a medical convention down in Birmingham.  ‘Bout middle of the week, Buck Caldwell’s little girl, Emma, got terrible sick with fever.  Now, I guess folks just can’t hardly think right when they’re all worried about their kids, but that man was flat beside himself with panic when he called the house.  To this day Mr. Caldwell will tell you if it weren’t for Daddy coming over and getting him settled down enough to think and tend to things, it might have been the end for both him and Emma.

I reckon, though, I never will forget this one night.  I woke up and heard crying in the living room.  I got up and crept real quiet down the hall to see what was going on.  I remember Jenny Brewster sitting on our couch with her three kids.  They was, well shoot, they was all younger than me.  I’d say the oldest was probably five or six.  Anyway, Miss Jenny was the one doing all the crying.  Mama was trying to tend to the kids and stay busy in the kitchen. 

Daddy was watching out the window, which I remember thinking was kind of odd.  But I reckon he knew what was coming, cause a few seconds later, he walked out in the yard and closed the door behind him.  I raced around the corner to the window in the hall.  It was dark, and I stubbed my toe.  It hurt like the dickens, but I didn’t make no sound.

When I got to the window, I saw Daddy and Charlie Brewster in the yard.  Charlie had his shotgun with him, and he was mad, stomping around and shoutin’ all crazy like.  Daddy didn’t have no gun with him.  I was a little worried, cause everybody new Charlie had a bad temper.  I knew it cause his own kids was scared of him.  And there he was in my yard, pointin’ a 12 gauge at the front door.  The only thing standing in his way was my Daddy in his pajamas.

We had this yeller porch light on a count of all the bugs.   Daddy must of turned it on so he could see Charlie comin’.  From the window it was makin’ Charlie look like some kind of demon with his pale face all puffed up and his eyes all wild looking.   In the glow of the hazy night air, you could just see the heat and the hate coming right off of him, like he was smolderin’ or something.  Right then and there, I saw just why his kids was so scared of him.

From his shoutin’ I could hear the liquor on his breath.  I thought for just a second he’d pass right out there by the mailbox.  But I was wrong.  Next thing I knew, he had the barrel of that shotgun stickin’ right in my daddy’s face.  I wished like everything I could’ve climbed out that window and helped Daddy.  I thought of Mama and Miss Jenny in the living room with her kids.  Man, I had to do something.

Daddy saw me though, out of the corner of his eye.  It was kind of dark, but I reckon he knew it was me.  I never will forget it.  He didn’t look scared.  He just smiled at me and nodded, like everything was gonna be alright.  So I stood there and watched.

Now, I couldn’t hear what Daddy said to him, but after about ten of the longest seconds of my life, Charlie lowered his gun and his head.  He wasn’t shoutin’ no more.  He just looked toward the front door, spit, and walked away.

I asked Daddy once when we passed the big tree what he said to Charlie that night.  He wouldn’t tell me.  Said that was between him and Charlie.  But just then he slowed down the car and pulled over to the side.  Then he pointed to the tree. 

“Son, you think that tree ever moved?”

I shook my head, trying to understand. I looked at the tree again, standing up there like it was guardin’ the whole town.  The sun was setting behind it, and its shadow was right on top of us.

“No,” I said.  “It ain’t never moved.”

“That’s right.  We’ve had some mighty strong winds here from time to time haven’t we?”

“Yes sir,” I said.

“But that tree’s still standing right where it always was.”

“Yes sir.”  I waited for him to keep going.  He looked back at the tree, then back at me.

“You pick your hill, son,” he said. “You plant yourself there, and you don’t move.  Not for nothing.”

I never will forget that tree.

The End

(c) 2006 Brandon Abbott

But this is so often not the case.  At least not overtly.  I know, I know.  That’s what makes it literature.  You have to think (the voice of my high school English teacher echoes in my head still today).  But you also have to study, which is what I did in the case of Light In August. At first, I thought I knew what it meant, “light in August.”  I recalled a passage in the book when Joe Christmas (while dealing with his decision to kill Miss Burden) could see the street lights from his midnight perch.  Was this about redemption?  Hope?  Was it even still August when this took place in the story?  I could have forced Faulkner into that box of interpretation, I suppose.  But what I couldn’t reconcile was how this seemed so insignificant.  At least not title-significant.  So I reserved judgement till the end of the novel, thinking I might find a clue. 

Now, perhaps I’m showing my cards a bit here.  And perhaps you’re holding the same hand.  Are you like me?  Do you enjoy literature but sometimes tire of having to think so hard just to enjoy a good book?  Do you sometimes question your intellegence because you just didn’t get it and had to refer Cliff and his notes to even understand?

Well welcome to the club. 

I found the answer (like so many times before) at Wikipedia.  As it turns out, the original title for Light in August was actually “Dark House.”  Now THIS makes sense.  The Burden place with its adjacent cabin and family cemetary just outside town where everyone believed Miss Burden to be safe but where she was eventually killed.  So much and so little takes place in and around this house.  “Dark House,” is a great title.  (NB: Apparently, this was also the working title for Absalom, Absalom.) 

So why make the change?  Having never lived (or spent any amount of considerable time) in Mississippi, I was not aware of the strange quality of light one could see during the month of August.  I was also unaware that “light” was a slang term for pregnant.  Perhaps this term is used in this context somewhere in the novel, but I do not remember.  But it seems that Faulkner’s wife remarked one evening about the light, which led the author to literally run to his manuscript and promptly change the title.

Hmmm.  Light and dark.  White and black.  Life and death.  Love and hate.  Who we are, who we want to be.  All these things come to pass in the strange light of a Mississippi August as events unfold surrounding the birth of a little baby.

Now that makes sense.

What it did not earn me was a true understanding of how this book, or any other by William Faulkner was to be read.  This is why, when I picked up this same book fifteen years later, I had no idea what I was doing.  I was expecting to read a Twain-esque account of the humor and absurdity of turn-of-the-century Yoknapatawpha, mixed with death and a few lofty social ideals.

That lasted until page two.

By chapter two, I turned the book upside down to see if it made any more sense.  Isn’t it a rule that if you use a pronoun it should be clear to what that pronoun is referring?  Isn’t it important to let the reader know with some degree of chronology the events leading up to a dialogue?  At least within 50 pages?

He (Faulkner – see, that isn’t so hard) didn’t play by the rules.  Which leads me to the first basic rule when reading Faulkner . . . get the Cliff Notes.  Or at least the online SparkNotes.  They’re very helpful for understanding at the very least concepts like . . . oh, I don’t know . . . A PLOT!!!  But this reader’s guide will also be glad to tell you how to interpret the thematic elements behind what you’ve just read (read: how to think). 

So, with the help of my online “aid,” I made it through a truly wonderful and fascinating book about the Bundrens and their journey to bury poor Adi.  Man, talk about your screwed up families.

I took some time to recuperate and re-organize my brain into proper lobe positions.  This took approximately six months, one John Grisham novel, one Nicholas Sparks novel, and a few Capote short stories.  After that, it was off to the races again.

My next project, Light in August.  First let me say that this selection was solely predicated on the availability of audiobooks through my library’s online lending system.  I downloaded the book, transfered it to my PDA (thanks to my 1GB storage card) and committed my drives to and from work to the legendary author and his strange use of the “stream of consciousness” narrative.

I’m almost done.  While it helped that the actor reading the book is VERY good, I still had to break out the old SparksNotes bookmark in my browser.  I tried, really.  But by chapter four, I was as lost as last year’s Easter egg.  But this book has a rhythm.  It has a meter that can be followed for each character.  The language changes with each dialogue, much like As I Lay Dying.  And I finally understood the one thing every reader needs to have when reading Faulkner . . .

A lot of mental RAM.

If you are like me, you like to let go of useless information to make room for new useless information.  Normally, this is OK because any other author would give you clues to keep important details at the front of your mind.  To Faulkner, everything is important.  And he will most likely give you a detail in chapter one that will not make sense until chapter seven.  If you are able to piece together the seemingly random bits of data, you will most certainly find a very interesting, if not mind-blowing connection among characters and events.

My advise, read this book.  But don’t be afraid to follow every other chapter (or every other paragraph if necessary) with a glimpse at the SparksNotes.  If you’re like me, you’ll get the hang of it after a while.  And soon, you’ll not only be piecing together what you’ve just read, but you’ll actually begin anticipating what is coming next.  (Careful, professional driver on a closed course).

If you’re so inclinded, have fun.  And remember, Faulkner is best served with a warm pipe on a cool Autumn afternoon.  (But don’t tell my wife.)