SHERLOCK The Essential Arthur Conan Doyle (reVIEW)

This review would have gone out sooner, but, you see, there was the case of the holidays.… And one is the wiser for not taking it in stride, unless one delighted in guilt-tossing, drama, excommunication and loved ones. Honestly, though, I would rather toss myself in bed—which, now that I think about it, might have been what actually held me. But this isn’t about me.

What can I say, but, being that this is the first edition of Sherlock I have ever laid my hands (and eyes) on, quite literally—I have only a vague notion of the scope of the ever-expanding Holmesian world, further shaped by the very fandom it created, which has spawned countless adaptations all across the media, chief among them being the current hit BBC series? Why anything I should say make a “pennyworth of difference” to Sherlock devotees who, I imagine, own attics full of treasures, if not libraries, on the “unofficial consulting detective” that could topple even the most impressive “mind palace” like Magnussen’s? Regardless, I must admit: this is a celebration for committed followers and new admirers (I’m in) of the arguably (in)famous, invincible, enigmatic, evasive, eccentric genius of a sleuth—if slightly,  no, precisely off-the-center and obsessive-to-the-point-of-psychotic, and rightfully so: after all, it is a “high-functioning sociopath” we follow, isn't it? But what to tame the beast of Baker Street and his exacting spirit that he does not self-destruct without our consent? Well, that calls for a different sort of strength, if a complementary and not necessarily an equivalent, opposing force, embodied in the gentle(r), steady(ier) mien of the ex-army captain, Dr. John Watson, who is no stranger himself to frailties and danger. Deferential in manner (out of high regard for his companion), the doctor’s power of observation is no less sharp. Of his early assessments of Holmes, he asserts: “[His] smallest actions [are] all directed towards some definite and practical end.” (“A Study in Scarlet” 21) Which may very well be the case in our world, let alone the sleuthing world, since “there is nothing so [sic] unnatural as the commonplace” (“A Case of Identity” 208)—lest we be left totally bereft of meaning, which, fortunately, isn’t the case the last time you (and I) checked(?), I’m assuming; and which brings to mind a simple notion: that we all need someone to look after, who watches over us for a sane balance, and if for nothing else but the sake and “science of deduction”—no? But let’s save all my guesswork for another time.

SHERLOCK The Essential Arthur Conan Doyle Adventures should make a happy addition to the fandom and an excellent starter edition for more mature readers of all ages. I only wish that co-creators Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat (considering their seeming dedication to the Conan Doyle canon and their level of involvement in the BBC adaptation) had written a more substantial piece for each selected title, instead of pitching in a few phrases, which seems somewhat inadequate in presenting such masterpieces, but that’s just me. Nonetheless, the Victorian cover is no small treat, featuring Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch as the partners-in-crime in the BBC series—now, if that isn’t awesome as whipped icing on a cake! But the book’s true value, of course, lies in its content: Doyle’s detective tales—all 19 of them—including the first ever Sherlock adventure, “A Study in Scarlet”; the least adapted “A Case of Identity”; and the ever famous, “The Hound of the Baskervilles.” The legendary author’s prolific work spans sci-fi, romance, poetry, plays, and crime fiction, the latter of which had earned him his rightful place on the literary stage. Like his fictional character Watson, Doyle was a doctor, which served instrumental to his writing: he wrote as he waited for patients.

As expected of Doyle’s detective stories, this tight collection is steeped in secret codes, false identities, seeming trifles, misinformation, and misdirection to keep the suspense going alongside the sharp-as-the-banters crime fighting amid endless red herrings—highlighting, yet again, just what makes Holmes’ and Watson’s team-up so highly appealing. Watch, it may just sling you back on the track of quick wit and a newfound perception to start your year, perhaps. Hey, everyone can hope! Now let’s hear it from Holmes:

“[A] man's brain … is like a little empty attic [that you stock] with such furniture as you choose. […] It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. […] It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones.”

Interesting point. Only I’m not so sure it works, especially at family gatherings…. Though we might get away with texting.

Not to drown you in more asides, well, maybe just a little—especially those of you who haven't read the book (nor watched the series), which I find rather shameful if you claim to be a lover of clever characters; though it is also quite a relief to know there are worse readers than me who are slower to jump in the bandwagon, whatever their reason. Blame the “most unimpeachable Christmas goose….” Or, in my case, the Tofurky that flapped its distracted wings from one holiday to the next, not realizing, again, that it is holiday in itself when one immerses in a really good story. This is in no way a disregard of the sometimes-amusing-if-not-awkward-or-all-out-disturbing tales shared at the dinner table, where one might just catch a carbuncle, and blue at that…. Which is why one still puts up with family traditions.

Having tossed enough nods to the book, I leave you with the following excerpts from one of my favorite episodes in the series instead. Loosely adapted from the original tale, “His Last Bow,” which unfortunately didn’t make it in the set (and which I haven’t read yet), “His Last Vow” is the most festive (beside the “The Adventure of The Blue Carbuncle”), though I have not the time to prove my case. Meanwhile, here's to Holmes! And to Watson whom I (we) can only wish to forever remain the intrepid chronicler of their everlasting (mis)adventures! Again, we can always hope, plus it’s the New Year and Season 4 is up! So, delay no more and be a hound like Holmes! Just don’t hound the turkeys, as did the hound of the Baskervilles…. Happy sleuthing! Let me know when you’ve jumped in! Cheers!

Watson:               But it's Christmas!

Holmes:               I feel the same. Oh, you mean it's actually Christmas. Did you bring your gun as I suggested?

Watson:               Why would I bring my gun to your parents' house for Christmas dinner?

Holmes:               Is it in your coat?

Watson:               Yes.

Mycroft:                Also…your loss would break my heart.

Sherlock:              What the hell am I supposed to say to that?

Mycroft:                Merry Christmas.

Sherlock:              You hate Christmas.

Mycroft:                Yes. Perhaps there was something in the punch.

Sherlock:              Clearly. Go and have some more.

Magnussen:          Everything's available for a price. You making me an offer?

Sherlock:              A Christmas present.

Magnussen:          Then what are you giving me for Christmas, Mr. Holmes?

Sherlock:              My brother.

Sherlock:             Oh, do your research. I'm not a hero, I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Merry Christmas!

Like I said, this review should have been posted sooner. Oh, but the holidays…

SHERLOCK The Essential Arthur Conan Doyle is published by Pegasus Books; jacket design by Two Associates with photo from Hartsford Films.

The Sorceress

I finally had the time to read The Sorceress, and had my fill indeed, at least for the time-being until I get my hands on the next book. As with the previous books, this third sequel in the fantastic tale, The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel, is an exhilarating ride right from the start, as monsters-in-disguise chase the protagonists through St. Pancras Station to the Sorceress’ escape from Alcatraz. This edition equally brims with mounting battles, surprising turns, unforeseen alliances, and unexpected encounters, on top of endless references to legendary characters, both fictional and factual, if you can handle a bit of information overload. The Saracen Knight, Shakespeare, and Gilgamesh all turn up this time amidst an onslaught of some of the most grotesque creatures to ever emerge in any mythical realm—sea-creatures, flesh-eaters, vampire breeds, the Horned God, wolf-men, and other beasts, dog-like, bear-like, goat-like, and definitely unlike we’ve ever seen before. Even the fabled Virginia Dare and Billy the Kid make their devious appearance alongside the enemies, as well as "normal-looking humans which are "the most frightening of all" for Josh Newman. I’m very curious about how this incredible epic will be translated onto the big screen. I’m hoping that the filmmakers come close enough to Scott’s literary creation and not lose the story in its immensity, which seems common to big productions getting too caught up in their hullabaloos.

As the race to save or destroy mankind heats up, the Flamels still haven’t recovered the book of Abraham the Mage from their adversary, the English Magician, and so continue to age significantly and weaken. Meanwhile, their time to protect the human race runs grim as the summer solstice, Litha, draws near. On that day, the twins’ auras will have reached their full strength as the barriers to the Shadowrealms weaken, thus enabling the Dark Elders to unleash inconceivable horrors to wipe out humanity and reclaim the world. Sure enough, Dee and Macchiavelli get desperately busy in their pursuit of the Flamels, the twins of legend, Sophie and Josh, and the last two pages of the codex for the Dark Elders, or risk their own immortalities. But of course, the Alchemist and the Sorceress have other plans than to simply surrender or drop dead. As Perenelle attempts to escape the monster-infested prison through her cunning and great sorcery, Nicholas must prevail in having the twins fully trained in elemental magic before it’s too late. But their next lesson is with a mad, old King, which could be quite troublesome. Even more problematic is the twins’ growing distrust of the evasive Alchemist, which surely doesn’t help ease the situation, though it certainly makes for a more intriguing plot. Then, there’s Clarent, Excalibur’s twin sword, to further complicate the matter. As Josh slowly realizes Clarent’s dark influence, Dee’s desire for it only deepens, especially since he already possesses the other blade. And while the strengths of both swords are unmistakable, the force that they could yield together is unthinkable, particularly in the hands of one with an insatiable thirst for knowledge and power, like the Magician. The swords' existence poses a new question: could they be the prophesied “two that are one”?

Deeper twists unravel as the events in this blazing saga unfold—events that surely don’t come without a fight. Yet even with its never-ending battles, at the heart of this fascinating story are timeless themes that reveal humanity's ongoing inner struggles for hope in the darkest hours, perseverance through the most difficult obstacles, courage against the most formidable foes, empathy for even the most dubious characters, forgiveness for the grossest wrongs, a chance of redemption for the offender, trust even when no one seems worthy of it, loyalty amidst great uncertainty, the bonds of families and friendships, and ultimately, the good of mankind, not self-preservation, but a genuine concern for life. Like all other insightful narratives, this story challenges the conventional view and blurs the line between good and evil. Michael Scott has yet again brewed an enchanting concoction, a true “conjugation”, a perfect equilibrium of magic and history, because “at the heart of every story is a grain of truth.”

The Tenth Letter

“…I can only wish that you trustingly and patiently allow that grand solitude to work in you. It is no longer possible to be erased from your life. It shall be immanent in all that you experience and all that you do. It will act as an anonymous influence, akin to how ancestral blood constantly moves and merges with our own and links with that of the individual, never to be unlinked. It is gently decisive at each crossroad of our life…

…Art also is only a way of life, and we can, no matter how we live, and without knowing it, prepare ourselves for it. With each encounter with truth one draws nearer to reaching communion with it, more so than those in unreal, half-artistic careers—by pretending proximity to art. All those in the field of journalism and nearly all critics do it, as well as three-fourths of those engaged in literature, or who wish to call it that. I am glad that you have overcome the danger of being caught up in such a realm, and that you are somewhere in a rugged reality alone and courageous”

The Ninth Letter

“…It is always my wish that you might find enough patience within you to endure, and enough innocence to have faith…that you might gain more and more trust in whatever is difficult for you, in your aloneness, among other things. Allow life to happen to you…life is right in all cases.

…All feelings that integrate and inspire are pure. Impure is the feeling that touches only one side of your being and is tearing you up so…Everything that causes you to be more than you have been in your best hours is right. Every advancement is good if it pervades your whole bloodstream, when it is not due to intoxication, not due to being conditioned to sadness, but to transparent joy…

You doubt can become a good attribute if you discipline it. It must become a knowing; it must become the critic. Ask it, as often as it wishes to spoil something, why something is ugly. Demand proof of it, test it, and you will find it perhaps perplexed and confused, perhaps also in protest. But don’t give in; demand arguments. Act with alertness and responsibility, each and every time, and the day will come when doubt will change from a destroyer to become one of you best fellow workers, perhaps the wisest of all that have a part in building your life. …of life and death…both are great and wonderful.

The Eighth Letter

***The first three letters were posted in "10 days of Rilke 'til Christmas" in December 2009. Unfortunately the rest of the ten letters weren't posted by then, so here's the rest of this very profound writing for your enlightenment.

Letters to a young poet
Rainer Maria Rilke

“…You have encountered many very sad experiences, which by now have passed…Please, dear friend, think about this: Did not this great sadness rather pass through you? Did not much within you change?…The only sad experiences which are dangerous and bad are those that one reveals to people in order to drown them out. Like illnesses treated superficially and incompetently, they retreat and, after a short pause, break out even more intensely. They gather together within the self and are life. They are life unlived, ridiculed and scorned…

…I believe that nearly all our griefs are moments of tension. We perceive them as crippling because we no longer hear signs of life from our estranged emotions. We are alone with the strange thing that has stepped into our presence. For a moment everything intimate and familiar has been taken from us. We stand in the midst of a transition, where we cannot remain standing.

And this is the reason the sadness passes: the something new within us…has entered out heart…into its innermost chamber and is no longer there either — it is already in the blood. And we do not find out what it was. One could easily make us believe that nothing happened; and yet we have been changed, as a house is changed when a guest has entered it. We cannot say who came; we shall perhaps never know. But many signals affirm that the future has stepped into us in such a way as to change itself into us, and that long before it manifests itself outwardly.

Therefore it is so important to be alone and observant when one is sad. The seemingly uneventful moment, when our future really enters in, is very much closer to reality than that other loud and fortuitous point in time, when it happens as if coming from the outside. The quieter and more patient, the more open we are when we are sad, the more resolutely does that something new enter into us, the deeper it is absorbed in us, the more certain we are to secure it, and the more certain it is to become our personal destiny…our evolvement will gradually go in that direction: nothing strange shall befall us, but rather that which has already for a long time belonged to us.

…it is possible that we shall gradually learn to recognize that what we call fate emerges from human beings; it does not enter into them from the outside. It is only because so many did not absorb their destinies while they lived in them, did not transform them into themselves, that they did not recognize what emerged from them. Their fate was so strange to them that in their confused fright they believed it must just now have entered into them. For they swore never before to have found anything similar within themselves. As people were mistaken so long about the movement of the sun, so it is that people are yet mistaken about the movement of what is to come. The future stands firm and still…but we are moving in infinite space.

Why should we not encounter difficulties?
To return to the subject of aloneness: It becomes increasingly clear that it is basically not something we can choose to have or not have. We simply are alone. One can only delude one’s self and act as though it were not so — that is all. How much better…that we concede we are solitary beings… Our minds will certainly reel at the thought, for all points on which we could heretofore focus shall be taken from us. There is nothing near and familiar left us; everything is in the distance, unendingly far away.

A person would have a similar feeling, were he…taken from his home and placed on…a high mountain. It would be a feeling of unequaled uncertainty — a vulnerability to a nameless something would nearly destroy him…

Some of these changes cause many to lose all perspective…as with the man on the pinnacle of the mountain…But it is necessary that we experience that also. We must accept our existence to the greatest extent possible; everything, the unprecedented also...That is…the only case of courage required of us: to be courageous in the face of the strangest, the most whimsical and unexplainable thing that we could encounter.

The fact that people have been cowards in that regard has caused infinite harm to life. The experiences that one calls ‘ghosts,’ the entire spirit world, death, all these related things have been forced out of life through daily resistance to such an extent that the senses with which we could grasp them have become atrophied. And that is not even considering the question of God.

The fear of the unexplainable not only impoverished the existence of the individual, but also caused the relationships of one person to another to be limited…For it is inertia alone that causes the unspeakably monotonous and unrenewed human condition to repeat itself again and again. It is the aversion to anything new, any unpredictable experienced, which is believed to be untenable.

Only he who can expect anything, who does not exclude even the mysterious, will have a relationship to life greater than just being alive; he will exhaust his own wellspring of being… …every uncertainty fraught with danger is so much more human. It is the same uncertainty that motivated the prisoners in Edgar Allen Poe’s stories to explore the form of their terrible prisons and not be a stranger to the unspeakable horrors of their presence there.

But we are not prisoners. There are no traps or snares set for us…We are placed into life, into the element best suited to it. Besides, through thousands of years of adaptation, we have acquired such a resemblance to this life, that we, if we stood still, would hardly be distinguishable from our surroundings. We have not reason to mistrust our world, for it is not against us. If it has terrors, they are our own terrors…if we fashion our life according to that principle, which advises us to embrace that which is difficult, then that which appears to us to be the very strangest will become the most worthy of our trust, and the truest.

How could we be capable of forgetting the old myths that stand at the threshold of all mankind, myths of dragons transforming themselves at the last moment into princesses? Perhaps all dragons in our lives are really princesses just waiting to see us just once being beautiful and courageous. Perhaps everything fearful is basically helplessness that seeks our help.

You must not be frightened…when a sadness arises within you of such magnitude as you have never experienced, or when restlessness overshadows all you do, like light and the shadow of clouds gliding over your hand. You must believe that something is happening to you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand. It shall not let you fall.

Why should you want to exclude any anxiety…grief…melancholy from you life, since you do not know what it is that these conditions are accomplishing in you? Why do you want to persecute yourself with the question of where everything comes from and where it is headed? You do know that you are in a period of transition and wish for nothing as much as to transform yourself. If some aspect of your life is not well, then consider the illness to be the means for an organism to free itself from something foreign to it. In that case you must help it to be ill and to have its whole illness, to let it break out. That is the course of its progress…

…Do not scrutinize yourself too closely. Do not draw conclusions too quickly from that which is happening to you. Just allow it to happen. Otherwise you might easily begin to look with blame…upon your past, which, of course, is very much a part of everything that you encounter now…The influences of the vagaries, the wishes and the longings of you boyhood upon your present life are not the ones you remember or pass judgment on. The unusual conditions of a lonely and helpless childhood are so difficult, so complicated, vulnerable to so many influences, and at the same time so distant from all real connections with life, that, whenever a vice may have entered, one may not simply call it a vice. One must, in any case, be very careful with that nomenclature. It is often the name of the crime upon which a life shatters, not the nameless and personal act itself at all. It might have been a definite necessity of this person’s life, of which he may simply have availed himself.

The expending of effort seems so important to you only because you value victory too much…It is not the ‘great thing’ that you believe to have achieved, even though you have a right to your feelings. The great thing is that there was something already present—and you were allowed to substitute it in place of your misconceptions—something true and real. Without it your victory also would have just been a mere moral reaction without meaning. As it is, it has become a chapter in your life…

Do you recall, from your childhood on, how very much this life of yours has longed for greatness? ...That is why it does not let up being difficult, but that is also why it will not cease to grow.

The Seventh Letter

***The first three letters were posted in "10 days of Rilke 'til Christmas" in December 2009. Unfortunately the rest of the ten letters weren't posted by then, so here's the rest of this very profound writing for your enlightenment.

Letters to a young poet

Rainer Maria Rilke

“…It is the best of your verses that I have had the privilege to read. …now I shall give you my copy of them, for I know that it is important…a new experience to find one’s own work again in someone else’s handwriting. Read these verses as though you had never seen them before…you will feel…how very much they are your own…

…Do not allow yourself to be confused in your aloneness by the something within you that wishes to be released from it. This very wish, if you will calmly and deliberately use it as a tool, will help to expand your solitude into far distant realms. People have, with the help of so many conventions, resolved everything the easy way, on the easiest side of easy. But it is clear that we must embrace struggle. Every living thing conforms to it. Everything in nature grows and struggles in its own way, establishing its own identity, insisting on it at all cost, against all resistance. We can be sure of very little, but the need to court struggle is a surety that will not leave us…The fact that something is difficult must be one more reason to do it.

To love is also good, for love is difficult. For one human being to love another is perhaps the most difficult task of all, the epitome, the ultimate test. It is that striving for which all other striving is merely preparation. For that reason young people — who are beginners in everything — cannot yet love; they do not know how...Thus to love constantly and far into a lifespan is…heightened and deepened aloneness for one who loves.

Love does not at first have anything to do with arousal, surrender, and uniting with another being — for what union can be built upon uncertainty, immaturity, and lack of coherence? Love is a high inducement for individuals to ripen, to strive to mature in the inner self, to manifest maturity in the outer world, to become that manifestation for the sake of another. This is a great, demanding task; it calls one to expand one’s horizon greatly. Only in this sense, as the task to work on themselves…and to listen, ought young people use the love granted them. Opening one’s self, and surrendering, and every kind of communion are not for them yet, they must for a …very long time gather and harbor experience. It is the final goal, perhaps one which human beings as yet hardly ever seek to attain.

Young people often err…since it is their nature to be impatient…

…They lose perspective and limit opportunities…Society has known how to create every kind of refuge conceivable. Since it is inclined to perceive love…as entertainment, it needs to display it as easily available, inexpensive, safe, and reliable, just like common public entertainment…

…Questions of love are personal, intimate questions, from one person to another, that in every case require a new, special, and an exclusively personal answer…

…Whoever will seriously consider the question of love will find that, as with the question of death…there is no enlightened answer… not the hint of a path has yet been found…no comforting principle…none finding general agreement.

But to the same degree that we as individuals begin to explore life…these deep things surface for each of us in greater intimacy…the difficult work of love demands of our evolvement overwhelms us; it is larger than life. We, as yet beginners, are not equal to it. If we persevere after all, and take this love upon us, accepting it as a burden and a time of training, instead of losing ourselves to the frivolous and careless game behind which people have hidden themselves, not willing to face the most serious question of their being — then perhaps shall a small bit of progress be perceptible as well as some relief for those to come after us…”

The Sixth Letter

***The first three letters were posted in "10 days of Rilke 'til Christmas" in December 2009. Unfortunately the rest of the ten letters weren't posted by then, so here's the rest of this very profound writing for your enlightenment.

Letters to a young poet
Rainer Maria Rilke

“You should not be without a greeting from me at Christmastime, when in the midst of the festivities your feeling of aloneness is apt to weigh more heavily upon you. Whenever you notice that it looms large, then be glad about it. For what would aloneness be…if it did not possess greatness? There exists only one aloneness, …and it is not easy to bear. To nearly everyone come those hours that we would gladly exchange for…most banal camaraderie… the second-best or the most unworthy thing. But perhaps it is exactly in those hours when aloneness can flourish. Its growth is painful as the growing up of a young boy and sad as the emergence of springtime.

…what you need is…inner solitude. To go within and for hours not to meet anyone…To be lonely as one was lonely as a child, while adults were moving about…—that must be the goal. And when you realize one day that their activities are superficial, that their careers are paralyzed and no longer linked with life,…why not look at the world as a child would see it—out of the depths of your own world, out of the breadth of your own aloneness…?

…reflect on the world that you carry within yourself. And name this thinking what you wish. It might be recollections of your childhood or yearning for your own future…observe carefully what wells up within you and place that above everything that you notice around you. Your innermost happening is worth all your love.

Do not expend too much courage or time to clarify your position to others…The individual person who senses his aloneness…only he, is…subject to the deep laws, the cosmic laws…

…draw close to those things that will not ever leave you. The nights are still there and the winds that roam through the trees...Amidst things and among animals are happenings in which you can participate. The children too, are still the same as you were as a child, sad and happy in the same way…if you think about your childhood, then you can again live among…the lonely children—where the adults count for nothing...

And if it is distressing…for you to think of your childhood…of the simplicity and silence so close akin to it, because you no longer believe in God…ask yourself…whether you have really lost God. Is it not…that you have not yet possessed him? …when could that have been? Do you think a child can hold him, …whose weight crushes the aged ones...that the one possessing him could lose him like a little stone? Or do you not…agree that he who might have him could be lost by him? …if you conclude that he did not exist in your childhood and not before that…and if you, with great dismay, feel that he does not exist, even during this hour…what right have you then to miss him, like someone out of the past, him, who never existed, and to seek him as though he were lost?

Why don’t you think of him as the coming one, who has been at hand since eternity, the future one, the final fruit of a tree, with us as its leaves? ...Don’t you see that everything that happens becomes a beginning again and again? Could it not be his beginning, since a beginning in itself is always so beautiful? If, however, he is the most perfect one, would not what is less than perfect have to precede him, so that he can choose himself from great abundance? Would not he have to be the last one, in order to envelop everything within himself? And what sense would our existence make, if the one we longed for had already had his existence in the past?

…Is there anything now that can rob you of the hope of someday being in him, who is the ultimate, in the infinite future, as once he was in your past?

Celebrate Christmas…with this reverent feeling that he perhaps needs exactly this, your fear of life, in order to begin. Perhaps these very days of your transition are the times that he is touched by everything with you…”

The Fifth Letter

***The first three letters were posted in "10 days of Rilke 'til Christmas" in December 2009. Unfortunately the rest of the ten letters weren't posted by then, so here's the rest of this very profound writing for your enlightenment.

Letters to a young poet
Rainer Maria Rilke

“…Rome, if one does not know the city, can be depressingly sad for the first few days…because it exudes a death-like, dreary atmosphere, typical of museums. The over-abundant relics of the past have been resurrected and their revival maintained with tremendous effort. From them a very small segment presently makes its living. All of these distorted and stale things are basically nothing more than coincidental remnants of another era and another kind of life, which is not ours and should not be considered as our own. They have been indiscriminately overrated by many…

…One says to himself: No, there is not more beauty here than else where. All these things have been restored and improved by the work of craftsmen. They have been and are admired and revered by generations past and present, and that will continue into the future. All these things mean nothing, are nothing, and have no heart, no worth. Yet there is much beauty here.

There is much beauty here because there is much beauty everywhere. Unending streams of lively water flow over the old aqueducts in the large city. They dance in the city squares over white stone bowls and spread themselves out in wide roomy basins. They rustle by day and raise their voice to the night. Night here is grand, expansive, soft from the winds, and full of stars. And gardens are here, unforgettable avenues lined with trees. And staircases are here, steps conceived by Michelangelo, steps that were modeled after downward gliding waters, broad in their descent, one step giving birth to another, as wave form wave. Through such impressions one composes of the multiplicities that speak and chatter. (How talkative they are!) One gradually learns to recognize the very few things in which eternity dwells, which one con love, and solitude, of which one can softly partake…”

The Fourth Letter

***The first three letters were posted in "10 days of Rilke 'til Christmas" in December 2009. Unfortunately the rest of the ten letters weren't posted by then, so here's the rest of this very profound writing for your enlightenment.

Letters to a young poet
Rainer Maria Rilke

“…If you will stay close to nature, to its simplicity, to the small things hardly noticeable, those things can unexpectedly become great and immeasurable…

You are so young; you stand before beginnings…have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart…love the questions themselves, like locked rooms…like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot…be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present…live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer some distant day…
…everything assigned to us is a challenge; nearly everything that matters is a challenge, and everything matters…

Man has transformed eating into something else. Lack on the one hand and excess on the other have clouded the clarity of this basic need. Similarly cloudy have become all the deep and simple human needs in which life renews itself. But the individual can clarify them for himself and can live that clarity—as long as he is not too dependent on others, as long as he has a pact with aloneness.

…The earth is full of this secret down to her smallest things. Oh, that we would only receive this secret more humbly, bear it more earnestly, endure it, and feel how awesomely difficult it is, rather than to take it lightly…

Do not allow yourself to be misled by the surfaces of things…

…embrace your solitude and love it. Endure the pain it causes, and try to sing out with it. For those near to you are distant, you say. That shows it is beginning to dawn around you; there is an expanse opening about you. And when your nearness becomes distant, then you have already expanded for: to being among the stars. Your horizon has widened greatly. Rejoice in your growth. No one can join you in that…

…your pact with aloneness will be your support and solace even in the midst of unfamiliar situations. It is through that aloneness that you will find all your paths…”

10 days of Rilke 'til Christmas - The Third Letter

Letters to a young poet
Rainer Maria Rilke

Now Niels Lyhne, a book of grandeur and great depth, will reveal itself to you little by little…There is nothing in it that would not summon a familiar resonance echoing from the memory. No experience was too insignificant—the smallest happening unfolds like destiny. Destiny itself is like a wonderful wide tapestry in which every thread is guided by an unspeakably tender hand, placed beside another thread, and held and carried by a hundred others.

…read the wonderful book about the fate and longing of Marie Grubbe and Jacobsen’s letters…journals…fragments…poems…

…read as little as possible of aesthetic critiques. They are either prejudiced views that have become petrified and senseless in their hardened lifeless state, or they are clever word games. Their views gain approval today but not tomorrow. Works of art can be described as having an essence of eternal solitude and an understanding is attainable least of all by critique. Only love can grasp and hold them and can judge them fairly…Allow your judgments their own quiet, undisturbed development, which, as with all progress, must come from deep within and can in no way be forced or hastened. All things consist of carrying to term and then giving birth. To allow the completion of every impression…beyond words, in the realm of instinct unattainable by logic, to await humbly and patiently the hour of the descent of a new clarity: that alone is to live one’s art, in the realm of understanding as in that of creativity.

In this there is no measuring with time. A year doesn’t matter; ten years are nothing. To be an artist means not to compute or count; it means to ripen as the tree, which does not force its sap, but stands unshaken in the storms of spring with no fear that summer might not follow. It will come regardless. But it comes only to those who live as though eternity stretches before them, carefree, silent, and endless…Patience is all!

…the creative experience lies…close to the sexual…its pain and its pleasure, that both phenomena are only different forms of the same longing and bliss. If one could say “sexuality” instead of “lust”—sexuality in a large sense…wide pure sense…—then his art would be great and infinitely important. His poetic talent is great and as strong as the primeval urge; it has an impetuous rhythm that breaks forth out of him as water out of the rocks.

…one of the most difficult tests for the true artist: he must always remain innocently unaware of this best virtues if he does not wish to rob them of their spontaneity and their unaffectedness…And when [Richard] Dehmel’s creative power…meets the sexual, then it finds the man not quite so pure as he needs to be. For him there exists no totally mature and pure world of sex, none that is simple human and not masculine only…there exist lust, intoxication, and restlessness, beleaguered with the old prejudices and pride…love. He loves only as male, not as a human being. Consequently there is in his perception something confining…spiteful…wild…temporal, not eternal…detracts from his art, and makes it suggestive and questionable…imprinted with passion and transience. Little of it will continue and endure. (But this is true of most art.)

10 days of Rilke 'til Christmas - The Second Letter

Letters to a young poet
Rainer Maria Rilke

“We are unutterably alone, essentially, especially in the things most intimate and most important to us…to help another, a great deal must happen…different elements must coincide harmoniously; a whole constellation of things must come about for that to happen even once.

…about irony: Do not allow it to control you, especially during uncreative moments. In creative moments allow it to serve you as another means to better understand life. If you use it with pure intent, then it is pure…But beware of a viewpoint that is too consistently ironic; turn your attention to lofty and serious issues instead. In their presence irony will pale and become helpless. Scale the depths of things; irony will never descend there. And you…arrive at the brink of greatness, ask yourself whether this ironic attitude springs from a truly deep need of your being. For due to the impact of serious things, it will either fall away from you, if it is something merely incidental, of if it is truly innately belongs to you, it will be strengthened to become an important tool, and take its place with all the other instruments with which you must build your own art.

Of all my books there are only a few that are indispensable to me. Two of them are constantly at my fingertips wherever I may be. They are…the Bible and the books of the great Danish writer, Jens Peter Jacobsen…avail yourself of the small book Six Stories…and his novel Niels Lyhne, and begin with the first story…”Mogens”. A whole world will envelop you…learn of them…love them. For this love you shall be requited a thousand...times over, no matter what turn your life will take. This love…will weave itself through the tapestry of your evolving being as one of the most important threads of your experiences, your disappointments, and your joys.

…of the essence of creativity, the depth of it and its enduring quality, there are only two names that I can name: that of Jacobsen, the very greatest of writers, and Auguste Rodin, the sculptor. No one among all artists living today compares with them.”

10 days of Rilke 'til Christmas - The First Letter

Letters to a young poet
Rainer Maria Rilke

“You ask whether your poems are good. You send them to publishers; you compare them with other poems; you are disturbed when certain publishers reject your attempts…I suggest that you give all that up. You are looking outward and…that you must not do now. No one can advise and help you, no one.

There is only one way: Go within. Search for the cause, find the impetus that bids you write. Put it to this test: Does it stretch out its roots in the deepest place of your heart? Can you avow that you would die if you were forbidden to write? Above all, in the most silent hour of your night, ask yourself this: Must I write? Dig deep into yourself for a true answer. And…if you can confidently meet this...with a simple, “I must,” then build your life upon it. It has become your necessity. Your life, in even the most mundane and least significant hour, must become a sign, a testimony to this urge.

Then draw near to nature. Pretend you are the very first man...write what you see and experience, what you love and lose. Do not write love poems…at first; they present the greatest challenge. It requires great, fully ripened power to produce something personal…Beware of general themes. Cling to those that your everyday life offers you. Write about your sorrows, your wishes, your passing thoughts, your belief in anything beautiful. Describe all that with fervent, quiet, and humble sincerity. In order to express yourself, use things in your surroundings, the scenes of your dreams, and the subjects of your memory.

If your everyday life appears to be unworthy subject…do not complain to life. Complain to yourself. Lament that you are not poet enough to call up its wealth. For the creative artist there is no poverty—nothing is insignificant or unimportant…Attempt to resurrect these sunken sensations of a distant past. You will gain assuredness. Your aloneness will expand and will become your home, greeting you like the quiet dawn…

If, as a result of…sinking into your own world, poetry should emerge, you will not think to ask someone whether it is good…For you will hear in them your own voice; you will see in them a piece of your life, a natural possession of yours. A piece of art is good if it is born of necessity. This, its source, is its criterion; there is no other.

Therefore…Go within and scale the depths of your being from which your very life springs forth. At its source you will find...whether you must write. Accept it, however it sounds to you, without analyzing…bear its burden, and its grandeur, without asking for the reward, which might possibly come from without. For the creative artist must be a world of his own and must find everything within himself and in nature, to which he has betrothed himself.

It is possible that…you might find that you must give up becoming a poet. Even then this process of turning inward…will not have been in vain. Your life will...find its own paths. That they will be good ones and rich and expansive…

…progress quietly and seriously in your evolvement. You could greatly interfere with that process if you look outward and expect to obtain answers...which only your innermost feeling in your quietest hour can perhaps give you.”

Mary Poppins 45th Anniversary Edition

If not for anything else—because this film is one of those things to love or hate, like city life, depending on one’s impression, or like “rare” or “well-done”, with the latter being synonymous to being “overcooked” for the ones who prefer the former, or like pop or rock in music - there’s no middle ground for this one for an ambivalent audience, because again, you’d either watch this or you won’t, or you’ve seen it before, enjoyed it, and would gladly see it again, or would rather learn how to knit, you get the point—you’d watch this purely for entertainment. Why? Well, because it’s simply great entertainment. And Walt Disney and great entertainment are synonymous; when you talk of one, you’re talking of the other. This 45th Anniversary Special Edition of Disney's Mary Poppins is an absolute, all-time family amusement. One can hardly scoff at this rather sappy musical. It is farfetched, which makes for a fantastic show. And yet, even in all its whimsy, lending an escape from reality—and it was so for the writer of Mary Poppins, Pamela Traverse, whose childhood and adult tapestry she had knitted and romanticized for a children's book (though the Mary Poppins in the book could hardly be considered as charming as she was, though enigmatic, and certainly not a romantic).  She consistently disapproved of Disney’s updated version of her nanny, according to Valerie Lawson’s account of the embittered and intriquing author in Lawson’s book, Mary Poppins, She Wrote, which I’ll cover next time—the movie shows the bleak reality of life, such as that of a misguided father, Mr. George Banks (David Tomlinson), who is consumed by his rigid philosophy and career for his family’s sustenance, neglecting his family - his subversive wife, Winifred (Glynis Johns), and children, Michael and Jane (Matthew Garber and Karen Dotrice). In flies the “practically perfect” nanny, Mary Poppins (Julie Andrews), to the rescue, with her magical umbrella and carpet bag, armed with wit, tenacity, and charm, and the help of a good-old friend Bert (Dick Van Dyke), a quirky and cheerful chimney-sweep.  The Banks' children learn some valuable lessons as fly with their Mary and Bert to awesome adventures, where they meet buoyant Uncle Albert (Ed Winn) and a lowly bird lady (Jane Darwell).


Disney’s brings you this remastered fanfare which boasts brilliant animation, magical story seasoned, distinctive characters, fantastic scenes, and excellent choreography, especially in the “Step-in-Time” sequence with the chimney sweeps.  Exceptional design by Bob Crowley’s  and outstanding musical scores by the Sherman Brothers.

This special 2-Disc set features Backstage Disney, which includes a peek at Disney on Broadway, Music sets with a downloadable MP3 for “Step In Time”, Rare Behind-The-Scenes Footage, and Fun Facts; an Animated Short hosted by Julie Andrews; a Reunion with Andrews, Van Dyke, and Sherman; and the 1964 Premier of Mary Poppins, along with a few extra treats, including an interview with the author, Valerie Lawson. This dynamic animated edition is surely much more than just a dose or a “spoonful of sugar”. It’s “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” with quite a lot of sugar. But it’s still good.

The Tales of Beedle the Bard is no fairy-tale

Another enchanting book is The Tales of Beedle the Bard, an accompaniment to the last of the Harry Potter series, The Deathly Hollows, created by no other than, J.K. Rowling of course. This time she gave her creative pot half a stir more for a more fanciful take on an otherwise typical fantasy book and brewed a whimsical read with a twist, just like she did with the books Quidditch through the Ages and Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. As if Harry's world truly existed alongside ours, yet unseen by us muggles, us commoners who are bereft of any magic like the Dursleys of Privet Drive, we are given a peephole to the wizarding world's children stories, which are comparable to our fairy tales. It's all good. There's nothing wrong with a great imagination.

Anyway, The Tales of Beedle the Bard is rather profound for a brief read. Though concise with only five tales—however, it is, again, a supplement to the Harry Potter story—it certainly isn't lacking in moral depth. Instead, it probes into humanity's heart and soul, as it examines more deeply the same morals which we, common folks, are all too familiar with and oftentimes neglect.

• Tolerance for our differences and compassion for the meek are the underlying lessons in The Wizard and The Hopping Pot.


• The Fountain of Fair Fortune depicts the importance of an active pursuit of ones dreams, wherein real fortune lies, contrary to our fairy tales' princesses, whose inclinations are "taking a prolonged nap or waiting for someone to return a lost shoe" in the words of the author—no, not Beedle, but Rowling. (This role-play is starting to get a bit confusing for my intention.)


• The Warlock's Hairy Heart warns of the dangers of protecting oneself from the pain that goes with loving someone. As in the words of Professor Dumbledore, "To hurt is as human as to breathe." To see love as a weakness makes the heart cold, or worse, leads to destruction.


• Babbity Rabbity and Her Cackling Stump exemplifies how blind obsession and ignorance can easily lead to gullibility.


• Lastly, The Tale of the Three Brothers epitomizes what could be perhaps the most difficult truth in life that "wizards and muggles alike…with a lust for power" dare deny, that death is inevitable and that it is futile to even attempt to elude it. (Even Dumbledore, by his own admission fell prey to the temptation of trying to avoid death, when he admitted that he "[remains] just a big a fool as anyone else".)


• But at the core of this book is the hard truth that virtue, not magic, can overcome problems and that "magic causes as much trouble as it cures."

J.K. Rowling has done it again and cooked up a delightful creation. How The Tales of Beedle the Bard is cleverly and meticulously woven into the Harry Potter plot is remarkable, and the clues are certainly brewing in this book. And while Professor Dumbledore's commentary definitely provided the meat, Hermione Granger's translation of Beedle's tales was surely an essential ingredient in this concoction. I must warn you though that The Warlock's Hairy Heart is quite gruesome even for a mature reader like me. So, to the adults with children to share this book with, you've been forewarned.

Hocus Pocus: A Tale of Magnificent Magicians is clearly no hokum

Wouldn't you just love to use magic to tweak your circumstances to your advantage to slip out of tight and sticky situations and move ahead, or just completely zap the nasty nuisances away with a wink, a spell, or even a wave of a magic wand, such as in magical movies like Harry Potter? Well, I sure would like for my house bores, or chores, to be instantly done with a murmur or a flick of my finger, like when Mrs. Weasley gestured her hand from a distance for the ladle to stir the pot, while she engaged herself in a conversation, or when the Leaky Cauldron tidied itself up, with the chairs hauling themselves onto the table and a sweeping broom independent of any actual hands, save for a spell uttered, or a hand, or a wand flicked upon it by the pub's staff, if my memory holds clearly. However, while magic could be very appealing to some, a lot of us know better, and others consider it as nothing but hokum. Even so, magic certainly makes for great amusement, such as in Paul Kieve's book, Hocus Pocus—that is, only if you don't get enchanted entirely by it, as in the case of a young wizard.

Paul Kieve, who was the magic consultant in the making of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, had apparently captivated Daniel Radcliffe, who plays Harry Potter—a piece of trivia for those of you who are still uninformed to this day, with his tremendous knowledge and skill in magic that the idea for a book started to brew.

There was indeed a Hocus Pocus book formerly written in 1634. It was considered the first comprehensive book on magic in English, from which lessons on magical skills still fascinate to this day. Paul's book, however, is not just a compendium of magic tips and tricks, but an enthralling tale of a nameless novice who inexplicably finds himself in the tutelage of the greatest of magicians who ever lived and performed at the legendary Hackney Empire Theater in London during the "golden age" of magic in the early 1900s. The master magicians, including The Man Who Knows, The Great Lafayette and his terrible tragedy, the couple, Servais Le Roy and Talma, Robert Houdin, David Devant, Chung Ling Soo, Ionia, and The Great Harry Houdini, not only present their fantastic feats, but also reveal the secret behind magic which sustains it. With Houdini capping the protagonist's beguiling encounters with history's most brilliant magical acts, he eventually discovers the ultimate lesson in magic, which can be applied to life in general. Here's a dash of magical morsels, something of "prestidigitation" and perspiration, along with the other magical secrets in this spellbinding book. Experience the magical realm of Hocus Pocus for mere entertainment or real passion.

Scream for Screamfree Parenting, or applaud it rather

Are you a parent? If so, then you must be familiar and/or even guilty with one, or more, or all of the following expressions and/or actions, or reactions rather, you’ve directed at your child at some point of madness or another.

1. “…or I’m going to sew your butt off with a spoon.”


2. “You won’t like me when I’m mad”


3. “You’re always/never…” (continue with your own unique verbal ammunition)


4. use laser eyes to melt the opponent, which is your child in this case


5. attack opponent, which is still your child, verbally


6. attack opponent—your child still—non-verbally (silent treatment)


7. recall (take back) things given such as toys, promises, praises, etc., to the undeserving brat, or imp, also known as your child in this case too


8. scathingly grind teeth at opponent—you know who this is—in combination with numbers 1 through 10


9. banish opponent—same person still—to his/her room


10. and countless other ways to battle the opponent—your child still, of course—with strategies I’d rather not mention…well, one of which is to justify your normal temporary attack of raging insanity clearly out of anger and naturally blaming it on the little devil that is your child of course

Well, quite shamefully, I’ve said and done them all rather shamelessly, and perhaps even a bit more—which I truly hope that I'm honestly mistaken about—except the first one, which is really an original by another mom. But I probably would have saved myself, and incidentally, my family, from a lot of unnecessary chaos, if I had only encountered this book much sooner. But regardless of where you are in your parenthood, this book is a tool that can help you navigate your way through the difficult places, or mazes, of a parent/child relationship and perhaps even assist you in building a safe haven for you and your child’s psychological and emotional health, because it's never too late to start making a change.

Clear and concise, Screamfree provides actual examples of those difficult parent/child interactions and effective strategies on dealing with those situations. Hal Edward Runkel sensibly reminds us, parents, that the only way to positively influence our children is to reclaim control of ourselves and focus on our behaviors, because we are not responsible for our children’s behaviors, but we are responsible to them for how we behave. Remember that.

Pick up this book if you honestly can’t remember the last time you had balance, structure, consistency, calm, and connectedness in your family as you got lost in the its usual madness. Pick up this book even if you’ve never screamed before, verbally or emotionally. You never know when something really trying comes along to make you suddenly stop breathing, even if only temporarily. You'd know how to put on your oxygen mask first to be able to help the one(s) who look to you for help and guidance and love.

The Secrets of The Immortal Nicholas Flamel

I’ve gone to L.A. several times, but not San Francisco, yet. Listed in my tall order of fascinating places to visit, the home of the Golden Gate Bridge, the Fisherman’s Wharf, and streets that brim with art culture and quaint and quirky stores enthralls me as much as stories that take place there. Incidentally, Michael Scott has convincingly crafted such setting in the fantastically fast-paced and fascinating tale, The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel: The Alchemyst, and its sequel, The Magician, which takes place in another sure stop I’ve also yet to take.

Now, I’ve read countless books, 99% of which I haven’t written reviews for—from Matthew Arnold's Essays in Criticism to Emily and Poe’s anthologies, to Jonathan Strange, Wicked, and The Undomesticated Goddess; to Narnia, Magyk, The Lightning Thief, Charlie Bone, Harry Potter, and much more in between, such as the writings of Beatrix Potter, Tim Burton, William Steig, Mo Willems, Avi, and myriad other brilliant authors. A common line often used in book reviews, I’ve noticed, is “this is the next thing to…or if you like so and so, you’d dig this and that…” But that’s just too easy. I don’t want to apply those clichés except maybe in classifying genres. In this case—this story involving modern-day American twins, a 14th century French alchemist, the immortal Nicholas Flamel, and his wife, the sorceress Perenelle, and a host of other intriguing mythical and historical figures enmeshed in a familiar theme that is the battle between good and evil—I refuse to report that this is the next thing to read if you’ve gone through a withdrawal period from Harry Potter or just because you’re into Twilight.

The Alchemyst is truly engaging, period—Harry Potter or not. Michael Scott surely captivates with engrossing details, magic, and adventures that unexpectedly transpire for two fairly ordinary teens, Sophie and Josh, a part-time coffee shop attendant and a book store clerk. The story begins with Sophie in the middle of a typical tête-à-tête on her cell phone at the cafe and Josh filing books across the street, in a bookshop owned by Nick Fleming, who is really Nicholas Flamel in disguise, when mayhem suddenly strikes with the stink of “rotten eggs”, emitted by the wicked, English magician, Dr. John Dee, who manages to steal an ancient text, the codex of Abraham the Mage, from Nick’s guardianship, but only after Josh has fortuitously snatched its two most significant pages. Next, the teens are swept along a mad flight with the French magicians and a vampire ally named Scathach. Nicholas must retrieve the magical book to protect the twins, whose destiny intertwines with the fate of the entire world, and stop Dee from summoning the evil gods of the Elder race, the dark elders who’ll either enslave or destroy humanity and ultimately rule the world. Nicholas must also recover the codex to prevent Dee, whose immortality had only been granted by a dark elder in return for total servitude, from acquiring the secrets of the elixir of life hidden in the book. The alchemist and his wife, themselves, need the ever-changing spell for immortality, for without it, they age and weaken about a year’s worth each day.

Brewed with enchanting humor, horror, as well as depth and smart references—from Queen Elizabeth, Shakespeare, and Beowulf to The Simpsons, Shrek, and Superman, brace yourself with The Alchemyst’ magic and follow Nicholas and his allies in their pursuit across magical realms, amidst very curious and dangerous creatures, like Hekate, the Crow Goddess, and the Witch of Endor, to form new alliances and get the twins’ magical aura awakened.

The riveting adventure continues in Paris, in the spellbinding sequel, The Magician, wherein fiends, like the Italian immortal, Machiavelli, the beast, Niddhog, and the war god, Mars, among others, wreak havoc and formidable new allies continually beguile. You’d never dare imagine the Eiffel tower in the same light as Joan of Arc’s husband, Saint-Germain, has. As the alchemist aptly puts, [Humans use but a tiny percentage of their senses. They barely look, rarely listen, never smell, think that they can only experience feelings through their skin. But talk—oh, do they talk, which makes up for the lack of use of their other senses]. But whereas “Desperate men do stupid things,” says Saint-Germain in referring to Machiavelli and Dee, who, like the dark elders, only see “the humani”, or humans, as “a bunch of people”, “slaves”, or “food”, “Stupid men make mistakes," replies Nicholas, who see “individuals, with worries and cares, with family and loved ones, with friends and colleagues”. The alchemist clearly sees “people”; I wish politicians had the same view. But for now, we have a truly enchanting tale to follow—from the Warrior Maiden's dojo, to Hekate's Shadow Realm, where the Yggrasil thrives, to Ojai, where Sophie learns the Magic of Air, to Alcatraz, where Perenelle teams up with Juan Manuel de Ayala's ghost and Areop-Enap against the sphinx, and the Morrigan, to Rue du Montmorency, where Nicholas and Perenelle once lived, and to the catacombs of Paris, where the sleeping God lies awake. I can hardly wait for the third sequel, The Sorceress, and set off for London, where the magic continues.