Writers Read

The premise of Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s book on probability, “The Black Swan”, is simple: humans are poor predictors of significant future events, because of the fallacy of our narrative organizational nature, the tendency to ignore outlier markers, and because of the presence (absence?) of silent evidence.

Having never read a book on probability, Black Swan reads easily—it is full of narration, stories—itself a strange fact for a book suspicious and critical of the narrative role in information organization and categorization. Oddly, if you were to remove all the “narrative” illustration, the book would be one-tenth as long and (in my non-scientific opinion) a million times less interesting.

I suppose I could summarize the book, but that would actually be the very hubris that Taleb is so critical of. And so, instead, I’ll look at some of the fallacies of a book that is aimed at the identification of fallacies.

First, there is the fallacy of interpretation. In explaining what Taleb calls the narrative fallacy, he uses the story of an Italian Toddler in the 1970s to show how narrative compels. Taleb shows how the Lebanese people—entrenched in a period of sever war—were more in tune and engaged, more compelled, with the plight of this Italian child, thereby proving Stalin’s statement, “One death is a tragedy; a million is a statistic” (80). The problem of interpretation is that it is not uncommon for individuals in places of extreme stress to fixate on places of insignificance or personal irrelevance, as a mechanism for dealing with an immanent threat. Severely wounded soldiers have been known to fixate on unrelated events in the moments leading up to their death: worried more about the dirt on their buttons, or the mud on their gun, or a dropped photograph, than on the immanence of their own demise.

Does the Italian child offer supporting evidence for narrative fallacy? Only if there are no other postulant alternatives to why a war-torn people would care about a child some 1300 miles away. Taleb in no way accounts for these interpretive differences. Nor does he give any evidential research—of which he is so proud and insistent in other examples. Which proves one thing: the narrative fallacy isn’t just limited to the way we organize information; it’s how we use stories to prove it.

Secondly, there is the fallacy of non-equivalent comparisons. In his section explaining the problem of silent evidence, Taleb takes a journalist to task for stating that Russian mobsters were more tough and brutal because they were hardened by the Gulag. Taleb writes, “The sentence jumped out at me as…profoundly flawed…” (107) He goes on to compare prisoners in a Gulag to rats subjected to radiation.

The problem is that rats are mere physicality (body) and impulse—and radiation both weakens and kills both. Humans are both philological and cognitive—but, while radiation kills us physically, it may actually harden us cognitively (ignoring for a moment the period of time that cognition continues past exposure). Gulags were (are) harsh, corrupt and brutal prisons in Siberia—which could, but do not necessarily kill (else we would never have an ex-Gulag prisoner).

If we accept that Taleb’s comparison is accurate, we should be able to prove that to increase the amount of radiation (for the rats) and the time in a Gulag (for a Russian) proportionally with the same effects. I am certain of this: increase radiation to rats indefinitely, and 100% of the rats die as a result of the radiation. Increase the amount of time that a Russian spent in a Gulag proportionally and indefinitely, and (yes) the Russian would die (because all humans die)—but not necessarily as a result of time in the Gulag. The example of the rats would be more accurately compared to the World War II German labor camps: radiation and nerve gas are anti-life agents. Harsh conditions and environments in Sibera aren’t necessarily (in punctiliar events).

As such, Taleb dismisses that certain harsh environment can harden the will, resolve, and intent of some humans, while also breaking or killing others. Of course, he can draw this conclusion because of his carte blanche endorsement of an evolutionary framework that under girds his premises (something I’ll address toward the end). And yet—history is repute with groups, tribes, and individuals who are “hardened” by their exposure to difficult scenarios (the Islamic fundamentalists of 9/11?).

Thirdly, there is the problem of erroneous correlativity. In the same chapter of the book, Taleb writes, “Katrina…got plenty of politicizing politicians on television. These legislators, moved by the images of devastation and the pictures of angry victims made homeless, made promises of ‘rebuilding.’ Did they promise to do so with their own money? No. It was with public money. Consider that such funds will be taken away from somewhere else… That somewhere else will be less meditated. It may be privately funded cancer research…. Few seem to pay attention to the victims of cancer lying lonely in a state of untelevised depression. More of them die every day than were killed by Hurricane Katrina; they are the ones who need us the most…” (111).

Note the assumed relationship: money spent right now to feed staring and shelter exposed people, and money spent on cancer research, are equitable and equally efficacious. However, as long as humanity has been researching cancer, we have yet to have a cure. In reality, the money spent on Katrina victims does in fact (provably) provide for their immediate needs: food today, shelter today, clothing today. On the other hand, all that money spent on dying cancer patients might produce new treatments, or might develop a new line of cancer-fighting drugs, or provide more insight into the origins of cancer. Then again, it might not. At the end of that money and the cancer research, there might be nothing to show for it—nothing but silent evidence that is. Sure, the people in New Orleans might be dead from hunger, exposure, and diseases that come from stagnant water and blight—but at least we now know something we didn’t know about cancer two-hundred billion dollars ago: these treatments don’t work.

That’s the problem with temporal causality: we can’t know any other outcomes for decisions that we didn’t make—whether we call this the “road less traveled” (Robert Frost) or silent evidence. But there I go narrating again, offering cause where only data should be. Since I’m at, though, let’s at least note the narrative language Taleb uses in his own story-telling. These aren’t just people dying of cancer. They are “lonely” cancer patients, lying in “untelevised depression” (see the sensational effects of narrative on page 76).

Isn’t this a contradiction of the propensity that Taleb is so critical of? Of course it is. But Taleb is okay with contradiction. Consider on the one had his suspicion of evidence, and preferential treatment of silent evidence. While showing how predictive modeling actually allows for Black Swans, Taleb discusses a casino’s attempts to prevent loss through the implementation of sophisticated technology. However, Taleb writes, “It turned out that the four largest losses incurred or narrowly avoided by the casino fell completely outside their sophisticated models…. Conclusion…these Black Swans, the off-model hits and potential hits I’ve just outlined, swamp the on-model risks by a factor of close to 1000 to 1. The casino spent hundreds of millions of dollars on gambling theory and high-tech surveillance while the bulk of their risks came from outside their models.”

What is wrong with Taleb’s evaluation? It doesn’t account for the silent evidence to which he is so dedicated. Here’s the real question: how many millions (billions?) of dollars did the casino save through the implementation of the high-tech surveillance? Suppose they had insured against random tiger attacks and angry contractors (two of the causes of these Black Swan events) but not against loss from cheaters? Would they be better off?

It’s a question that can’t be answered—and yet it is a question that very much lies at the heart of the argument of the Black Swan. A Black Swan is any significant event that lies outside whatever system you are using for predictability. This assumes that the events that can be seen—a random tiger attack—is a Black Swan because it was big and because it didn’t fit into the model of prediction. But what if the real Black Swans—say, the total losses and collapse of the casino due to termites, cheaters, and sudden-flooding in Navada—were all avoided. In light off these things, the four Black Swans the casino actually faced were more White Swans with black speckles.

Let’s suppose that the casino risk management had taken into account four of the events that resulted in their great loss—1000 to 1. Then let us suppose that an unpredictable event results in losses 500 to 1. That becomes the Black Swan. And what if that was prevented, but an event that resulted in losses 100 to 1—that becomes the Black Swan. At what point does the ratio cease to have Black Swan effects? 50 to 1? 25 to 1? 10 to 1? Maybe the “four largest losses” are Gray Swans, or Tan Swans, or White Swans that got a little muddy, when compared to the silent evidence of what causality served to prevent. Taleb at least accounts for this early in his text when he writes about “not knowing what we don’t know”.

The final issue with Taleb’s argumentation is his aforementioned uncritical, non voco in dubium, acceptance of evolutionary theory. He becomes the myrmidon of that master, and rests much of his presuppositions. He mentions it regularly—for example, on pages 66, 67, 69, 85, 87, 94, 109, and 133 to list a few—and expounds on this philosophic-religious treaties on pages 117-118. Let it be known that in this day an age, to accept evolution as a working basis is as “clustered” an acceptance as deism was in the 15th century. All the more reason he should be critical of it.

And yet, he uses his argument from silent evidence to surmise the existence of humanity, and life in general: “Consider our own fates. Some people reason that the odds of any of us being in existence are so low that our being here cannot be attributed to an accident of fate… However, our presence in the sample [emphasis his]completely vitiates the computation of the odds… The problem here with the universe and the human race is that we are the surviving Casanovas [emphasis his]… So we can no longer naively compute odds without considering that the condition that we are in existence imposes restrictions on the process that led us here” (117-118).

The argument is a classic tautology. Regardless of the outcome, the conclusions would be the same. If we were a planet of one non-reasoning (single-celled) life-form, we would be the lucky 1%. But as we are a planet of such vast, diverse, and disparate life-forms, we are nevertheless still just the lucky 1%. There can be no proof for the supposition: we are the proof. And if we find life on another planet, that too is the proof.

It’s at this point that we see Taleb stray farthest from his philosophical-mathematical predictive modeling. Despite his dismissal that “there are so many significant dangers to worry about down here on the planet earth,” Taleb has a religious—as in narrative explanation of causation concerning the presence (or lack there) of life—agenda.

Taleb writes, “We are not manufactured, in our current edition of the human race, to understand abstract matters.” I disagree. Our problem isn’t abstraction. Our problem is that, as temporal beings, time and causation are linear. Maybe in the newest Star Trek movie, Admiral Spock and rogue Romulans can go back in time, destroy Vulcan, and utterly rewrite history. For the rest of us, there is only what happened (and what is). And what happened either has no meaning—the collection of words glued together to constitute a 500-page book” (68)—or it means something—like his own book.

To apply this further, Taleb’s assessment must account for the possibility that the words of his 368 page book (plus indices and notation), randomly thrown together could become his book—without his help. Without the help of any author. Without error or mistake or omission. (Ironically, his book isn’t even without error or omission—can you find the missing “have” in the first section of the book?)

In summary, if what happens (visible evidence)—even in the origins of life—matters, then maybe data isn’t the most basic and unrefined (raw) assessment of reality, and narrative just a computational corruption of that information. Maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe data only results when there is narrative causation which can be striped of detail and hermetically isolated for study. Maybe it isn’t our dependence upon narrative, but our misinterpretation of it, and our further error-ridden reduction of that interpretation into spreadsheet data that is the greatest cause of Black Swans (158).

For an easy and mostly understandable explanation on why we’re in the financial problems we’re in—you won’t do much better than F.I.A.S.C.O. Written by Frank Partnoy, once a emerging-markets derivative seller for Morgan Stanley, the book walks through in plain English the principles and approaches that have shaped the investment banking industry over the last 15 years—with these remarkable observations: legalized corruption, personal greed, and lifestyles of profane excess.

What are derivatives? Partnoy explains, “A derivative is a financial instrument whose values is linked to, or derived from, some other security, such as a stock or bond.” Derivatives come in one of two forms: options or forwards. “An option is the right to buy or sell something in the future… A ‘forward’—is the obligation to buy or sell something in the future.” When you buy or sell something, you are either capitalizing on current or forfeiting future appreciation in value. Derivatives have at their heart the selling of borrowed goods—something you don’t own, and will have to pay back.

This only begins to tell the story, because you have to add in to this mix the use of bonds. Bonds are really nothing more than an IOU with interest. Your city or a local company or the Federal Government issues bonds (debt). You (or somebody else) give them money with the guarantee that over a preset period of time the principle loan amount will be repaid plus interest. The extent to which a city or a government is likely to be able to pay back the bond is reflected in the rating it receives. Hence, rating agencies play the part in assuring you and me (and Japanese buyers) that they’ll get their money back.

If all of this starts to sound confusing—it’s no wonder. Partony regularly describes coworkers in the structured derivative division as “rocket scientist.” He gives, as example, the saga of the PLUS 1 from 1993—a structured deal that allowed a Mexican bank to borrow billions more than it could repay. Partony writes, “Banamex asked several U.S. investment banks whether it could remove some undervalued and illiquid inflation-linked bonds from its balance sheet without actually selling them… Banamex wanted to exchange the bonds for cash so that it could invest in something else, but it didn’t want to sell the bonds because it would have to book a loss from the sale.”

And so man’s greatest art—the art of deceiption—takes over. Partony, by his own admission, as an employee of Morgan Stanley, helped Banamex take their very risky peso-linked bonds (debt), partner them will very stable US Treasury Bonds (debt), and put them in a trust in the Bermudas which then turned around and sold it all to unsuspecting Americans—with the trusted stamp of AAA rating. Partony writes, concerning this financial trickery, “Morgan Stanley was taking precisely the same steps drug deals too to evade U.S. regulators.”

Where there isn’t outright trickery and deception, there was flagrant gambling. In describing one trade, called a Three-Year Currency Protected Sterling Inverse Floater—Partony writes, “Because this note was an ‘inverse floating rate’ note, the payments on the note moved in the opposite direction as the interest rate reference in a formula…” He goes on to say that this note “wasn’t merely any old LIBOR rate. In this case the referenced rate was called the Two-year Constant Maturity Sterling Swap Rate. The two-year swap rate is the fixed interest rate offered on an interest rate swap if you agreed to pay a floating rate of LIBOR flat.” Confusing? Partony sums it up: “Basically, by buying this note, you were betting that British interest rates would decline. Except, as with other notes, instead of placing this bed directly, you would be betting indirectly in the most unbelievably convoluted, complex manner possible.”

As with all gambling—the house has the advantage. Here is no exception—for whenever Morgan Stanley, or another investment bank, had monies tied up in one side of the complexly structured financial instrument, they would hedge against losses by buying (or, conversely, selling) the opposite. It’s like you going to Harrah’s—betting the house that gold will go up by $5 in the next week—and pay to lock in the current rate. What you don’t realize is that Harrah’s owns or controls 90% of the gold above the ground. They can afford to dump tons of it just for the sake of driving the price down, to keep from having to sell it to you at the increased rate, thereby earning the profit from your fees paid.

Another insightful passages: “The term ‘hedge fund’ clearly was a misnomer because hedge funds typically didn’t hedge. Instead, hedge funds were overseen by risk-seeking, off-shore investment managers who placed some of the biggest best in the bond market.”

While F.I.A.S.C.O unveils the government-approved (and regulated—via Moody’s and S&P) gambling of the investment banking industry—it does so in a narrative, and occasionally vulgar and risqué manner. When Partony’s coworkers aren’t “ripping someone’s face off”—a term used to describe legalized thievery, they are really gambling (at casinos), or engaged in alcohol induced sexual activities. Though these passes are rarer, the profanity of language throughout is raw and intense. And why not? When you have made it your goal to make as much money as possible through financial trickery—there is no god but your desires and impulses.

In a word—the problem that faces us as a nation—is “borrowed.” Investment banks have been allowed to gamble with borrowed money. That money first came from mutual funds, hedge funds, corporations, and communities. And yet, once begun, the gambling impulse is so all-consuming that the successful bets will never offset those that failed. And when the bets of this money went south, all that remained was to borrow more money—from Uncle Sam.

Eventually, the art of deception utterly corrupts, or begins to appear corruptible. Where Bernard Madoff was corrupted utterly—and would continue the farce as long as the environmental conditions would allow, with absolutely no intention of ever changing his practices—the dehumanizing fatigue wore Partnoy out.

After a season in Japan, he returned to the States. He writes, “When I retuned to the U.S., I was completely disillusioned. Three years earlier…I knew nothing about derivatives or structured notes or RAVs or ripping people’s faces off. Some of my friends even thought I was a nice guy…. I now believed everything was a fraud, and I had a well-founded basis for my beliefs. Derivatives were a fraud, investment banking was a fraud, the Mexican and Japanese financial systems were frauds… The value system I had acquired in recent years included shooting at clients and blowing people up, all in the name of money.”

Where is human morality? Where is compassion? Care for the weak? Concern for the frail? A belief that to hold the trust of others is the greatest investment of all? Partnoy writes, “For most people in the financial services industry, their job is morally ambiguous. That’s the only way to survive. I believed mine was, too. Moral ambiguity is fine, especially when your salary is increasing. However, when I began to think, unambiguously, that what I was doing with my life was fundamentally wrong, I simply couldn’t do it anymore. I had no choice but to stop.”

In the end—the emptiness of deception reveals its ugly head. In the end, Dorian Gray hated the image in the picture. And if there is a moral from all of this, it is the old proverb which—if practiced—would have kept us from this debacle in the first place: the borrower is slave to the lender. Foolish in his own pursuits, Shakespeare’s Polonius at least got this right, “Neither a borrower nor a lender be; for loan oft loses both itself and friend…” How much more a society, which—when all its lenders be lost—will have nowhere to turn?

In The Preaching of Jonathan Edwards, John Carrick seeks to provide a comprehensive analysis of the preaching of this renowned New England philosopher, theologian, and pastor. Although there have been significant studies of Edwards’ philosophical, theological, and pastoral contributions, there has been little scholarly reflection upon his homiletic legacy (20). In order to compensate for this deficit, Carrick thoroughly analyzes Edwards’ homiletic content, form, structure, style, and rhetoric. The Preaching of Jonathan Edwards is an invaluable resource for the expository preacher because it provides a constructive, comprehensive, and practical study of the legacy of this illustrious preacher.

As a homiletics professor at Greenville Presbyterian Seminary (Taylors, South Carolina), Carrick provides a constructive analysis of Edwards’ preaching. Carrick evaluates Edwards’ preaching from a variety of angles including history, theology, philosophy, and rhetoric. Moreover, Carrick’s book avoids the perils of hagiography. Even though it would be easy to overlook the mistakes of this remarkable preacher, Carrick is not afraid to identify the weaknesses of Edwards’ preaching. For example, although he agrees with Edwards’ theology of hell, he warns contemporary preachers from employing detailed embellishments of this biblical doctrine (50). Also, Carrick avoids the common stereotypes of Edwards’ preaching, and he remains sufficiently nuanced throughout his presentation. Refreshingly, Carrick is careful, analytical, and sober in his evaluation.

In addition to the critical and constructive components of Carrick’s study, his book is also recommended on account of its scope. Carrick seeks to provide a comprehensive analysis of Edwards’ preaching, and he is successful on all counts. Specifically, the book considers twenty-six different aspects of Edwards’ preaching. Each chapter of the book examines one of these characteristics. From substance to style, from doctrine to illustration and application, from preparation to delivery, Carrick leaves nothing unexamined. Carrick carefully explains and evaluates each part of Edwards’ homiletic, including strengths and weaknesses. The book is surely a landmark study for its sheer comprehensiveness and scholarship.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly for the expository preacher, Carrick’s book is immensely practical. Moreover, the practical impact of this book exceeds the final chapter, which is exclusively devoted to the subject of contemporary relevance (449-460). Throughout Carrick’s evaluation, he provides helpful pointers for students of homiletics. While he warns young preachers about slavish imitation (457, etc.), he also encourages them to follow the example of Edwards in the many areas in which he proves to be the American evangelical preacher par excellence.

So then, for its constructivism, comprehensiveness, and practicality, this book should be on the shelf of every American preacher who is committed to the sacred task of biblical exposition. In many ways, this book is the perfect antidote to an evangelical church that is wasting away on pragmatism and anthropocentrism. If contemporary preachers would rediscover the God-centered preaching of Jonathan Edwards, the North American church would experience a spiritual renewal of immense proportions. Carrick’s book, then, is a clarion call for expository preachers to learn from one of the greatest spiritual giants of American evangelicalism. In this way, this book is highly recommended for the seminarian and the experienced pastor alike.

Review by Logan Almy

It does seem that there is a certain younger section of the Church in America who has lived rather prosperous lives, and have been relatively free from hardship and discomfort of any sort—unless you count a dropped cell phone signal as hardship. I am from a generation that has had very many things handed to it that previous generations either did not enjoy, or had to struggle for a long time to enjoy. Mixed into this setting are all the medical advances that God in His common grace has allowed His creatures to enjoy. Life spans in America are increasing. These factors have combined (at least in my life,) to give me a distaste for lack and loss.

James W. Bruce in his work, From Grief to Glory, speaks into this situation with an honesty that can only be gleaned by experience. Bruce chronicles some of the heartache of the saints who have experience both lack and loss through the death of a child. Bruce weaves his own story between letters, poems, and hymns dealing with three broad areas: The actual loss of the child, the grieving process, and thoughts on how a person’s grief may be used to comfort others.

I happen to think that one of the schemes the enemy of our souls tricks us with is isolation from other believers. My personal issues seem to loom larger because I have the tendency to think that they are unique to me. I was encouraged to read the accounts of suffering endured by those in the recent history of the Church. Luther, Calvin, Melanchthon, Spurgeon, and Bach all experienced loss of children and appear in the pages. Learning the lives of the saints of the past provide a meaningful connection to the Church historic and puts flesh on the bones of the saints that can appear flattened because we remember them most for their theological and ministerial accomplishments. Knowing that loss of child is a family affair, Bruce includes writings from many women as well. Bruce even includes a chapter touching on helping children grieve the loss of a sibling. ‘When death comes to a family, a young child is unable to judge the true source of comfort; the parent must judge for him.” Included in this chapter is a short lesson for children written by Bishop J. C. Ryle.

In a day when humanity looks on events in the world challenging the notion that God is in control of all things, I was refreshed by how the suffering and loss was viewed as being from the providential hand of God Himself. ‘It is certain that these events are under divine oversight and direction; we would do well, therefore to submit to God, and quietly resign ourselves to His control in every season of adversity,’ said Melanchthon as he used his experience of grief to comfort another. Dabney when speaking of his loved one said, ‘I know that death cannot touch them unless my Heavenly Father, who orders everything for me in love and wisdom sees it best.’

In writing a book of this nature which will no doubt not ever receive an endorsement from Oprah, (which says nothing of the merits of the book itself, which are many,) Bruce has taken his own advice and is comforting others with his own story and with the comfort God Himself has given.

Review by Rev. K. Chris Curtis

Publisher: Banner of Truth Trust
Publication Date: 2008
Rating (1-10 scale): 7+

Anytime I hear the term "liberal" these days, I'm not sure what to think. On the one hand, the word can mean a number of things that are threatening to orthodoxy, or it can mean some things that are actually very good. On the other hand, I wonder if the term has served its purpose, and no longer is the broad-sweeping inclusive category that it once was. So when I received my copy of A Handful of Pebbles and saw that it was subtitled, "theological liberalism and the church," I wondered which of these it would be.

Fortunately, author Peter Barnes is quick to define what he means by liberalism, even granting that it can sometimes have good associations-- yet qualifying how the liberalism he intends is that which is a threat and challenge to biblical orthodoxy. What follows is Barnes's summary of what liberalism is, how it came to find its way into the church, and how an orthodox Christian ought to respond.

This small book offers a brief history of the rise of liberalism in the church, and it does a fair job of that. The first half could be an outline to a historical theology class, if that class focused exclusively on the rise of heresy and philosophical departure from orthodoxy. I appreciated some of the discussion about key doctrines, especially, and thought the content in the couple of chapters given to the problem of "what do we do about it?" were helpful, at least in a limited way, to give the reader some idea about why theological liberalism is at odds with orthodox Christian beliefs.

However, at the end I was left with a nagging question about who the intended audience for the book is. If it is for pastors or professors, it is far too thin on history and foundations to be of great use; It clearly is not intended as an academic reference. If, on the other hand, it is intended as an apologetic for liberal thinkers, it is likely too thin on refutation and discussion of problems; only the most willing and self-skeptical liberal would be convinced by this little tome.

The best audience I can think of for this book is the average church member in an evangelical church, who is himself/herself already committed to orthodoxy; for this person, it would be a good introduction to the indicators of liberal theology and their problems. I could see it being especially useful to put in the hands of a "liberal church refugee," stepping into an orthodox church after years of having the edge taken off of his or her beliefs. Or perhaps it might be a good tool for church officers, who may at times encounter mild or vague questions along the lines of what this book answers.

At times the tone of the book is a bit too defensive or even aggressive. While this may be justifiable given the subject matter, it undermines the brief urging at one point of approaching those in error with love and forbearance. I would have liked a bit more gracious attitude in a book like this.

Overall, I appreciated A Handful of Pebbles, even if I felt it was appropriate for only a limited audience.

Hunger—that nagging, empty, gut-tugging, bone aching, heavy, and exhausting insatiability. That is the unsatisfying hunger of Hemmingway’s The Garden of Eden. It is the story of a newlywed couple, David and Catherine Bourne, insatiable in their hunger—famished for breakfast, dying for lunch, starving for dinner. And a drink—always some alcoholic drink: whisky, beer, wine (of a thousand brands), Armagnac, and absinthe. And the sexuality of their marriage bed.

But it is a dark hunger—unsatisfied. A hunger that finds hinted-at expressions of the unnatural. Catherine longs to be the boy. She longs David to be the girl. And they make the game of it—in the dark of their room. But what is done in secret will be revealed. It is—and she is discontent. There is one more secret yet to be had by the unsatisfied Catherine, one more desire to find fulfillment, one more experience to try, one more mores to break. Always one more attempt at happiness.

But the loneliness of the empty soul is a dark hunger satisfied only with great difficulty, by an ancient love. Catherine seeks to be as dark as an African, with hair so white that it becomes almost colorless when wet. And in her pursuit of darkness, she never finds the end of those troubled ways. Contentment remains a handbreadth away—while the darkness is always closer than that.

“…Now there is this disregard of the established rules which can very well be the salvation of the whole coast. We are pioneers in opening up the summer season which is still regarded as madness.” Human salvation never is. The trust of wealth promises. The lure of the siren raises echoes of brokenness not to be healed in the pursuit of the vain. And the empty heart, like an empty bottle, is all that remains after drinking the vanity of the earth.

“I thought you might be lonely,” David says to his wife of three months—after they have ventured too far down the roads of marital contentment.
“I was.”
“Everybody ‘s lonely,” David said.
“It’s terrible to be in bed together and lonely.”
“There isn’t any solution,” David said. “All your plans and schemes are worthless.”
“I didn’t give it a chance.”
“It was all crazy anyway. I’m sick of crazy things. You’re not the only one gets broken up.”
“I know. But can’t we try it again just once more and I really be good? I can. I nearly was.”
“I’m sick of all of it, Devil. Sick all the way through me.”
“Wouldn’t you try it just once more for her and for me both?”
“It doesn’t work and I’m sick of it”
“She said you had a fine day and that you were really cheerful and not depressed. Won’t you try it once more for both us? I want it so much.”
“You want everything so much and when you get it it’s over and you don’t give a damn.”

Brokenness is empty. This kind of soul hunger will not be filled with the ordinary kinds of food and drink. Hemmingway drew long from the draughts of promise—till in the end there was nothing, for him, for David, for Catherine…for any who set upon such paths. Vanity? Yes. And the revelation of a modernity now nearing the exhaustion of age and waste and trying.

“All your plans and schemes are worthless,” the heart says.
And with a desperate voice we hear ourselves reply, “Oh, but to give it one more chance.”

Confession time.

I started the book expecting interesting things – but after a few chapters, I found myself wondering why anyone would ever pay for this carnival of the obvious. The book is Give it Up: My Year of Learning to Live Better With Less by Mary Carlomagno. It had caught my eye in the bookstore. While I was at the library the other week picking up another volume, Carlomagno’s book winked at me from the shelf. I couldn’t resist the flirtation, so I picked it up and checked it out.

It’s no surprise the seductive appeal the very title had for me: after reading Crunchy Cons, I hungered to simplify. Indeed, I was putting that desire into practice by making use of the Library rather than the local peddler of pulp paper products. The dust jacket tantalized me with small talk:

“Like most people, Mary Carlomagno was stressed out, overscheduled, and tripping over the clutter of her days – until she decided to take control and simplify her life. Each month she renounced one thing: alcohol, shopping, elevators, newspapers, cell phones, dining out, television, taxis, coffee, cursing, chocolate, and multitasking. During the course of the year, Mary took stock of her life, discovered what was really important, and gained a deeper appreciation for the world around her. Give It Up! chronicles Mary’s life-changing experiences and provides a commonsense blueprint for anyone looking for a fresh start and a new outlook. It’s about simplifying your life, cherishing every moment of it, and celebrating what is truly important.”

Thus I committed. By the end of the first chapter, I realized that this wouldn’t be a relationship, but a one-night stand. Carlomagno described her challenges in giving up alcohol for a month – a challenge because in New York, apparently everyone socializes over alcohol (except, perhaps, when they’re socializing over coffee – as she explores in a later chapter). She describes an over the top drunken New Year’s Eve party and then the social anxiety that her choice to give up alcohol for a month creates. Now this is from a person who’s somewhere close to my age (she describes herself as “mid thirties”). I pretty much gave up that scene, oh, well over a decade ago (well before I went to seminary).

Then we were into shopping. Shopping?? You have to give up shopping? (I looked back at the dust jacket – indeed, shopping was there – I must’ve missed it while I was being seduced by the concept) Wow, for me that’s like giving up …. Flossing. It’s a pain the keyster, but you have to do it every now and again – but you can get by on a lot less than you think you do.

From that chapter, I could only see flaws in this book – giving up television? (again, I checked the dust jacket – yes, it was there. I must’ve been blind to miss it) Sorry, I kicked that one a while back too – without any angst. I just didn’t see my life suffering from not seeing Richard Hatch’s naked behind during the first season of Survivor (and obviously, if it’s such a cultural phenom, I’ll hear about it from other sources anyway). Coffee, cursing and chocolate? Giving these things up brings deprivation? Come on.

I began to believe that this author lives in a parallel universe of hipster Manhattanites running about from meeting to event, their uber-bright teeth flashing as they quite cleverly chatter about vanity. Perhaps this was really never-never land filled with Lost Boys and Girls – refusing ever to really grow up, but wandering about in perpetual self-indulgence. Don’t get me wrong, I have as much issues with self-control as the next guy, but I’m not peddling a book for $14.95 claiming that the story of my little struggles against chips and salsa will give you deep penetrating insights into leading a more fulfilling life!

And there in never-never land, I met the enemy within; my own personal Captain Hook, if you will: Self-control (Calvin tells us that the essence of the Christian life is self-denial). Carlomagno’s little book reminds me that in our land of plenty, the struggle for self-control is the daily struggle for us all. I have no claim to superiority here.

Facing this shadow within, I realized that the mirror was turned about on me; I thought it best to go back and look at Carlomagno’s conclusions again. There’s more there than a pithy “moderation in all things” message. She makes a pretty radical turnabout on Television and Shopping – drastically cutting down on both because they are cruel masters who howl for your soul, and give a happy meal toy in exchange. She extols the virtues of home-prepared meals, wonderfully reminiscing on her grandmothers’ and mother’s cooking lessons. The chapters on Elevators and taxis urged meditation on knowing your surroundings and being prepared for circumstances. The chapter on cussing caused her to think about and be more intentional in all her speech. Finally, the chapter on multitasking led her to the insight about focusing all your energies on the present moment and embracing it fully.

None of these concepts are new. While the book prompted me to self searching, it really only gave me one new idea – the idea of fasting for a month from something that I enjoy that for spiritual reasons I need to lay down for a season. Neither can I commend the book to Writers Read readers. My guess is that if you are here, you have attained a far greater level of maturity and stability than the intended audience of this book.

However, all that means is that the book isn’t really for you. Right now there’s some college graduate who desperately needs to read this book before she gets caught up in the vanity of the offerings of the world. She needs to read this before she racks up a five grand visa bill and before she wastes her life with cardboard people holding semi-diverting conversations over martinis in a hazy bar. There’s a young man who needs to read this book before he posts his expletive laden comments about a drunken adventure on his Myspace page. He needs to read this before he turns 50 and realize that he knows more about the exploits of the characters on Lost than he does about his own wife. If this book exposes, in a somewhat winsome and lighthearted way, the vanities of the world, then all to the good, for our culture glories in vanity.

Perhaps, if nothing else, it may goad us to be more thoughtful and intentional in our words and deeds. And if so, then my hats off to Carlomagno, and my thanks for her efforts.

Soli Deo Gloria
Russell

Rod Dreher, a former writer for National Review and current editor at the Dallas Morning News, has shaken the seemingly united front of the conservative movement in America through this timely, thoughtful, yet at times preachy book. Political strategists from both parties should read this text for helpful insight into a great swath of the electorate. As I've discussed this book on my weblog and among friends, I've encountered both negative reaction and the blank looks of those who consider Dreher's ideas to be commonsense. Yet the ideas do stir the mind and provoke conversation.

Dreher began working with this theme when, while working at National Review, he told a co-worker that he was leaving work to pick up food from the neighborhood organic food co-op, to which said co-worker replied "Ewww, that's so lefty."

This reply puzzled Dreher, for he believes that this personal lifestyle choice is congruent, even derivative, from the very conservative principles that he held to. He began to write articles about being politically and philosophically conservative, and yet making lifestyle choices that are traditionally associated with liberalism (organic food, environmentalism, new urbanism, anti-consumerism). As he published his pieces, he received scads of emails, letters, phone calls, and cries of solidarity from conservatives across the country who felt as he did -- thus the book was born.

After defning the mindset, he weaves his way through chapters on topics such as Consumerism, Food, Home, Education, and The Environment. Along the way he introduces us to Rush Limbaugh listening Organic Cattle Ranchers, Slow Food Movement groups, Arts and Crafts principles of architecture and design, highly educated homeschooling mothers who elected to leave power careers to invest in the next generation, and Republican environmentalists who seek both sound economic principles and wise environmental stewardship. It's a dizzying tour of concepts and ideas that drew me to repeated visits to wikipedia for more information.

Dreher writes not as a political theorist, but as a popular "citizen essayist" who is telling stories and sketching a broad trend. Herein lies the real strength and weakness of the book. While telling stories, Dreher writes with an intoxicating flair that draws us into the passion and committment of his subjects. However, to tie the stories together, he must make connections and conclusions -- and at times he sounds annoyingly like an angry bearded social critic. Even so, on the whole, his tour of ideas and people living them out is interesting and thought provoking.

Of particular interest for me was his chapter on religion, in which he posits that a tie that binds this crunchy-con movement is religious commitment, particularly that of a traditional bent. In the interest of full disclosure, he gives his own "testimony" (in a story that is worth the price of the book) and then follows an extended journey through four lives who've been enriched through returning to deep faith traditions. I found this to be a fitting bedrock upon which to build the lifestlye convictions that Dreher presents.

All said, this is a fine read, and could be useful for promoting conversation and reflection in small groups or book clubs.

Russell

Margaret Lea lives a quiet life, finding solace and company in the old books she loves and a vocation in helping run her father’s antiquarian bookshop. One day she receives a letter from a stranger she has never met before--the famous and reclusive author, Vida Winter. Margaret has never read Miss Winter’s books, though she knows of her popularity. She also knows that Miss Winter has told a different tale of her life to everyone who has ever interviewed her. She is more adept at spinning stories than some of us are at breathing. My gripe is not with lovers of the truth but with truth herself, Miss Winter writes.
What succor, what consolation is there is truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? . . .What you need are the plumb comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie.
Yet something is haunting Miss Winters, and the need to Tell the truth is consuming her. She has chosen Margaret to write her biography. Her true biography. Intrigued in spite of herself, Margaret is pulled into a past that is all-consuming, drawn into the warp and weft of Miss Winter’s story. And as Margaret slowly pulls Miss Winter’s story into the light, it becomes a kind of cathartic release for her own secret that is gnawing at her.
Part gothic tale, part detective story, and part biography, this intricate tale pulls together the events of the past with startling revelations for the present. The presence of certain books, like Jane Eyre and The Woman in White, heighten the supernatural overtones and provide insights into the characters’ motivations. Thoroughly engrossing, The Thirteenth Tale is a seductive and thought-provoking read, and the themes and beautiful cover makes it at home on any booklover’s shelf.

(Caution: This book contains intense themes and elements, and I recommend it only for mature readers.)

For whatever reason, I'd always rolled my eyes at the fact that author Dean Koontz was so popular. Maybe it was the frequency with which his novels came out that bothered me (how can writing so fast be any good?); maybe it was his name that made me wonder (what kind of a name is "Koontz" anyway?). Whatever the reason, I never planned to give him or his books the chance to make their case. However, after finishing my first Koontz novel, the case has been made succinctly: the guy can write, pure and simple.

With a so-simple-it's-brilliant plot, snappy dialogue that would easily transfer well to the big screen, and characters who are as believable as they are likable, Life Expectancy is a literary dramedy with equal parts tension and humor that make for a frantic and fun ride through the blessed/cursed life of Jimmy Tock, pastry chef.

Born at the exact same time as his grandfather's passing (and just after the old man's prediction of five specific future dates that would be "terrible days" for Jimmy), Tock tells the story from the first person perspective (a vantage point I usually don't like in fiction, but Koontz pulls it off well), recounting in detail the aspects leading up to and surrounding each of his particular bad days. The story's peaks and valleys rise and fall with the proximity of the past or next approaching date, and you can almost feel yourself gearing up along with Jimmy and his family in preparation for what might come.

Along the way, Koontz introduces us to a colorful cast of characters - Jimmy's parents, lovable and actually functional, despite their keeping baker's hours and caring for their ultra-opinionated Grandmother Rowena; Konrad Beezo, the killer clown with revenge on the brain, who has much to do with Jimmy's five terrible days; and Lorrie, Jimmy's eventual wife and mother of his children, who comes off as witty, beautiful, and smart as Jimmy repeatedly says she is. (Note: Others are involved, but mentioning them would spoil the plot; rest assured, more personalities means more fun in Koontz's world.)

The story ebbs and flows in all the right places, the surprises (and there are several) are genuine, and the ending is both satisfying and sweet, wrapping up a strange, silly story you'd never believe, except for the fact that Koontz makes you believe it through his storytelling. This is what page-turning bedtime fiction is and should be.

The first paper I was assigned to write in seminary had to do with Lesslie Newbigin's book, Proper Confidence. A now deceased bishop in the Anglican church in the 20th century, Newbigin's theology and views on biblical innerrancy have been important in academic discussions, and we were to engage them by comparing them with the more conservative evangelical theologian, B.B. Warfield. In reading the book, I postulated that B.B. Warfield and Lesslie Newbigin have more in common than any conservative or liberal evangelicals would be willing to say.

Of course, Warfield and Newbigin wouldn't have agreed on everything, and this doctrinal divergence is not to be minimized. Newbigin's assertion in Proper Confidence that Christian missions were a pawn of Enlightenment thinking or that apostolic knowledge and authority was no different than our knowledge and authority today are just a few examples of what would not have lined up with Warfield's more conservative and positive views of missional and church history. Suffice it to say, there would be others.

Newbigin would not have advocated a fundamentalist mentality of infallibility with regard to the Bible's transcription and translation processes; indeed, miniscule and non-message-changing copyist errors (among others) exist. But is this pursuit of the "affirmation of the factual, objective truth of every statement in the Bible" to prove the authority of the Word of God what Warfield was calling for when he spoke of inerrancy? Upon comparison, it doesn't seem so.

In the midst of the hypothesis-happy Enlightenment times of the 19th century, Warfield maintained a very non-modern call for "a 'presumption' of the truthfulness of Scripture among God's people," contrasting "exactness" with "accuracy" and striking a difference between a statement being a "rendering of details" instead of a "principle intended to be affirmed." In essence for Warfield, study meant nothing without meaning.

One hundred and fifty years (and an enormous postmodern paradigm shift) later, Newbigin declares roughly the same need for the same presumption: "Truth is not a fruit of freedom; it is the precondition for freedom." Newbigin then goes on to say that "demonstrable certainties" are not evidences of faith as much as a relationship with the object of that faith is: "I do not possess the truth, so that I do not need to be open to new truth; rather, I am confident that the one in whom I placed my trust, the one to whom I am committed, is able to bring me to the full grasp of what I now partly understand."

Historically speaking, we must remember that the concept of inerrancy was not an issue in pre-modern times; rather, its quest as a demonstrable quality in the Scriptures came in response to classical liberalism of the Enlightenment. As Warfield's resistance to the modernist argument for objective proof was important then, Newbigin's voice 150 years later was as well, "It is unreasonable to set up an opposition between observation and reason on the one hand, and revelation and faith on the other...The universe is not provided with a spectator's gallery in which we can survey the total scene without being personally involved."

Newbigin stands with Warfield and his call, not for objective rationale or fundamentalist infallibility, but for an accurate and trusting approach to the Bible, in its intention in what it says, and in the Divine Author who spoke it into being. After all, as Newbigin alludes to above, in conducting the experiments of life, we ourselves may be scientists of a sort, but we are also specimens in the Petri dish. And, like it or not, the Creator's given documentation (the Scriptures) is both for and about us. Warfield and Newbigin wouldn't have said it any differently...and, from my vantage point, didn't.

I'm ashamed to admit it, but Bob Dylan's autobiographical first volume is my first real association with him. I knew he was a good songwriter, having heard enough of his songs (or at least enough covers of his songs) to generally agree; I knew he aspired to be a disciple of Woody Guthrie's (though with the exception of remembering "This Land Is Your Land" from elementary school chorus, I'm not sure I know much about Woody himself); and I knew he was married and had kids (his son, Jakob, is my age and lead singer for The Wallflowers, whom I like).

Here's what I discovered about Dylan: he is well-read in Beat authors like Kerouac and Ginsberg who defined so much of his coming of age, but also in classic and even contemporary authors; he is far more diplomatic in his politics and perspectives than I thought (especially in light of some of his songs, protest and otherwise); he has very much the heart of a family man, relentlessly trying to shield his wife and children from much of the press and publicity his music garnered and recoiling from the limelight whenever possible even today; and he is quite thoughtful and articulate, a real departure from so many of his slurred-lyric live performances and tired-looking appearances.

As a book, Chronicles, Volume One is a quirky, non-linear, amazingly detailed memoir of Dylan's early start, set mostly in New York and with a cast of interesting characters that rivals good fiction. Though the names and gigs get a little redundant after a while, Dylan's passion for songs - lots of them and good ones - is what struck me, as did his passion and teachability to do everything he could to learn more and more before he really ever started writing them.

As a respite from recalling the early years (made difficult as Dylan doesn't do that great of a job recounting any kind of chronology of significant events), the book makes a strange leap ahead to Dylan's late-80's career, including his involvement with Tom Petty and The Traveling Wilburys, but particularly focusing on the recording process of his New Morning album with U2 producer Daniel Lanois. This period of time (at least in this volume) was most interesting, as Dylan's recounting of all that the writing, rehearsing, and recording process is and was illustrates how much this man loves music.

Thankfully, reading Dylan write about his life makes me feel better about my lack of understanding of the person and artist as, according to him, everyone else in the world seems to have been as clueless as well. In essence (and as he has always been called), Dylan is indeed very much an enigma, one I look forward to figuring out a bit more through a new interest in his music and (eventually) his next volume of memoirs.

One of my favorite things about Amazon is the lists compiled by readers on any given subject. I have found some of my favorite books by typing in an author I like, then looking at what other people read in the same genre. It was in this way that I stumbled upon The Beacon at Alexandria by Gillian Bradshaw.
Charis of Ephesus is not your typical 4th century maiden. When we first meet her, she is not occupied with sewing, makeup, or polite conversation. Oh no, she is busy dissecting a bird to see how it died. Instead of worrying about romance, poetry, or entertainment, she is busy avoiding charges of alchemy, borrowing her brother’s medical books, and taking any chance she can get to play doctor. Unfortunately for Charis, playing is all she’ll ever be able to do. The life of a wealthy young woman does not include the study of medicine.
Unlike so many strong heroines, Charis is not overly rebellious. She has a strong mind, and is completely absorbed in the study of (well, desire to study) medicine, but she is not the annoying and anachronistic modern girl simply placed in an ancient setting. While the path she takes is unusual for her time, it does not interrupt the historical tone and place. But I digress.
When her father comes under the suspicion of the new governor Festinus, the household is thrown into disorder. Charis’ quick thinking helps smooth the situation over, but not without drawing Festinus’ attention to her. With his social position at the mercy of Festinus, her father submits to his wish to marry Charis. Charis and her brother are both outraged, for they are aware of Festinus’ less than savory reputation.
Enlisting the help of her brother, Charis decides to flee. And while she’s at it, she decides she might as well go to Alexandria to study medicine. Except for that one small problem: women aren’t allowed to study at the great Alexandrian schools. Ever resourceful, Charis disguises herself as a eunuch and (having money makes it easier) contrives to make her way secretly to Alexandria.
But Charis quickly learns that no doctor wants to bother to train a eunuch (known throughout the empire for their cupidity and social climbing). Discouraged and dejected, she is unsure what to do—until she meets a Jewish doctor with sympathy for outcasts. As Charis becomes part of his family, she fashions for herself a hard but rewarding life of friendship, learning, and the satisfaction of helping others. As her reputation grows, she is pulled into the political and religious strife of Alexandria when she becomes physician to Bishop Athanasius. From the high society of Ephesus, to the erudite traditions of Alexandria, and finally the untamed edges of the empire, Charis’ determination lends her the strength necessary to find her own calling in life. But while she’s happily building a life for herself, the foundation of lies on which she’s founded it are crumbling, threatening to destroy everything she’s worked for. A completely wonderful and engaging read; now one of my favorite historical fiction books.

John Piper and Justin Taylor (two Reformed Baptist fellows I greatly respect) have put together (and written some of) this book of essays on a proper Christian view of sexuality. Now, before you say, "Right, right, we've heard this all before; stay a virgin until you're married and you'll be fine, etc." But marriage is more than a license for moral sex, and, I would argue, sexuality involves a heck of a lot more than staying chaste. (Unless, of course, you define "chaste" in the old way--quite simply, it means staying sexually pure, whether you're married or not. But I digress.)

The first two chapters, written by Piper, start with the point that God created sex as a way for us to know Him. In other words, it's meant to be about HIM, not us; it's a God-glorifying, God-knowing activity. And that makes a lot of sense, after all--sexual and marital metaphors are used throughout the Bible to describe the relationship between God and His people. This knowledge in turn is the starting point for sexual purity; without Him, after all, all our attempts and efforts at staying chaste are pointless. The gospel and the supremacy of Christ, Piper argues, is to be at the center of all things, and "all things" of course includes our sexuality.

Ben Patterson, another pastor, writes on the beauty of sex within marriage--it's beautiful, he writes, because the God who created it and sheltered it for between a husband and wife is good and beautiful. Pleasure belongs to Him; the world can only distort it. (He goes on this fantastic riff about Song of Solomon--who says exegesis can't be pretty?) He tops it off with an exploration of the theological and spiritual ideas found in sex, one of the most interesting (to me, anyway) being that we lose ourselves in the other in order to find ourselves.

The next section of the book deals with spiritual and emotional healing for those who have been either sexually promiscuous or sexually violated. David Powlison, in the first chapter of this section, begins with some honesty; as fallen people, we all have some dark places in our sexuality. For the believer, though, God brings light to those darknesses--in our desires, in our pain, in our guilt, He shows mercy. He fights our wars and He sanctifies us (even though it takes a while). Powlison shows different areas where that war is fought (in fact, most of the time it isn't even just about sex). There's a lot of practical stuff in this chapter, and a lot of it can probably be applied to other sins, too.

(A side point: I love that he mentions that women struggle with lust, too, not just men, and that sexual sins can happen in marriage, too. Those issues aren't addressed nearly enough in the church, and it shows.)

Al Mohler switches gears a bit and brings us a chapter on homosexual marriage. While he makes a lot of excellent points, including some on gender and sola scriptura, a lot of it feels like stuff we've heard before, and it's sort of out of place in the context of the rest of the book (not quite, but sort of). It still has quite a bit of good to say

The next two sections are about male and female sexuality. Each section contains a chapter for singles and a chapter for married people, and a lot of it is full of fairly practical (if somewhat repetitive) advice and thoughts, including some nifty charts! (Don't ask; read it for yourself and you'll see what I mean.) And a lot of it works for both genders, if only to get inside the head of the opposite sex.

The book concludes with a section called "History and Sex", composed of thoughts from Martin Luther and the Puritans on sex and marriage.

Overall, this isn't just a book about sex, but its place in the drama of redemption and the glory of God. Highly recommended by this reader (and it might even be required reading for my fiance before we get married).

In Magical Thinking, the fourth book by Augusten Burroughs, readers are taken on an eclectic ride through “true stories” from the life of the author. Though occasionally funny and often boring (with attention to minutia bordering on obsession), and even at times raw with honesty; nevertheless, the book reads more like the pre-pubescent tales of a child who never grew past the point of self-absorption.

The opening pages set the tone of the book, wherein Burroughs uses expletives and profanity to such degrees that readers are (intentionally) numbed. Burroughs choice of raw vulgarity in expression and description loses all effectiveness by page three, leaving little in the way to indicate change in tone, manner, ethos, or disposition. Even his graphic descriptions of “remembered” events—true, if they are to be believed—sound more like an adult reinterpretation of childhood events—intuition sprinkled with imagination—than history.

In the brightest moments, the book reads like a tabloid, full of tales about “volunteer” (e.g. charity) sex. In the dullest moments, it reads like “Seinfield meets Prairie Home Companion” through the eyes of a man lost: lost to himself, to dignity, and to honest introspection. Not that there isn’t introspection. The book is ripe with it, but Burroughs “honesty” is so dressed up in homosexual encounters and the monotony of a life fixated on male AOL personals that one can’t help but be tempted to skip large sections.

Throughout the book, Burroughs dresses up his life as best as possible. But at key moments, the façade falls away to reveal a life disorganized: piled with papers, empty beer cans, and longing that goes unfulfilled from one sexual encounter to another. Usually he hides his longing in sarcasm and sex. When it becomes visible, the longing is poignant and bitterly hopeless. The utter indifference he experienced from his mother would have warped anyone. The belittlement he suffered from his brother in childhood stings even my heart: “…my brother treated me as not just his younger brother, but his ‘borderline retarded’ younger brother. In fact, this is exactly how he introduced me to his friends: ‘This is my younger brother. You can just ignore him: he’s basically retarded’” (172).

Burroughs is most honest about his human condition—the suffering, the hurt, the rejection, and the childhood longing to be loved of parents and peers—when not trying. Honesty: “It wasn’t so much that I wanted to be a girl. It was that I wanted to make a dramatic change in my life… I was in the midst of an unhappy childhood (emphasis mine).” (26) Honesty: “When I turned thirty, I briefly flirted with the notion of undergoing sexual reassignment surgery. Once again, I was ready for a big change in my life… (emphasis mine)” (29). [I]t wasn’t like I was unhappy being a guy. I really liked being a guy. It’s just I was bored with my life and wanted a change (emphasis mine)” (30).

Burroughs’ (often) rose-colored memories stand in sharp contrast to the earthy grit of the images that flow from between the boisterous language. His descriptions of the world are a throwback to elementary school ideals and pubescent descriptors: everything exists only in relationship to the sexual parts of his (or other people’s) bodies. It is almost as though Burroughs never grew past that point in childhood where the world revolved around him, and every sentence began with “I”. Self accolades are not rare, and a picture of Burroughs takes shape—a picture, that is, as much self-absorbed (e.g. as in the utterly pointless twaddle in the chapter titled “Roof Work”) as it is obsessive-compulsive and a hypochondriac.

The term Magical Thinking “is used by historians of religion to describe one kind of non-scientific causal reasoning” (Wikipedia). In the chapter by the same name, Burroughs makes himself the “Superman meets God” of causation: “I believe I control the world with my mind” (234). “…I can manipulate the external influence in my life as surely as I can make a baby cry just by grinning” (238). His description of God is sad at best and foolhardy at worst: “I believe in the baby Jesus. And I believe he is handsome and lives in the sky with his pet cow. I believe that it is essential the cow likes you. And if you pet the cow with your mind, it will lick your hand and give you cash. But if you make the cow angry, it will turn away from you, forget you exist, and your life will fall into shambles. I believe as long as the cow likes you, you can get what you want” (239). One should not be surprised by the casualness and preposterousness of such claims. The pride of any man has always been the road of his greatest defeat and indignity, a gnawing fact that chews at Burroughs’ thoughts at the base of his brain: “I myself am made entirely of flaws stitched together with good intentions” (110).

Magical Thinking is not even an uncommon voice (and far from outstanding) among the tomes about the glorious ruin of man’s endeavors. Better written and more honest engagements with the modern tone of suffering and brokenness is easily found in the best sellers of Amazon’s book lists: a sad fact that reduces Magical Thinking to just another book by another author drunk on the wine of his own narration.