Love in the Ruins is not just Another Roadside Attraction

I awoke thinking of Walker Percy's "Love in the Ruins or The Adventures of a Bad Catholic at a Time Near the End of the World." I finished the 1971 novel late last night. It has a satisfying ending which I won't divulge. It's set five years after the main action of the novel. It wraps things up but I was still left with this thought: This is a satirical sci-fi novel about loss and grief. 

It struck me in the same way as the movie "Arrival." I had to watch the film a second time to understand the ending as well as the beginning and middle. I felt a bit dim that I didn't get it the first time around. The second time I wanted to cry. 

They gave Dr. Louise Banks the same gift the Tralfamadorians gave Billy Pilgrim in "Slaughterhouse Five." She became unstuck in time, gift from the Space Octopoids who came to warn Earth and seek our help for a future calamity. Dr. Banks saw her future tragedy but lived it anyway, a brave thing. 

In "Love in the Ruins," set in some future time, the 45-year-old Dr. Thomas More has already experienced tragedy in the cancer death of his young daughter followed by his wife leaving him. Oh yeah -- he also faces the end of the world. He does his best to assuage his grief and fear with scientific inventions, sex, and gin fizzes. Nothing works. "To be or not to be?" What does he decide?

Percy was the son and grandson of suicides. After a bout with TB during the World War 2 years, he became a doctor and then a mental patient at the same hospital. Percy suffered from Depression and PTSD just as war veteran Binx Bolling does in Percy's 1961 novel "The Moviegoer." 

He is well-known as the writer who helped publish John Kennedy Toole's "The Confederacy of Dunces," another award-winning New Orleans-set novel about an unhinged character. Toole, of course, committed suicide allegedly despondent when nobody would publish his novel. Suicide, I'm told, is more than a passing sorrow. It figures heavily in literature, especially Southern lit.

I almost quit reading this novel. Several times. It's wordy and Percy does a lot of showing off with language. In places, his humor is more Keystone Kops than dark satire. I did laugh out loud in spots. Dr. More keeps getting into messes he causes himself. A Buster-Keaton-kind of hero. 

I first read this novel when I was 23. I am now 74. In 1973, I saw it as a romp, the prof's great example of the dark humor of the ages. We also read Tom Robbins' 1971 kaleidoscopic novel "Another Roadside Attraction." That too was a romp with deep undercurrents and portents. Robbins was born in North Carolina and grew up there and in Virginia. He referred to himself as a hillbilly and his editor called him "a real Southern Gentleman." Both his grandfathers were Southern Baptist preachers. Later on, he discovered Washington state where he wrote his books. 

I should reread Robbins' novel and see how I react 52 years on. It may mean something different to me in 2025. 

A good time to ponder "The Adventures of a Bad Catholic at a Time Near the End of the World"

I am rereading "Love in the Ruins or The Adventures of a Bad Catholic at a Time Near the End of the World" by Walker Percy. He will always be a favorite of mine for his mournful yet witty 1961 novel of depression "The Moviegoer," winner of the National Book Award and considered a classic. It's well known that Percy assisted John Kennedy Toole's mother get "A Confederacy of Dunces" published. Toole left the manuscript behind when he committed suicide. Percy had many suicides in his family: his  grandfather, father, and (probably) mother. As a teen, he and his two brothers were taken in by his uncle, a poet in Mississippi. The die was cast.

"Love in the Ruins" is set in a future Paradise, Louisiana. Percy, a trained physician and one-time mental patient, spent much of his life in New Orleans, the setting of many of his novels. 

Love in the Ruins" (Open Road Media 2011 version on Kindle) was introduced to me via a reading list for a contemporary literature class taught by Phil Drimmel at Daytona Beach Community College in 1973-74 At the time, I was returning to college after two years as a college dropout and survivor of the 1969 Selective Service Draft Lottery (#128). A 1969 high school grad, I had failures  behind me as a biology major and as a Navy midshipman. I traveled some and lived in an educated northern city where I thought I might be a nursing student like my girlfriend but decided to break with the girlfriend and return to Florida and pursue the lucrative career as a fiction writer. The joke was on me, of course, but along the way I read plenty of good books. 

Percy's dark humor was a good match for the time as I also was entranced with the books of Vonnegut, Heller, and Kesey. I read Rolling Stone mainly for its gonzo journalism and National Lampoon for its wicked humor. And, like Percy's character, I was also a bad Catholic, renouncing the title of Mr. Catholic conferred on me by the Knights of Columbus in Daytona Beach at our Catholic high school graduation awards ceremony. A 50-dollar U.S. Savings Bond came with it, a little something to help with my education or writing career or maybe even some bad choices.

"Love in the Ruins" 1973 was a different read that "Love in the Ruins" 2025. I didn't really get it when I was 22. I liked the satire of this imagined future and psychiatrist Dr. Tom More's journey. I was entranced by his Qualitative Quantitative Ontological Lapsometer which reads the state of a person's soul and later is fine-tuned to read a person's mental imbalances. I was a bit creeped out by More's middle-ager's sex drive, my prudish Mr. Catholic eclipsing my own yearning for community college women. 

So I didn't get it all then. But now, I decided to pay attention to "another person's voice." That's what Borges told his students when they asked why they should read the books of others. 

This Bad Catholic is still reading this 1971 novel about an imagined Bad Catholic. I've been thinking a lot about this subject especially since Pope Francis's death. Just what is a Bad Catholic these days? Is it someone who religiously obeys every tenet of Catholic doctrine? Or all those questioners like Tom More, all those I knew from the 10:30 Catholic Community in Denver. Dutiful questioners all. 

Percy needs my attention, especially now. I am a bad Catholic living near the end of the world. A pope with the heart of St. Francis has died. The Antichrist is in the White House. Books from my past speak to me.

The book's July 3 section recounts a day in The Pit, the slang for the hospital's weekly Q&A among physicians and students. Dr. More speaks of his lapsometer. Meanwhile, a rival has arrived and hands out copies of the doctor's new lapsometer which disturbs its creator. 

As Dr. More says: "This device is not a toy. It could produce the most serious psychic disturbances... If it were focused over certain frontal areas or region of the pineal body, which is the seat of selfhood, it could lead to severe Angelism, an abstraction of the self from itself, and what I call the Lucifer Syndrome: that is, envy of the incarnate condition and a resulting caricature of the bodily appetites."

All hell breaks loose in The Pit. Male and female students glom on to each other. A professor admires the beauty in a male student's face. Fistfights break out. 

Human appetites are unleashed with the predictable results. As one of the doctors tells More: "Your device has triggered a mass hysteria. Like the St. Vitus's Dance in the Middle Ages. These are strange times." 

Indeed. Maybe it takes a Bad Catholic to write about strange times.

I am at the 71% mark on Kindle. I will finish this book. 

Trump Sonnets: The First Fifty Two Hundred Twenty Five Days w/update

Summer Friday evening: Reading sonnets, sipping saison. 

Talked to my itinerant writer/musician friend Ken Waldman this week. He called from Columbus, Ohio, a place we’ve both worked at different times with our dearly departed friend, poet and bluesman Bob Fox. Ken is at a conference and will soon set off for Seattle. A long drive, as he said, that will take him through Wyoming but not the part I live in. I shall see him another day.

Meanwhile, I have two new books by Ken to review. They are “Trump Sonnets, Volume 1: The First 50 Days” and “Trump Sonnets, Volume 2: 33 Commentaries, 33 Dreams.” The second volume is a review copy and not for sale, not yet – readers have to wait for January 2018. Both books are published by Ridgeway Press in Roseville, Mich. If that sounds familiar, it’s an indie press run in the wilds of Michigan by poet/musician M.L. Liebler. That’s the cool thing about the indie literary world – creative people doing their thing, not waiting around for permission to put their work out into the world. M.L. has been out this way to read and play music and conduct workshops. He brought me to Detroit to read.

I just started reading the first volume of “Trump Sonnets.” The first thing I noticed was a review by Grace Cavalieri from the Washington Independent Review of Books. Grace is another creative free spirit. Here’s what she had to say:

“Anything you ever thought about Trump is here. And more. And this is only Volume 1. Good thing we have the First Amendment or this dude would be an ex pat. Funny and smart though.”

I am going to include some of the sonnets on these pages. Ken said I could. I like this one from Baltimore, home to some of my relatives on Grandma Green Shay’s side:

To Donald Trump, from Baltimore 

You make George W. seem a statesman --
your opening trick. What the hell is next?
Enact bills to place your orange oversexed
visage on stamps and coins? Re-imagine
your university? Republican
top dog, you now own it all. Your context
in history: we’ve seen just how you’ve wrecked
all you touch. Give it time. The American
people is by far your biggest brand yet.
Count me in to see where it all goes.
Sue the senate, your cabinet, run up debt
to Russia and China. And Mexico –-
that wall. Soon appears some sweet young hussy
you’ll have to grab. That’s you, Donald. Fussy.

Ken has had received mixed responses from audiences. No bodily harm, thus far. He is no stranger to those parts of the U.S. that voted for Trump. He usually is referred to as “Alaska’s Fiddling Poet.” This belies the fact that Ken has published ten books, eight of poetry, and nine CDs, two for children. Ken travels the U.S., playing the fiddle and reciting his poetry and judging literary fellowships, as he did for me at the Wyoming Arts Council. He continues to roam the halls at the AWP Conference, no matter if it goes to New York City or San Diego or Austin. A few years ago in Austin, I took part in one of Ken’s off-campus hootenannies upstairs at an old theatre in the music district. We ate, played music, recited poetry and, in my case, prose. It was a fun evening. His events are off-campus because they don’t exactly fit into AWP. It’s not all academic – I’ve been to some lively readings at those conferences, some great spoken-word events. And the book fair is amazing.

But I do have to face the fact that I once represented the academy. Even worse, I was a scout for the literary establishment, a representative for a state arts agency and, for two years (in Pittsburgh and Phoenix), of the National Endowment for the Arts. These are taxpayer-funded entities (for now, at least) that dole out grants and fellowships to creative people, writers included. Ken has never won a literary fellowship, as far as I know. Neither have I, although I have been on a number of panels doling out awards to others. I can name dozens of writers, whose work I admire, who have won fellowships. I can also name others, whose work I admire, who have never won. Fellowships are not the be-all and end-all for writers. But they can give a boost to a career, make a difference between getting published and not getting published.

So, I sit in my office in Cheyenne, Wyoming, and write. I give readings, occasionally, as I did last week in Casper for ARTCORE’s Music & Poetry Series. But I write every day. I’m not sure if Ken writes every day but he sure is productive. He lives most of the year in Louisiana now – hope his place didn’t get flooded in the recent storm. He’s probably traveled a million miles across this great continent. He speaks truth to power, his latest subject the big blowhard in D.C.

Read more about Ken, and order his books, at http://www.kenwaldman.com. Buy his latest books at http://www.ridgewaypress.org 

Update 9/5/17 on ordering books: Ken sends word from Seattle that the books are not yet available on the Ridgeway Press web site. Best place to order volume one is Small Press Distribution, which is a great place to order any indie press book. Go here: http://www.spdbooks.org/Products/9781564390110/trump-sonnets-volume-1-the-first-50-days.aspx. You can also go to Ken's web site. While the second one won't be out officially until Jan. 1, Ken says that "if someone sends me a check, I'll mail them a signed book." This is the kind of can-do entrepreneurial spirit that Trump would write a poem about if he wrote poetry. 

"Tin Roof Blowdown" in Wyoming

Listened to CD version of James Lee Burke's "Tin Roof Blowdown" on my trip to Riverton last week. I've always been a Burke fan, and have read all the other Dave Robicheaux mysteries -- or maybe they should be called Southern Gothic police procedurals. They're all compelling, no matter the terminology. In "Tin Roof Blowdown," Robicheaux is sent to New Orleans to help with post-Katrina recovery. Amongst the chaos, a priest friend of Dave's disappears, some black guys looting a white neighborhood are killed by a sniper, blood diamonds are stolen from a racketeers home. Back home in New Iberia, Dave's college-age daughter is the target of a stalker. All hell breaks loose and Dave is right in the middle of it. Just the way this reader likes it.

Some critics have called this one of Burke's best D.R. novels. Not sure if I agree. Hurricane-ravaged N.O. is a terrific setting. Yet pre-Katrina New Orleans served as a suitably violent and mysterious setting for his other novels. But the author draws his characters better than almost any other detective writer. That's always set him apart from the riff-raff. What's missing from this one is the eerie Southern Gothic juju he used so effectively in "Dixie City Jam" and "In the Electric Mist with Confederate Dead." "Tin Roof Blowdown" has an edgy, urban feel to it, a tone similar to Michael Connelly's L.A. or Ed McBain's 10th Precinct in NYC.

I have to admit that I cheated a bit on this novel. Usually I get unabridged versions of novels on CD. This one was trimmed to six hours. Maybe some of the atmosphere was lost in the process.

Tale of one city, two citizens

I only caught the tail end of the Spike Lee and Soledad O’Brien special, "Children of the Storm." It looked good, but it came on here at 5 p.m. I wasn’t even off of work. That's what happens when you're living on Mountain Daylight Time.

I did see CNBC’s special on the post-Katrina hurricane recovery in New Orleans, "Against the Tide: The Battle for New Orleans." The most amazing segment came at the end. It was the tale of two corporate titans. One, a V.P. for Shell Oil who refused to let his company abandon New Orleans and its 1,000 employees. Frank Glaviano grew up in the Ninth Ward and came back to his native city after traveling the world for Shell. He thought of his employees first, rebuilding the offshore oil platforms and corporate HQ, second. Shell sponsored Habitat for Humanity homes and several big New Orleans events that helped spur a return to semi-normalcy.

And then there’s Mr. Benson, the owner of the New Orleans Saints, one of those fat-cat owners who’s trying to blackmail the taxpayers into building him a new stadium. After the Superdome was destroyed, he couldn’t wait to get the Saints to San Antonio. He had to be coaxed back to New Orleans by city and state officials who sunk almost $200 million into the Superdome. You know the story of the Saints last season. They came within one game of going to the Super Bowl. Their success jazzed up the citizenry. Probably won’t happen this year. And because big corporate sponsors have probably fled N.O. for good, and a new stadium with luxury skyboxes for the fat cats will never be built, the Saints will be gone by 2011, or shortly thereafter.

It’s just business, as the mobsters said so often in "The Godfather." But where’s the Saints’ owner’s dedication to the people of the city? It’s a hell of a deal when an oil company shows the rest of us what it means to be a good citizen.