Shawn Colvin has a great voice and is an absolutely brilliant picker. The one problem is, he's not a songwriter. His voice is the greatest to come along since Fred Neil, in terms of evocative power. Unfortunately, he doesn't have Neil's grasp of a commanding lyric. That said, I still think that Colvin is a talent to be reckoned with, and I believe the Amazon "official" reviewers have given him short shrift, to say the least. While they wax epsodic about every grunge, lounge, garage band that passes through the contemporary music maelstrom, they shrug Colvin off with a contemptable mention for one CD. This guy could be the real deal, if only he comes up with some lyrics to support his masterful playing.

The Changing Light at Sandover is Merrill's magnum opus. It is also the greatest example of epic poetry in modern literature. Divided into four sections (four being a mystical number [seasons, elements, etc] and possibly alluding also to Eliot's "Four Quartets"), Sandover, is, as far as I am aware, the longest single poem in the modern cannon. Yet length alone is not what qualifies this as an epic poem. Like all true epic poetry, it borrows heavily from its classical predecessors, so Homer, Virgil, Dante, Milton and even Tasso are alluded to throughout the poem.

The method behind the poem is fairly well known, and is in fact included in the poem's narrative. Merrill and his life-partner, David Jackson, would ritualistically cleanse themselves for a stipulated period, then consult the spirit-world by means of an Ouija Board. Merrill served as a kind of amanuensis, taking dictation from spirits from another dimension and translating the messages into poetry.

Merrill has been branded as an elitist by some, and there is no getting around the fact that he did consider himself and his partner as members of an order higher than that of most of mankind. He believed in a quasi-Gnostic hierarchy, wherein human beings are ranked according to their spiritual development. Unfortunately, the belief system he invokes leans more closely to Third Reich mysticism than to Buddhism or Hinduism. A great many people, according to Merrill's tenets, don't even have souls. They exist only on an animal level. One can see where this sort of thinking can, and has led.

I don't want to infer, however, that Merrill, or this work, are in any manner political or polemical. This is a true work of art, full of imagination and of ideas. The sheer scope of creativity on display in "Sandhurst" is unsurpassed in the past 100 years of poetry, with the possible exception of "The Waste Land." It should be read and studied (and hopefully, cherished) by all lovers of literature. Whether or not Merrill existed on a higher plane than most of us is certainly debatable, even questionable. Whether or not his excursions into other spiritual realms were "real" or were delusional is also debatable. What is not debatable, is the fact that he produced a remarkable and very important poem in the process.

Arthur Lee was at the forefront of the LA movement, that included The Byrds, Buffalo Springfield, and later, The Doors. This album, unlike some contemporary efforts, still sounds fresh on all fronts. The range of sound, from acoustic to very hard rock, is a reflection of the mastery of the artists involved. This is musicianship of a caliber that is really not found anywhere near a radio or MTV screen extant today. Within a span of two or three years, these artists poured out a panoply of sound that will live on into one era after the next, and I am not exaggerating here. Give the samples a listen, and if they do not convince you, you are tone-and-soul-deaf. A definite best-buy in terms of 60's music, or any other era, for that matter.

Imagine a book written by Edgar Allen Poe, translated by Edward Fitzgerald, filtered through the consciousness of Jorge Luis Borges, and you would have some inkling of what makes this extraordinary book so special. It is to literature what surrealism is to painting. Potocki, who on the strength of this book alone qualifies as Poland's greatest literary figure, prefigures the postmodern movement with his sleight-of-hand and multi-multi-layered text. A Freudian could spend years investigating the recesses and depths of Potocki's subconscious.

The framing device is a young nobleman's romantic wanderings through a section of Spain that could exist only in the mind of someone who was none too selective about his/her diet, or the kind of herbs they decided to ingest. A grotesque and lurid air suffuses this imaginative tale. The plot, if it could be called such a thing, unfolds like a chinese puzzle, one unreliable narrative nested within another. ...It wends its way into your thoughts like an ear-boring worm. It is the sort of work that Danielewski attempted, rather feebly by comparison, in his novel, House of Leaves. Potocki combines the supernatural with the erotic in a way that is unique in literature. Open the pages of this book and prepare to be disturbed and unsettled at times, but be prepared also to engage in a long, strange, diverting trip.

By the way there is a CD of a movie version of Manuscript which was made in Europe in the 60s. Apparently it has been shown periodically in San Francisco art houses, and was appreciated by Jerry Garcia, among others. If the movie even approximates the book, I could understand why.

There is, as several readers have indicated, some falling-off in <Encore> when compared with Mayle's ealier effort, <A Year in Provence>. Sequels normally do suffer in comparison to orignals, no matter the genre. The characters, with the possible exception of the freeloading Marius, lack the color of those in the earlier work. The artisans, shopkeepers and workmen are much more generic in this edition, serving more as background characters than humorous and dimensional figures that provided much of the charm of <A Year>.

Minor quibbles aside, however, Mayle is still an excellent travelling companion. His works lend themselves especially well to audio tape. His vignettes and anecdotes are invariably interesting and he is ever the amusing raconteur. David Case also does an excellent job filling in for Mayle. It is as if he himself has experienced the events Mayle describes. He has obviously spent a great deal of time in France, as his French pronunciation is impeccable and his delivery of a French accent is priceless. He has a great knack for pulling the listener into the scene being described.

If you are planning a long car trip this summer, whether to Yellowstone or through Provence, I'd suggest you bring Mayle and Case along. They provide the sort of blithe, light fare that serve to alleviate road-boredom. They definitely helped this listener during a recent five-hour journey through the hell of the Maryland-Virginia beltway. It definitely beats Gopnick's PARIS TO THE MOON, in the same genre.
BEK

Seeing as how this work has been torn to shreds by other Nilsson devotees, I can only add that the recording is indeed highly uneven, yet there are many redeeming moments as well. The album is dominated by Nilsson, and whether or not he shredded his vocal chords in the process, he makes numerous outstanding contributions, particularly in the renditions of "Save the Last Dance for Me," which is equal to or better than any other cover of that memorable song. "Black Sails" is a wonderfully orchestrated bit of musical drama, full of the true yearning and
melancholy that Harry was so adept at conveying. The same could be said for "Don't Forget Me." "Mucho Mongo" is built around forgettable, but innocuous lyrics and a beautifully rendered melody line. Other songs, such as "The Flying Saucer Song" and "Down by the Sea" probably were indeed accompanied by bouts of the d.t.s. This still ranks as a must-have possession for true Nilsson fans, if only for the four or five gems that don't appear in other collections.

This multi-volume edition of Parkman's magnum opus might appear initially daunting, as it covers more than 1,200 pages of material. Suffice it say, however, that the rewards are entirely worth the effort of fording your way through this majestic work.

Parkman triumphed over numerous personal disabilities (extremely poor eyesight and recurring pain in his limbs), to produce some of the most important and transcendent histories of the 19th century, works that secured him a place in the American Pantheon, beside Prescott and Bancroft. He has been interpreted both as an example of literary Romanticism by some, and as a supreme pessimist by others. His objective as an historian was to "while scrupulously and rigorously adhering to the truth of facts, to animate them with the life of the past, and, so far as might be, clothe the skeleton with flesh." This notion is reflected repeatedly throughout these volumes. His style is highly descriptive, borrowing as it does from his numerous treks to the sites he writes of. The Jesuits, trappers, governors, nuns and explorers he depicts come across as flesh-and blood, breathing, human beings, engaged in real activities. He has little place for abstraction, and never dwells overlong on minutiae. The ramifications of particular pacts or treaties, for instance, are subordinate to actual events and places. When he takes the reader into an Indian log-house, he/she can practically taste the smoke as it permeates the air.

When it comes to Native Americans, Parkman is far from sentimental. In fact, he bridled at the notion, common in 19th Century Romanticism (particularly Rousseau and even more conspicuously in Chateaubriand's <Atala>), of the Indian as noble savage. Parkman's earlier book on the Oregon Trail stemmed in part from his experiences amongst the Sioux on the Western Plains. The Indians depicted in these pages are, for the most part, more savage than noble. The Iroquois are especially ferocious in their raiding parties and in their methods of reprisal. Those who fell victim to their wrath were in for days and nights of unspeakable torture. Parkman describes these scenes almost too vividly. But as he himself would note,
"Faithfulness to the truth of history involves far more than research, however patient and scrupulous, into special facts. The narrator must seek to imbue himself with the life and spirit of the time." There are some academics that would argue that Parkman is not as objective as he would like us to think. He has a fairly consistent Protestant, Bostonian, Brahmin bias as regarding Catholicism, for instance. His view of Native Americans is hardly what could be termed politically correct. However one may feel about his viewpoint, one can not dismiss his power of depiction, or the scope of his genius and enterprise. When taking into account the fact that he produced volume upon volume of history, under the most debilitating circumstances, there can be no denying that he qualifies, as perhaps no one else, as "The American Gibbon." For the reader who wants to relive history at its most vivid, Parkman provides the goods. He paints in realistic detail the struggles, adventures and misadventures, the faith and foibles, great tribulations and monumental victories of an exceedingly noteworthy cast of characters. There are the infinitely stoical, but often-scheming Jesuits. There is the monomaniacal, driven, but honest-dealing and ultimately tragic figure of LaSalle. Champlain is another noteworthy figure, truly heroic in stature. The most heroic figure, however, may after all be Parkman himself. Shaped as he was by the notions of greatness fostered by such writers as Carlyle, it was a state he strove consciously to achieve. This collection, along with others in the Modern Library series, indicates that he achieved his goal. Thanks to The Modern Library for making authors such as Parkman accessible once more.

I still vividly recall sitting in the Cafe Wha in Greenwich Village, circa 1965, mesmerized by R Haven's 12-string and his overpowering voice and persona. He epitomized everything vibrant about the folk scene of the era. His intelligence shone through his music, along with a strong dose of artistry and charisma. This album, mouch more than his grand Woodstock improve, displays the full range of his unique talent. This is an album that I probably listened to more often than any other in the late 60's to early 70's, therefore it has a special place on my list in my internal music vault. I'm happy to report that the music holds up extrememly well over time. The Vanguard production values were state-of-the-art at the time, and transcend the years without paling. For nostalgia fans, as well as those who just enjoy thoughtfully-composed, artistically scrupulous recordings. A classic, in every defenition of the term.

Kurt Vonnegut once wrote that the worst minds on a university campus could be located in the English Department (followed closely by Education). James Hynes' cast of characters do little to belie this notion, and they are indeed a fairly accurate, though obviously exaggerated, representation of the sort of jargon-spewing sub-intellects that are tenured in too many English departments on too many American campuses these days. The bywords, "gender, race and class," have come to represent the core of the department curricula on any given campus, from junior colleges to major universities. Hynes takes these prevalent trends and skewers them delightfully.

Even those who don't normally find academic satire their usual cup of tea will find kernels of truth and true wit in this cerebral romp. As in all true satires, the characters are more representational than dimensional, yet they still are fleshed out vividly enough that one believes them true to type. Some reviewers have objected to the fact that none of the characters in <The Lecturer's Tale> are likeable. This again, is a device of true satire. Is it necessary that we "like" Gulliver in order to appreciate Swift's great comic vision? Gulliver behaves abominably in many situations. So too does Hynes' protagonist, Nelson Humboldt (just one of the myriad literary references that are scattered throughout the novel). Humbodlt is himself a representation of "***hole Lit," that Nelson plans to expound upon in a future dissertation (a study including the "lovable ****ups of modern American fiction: Fitzgerald's Gatsby, Bellow's Herzog, Updike's Harry Angstrom, Percy's Binx Bolling, John Cheever's Falconer, Richard Ford's Sportswriter)". The literary referents do fly by rather blazingly in this novel, particularly in the belfry scene towards the end, though Hynes does clear things up for the reader in a kind of appendix. I caught the Milton and Shakespeare references, but didn't recognize the Plato or Thomas Hardy, but you needn't keep a scorecard or be a literary savant to enjoy the story.

There've been several comments by reviewers here that the ending is inordinately weak versus the first 300 pages. It may be that some readers are missing the point as to what Hynes is up to here. The Vita/Robin/sprite segment represents a literal rendering of deconstructionism. The plot, in fact, the whole fabric of the story breaks down and explodes in so many scattered shards, just as the physical construct of the library does. Hynes is actually engaging in the same sort of self-referential byplay in which the theorists whom he here ridicules regularly engage. In other words, this breakdown is an authorial choice and serves as part of a playful, complex authorial scheme. It's one of the book's strengths, rather than weaknesses.

If you're looking for reading that will take you away for a while from some of the grim realities we have been facing the past months, give this marvelous escape a try. Again, even those who generally abhor fiction with academic backdrops (myself included), will find something to love about this book. It is a plain, old-fashioned hoot.

Lewis is the Daniel Boorstin of Middle East historians. He brings the same sort of encyclopaedic knowledge to his subject. The vast scope of his erudition is evident on every page in this volume. In fact, if there is anything to quibble about, it may be that few readers will be able to keep pace with him as he traverses Middle-Eastern history and landscape.

Part of the difficulty in keeping up comes from the way in which Lewis presents his information. This is not your typical linear narrative, starting at a particular era and then ploughing forward through time. Though there is an overall progression (we start out in the Roman era and end up in current times), the author also often backtracks when discussing different aspects of the civilizations he covers. So while the book starts out in a relatively chronological manner in the first few chapters(Romans>Byzantines-Crusades>Mongol Invasions>Turkic Ascendency-Ottomans), we suddenly detour to Part IV of the book, entitled "Cross-Sections." Lewis then proceeds to break down different societal components such as "The State," "The Economy," "The Elites," etc. in which he backtracks to provide additional details about groups he has earlier portrayed. This is where I for one, who am looking for enlightenment on these subjects and have no real background scholastically speaking, had a hard time keeping track. I consider myself at least a moderately attentive reader, and a lover of history from Herodotus to Gibbon to Parkman to Tuchman, but felt swamped at times here from the sheer wealth and breadth of information. One also had better be up on their geography from about six different eras in that part of the world. Though there are a series of maps in the appendix, obscure towns, countries and dynasties are paraded forth at a rate that is taxing for the general reader. While we may be familiar with place-names such as Mecca, Medina or even Basra, how many western readers are going to have a mental image of the area that Yathrib sits in? or Nishapur? or Bukhara? The maps don't really help either, as the regions that have the most obscure towns are in areas that are the most darkly shaded, and the print is so fine, it's impossible to make the names out.

All that said, if you want to learn about a region that up until recently not many westerners were really all that interested in, Lewis is an excellent teacher. Just be warned that he is rather a dry lecturer. He's not a "school of color" historian. He's an academic and a pure scholar. There are vitually no anecdotal details. No human interest. No exciting passages or descriptions of great battles. He is a purveyor of information and you will come away from reading <The Middle East> with a lot more information than you came in with. If, like me, you think being at least reasonably well-informed at times such as these is important, you will want to investigate this book.