A CAUTIONARY TALE

Are you contemplating writing a novel? Do you long to see your name on the cover of a book published by some illustrious commercial enterprise? Have you succumbed to furor scribendi? That’s fine. You now have a worthwhile pastime to keep you busy. But before you start spending the advance you hope for, you might read this little article to learn (a) what might happen and (b) how long things can take.

Here is a chronology of the publishing (or non-publishing) of Storm Approaching.

2001 – June 26    Began writing novel
2002 – July 29    Finished writing novel
2004 – June          Finished editing and revising novel. (This could have taken less time, but I wrote the first drafts of Gold and Glory and Resolution before final edit of Storm Approaching.)

2004 – Sept.        Began agent search (103 query letters, 14.6% of which were successful, i.e. produced requests for a partial.)
2005 – April        Secured fine agent. He suggested some changes; made changes, including about 20 pp. of new material.

2005 – by October     Agent begins submissions to major publishers --Major publishers reject novel for various reasons; e.g. From Bantam: “This had an interesting premise and was indeed well written, but…” From Warner: “The plot is great and the pacing is good, but … the problem for me is the writing…”
Very helpful.

2006 – March      A “nibble” from a major publisher. First reader recommends book to Supreme Editor.

2006 – March through 2008 – August.  Nothing happens. Agent repeatedly tries to get Supreme Editor to read book. Editor does not read book. Or maybe does. Or maybe reads part of it. Nobody knows.

2008 – August    Agent gives up: Supreme Editor has maybe read book and did not like it and maybe will re-read it or maybe not. End of agented representation. Author decides to pay AuthorHouse to publish it since only alternative is burning the trilogy.

2009 – May         Storm Approaching published at author’s expense.

And now for the punch line:

2012 – March      Letter arrives from the Major Publisher (DAW). Excerpts below:  

“Thank you… for your patience… We apologize sincerely for the delay, and are attempting to address our backlog and change our procedures… Please know that, because of the significant positive attributes of your manuscript, which the first reader enjoyed, it did reach the desk of an editor… Unfortunately, the editor did not find the manuscript right for [Major Publisher]….
----------------------------------
So there it is: a final answer after just six years. I am a bit surprised that all the principals—the author, the first reader, the Supreme Editor, even the agent—are still alive. As a historian I find it very comforting that, in this age of instant this and instant that, some things—in fact the whole of conventional publishing, as far as I can tell—still proceed at a pace that would have been considered stately when Charles Dickens—or Alexander Pope, for that matter—was trying to burst into print. When Augustus said festina lente, was he thinking of the publishing industry?

Patience is a virtue, and maybe sometimes a vice. If you hope to publish a book through a Major Publisher, start writing it today. You’ll need all the time you’ve got. Oh: The Mercenaries trilogy is available, it’s just not in bookstores. Why not buy the first volume today? Don’t take your time…

Comments? Questions?     Leave them below, or at brnlbb@gmail.com

PROJECT 1812

HISTORY FOR THE KINESTHETIC LEARNER

A Modest Proposal

INTRODUCTION
Teaching history to kinesthetic high-schoolers is challenging because history is usually studied by reading and listening; to learn history has heretofore meant using books, or hearing about events from savants who, having devoted their lives to such study, can highlight, and simplify complex matters for easy reception by tender minds.(1) (see notes at end) Now, however, with students who find it difficult to learn by such antique methods, modern pedagogues must develop new rubrics, new praxis, new epistemologies.(2)
We present here an exemplary project that we hope will stimulate many other educational professionals (“teachers”) to develop and expand innovative methodologies.

PROJECT 1812

OVERTURE
One of the most dramatic and important events of the early 19th Century was the French invasion of Russia. Project 1812 focuses on the catastrophic dénouement of this, the largest military operation before World War I, which set in motion the downfall of the First Empire and the victory of the reactionary regimes of the Age of Metternich (1815-1848).

The retreat from Moscow has often been described--e.g. Tolstoy’s magnificent treatment in War and Peace--but how can one bring the reality of what happened to people who cannot readily comprehend the written or the spoken word? We think we have found a way.

METHODOLOGY
Most Modern European History courses will reach the second half of the Napoleonic Era in December or early January, which is the perfect--indeed, the only--time when this Project can be properly conducted.

* On a very cold day with high wind chill, all the kinesthetic learners will be driven to a mall or other public location about five miles from campus. They may wear only light summer clothing, such as T-shirts, shorts, cotton slacks, and sandals. Each will receive a sandwich, a pint of bottled water, and a knapsack containing about fifty pounds of hockey pucks.

Rationale: The flimsy clothing and scanty food simulate the dress and rations of most French soldiers during the retreat from Moscow. The knapsacks simulate the vast assortment of loot that the French took from the ruined city, confident that they could bring it back to France.

* The students will be told they will get $1 for each hockey puck they bring to campus.

Rationale: Students will have the opportunity to experience the common dilemma of greed vs. reason, in that they must decide whether, and when, to lighten or discard the valuable but heavy knapsacks in order to have a better chance of reaching home.

* The students will walk back to campus.

* It is highly desirable that, as a part of our Community Relations, a number of local people take part in the Project. Their job is to follow the students, and, when any fall behind the main body by more than fifty yards, to pelt them with stones, throw them into ponds, or beat them with clubs.

Rationale: The citizens simulate the Russian peasants and Cossacks who followed the French army from a safe distance but attacked stragglers.

* A teacher will ride beside the students in a chauffeur-driven car, calling out encouragement to his “troops” and composing bombastic “official bulletins” announcing that the campaign is going very well. (To assist with the bulletins, he may be accompanied by a “chief of staff” provided by the Office of Institutional Advancement.) When his limousine is half a mile from the school, he will wave encouragingly to the freezing remains of his “army” and be driven quickly back to campus, leaving his men to finish the trek on their own.

Rationale: The teacher simulates Napoleon, who departed the army in a swift coach on December 5, two weeks before the epic retreat ended.

* Those students who reach campus will be given a cup of hot chocolate and sent to the hospital. The others will be buried.

OUTCOMES
The 1812 Project gives haptic learners a “hands-on” experience like no other. Instead of merely looking at artifacts in a museum or using colored markers to occupy their fidgety fingers, they will feel they have actually participated in an important historical event. It is an experience they will remember to the ends of their lives. (This is especially true for those who do not reach campus, since their lives and the Project will end simultaneously.) At least half of the survivors will have permanent “memory triggers” right on their bodies (such as the stumps of frostbitten fingers and toes after amputation at the hospital).(3) No need for hard-to-read books or boring lectures to teach them what happened!


ENRICHMENT
Hardy kinesthetics who insist on remaining at the school after Project 1812 will take part in Project 1941, “Hitler’s Retreat From Moscow” (which is very similar to Project 1812 except that the local people may use rifles).

Schools in warm climates may obtain satisfactory results from Project 1917 (The Project to End Projects), a simulation of Passchendaele (3rd Ypres). It takes place in soft, muddy ground in early spring or late autumn. (Project 1917 provides a fine opportunity for some cross-disciplinary activity: for added realism, the Science Department can manufacture phosgene and mustard gas for use as the kinesthetics slog through the knee-deep mud towards distant, unattainable objectives.)
----------------------------
1 Kinesthetic (or “haptic”) learners (for the benefit of nonprofessionals who might not know) are those who, we are told, cannot learn much from reading or listening, but who learn best by doing things with their hands and the movement of their bodies. Some laymen, ignorant of current pedagogical “best practice,” might think that such students would not be enrolled in preparatory schools or aspire to college diplomas, but would instead be directed into shop classes, vo-techs, the lower enlisted ranks of the armed forces, and similar places where they could use their talents to best advantage without cluttering up the halls of academe; but that is not the case today.


2 I do not really know what these last words mean, but I have noticed that the most esteemed educational experts and holders of Doctorates of Education use them quite a bit. I thought I should use them too, so I will be taken seriously.


3 For these, the “hands-on” experience can also be a “hands-off” experience!

Historical Films, Pt. 1

Each year, as I teach my courses, I find myself recommending various movies to my students. Why not do the same here? This is the first installment in a list of historical movies that I think are worthwhile—that do not do too much violence to history and are otherwise good viewing. I have made no attempt to be systematic; these are simply films I remember; but I will give them in approximately chronological order. Given my interests and training, most of these films are about war or European politics.

I’m probably more tolerant than many people of historical error or exaggeration in films. I am not pedantic. I know that any treatment of a historical topic has to compress and simplify. I do not get upset if there are too few buttons on a uniform or a Highlander wears the wrong plaid. On the other hand, I do get upset with falsehood and blatant distortion.

1) Cleopatra. This extravaganza almost bankrupted Fox and is perhaps best remembered today for the love affair between two of its stars, Taylor and Burton. But in fact the writers paid attention to history and tried to be accurate about Caesar, Antony, and the Serpent of the Nile. The sets are awesome. The two-hour special that comes with the film is very interesting, too.

2) El Cid. Another spectacular, and one that certainly simplifies the life of Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar—there is no reference to his many years of work as a mercenary for the Moors, for instance. But there is a nobility about the central character and his actions that is inspiring, and the last part of the film perhaps has more relevance today than it did, say, fifteen years ago…

3) Joan of Arc. The 1948 film with Ingrid Bergman and Jose Ferrer. Ms. Bergman does a remarkable job in conveying the purity and nobility of la Pucelle. Very moving.

4) The Taking of Power By Louis XIV. An awkward title and a film that is far more talk than action; but Roberto Rossellini does a fine job of describing how and why the young Louis acted to control the nobles and make himself effective absolute king. The scenes (towards the end) of the king at dinner and at court are quite marvelously done. French with subtitles.

5) The Alamo. The 2004 film directed by J.L. Hancock. Although the interpretation of Santa Anna by Emilio Echevarria seems to me a bit over the top, the film tries to remain faithful to people and events in describing this heroic incident, the American Thermopylae.

6) The Charge of the Light Brigade. Not the Errol Flynn historical fiction opus but the 1968 film with Sir John Gielgud and David Hemmings. Aside from an inexplicable and completely dispensable theme involving Vanessa Redgrave as an unfaithful wife, this is a very good film about the early Victorian military and the famous mistaken attack.

7) Gettysburg. Just magnificent. The film wisely concentrates on three events in detail—the first day’s fighting, the defense of Little Round Top by the 20th Maine (yay!), and of course Pickett’s Charge—rather than trying to cover everything. Yes, I know that Gen. Longstreet’s beard looks wrong and that the first Confederate soldier you see is too fat, but don’t get hung up on trivia. This is an excellent film.

8) Gone With The Wind. Of course this is fiction, based on a novel; but it certainly captures the life of the antebellum South (as lived by the tiny number of really wealthy planters), the horror of the war on the home front, and some of the difficulties of Reconstruction.

9) Breaker Morant. A great film about three Australians accused of atrocities during the dirty end-phase of the Boer War. It makes you think.

10) Nicholas and Alexandra. This is an outstanding piece of history, compressing many of the problems of Romanov Russia in its last days and the personalities of the last tsar and tsarina into a couple of hours. And you’ll remember Rasputin. Academy Award for costumes.

11) Gandhi. Undoubtedly the personality of the title character is presented overly simply and hagiographically, but the basic history is there and the sense of being in India is overwhelming (at least for viewers who, like me, have never been in India.)

12) Zulu. The personalities and relationship of Lts. Chard and Bromhead are fictionalized but the story as a whole is true and exciting. And there will never be a better British RSM (in this case at company level) that Colour-Sergeant Bourne.

13) A Night To Remember. This is the Titanic film everyone should see, even if it is in black & white. No mawkish love story gets in the way of the real story. The Criterion Collection edition has very good commentary by two authorities on the ship.

14) The Last Emperor. A masterpiece. What a portrayal of an entirely different society than ours! See it.

15) Lawrence Of Arabia. I hardly have to recommend this, do I? While hazy on chronology —I wish someone mentioned a few dates—it certainly captures the legendary essence of its eccentric subject.

16) Oh What A Lovely War. This musical is a good commentary on the War to End War.

17) Tora, Tora, Tora. This is almost a documentary study of the events leading to Pearl Harbor. A very fine film.

18) Patton. You’ve seen this. It’s not really a war film—the battle scenes are its weakest part—but a psychological study of a complex, remarkable man.

19) Valkyrie. I did not think that modern Hollywood would do so good a job with the July 20 plot. But Tom Cruise did very well indeed. (I do not in the least mind the American accents.)

20) Is Paris Burning? This vast film has been largely forgotten. It’s a fair and balanced study of its theme from both the French and German viewpoints. Gert Frobe (Goldfinger) plays Gen. Choltitz, the Paris commandant. Black and white, unfortunately.

21) A Bridge Too Far. An hour too long, I think, and I have trouble accepting Elliott Gould as a colonel of infantry, but this epic captures the spirit and facts of Operation Market-Garden, especially the massive airborne drops and Col. Frost’s heroic defense of the key bridge.

22) Downfall. Wow. This film is the last word on “Hitler in the bunker.” No further film treatment is ever necessary. Not a study only of the by-then-demented dictator, but of all the inmates of the bunker. A tremendous film. German, with subtitles.

23) Soldiers of the Pope. Bet you never heard of this one. A documentary, the only one, on the Swiss Guard (in 2005). Interviews with Guardsmen, some history, drill and ceremonies. The “sets” includes some of the grandest interiors in Europe. The oath-taking ceremony is moving. 50 mins.

Historical Films, Pt. 2: Not So Good

1) 300. The seniors in my Greece and Rome elective kept urging me to see this, although with giggles. (They knew enough about the subject to guess my reaction.) It falls into a category I especially dislike: a film that leaves the general public knowing less about the subject than they did before seeing it, having replaced ignorance by falsehood. Certainly a rip-roaring gorefest, but otherwise … ick.

2) Gladiator. This thing won the Academy Award for Best Picture? The Fall of the Roman Empire (1964), of which this bloody (I use the word in both the sanguinary and British senses) film is essentially a remake, is much better. Much of this is mere violence masquerading as art.

3) Braveheart. This probably would have been a better film if Mel Gibson were not so intense an Anglophobe. It is largely fiction, and eventually becomes really silly (e.g. the amour between William Wallace and the Princess of Wales). Impressive battle scene, of course; but the Battle of Stirling Bridge was completely different than what we see.

4) Cromwell. This film has scant historical value because the producers decided to portray the English Civil War as a personal confrontation between Charles I and Oliver Cromwell, which it was not. (For example, Cromwell never met the king, nor was he one of the five M.P.s whom Charles tried to arrest in 1642.) However, it is worth seeing because the battle scenes give at least a flavor of musket and pike warfare and because Alec Guinness gives a fine performance as Charles I, right down to the slight stammer and the Scots burr that creeps in when he is agitated. The trial and execution scenes are very well done. The film also gives you a chance to see Albus Dumbledore and James Bond at early stages of their careers (Richard Harris plays Cromwell; Timothy Dalton plays Henry Ireton.)

5) Waterloo. This film—unavailable on DVD for, I suppose, some legal reasons—is hard for me to evaluate. The costumes are perfect and since most of the Russian army was apparently made available for filming there is no shortage of extras. The score is fine. Some scenes are excellent: the Emperor’s farewell at Fontainebleau, the great cavalry charges (with the aerial shots so clearly showing the British squares), Orson Welles as Louis XVIII. I read that Rod Steiger decided to play Napoleon as “a man needing a rest and a hot bath,” which I guess is justifiable. But more should have been done with the Prussians (both at Ligny and on the 18th); Napoleon did not suffer some kind of seizure at the height of the battle, there was no hurricane (I think someone accidentally turned on a wind machine just before Blücher arrived), and some scenes are not very illuminating, especially the charge of the Scots Greys (a charge that does not hit anything; there is no indication that much of d’Erlon’s corps was rendered ineffective by the charge). I have heard that some hours of film are still available. Grognards like me can only hope that the entire available footage is eventually released.

6) Gods and Generals. The successor to Gettysburg and one of the biggest turkeys ever filmed. Long and boring. Why cover Fredericksburg instead of Antietam? Why spend so very much time on Stonewall Jackson? Seldom has so much effort, such attention to detail, been put into a more unsuccessful film—which shows that minute historical accuracy (e.g. Jackson being wounded in the finger at First Bull Run) does not guarantee a good movie. And what a pity, since its failure prevented the making of what would have been a trilogy.

I hope these two articles have been of use to some folks. Let me know.

Consulting

Here is an excerpt from And Gladly Teach. I thought of this particular chapter recently and want to share it.

SLA = St. Lawrence Academy, the imaginary school where the novel is set.

--------------------

V. THE MAGI

As part of the opening week’s meetings, the faculty was introduced to Dr. Rodney L. Glennis, the founder and president of the firm of Broad Horizons, Inc., educational consultants. SLA had hired Broad Horizons to study all aspects of school life and to recommend ways to attract more students, reduce expenses, and, in general, make more money. (As a non-profit organization SLA was naturally very concerned with making as much money as possible.)

What is a “consultant”? The dictionary says, “an expert who is called on for professional or technical advice,” but a far more comprehensive definition might be “someone who is paid a lot of money to figure out things you ought to be able to figure out for yourself.” Another definition, apt for the sort of consultant the educational world produces, is “someone who, not liking to be a teacher or an an administrator, now makes more money than either by telling them how to teach and administrate.”

The world of education teems with consultants, it seethes with them, it is lousy with them. There is probably no school in the country whose substance has not been drained by at least one of these academic lampreys. It is not easy to say why communities consisting of well-educated adults, with decades of experience in every aspect of their profession, shell out thousands of dollars to these self-proclaimed experts. But they do. In the private school world there are even consultants to whom parents can go for the purpose of finding the “right” school for their child. This is a particularly lucrative field, since parents driven to use such services are so desperate to get their kid(s) out of the house that they will pay any amount to find a school which will take them. Such consultants, with just a computer, a phone, a copy of the Bunting & Lyon guide, and a knowledge of which schools are in financial trouble, could place Jack the Ripper in a private school, for a suitable fee.

Dr. Glennis (exactly what he was a doctor of was not clear, but the title engendered confidence in his clients) was a tall, gaunt, balding man in his late fifties, with bushy brows and bright brown eyes. He had arrived with a staff of three and several suitcases full of charts, tables, graphs, and overheads. He spoke for two solid hours. He painted an unnerving picture of the future. He explained how American teenagers were with each passing minute becoming stupider, lazier, and more undisciplined, how their parents were becoming less and less competent at raising them, how independent schools would soon be inundated with these creatures, and how any school which hoped to survive would have to develop “new and innovative programs,” “a clearer vision of viable objectives,” and “a distinctive cachet to proclaim itself unique among the profusion of similar institutions.”

All the while he spoke, his aides were busy flashing transparencies on the screen and whisking them away before the squinting audience could deduce their meaning, if indeed they had any. One chart was displayed upside-down, but that really made no difference.

“Broad Horizons has been conducting an in-depth study of SLA, which will be concluded shortly. We will then be in a position to make further recommendations as to how you can improve recruitment and retention. You have already taken a great step forward by energizing your hockey program, as I recommended to the Board two years ago.”
“So it’s his fault,” whispered several of the teachers.
“SLA cannot rest on its academics. Remember, parents take for granted that every independent school has an excellent teaching staff, superb courses, unlimited individual attention, and fine college preparatory opportunities. That’s a given.”
Now many teachers were glancing at each other. Was this true? Were parents really that dumb?
“What you must have is a further extra-curricular, I mean co-curricular, ...” Dr. Glennis’s volubility momentarily stopped. The word he had almost used, “gimmick,” didn’t seem elevated enough. Then he went on, “... dimension. which will individualize your identity. You must not be thought of as a ‘plain vanilla’ school, but rather as a Neapolitan one, a sort of tutti-frutti, which offers things unique, distinctive, sui generis!”
The teachers didn’t clap, partly because they were mostly appalled, and partly because they did not know he was done. But he was done, for the moment.
In the back row Mr. Vetter turned to Mr. del Rey. “But I like vanilla,” he whispered plaintively.

Mr. Jones, the European History teacher, a crabbed and reactionary man who had a particularly low tolerance for consultants, and indeed for innovations in general, looked at his schedule and noted with regret that tomorrow another speaker would appear. Mr. Jones often wondered who did this scheduling. He thought it was done by the Senior Staff, or SS, at its weekly meeting. The term SS did not mean--as one might think--those members of the faculty who had been at SLA for the longest time. No, the SS was an ex officio group which did not include any full-time teachers. Exactly who it did include was hard to say. Mr. Jones had never seen any list which specified the members of the Senior Staff. The SS exercised power anonymously, like the Venetian Council of Ten, the Neapolitan Camarilla, and the Illuminati. Perhaps the members had a secret handshake or a special tie clip. At any rate, these ghostly councillors seemed to be responsible for bringing to the campus the succession of quacks, mountebanks, and assorted humbugs who periodically bedevilled the busy teachers with their crackpot theories and impractical advice.



On the morrow, the latest speaker turned out to be some sort of child psychologist, an adolescent development “expert.” His presentation was so bizarre that many of the teachers wondered if it was an elaborate practical joke, similar to the one at a convention some years before where the keynote speaker, billed as Margaret Thatcher’s educational advisor and the youngest pilot to have flown with the RAF in the Battle of Britain, turned out to be a comedian. Certainly the clouds of jargon which befogged the room had about them an aura of comic implausibility.
First came something called the “Optimal Environmental Conditions” (which made Mr. Jones think of seventy degrees and low humidity,) which were engendered by a teacher having “Congruent Anticipatory Sets” with his students. This led, somehow, to “Cognitive Behavioral Change.” Intervention in student discipline would succeed, said the speaker, only if “environmental conditions” were “appropriate.” One had to “assess the lethality” of a situation so that one could provide “value-added opportunities” which students would “buy into.”
With everyone reeling from this barrage, the speaker--Dr. somebody, they were always “doctors”--physician, heal thyself--went on to the topic of “Gaining a Meta-Perspective.” A “teacher-student interaction” was something which happened on the “subjective level.” When the teacher then discussed this “interaction” with one or more colleagues, he gained a “meta-perspective.” A discussion of this discussion furnished one with a “meta-meta-perspective.” And ...
Mr. Jones quietly got up and went away. He knew that he might be reprimanded for this desertion, but he thought that a reprimand would be preferable to being jailed for murdering the speaker, which, given his state of mind, was his only alternative to departure. On his way home he marvelled, not for the first time, at his colleagues’ patience in tolerating these verbal assaults. He knew that SLA was not unique. All over the country, probably all over the world, these “experts” were going to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it, chanting their incomprehensible mantras to captive audiences at conventions, school openings, and faculty meetings, and being well-paid for doing so.

At least, thought Mr. Jones as he entered his apartment and sank into his easy chair, this guy hadn’t had us “break up into little groups.” That was a favorite technique of those people. The faculty would be divided into squads of five or six and sent hither and yon to discuss some problem concocted by the speaker. Often each group would be instructed to write its collective thoughts with a magic marker on large, poster-sized sheets of paper. When the faculty reconvened, the speaker would pin up the sheets of paper all around the room, so it resembled a kindergarten, and then everyone would compare the various ideas and try to find “congruence.” After it was found--and it always was--the now-congruent teachers could go home, the speaker would gather up the posters and throw them away, and no one would ever hear or speak of the matter again. This was called a “very productive meeting.”

Mr. Jones reflected that if the Headmaster and the Board could remove the opium pipes from their teeth and come down to planet Earth, they might take all the money spent on these consultants and just do something useful with it, like repairing the scandalously decrepit boys’ showers. In thinking this, however, Mr. Jones was merely demonstrating that he would never be a Headmaster, because he lacked “Strategic Vision.” Strategic Vision is the ability to ignore mundane realities completely and to immerse oneself in a world of dreams. All great educational leaders have it.

As for Mr. Jones, well, he really felt, after being exposed to all these consultants, advisors, and experts, that a school in need of guidance would be better off if it hired an astrologer. The fees would be less and the advice every bit as reliable.

----------------------

If you enjoyed this little essay, why not buy the whole book?

Evelyn Waugh On Educational Reform

I read Waugh’s Scott-King’s Modern Europe many years ago. The last paragraphs impressed me then; in the last couple of years they have impressed me even more. In fact I am tempted to have them embossed on a great banner that I can hang on my classroom door.

Mr. Scott-King, a fusty Latin teacher at an old English public school, returns from an excursion that, much against his will, has taken him to a European dictatorship and a Palestinian refugee camp (from which he was rescued by a former student). The Headmaster tries to persuade him to teach something more ‘useful’ than Latin, since the number of Latinists at the school is dwindling.


“You know,” the Headmaster said, “we are starting this year with fifteen fewer classical applicants than we had last term.”

“I thought that would be about the number.”

“I deplore it as much as you do. But what are we to do? Parents are not interested in producing the ‘complete man’ any more. They want to qualify their boys for jobs in the modern world. You can hardly blame them, can you?”

“Oh yes,” said Scott-King. “I can and do. I think it would be very wicked indeed to do anything to fit a boy for the modern world.”

“It’s a shortsighted view, Scott-King.”

“There, Headmaster, with all respect, I differ from you profoundly. I think it is the most long-sighted view it is possible to take.”

Evelyn Waugh
Scott-King’s Modern Europe, 1947

A Pleasant Surprise

About two months ago I gave away five copies each of Storm Approaching and And Gladly Teach through a Library Thing program in which you offer some books and, after a couple of weeks, L. Thing randomly picks the winners from those who indicated an interest in getting a book and sends you their addresses. The recipients are asked to provide a review. In the weeks following my dispatch of the ten books, only one person even acknowledged receiving one. Oh well, I thought, so much for that. But when I checked L.T. today, I found that a recipient in Connecticut had posted the following in late June about And Gladly Teach:

"This book is extremely funny and I had fun reading it. There were times when at the doctor's waiting room, or at the laundrymat, I burst out laughing uncontrollably, prompting the startled people to ask just what I am reading that is so funny. I showed them the book and they either jotted down the title and author or asked me if they can read it after I'm done; they needed a good laugh. I highly recommend this book to whomever needs a good laugh. It is well written."

Isn't that nice? Thank you! And you, O reader, wouldn't you like a good laugh? Why not buy And Gladly Teach today? Or tomorrow. Or real soon, anyway. Soon your own gufffaws and chortles will also ring out at clinics and laundromats, and you too can recommend my books to eager readers. See "Books, Anyone? two posts down.

The New Empire

The main political unit of the west, the New Empire has a polity somewhat reminiscent of the Holy Roman Empire. The Emperor ruless the Crown Lands directly; the nine provinces are subject to their own sovereigns, who owe fealty, but not taxes, to the Emperor. Valdi, which broke away from the New Empire long ago, is entirely independent.

Andiriel was raised at the Institute for the Salvation of the Homeless in Javakis, Norland.

(Click on maps to enlarge them)

The Calamian Islands

Although culturally and linguistically close to the New Empire, the ten states of the Calamian Islands are independent monarchies. The Isles are a good place for soldiers of fortune to find work, as small wars are frequent. Most of the action of the Mercenaries trilogy takes place here. There is also a good deal of piracy, especially near the Pinnacles.

This map seems to get more views than anything else on the site. Can anyone tell me why??

Sarenia

Four hundred miles east of the Calamian Islands lies Sarenia, governed by the all-powerful King of Kings with the assistance of the Ruling Clerics. Less arid than foreigners imagine it to be, Sarenia, wealthy and populous, is very different from the nations to its west.

Gold and Glory -- An Excerpt

Here are the first six pages of Gold and Glory, Vol. II in my MERCENARIES series. The print-on-demand production process is going well; I hope the book is available by early June, or perhaps earlier.

(If anyone knows how to get Blogspot to indent, please let me know. Since I can't, I have had to insert blank lines between each paragraph to make things more readable.)

----------------------

1. THE JEKLAR CAMPAIGN: IRONROCK

In the hills and valleys
Trumpets loudly blaring,
Mercenaries march, all
Bold, brave, handsome, daring.
Rat-a-tat-tat the drums are beating
Rat-a-tat-tat the drums are beating
Tantarara go the trumpets
Tantarara, one, two, three.

“What’s this one, Loreg? I haven’t heard it before.”

“Just a silly song, commander. But it keeps us marching at a good clip.”

All our officers are
Riding steeds so dashing:
Proudly step their horses,
Sun from helmets flashing.
Rat-a-tat-tat, etc.

Andiriel patted Brownie’s neck. “Do you feel dashing today, steed? Poor girl. At least you survived the winter. You’re tougher than you look.”

Though we’ve left behind us
Girls who can’t forget us,
‘Bout nine months from now they
May perhaps regret us.
Rat-a-tat-tat, etc.

“Give them a ‘tantarara,’ Artus,” Andiriel told her trumpeter. “Two days out and already I feel happier. It’s spring! It’s so nice to see grass, and trees with leaves.”

“We all feel better, commander. Morale’s high. All we need now is a job.”

What on earth is finer
Than with comrades trusty
To march forth to battle
Though the roads be dusty?
Rat-a-tat-tat, etc.

“Three days to Jeklar, right? Just hope that Emdan really is at war with Fanrix.”

It was early afternoon of April 2. Having gone around the hills and mines west of Ironport, the Pelicans were now on a dirt road, entering farm country. The cits, depending on their previous experiences with mercenaries, either stood and waved or ran away and hid.

About an hour later, as the regiment got underway after a ten-minute halt, two riders approached from the west: L/Cpl Gerlon and a stranger.

“Ah, visitors,” said Andiriel, trotting ahead to meet them. “In a hurry, too.” She gestured to Loreg, who joined her from his position further back.

Gerlon saluted. “Commander, this is Captain Kassis nar Voros, staff-officer to General Demantius. He’s been looking for us. Sir, our colonel, Anashla.”

The captain was about thirty, wearing very good mail and boots; his stallion made Brownie look feeble. He saluted, and said, a little breathlessly, “At last we found you. I can guide you to the general’s camp, colonel. It’s two days’ march to the northwest.”

“Northwest? Not at Jeklar?”

“Jeklar is under siege by the Count of Fanrix. The general is organizing a counterattack.”

Andiriel and Loreg stared at him.

“Yes. The Count moved fast and surprised us. He crossed the border a few days back and disrupted all our plans. The general left a garrison in the city and retreated north. We’re trying to raise everyone we can as quickly as possible. Jeklar can hold out for three weeks at least.”

Andiriel nodded to L/Cpl Gerlon, who returned to his scouting duties. She rode with the two men next to 1st Company, whose men had fallen silent, trying to overhear the news.

“So Emdan does want to hire us, captain?” she asked.

“We certainly do. We’re offering G1,100 for one month, supplied, with options for two more months. I have a contract with me. We heard the Red Rats were in the southeast.”

She winked at Loreg. “Captain, do you suppose the Count of Fanrix also needs troops?”

Voros frowned. “Oh, colonel, surely, after wintering in the Duke of Emdan’s lands, you would not....”

“Well, I don’t know, captain. We’re mercenaries, after all. You did say G1,200?”

He hesitated, gave a close-lipped smile, and said, “Yes, that’s right, colonel.”

“Then you’ve got us: the Pelicans, not the Red Rats. We’ll bivouac in an hour or so. Could you brief my officers then? Good.” She nodded towards the column of troops. “Please ride around and see what you’ve bought. Major Jevlis, you and Carlin inspect the contract.”

The regiment was getting better at castramentation. At 4 PM, Capt. Garvis, the Provost Marshal and Billeting Officer, came back from his reconnaissance to tell Andiriel there was a good bivouac site a mile ahead. Once there, the Mounted Scouts patrolled the perimeter while the halberdiers, archers, and civilians unloaded the wagons and put up tents. Then the wagons were chained together and placed along the “most likely threat” route; this was southwest, and seemed less theoretical than in the past. The Provost saw to the setting out of the usual security details after the Sergeant of the Guard for the week reported to Andiriel, who gave him the parole and countersign for the night. Loreg reported the contract to be satisfactory.

At Retreat Andiriel introduced Capt. Voros and announced that the regiment was now working for Duke Kesman of Emdan against Count Tilmand of Fanrix, “and for good pay, twelve hundred, supplied. Sharpen your blades. We’ll be in action soon.”

She was a little surprised by the cheering. Loreg said, “All our training and practice, commander—they want to use it.”

Captain Voros watching with a professional eye, was satisfied. He said so at supper, which he ate with Andiriel, Loreg, and Tomas. The other officers came in afterwards.

“I won’t make excuses,” he told them. “We were surprised and outmaneuvered. The Count of Fanrix is a good soldier. He forestalled Duke Kesman’s invasion by launching his own. Apparently he told his knights during the winter to assemble in early March. He hired four mercenary units and kept them up north; we knew of only one. He called out just his eastern levies, so they assembled and moved quickly. He crossed the border with over 4,000 men when we had barely half that number ready. It’s a short march to Jeklar. The count surrounded it by land while all six of his warships appeared in the harbor and sank two of the five Emdani quadriremes. So Jeklar is cut off, with Duke Kesman inside.”

“Inside!” exclaimed Lt. Galagos.

“Yes. His Majesty is a brave man. He refused to abandon his capital, so my general left the best garrison he could and marched fifteen miles northeast. We’re calling in all the levies we can. The enemy has not pursued. The general intends to relieve Jeklar as soon as you join him.”

“What mercs does Fanrix have?” asked Tomas.

“The Bears: 500 javelins; Carl’s Killers: 400 sword-and-shield men; the Red Company: 100 halberds and 300 bows; and the Sable Shields, 800 spearmen.” He paused. “I think you’re familiar with the last one, colonel? The Duke of Fanrix hired them away from Sir Bend nar Tillag after that battle.... I forget the name....”

“You’ve very polite, captain. Call it the Rats’ Run if you like.” Andiriel turned to her officers. “I’ll sign the contract now. Tell the men we’ll be facing the Sable Shields again and that we’re going to show them the difference between a rat and a pelican.”

“We sure will, commander,” said Lt. Vaklar; his colleagues voiced agreement.

She motioned Loreg and Tomas to stay and sent for Carlin. Capt. Voros changed G1,100 to 1,200 in the contract. She signed both copies and they touched palms.
“And now, captain, tell us frankly what our chances are of beating Fanrix.”

“That will depend mostly on your regiment, colonel. The Emdan levies aren’t wildly enthusiastic. You’re the only professional infantry we’ve got.”

“Don’t worry,” said Loreg. “We’re looking forward to meeting the Sable Shields again.”

Next morning the regiment turned off the road at Capt. Voros’s direction into an area where villages were sparser. A patrol of light cavalry reached them, which Voros sent back to report that he had hired the Pelicans.
That evening, as she sat reading Xenoranthus, she heard, “Not very talkative today, commander? Lots to think about?” and felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Lana.

She put her hand over Lana’s. “We’ve got our first real battle coming up. I’m worried.”

“You’ll do great, Asha. The men are really ready for a fight, especially after what the Sable Shields did to us last time.”

“I know. That’s not why I’m worried. We’re just part of the army. I hope this Demantius knows his job and that the other troops are brave. We can’t win everything by ourselves.”

Lana knelt beside Andiriel’s chair and took her hands in her own. “We’ve got to win. Otherwise we won’t be able to go shopping in Jeklar, and I really need a new dress.”

Andiriel laughed. “At least if we win we’ll have something to shop with. I guess we’ll do all right. The enemy haven’t got a lucky fox, do they?” She looked out the tent flap, to see Sandi catching beetles.

Capt. Voros brought a report from the light cavalry that the Count of Fanrix was moving north. “He’s left enough troops to maintain the siege and the rest are on the march towards us. General Demantius is moving southwest. We should join him tomorrow afternoon and give battle the next day.”

(2)

The Pelicans met General Demantius sooner than expected: together with a dozen aides and guards he rode into the field while the regiment was having dinner. He urgently sought out Andiriel, who was disappointed by her new superior’s appearance. She had imagined an august, commanding figure (like Sir Branlor), but in fact Demantius was a small, sallow Islander of fifty or so riding a horse that seemed slightly too big for him. His sparse black hair was greasy, his beard untrimmed, his breastplate and cuisses needed polishing; his robust escorts diminished him still further. Andiriel felt that she was equally unprepossessing to him: his brown eyes seemed very skeptical as he studied her when she came to attention.

“Count Tilmand has halted a mile south, near Mud Brook,” Demantius said as he dismounted. “The rest of the army will be here before nightfall. Could I see you alone, colonel?” His voice was cultured, but he spoke abruptly.

They walked to a small grove. Dagget followed, to offer the general some wine, but he waved it aside and dismissed the young man.

Again Demantius fixed her with doubting eyes. “This regiment was the Red Rats?”

“Yes, general. It was.”

“Why is it any better now than at Thrale’s Disaster or Brakar’s Dike?”

“Better training, discipline, morale, and.... and leadership, general. We even won a battle last fall. A big skirmish, at least.”

“Tell me about that.”

She did (omitting her deception of the baron). He listened carefully, nodded, and said, “How long have you been a mercenary?”

“Since I was nineteen, sir.”

“And how old are you now?”

“Nineteen, sir.”

He chuckled before he spoke. “Anashla, you are the only woman I know to command a regiment, except for Ela nal Tindal. She took over the Claws of Gartos when her husband was killed, but turned them over to her brother-in-law a few months later. Listen. I’ve got about 2,200 men: 50 Emdan knights, my 150 light cavalry, 1,400 levies, and 600 Pelicans. Fanrix will field more: 125 knights, 1,700 good mercenary infantry, and about 1,000 levies who certainly aren’t any worse than ours. We have the initiative because they have no light horse, and we’ve got a few more bows, about 400 to 300. The point is, young woman, your regiment will almost certainly either win or lose this thing. I can’t count on the levies to do more than defend, and not even that for very long. It will be all my cavalry can do to distract theirs. I certainly can’t hope to defeat all their knights. Do you honestly think your Pelicans can handle the Sable Shields?”

“Yes, general.”

He waited; she said no more; he raised his shaggy eyebrows.

“The only other thing I could say is ‘no,’ general, and that’s not a good answer, is it?”

Now he laughed, and put a hand on her arm. “Maybe we’ll win this after all, colonel. Maybe we will. Make camp here. I’ll talk to the officers once the rest of our troops arrive.”

They duly arrived. The Emdan knights looked good, accompanied by a lot of people from their estates who pitched the tents and looked after the spare horses. But the militia who wandered into the area over a period of an hour or so made the Pelicans look like the Imperial Guard: a throng of peasants in leather gambesons or no armor, some with helmets and many without, armed with a collection of random weapons and farm tools, supervised (a bit) by older men, most of whom wore mail. They had few tents, and they mobbed the supply wagons to get their bread and meat.

“Will these yokels be of any use at all?” Andiriel asked Loreg.

He studied the milling throng and replied, much to her surprise, “They’re sturdy fellows, commander. Levies aren’t always bad, but they’re unpredictable. I’ve seen militia run at the first volley of arrows, and I’ve also seen them fight like mad. Of course, sometimes that’s because they don’t know enough to retreat. But these lads should give a good account of themselves. They’re healthy, and after a dull winter they’ll welcome some excitement.”

“They’ll certainly get lots of it tomorrow.”

A Judge Speaks

Last October I learned that Storm Approaching had won an Honorable Mention in the 2009 Writers Digest Self-Published Book Awards. This was announced five months later, in the March/April 2010 issue of the magazine (p. 63); and yesterday I received a certificate, which I expected, and a copy of the evaluator's commentary sheet on the novel, which I did not expect. Here is what Judge 23 had to say:
----------------------------
What did you like best about this book?

The attention to detail here is amazing. I liked this book a great deal; it’s imaginative, well written, and thoroughly engaging. I’m surprised actually that this didn’t find an outlet at a larger house. It deserves a wider readership. The writing is clear and clean and varied without being tedious. The plot moves swiftly but attends as well to the needs of the audience. The characters are believable, as are their motivations. An intelligent, enjoyable read.

How can the author improve this book?

This is a small quibble, but I did at times feel like there were too many named characters, and though this didn’t hamper my enjoyment of the book, I was at times a bit confused about where we were as Andiriel moves throughout the land. But again, my confusion was minor, and I don’t necessarily think that anything should have been changed. The book simply has a large cast.

Author’s Comment: Thank you, Judge 23. (And remember, there are maps in the back of the book.)

Storm Approaching Excerpt

I posted an excerpt from And Gladly Teach some days ago. Here is one from Storm Approaching--not Chapter 1, but Chapter 5 (pp. 19-26). I hope it entices some folks to risk buying the book.
------------------------------
5. THE SILVER HAWKS

After eighteen years at the Institute, Andiriel was exhilarated to be on her own. She lived in a tenement on Larch Lane, off Gold Street, a building with six respectable households and a vigilant concierge. She had two large rooms for two silvers a week, which was more than she could have afforded had she not been willing to dig into her savings.
She worked at the Wizards House each morning. She spent almost as much time reading as cataloguing. These books, all neatly printed and beautifully bound—she had never imagined such riches. As Garjon had said, they were on multifarious topics. There were even books by contemporaries who paid the Imperial Press to publish their writings, like Farewell to Alms, the autobiography of Rellas Shai, the Institute’s benefactor, who had begun life as a beggar. Some were in Old Imperial but most of the Classics were translations, for it was the intent of the Ministry of Culture, whose imprint graced the title pages, to make these treasures available to the literate population. That population was certainly a minority of the Emperor’s subjects, but she was part of it; she would sit reading until her conscience made her take up a pen and another card.
In the afternoon came lessons at Mohar’s Equestrian Academy. This establishment was not quite so grand as its name implied—the staff was Mohar and his son—but it certainly taught a lot of people to ride. Most, of course, were men; but Andiriel’s money was as good as theirs, and Mohar did not mind humoring her eccentricity, even in not riding sidesaddle. She discovered that she had no hidden talent for equitation, but on the other hand horses seemed to know she liked them, as she did all animals, and as the days went by she found herself more often in the saddle than out of it.
In the evening she practiced at the archery range near the west wall. She was glad to have her old bow back, for she could not yet draw Sir Branlor’s magnificent gift. This inspired her to work hard, and she made progress. She entered a contest for beginners and won second prize: a quiver and fifty arrows. So encouraged, she redoubled her efforts.
On Sundays, after early service, she would read, or walk in the woods near the town, thinking indecisively about her future. She often had supper at Nella’s little house, where Jon and his wife made her feel an honored guest. (Jon deeply appreciated Andiriel’s wedding present, so useful to a man starting in business.) About once a week she would stop by the Happy Tankard for a meal, and to say hello to Boggus, whom she remembered as a kindly boss. He was always glad to see her and to provide a free cup of root-tea, her favorite drink. He also retailed the latest stories and rumors, such as the troubles in the north.
“They say the Ferals have been attacking Red Tooth Pass more strongly now. The Chancery is hiring more mercs to help out. You’ll probably see some pretty strange characters marching through Javakis soon.”
In four days there appeared in the streets 200 ferocious-looking men, dressed in an assortment of leather armor, armed with javelins and swords, called “Gambog’s Maulers.” The city authorities hustled them to a camp outside the walls and hurried them on their way the next morning. Later came some cavalry, the Coursers—lithe men on small horses—who were allowed to spend the night near the Old Gate and were likewise sent off at dawn.
Then one sunny afternoon, as Andiriel returned from her riding lesson, she heard music. A column of perhaps 400 soldiers was marching in step down Gold Street to the bracing rhythm of drums and fifes, headed by a man carrying a big blue flag on which was a white bird with golden claws diving on its prey. Officers rode beside their units. The troops wore matching equipment—helmets, mail shirts, and greaves—and carried large shields and long spears. Others, including a few young women, were archers in leather jerkins.
“Who are they?” she asked another onlooker.
“The Silver Hawks. You never heard of ‘em? Very famous they are. Fought in the Isles, and Castle Garmal, and all over. They took Vorgast and won the famous fight at Gorodel. The Pass will be well-guarded if the Emperor’s willing to pay for the Hawks.”
She walked along the broad avenue, next to the soldiers, enjoying the rhythmic music and the ordered progress of the men. They halted at the big field near the West Gate. An officer with a red crest on his silvered helmet spoke to them; then they broke ranks and started to set up camp with practiced efficiency.
Andiriel watched all this with great interest, then headed home. As she passed the Happy Tankard, Boggus trundled out to ask if she would work that evening. “We’ll need experienced help tonight. I’ll pay you C6 and there’ll be lots of tips.” She agreed, pleased to be wanted.
*
Boggus was not wrong. At liberty that evening, the Silver Hawks swamped every inn, tavern, and shop. Andiriel and the other four girls had their hands full taking care of customers—not only mercenaries but lots of citizens eager to hear news and stories, of which there was no shortage. Andiriel listened eagerly to snatches of talk about affairs in far-away places.
One table was occupied by a trio of bearded men. Two had three white stripes encircling the left arms of their blue supervests; the other had four. As Andiriel served them their latest mugs of ale and another chicken, one of them said, “How long have you been an archer?”
She stared at him while his companions laughed at her surprise.
“No, I’m no mage,” continued the man. “But I spent five years with the Golden Bows, and now three in the Hawks, and if I can’t tell an archer by her chest and upper arms, my name’s not Arvis Gelman.” (Andiriel blushed slightly. The costume of a Happy Tankard serving-girl was not as modest as the smock she had worn at the Institute.)
“Actually he’s Ralph Ondos,” said the four-striped man, which led to more laughter. “Tell him you’ve never fired a bow in your life and I’ll give you part of the bet I’ll win.”
“I’m afraid you lose, master. I’ve been practicing the bow for over two years.”
“There, you see? I am Arvis Gelman. And a fine archer I’ll bet you are, a tall, strong lass like you. Thinking of joining up?”
“Joining up? You mean become a mercenary?”
“It’s more exciting than carrying ale mugs to old coots like us.” More laughter.
“Is it all that much fun, Sergeant Gelman?”
“Sit down here. Your name? Sit down, Andiriel. Here’s a copper to buy you a break.”
She took the coin to Boggus, left her big tray on the counter, and joined the men.
“You must meet my friends,” said Arvis Gelman. “This brawny guy is Willem Bolton, who leads a section of heavy infantry, and the fellow with four stripes is Thrale Jermis, who’s the sergeant-major of 1st Company. We have to be respectful to him because he outranks us.”
“You’re respectful because I’m older and smarter,” said Jermis with a grin
“So why are you mercenaries?” asked Andiriel, accepting a slice of meat pie and a cup of ale. “You were going to tell me, Sergeant Gelman.”
“My dear, it’s a fine life. You travel all over the civilized lands—and some not so civilized, too. The pay is very good in a crack unit. The comradeship is wonderful. You have respect and honor from everyone. Now, I’ll bet you’ve never been far from Javakis, have you?”
“You’re right, I haven’t. Barely a mile, in fact.”
“But surely you’d like to travel? You don’t want to stay here all your life.”
“Oh yes, that’s true...”
“See the world and be paid for it: the spires of the Capital, the palaces and castles of the great lords, the cities of the Isles. Friends you can always depend on, the pride of doing a manly, I mean a difficult, job well.”
“But there aren’t many girl mercenaries, are there?”
“Very few, very few, but a small number of brave and daring women serve in fine units: exceptional women, like you, Andiriel.”
She couldn’t help smiling. Sgt. Gelman raised his arm and his voice. “Bravery calls, honor demands, glory awaits, my young friend, my future comrade-in-arms. Rise above the common herd. Embrace the life most suited for a man or woman of spirit and pride. Set your feet upon the path of glory!”
Patrons were listening. A corporal at another table began to sing:



Up, heroes, to battle, seize bow or spear!
Set your feet on the true path of glory!
Let cowards hide now and tremble with fear.
We’re the Hawks! Let the foe feel our fury!
With our weapons in hand and a song on our breath
We will vanquish the foe while we laugh at death!

Other Hawks joined in.

The world is balanced on a long sharp sword,
So hail! to the mightiest bladesmen.
The strong, brave, and skillful will gain the reward,
Not peasants or fat, greedy tradesmen.
No prize on the earth is so great or high
That heroes can’t seize it, if only they try!

And finally every mercenary in the Happy Tankard united, more or less in harmony:

A soldier of fortune alone can feel
Full life in its vigor and spirit.
We carve our future with guts and steel,
And as for Fate, we don’t fear it.
All men die but some die without being alive.
Long live courage and pride! May the Hawks always thrive!

The song ended with cheers and applause and shouts of “Hail the Hawks!” Sgt. Gelman, quite flushed after accompanying his lusty singing by pounding his tankard on the table, said, “Our hymn, Andiriel. We sang it while we broke Prince Ednis’s line at Gorodel and won the battle all had thought was lost. Ah, that was a day of glory.”
Sgt.-Maj. Jermis, who had sung out as lustily as any, spoke up: “Yes, and a day when we lost over thirty per cent. Arvis didn’t mention that he’s our senior recruiting sergeant.”
Andiriel, on the point of asking how to sign up, said, “Do you like being a mercenary, Sergeant Jermis?”
“It’s been a fine life for me. I escaped being a farmer, I met my wife—she’s one of our sutlers—and I’ve been places and seen things that were wonderful. And you can’t do better than the Hawks, if you’re infantry. But it isn’t all fun, and women have a harder time than men.”
“But what career is all fun?” asked Sgt. Gelman. “However,” he went on, calming down a bit, “you don’t have to run off with us tomorrow. But I’d like to see you shoot. We’ll be leaving Javakis about noon, won’t we, Will?”
“Yes. The commissary wants time to lay in some vegetables and wine.”
“Could I see you tomorrow at nine, at those butts near the wall?”
“Certainly, sergeant. I’ll be there.”
The sound of fifes and drums, soft but moving closer, filled the room. “That’s our song,” said the sergeant-major. “Tattoo. Twenty minutes to get back to camp.” He drained his mug, smacked his lips, got up, and bowed to Andiriel. “A pleasure to meet you, young mistress. If you want some advice from an old campaigner, keep practicing the bow and learn to ride. You may have a real future as a soldier.”
The other mercenaries were also leaving. Before Sgt. Gelman reached the door several young men came up to him. At least he recruited somebody with his eloquence, she thought. Maybe I really should... No, not yet. I wonder if Sir Branlor will come back?
Most of the townsmen also left. Andiriel and the other girls began cleaning up.
“How did we do, Master Boggus?” asked Chandra.
“Ha! Four days’ profits in one good night. A windfall. You’ll all get an extra C2.”
“And nice decent fellows, too,” said young Terini. “Hardly a broken bottle.”
“Mercs are like anyone else: there’s good and bad. Those Maulers a while back—they might’ve burned Javakis down if they’d been allowed to run loose. The Hawks are crack troops.”
*
Next morning Andiriel found both Arvis Gelman and Willem Bolton waiting for her. Arvis examined her old bow and said it was a decent beginner’s weapon. “But you certainly have a grand case for it,” he went on. “Must have cost much more than the bow.”
“Oh, this is for my other one.” She took out Sir Branlor’s gift.
Arvis gingerly took the bow, exchanged glances with his comrade, and exclaimed, “Dragonsteeth! You didn’t get this in Javakis.”
“No. It was a present from... from a friend in the Capital.”
“A friend? Are you a countess in disguise, my lady? Do you know what this is? It’s an Imperial Battle Bow. They only make ‘em at the main armory.” He pointed to the little green eagle below the grip. “That’s the hallmark. They cost near G30, and cits can’t buy ‘em without a warrant from the Marshal’s office. The Imperial Guard uses ‘em. There are no better bows.”
“Can you actually shoot this?” asked Sgt. Bolton.
“Not too well yet. But I practice every day, and I’m getting stronger.”
“May I try a few shots?” asked Arvis.
“Of course.”
He fired thrice at the thirty-yard target: two in the second ring and one in the bull.
“Ah,” he sighed happily. “Like a dream. Beautiful weapon.”
“Didn’t we come to see Andiriel shoot?” asked Sgt. Bolton with a grin.
“Uh, oh yes, of course. Please, show us your skill.”
Using her old bow, she put all five arrows into the forty-yard target, two quite near the bull. The men watched her closely. “Yes, she has the talent,” said Arvis. He moved her right arm a bit and her sixth arrow grazed the bull.
“You keep it up, young archer. Keep at it until you can use your Battle Bow as well as you do this one. Then you’ll really be ready for the Hawks.”
“Yes, and be nice to that friend who gave it to you,” said Willem Bolton. “Maybe you’ll get a set of Vlaster’s Plate next.” Both men laughed.
She walked with them back to camp, filled with curiosity about where the Silver Hawks were going and what they were going to do when they got there.
Arvis laughed. “You should ask our colonel,” he said. “We underofficers don’t worry much about stuff like that. Our job is to see that our men are in good shape wherever we go, and we know that wherever it is we’ll be fighting someone. Unless it’s what we call a ‘soft mission,’ like guarding a palace or escorting a caravan. But I guess that the Ferals are getting noisier than usual so they need some really good men to quiet ‘em down.”
“There was trouble in April,” said Willem. “Lots more Ferals than usual, and some of the provincial levies didn’t hold up. The Chancery must have decided to send better troops.” He smiled. “And they’re sending the best.”
“Have you ever been to the Pass?” she asked.
“Not me,” said Arvis. “Will has.”
“Twelve years ago. I was with the Savage Spears then. The Duke of Corm hired us instead of sending his levy—wanted to give his people time to get in their harvest. The Pass is quite a place. Huge fortress, of course, but so desolate—dusty plains next to an endless forest. You can stand on the battlements and see trees as far as the horizon. We were there three months and saw action on at least ten days. Got a nice scar on my leg to remember it by.”
“And did you see much of the Sovereign Order?”
“The Sovereign... You mean the Glory Knights?” asked Willem. “Sure. They command the fortress and the army. A privilege to fight alongside ‘em. But the garrison is about 3,000 men, and there’s only 300 Glory Knights. The rest are mercs or levies.”
They were near the camp; the two sergeants took their leave. “Think about what I told you,” said Arvis Gelman. “We can always use eager young archers, especially when they’re as smart as you, and anyone will tell you that the Silver Hawks are the best regiment in the Empire or the Isles. Practice. You’ll be damned lethal if you can master that grand bow of yours. And keep the Hawks in mind. We’ll be up at Red Tooth Pass for a good while, just fifty miles away.” He grinned. “I think you might become our first female officer.”
“We’ll meet again,” said Willem. “The Hawks fly all over.”
She went home, wondering why Sir Branlor thought she was worthy of so splendid a gift as her Battle Bow. Over thirty gold!
*
The next day, instead of riding, Andiriel shopped. She came home with a helmet, a hauberk, a sword with a scabbard and silvered belt, a dagger in a sturdy sheath, three hunting shirts, two pairs of riding breeches, a pair of knee-boots, twenty days’ supply of cured beef, spurs, a haversack, a tinderbox, a riding crop, and a small tent. After paying the porters who carried all this to her rooms she found she had spent G31/S9/C6.
She sat sipping root tea in her stuffed chair near the open window, contemplating her impedimenta and wondering what had possessed her. I spent over a third of my money and I don’t even know what I’m going to do with this stuff. I’ve got spurs and no horse. I’ve never even held a sword. What’s come over me? I’m a little orphan girl—well, maybe not so little, considering all the trouble they had finding a hauberk that fit—and I’ve never traveled anywhere in my life. I’ve got a ton of work yet to do at the Wizards’ House.
She put on her gear and posed before the mirror. At least I look like a fighter, she thought, smiling. She adjusted her helmet, thinking that she had made a good choice of the four available. It covered the skull, the cheeks, and the neck to the shoulders, and had a flat visor that left the face open. Master Ordel, the proprietor of Javakis Arms and Armor, had called it a “burgonet.” (He also said there was a ‘falling buffe’ that could be attached to the cheek plates and raised to shield her lower face, but he didn’t have one in stock.)
She took off the equipment, ate supper, and set out for an archery lesson with her Battle Bow, determined that today she’d get her thumb somewhere near her nose. And she resolved to wear her hauberk for a couple of hours each day, to get used to its weight and to moving in it.
Two weeks passed.

Culture Corner: The LOTR Film Trilogy

In posting this evaluation I risk the wrath of many, I suppose, since Mr. Jackson's trilogy is, I believe, fairly popular with several people. But Tolkien's masterpiece has been an inspiration to me since I read it many decades ago, and is responsible for the whole revival of the Fantasy genre in modern times. Therefore I must publish a few words about the cinematic rendition of the Master's story, and say, like Martin Luther at the Diet of Worms (though perhaps about a slightly less important issue), "Here I stand. I cannot do otherwise."

-----------------------------------------------------


THE CHOICES OF MASTER PETER

Peter Jackson’s rendition of J.R.R. Tolkien’s books has won so many awards that belaboring it might seem pointless, but belabor it I will, for I believe that Mr. Jackson’s three movies (Special Extended Edition) are a betrayal of Tolkien’s plot and characters, and that it would have been better if the films had never been made because their success will make it difficult or impossible for anyone to get the chance to do a good job.
*
That the films are visually impressive no one can deny. We must commend the artisans who did so masterful a job with photography, costumes, and sets. The Weta Workshop is superb. The stunt team is magnificent. The attention to detail, the thought, the hard work that went into re-creating Middle Earth, are wonderful. The opening of Fellowship is a fine interpretation of the Shire; I was enthralled to see what I had so often read about. Mr. Jackson deserves much praise for bringing together the experts he worked with, and no one can but admire the energy and organizing ability he demonstrated in making three huge films at once over a period of several years.
*
Unfortunately, Mr. Jackson evidently thinks he is not only a great director but an equally-great writer, so all this technical ability produced a deformed variant of J.R.R. Tolkien’s novel. One might say it is as though a skilled craftsman, given the score of a Beethoven sonata, carefully built a fine piano, and then, fancying himself a composer as well as a builder, tinkered with the sonata and turned it into “Chopsticks.”
*
Let us catalog a few of the cinematic crimes of PJ.

Frodo, instead of being a character who grows in wisdom and courage, remains a scared, clumsy, rather negligible pygmy who succeeds in spite of himself. The worst betrayal of Tolkien in the films comes in Fellowship, when Arwen shows up to rescue the wounded Frodo. Setting aside the idiocy of Arwen as an Amazonian elf-maiden, this means that Frodo is carried across the river like a sack of potatoes. His splendid defiance of the Black Riders (“By Elbereth and Luthien the Fair, you shall have neither the Ring nor me!”) is replaced by some words written for Arwen; instead of growing and rising in our esteem, Frodo remains literally inert. This is very dumb; it is the epitome of stupidity; it suggests that Mr. Jackson was unable to understand the books when he read them. (Insofar as he did: on ROTK Disc 2 (Scene 62) he says, “... because I haven’t obviously picked up the book and actually read the book for years. I’ve read little bits and pieces of it.... You lose the experience of the books as a whole and... I now... my mind is so muddled as to which is what” [i.e., he does not know how his movie differs from the book]).
*
As we go on, we see Frodo falling down a lot and opening his eyes very wide. Those are his main talents: falling down and staring. He falls down on every possible occasion, including an especially splendid belly-flop into the Dead Marshes.
*
Aragorn’s character is betrayed by completely changing his moti-vation. In the book, he is a hero who, after decades of preparation, is ready to claim his rightful throne. In the film, he is a moral coward, a wimp who has abandoned his family’s heritage, who has to be shamed and argued into accepting his destiny as Isildur’s heir.
*
Saruman, no longer the too-clever conniver who hopes to outwit Sauron, seize the ring, and become master of Middle Earth, is simply Sauron’s willing tool.
*
Théoden, a kindly, venerable old man who regains his courage, is too young, and portrayed as a touchy grouch who usually looks as though his ulcer was bothering him.
*
Elrond makes Théoden seem cheery. His expression--a permanent scowl--suggests his diet must consist mainly of lemons. And did he have to look like an aging hippie?
(I was happy to find, after I wrote these lines on Elrond, the following comments by Mike Hopkins, the Supervising Sound Editor, on the commentary track (Scene 30, where Elrond gives the re-forged sword to Aragorn--a scene not in Tolkien, of course). Mr. Hopkins says wryly that Elrond has not yet gone over the sea because the other elves told him, “‘You’re not coming to the (expletive) Undying Lands with us, you (expletive) moaning bastard. You’d just bring us all down.’ Look at him. He’s so (expletive) depressing, isn’t he? I mean all he talks about is doom; we’re all gonna die. Give that man a valium, some Prozac.” Mr. Hopkins’s pungent insights suggest that I am not the only one to sense that the Elrond depicted in the films is not exactly what a great Elf-lord ought to be.)
*
Gimli. Oh lord. Someone should have told Mr. Jackson—since he evidently could not grasp it by himself--that dwarves are not noted humorists, but are dignified and serious almost to a fault. Turning Gimli into a buffoon, a zany, a figure of fun, ruins the character and gives us a series of embarrassingly stupid jokes and events that make us wince again and again. (Dwarf-tossing? A drinking contest with Legolas?) Every time the camera focuses on Gimli, we dread what will come out of his mouth.
*
Almost everywhere you touch these films, after the first half hour of Fellowship, they ring false, they fail. Hardly anything has not been marred. Pippin has to trick Treebeard into fighting; Denethor, with no reference to the palantir that has maddened him, is a lunatic set up for a preposterous end that deprives him of all dignity (the “flying fireball”); Boromir’s noble death is ruined by having him get up and fight again and again; Aragorn falls over a cliff to extract a few cheap emotions from his friends... There is no end. These things did not save time or simplify the plot. They were deliberate decisions by Mr. Jackson, a man whose childish mind fits him only for the making of penny-dreadful horror movies.
*
A last example: the siege of Minas Tirith. In the books, an epic of bravery and resolution, courage and victory; in the film, the siege is resolved by the arrival of an army of bluish ghosts (what someone called the “scrubbing-bubbles of death”) that surges over all opposition after Gandalf’s staff has been broken (!), Gondor’s ineffective soldiers are cowering, and Theoden’s cavalry largely trampled by elephants. Tolkien dismissed the dead army after it seized the corsair fleet; Jackson brings it to Minas Tirith and ruins the whole scene.
*
One could go on for many more pages, but that would be too sad a task. These movies are a cream pie thrown in Tolkien’s face by a yahoo incapable of appreciating the work of a great author. The usefulness of the films is to show how superior literature is to cinema (a sentiment that the screenplay writers share: see below). What the humble scholar did alone, with a pen, in his spare time, towers far above what was done by the Great Director with thousands of assistants and a budget of many millions.

Tolkien’s work is immortal. Jackson’s films are meretricious.
Long live the Master! Down with the Falsifier!
---------------------------------
The commentary tracks, especially that of the three writers, are often amusing and instructive. Mr. Jackson, Ms. Walsh, and Ms. Boyens sometimes engage in recriminations as to who was responsible for this or that atrocity, or make desperate attempts to furnish reasons why they corrupted this or that part of Tolkien’s book. Sometimes they admit that a scene “attracted a certain amount of criticism” from “purists.” (I suppose they mean people who expected that the greatest scenes in the book might appear in the movies.) Listen, e.g., to their writhings at Scene 48 of Two Towers (when elves arrive at Helm’s Deep). Also of great interest are Ms. Walsh’s comments at the very end of Two Towers (at 1:53:50, buried in the end-credits, with the names of the prosthetics supervisors on the screen)--interesting because she maintains that films are inferior to books and that it is impossible for a movie to do justice to Tolkien. (“You can’t really have anything that comes close to the depth of the books.... You can’t really hope to satisfy people who adore this book with the movie.... Films are entertainments, they’re just not going to give you the pleasure that a book can give you.”) These are telling admissions. (Mr. Jackson says nothing; silence implies consent.) I would raise the question: then why did you folks make the films at all? Perhaps the task should have fallen to someone who believes that a good film can do justice to a novel? Or at least someone who would make the effort?
*
It is also quite funny--although not so intended--to hear a writer, or an actor, happily point out some scene where the film does correspond to the book, often accompanied by an inane comment about how “this should please the fans”--as though these “fans” were some group of exigent eccentrics who had from time to time to be propitiated before the writers could get on with their real job of mangling Tolkien. Take, for example, Sam grasping Frodo’s hand when he first sees him at Rivendell: What fidelity to the text! How ecstatic are the fans! As though such trivia matters, coming as it does right after Xena, I mean Arwen, has carried the moribund Frodo over the river and ruined his whole character develop-ment. They seem to think that “the fans” will overlook such betrayals because, for example, the director gave the hobbits huge hairy feet. I firmly believe “the fans” would have happily seen the hobbits wearing rubber boots had they been spared such things as Legolas skateboarding down stairs or Gimli saying, “Nobody tosses the dwarf”!
Matthew 23:24. (Ye blind guides, which strain at a gnat and swallow a camel.)
-------------------
Mr. Jackson’s co-writers may not deserve to be tarred with the same brush that must be so heavily applied to him. Some of the comments suggest that the two women feel embarrassed by at least some of Mr. Jackson’s depredations. Here is an excerpt from the commentary as Eomer arrives at Helm’s Deep: (PB = Ms. Boyens; FW = Ms. Walsh; PJ = the Great Director):

PB: Another slight departure from the book, but one, which I note with great interest, nobody ever worries about.
PJ: ‘Cause this is really Erkenbrand...
PB: ...and Éomer is always in Helm’s Deep and fighting side by side....
FW: It’s because we committed much bigger sins.
PB: I know... well...
PJ: That’s the whole plan. You commit a few big crimes and it takes everyone’s eye away from the small ones, like a clever little detour...
PB: We could do courses in criminal screenwriting.
FW: Crimes Against the Books
PB: Crimes Against the Books 101.
*
And here is a transcription of the commentary near the start of Disc 2 of ROTK, when the Corsairs of Umbar appear.

PJ: Don’t really need the scene at all. [!]
PB: (enthusiastically) No, not at all.
FW: I think ‘painful’ is a good and apt description.

PJ comments on his pirate cameo; a woman laughs as the ghost army attacks the fleet.

PJ: What? (Laughter continues)

FW: Now that’s the moment at which the film passed from being, you know, a fantasy movie into a Monty Python moment. (PB Laughs harder.) What the hell? Was that the most motley crew...

PJ: Nothing wrong with Monty Python, though.

FW: And the cheapest... (dissolves in laughter)

PB: I just want to say that while this was going on... what were we doing, Fran?

FW: We were trying to / FW & PB: save the film... / FW: from the …. clutches of the pirate.



Ladies, I am very sorry you failed.

Culture Corner: Star Wars II

A look at the second film in the series:

STAR WARS II: TACKY CLOWNS

This weak film features several very large plot holes. The most obvious is the inability of the Jedi Order to see Anakin Skywalker’s unfitness for his job.
Anakin is a precocious boy with little discipline. He is a hothead, a loose cannon, and emotionally involved with Padmé. He is not yet a good Jedi. But the Jedi Council--that collection of oh-so-sapient magi presided over by the Green Guru--ignores Obi-Wan’s explicit warning and sends Anakin to guard Padmé. (“The Council is confident in its decision.”)
A major source of Anakin’s anxiety is his mother. This problem could of course have been solved if it had occurred to anyone to buy her freedom and bring her to Coruscant, but nobody cares about poor Shmi. Even her loving son, with all his powers, is unable to come up with such a brainstorm as setting her free. And how limited communications seem to be in the galaxy: there have been no messages between Anakin and his mother for years. One thinks she would drop him a line occasionally--at least a postcard, if she can’t afford a hologram--to mention little things like her marriage. Anakin might even try to write to her.
*
Obi-Wan and Anakin go to tremendous lengths to run down Zam, the assassin. When Zam is killed, however, and the two Jedi see the killer take off via rocket-pack, they just sit there looking at the dart. Why not chase him?
*
The diner scene is what Mr. Lucas calls a “homage to American Graffiti,” but it is still idiotic. The resources of the Galactic Republic cannot discover where a dart comes from, but a short-order cook can (a cook who of course prospected “on Subterrel beyond the Rim”, but apparently without much success considering the job he now has). And how humble of Mr. Lucas to pay homage to himself.
*
Among all the bizarre fairy-tale creatures with which Mr. Lucas populates his universe, the Kaminians are the silliest. These effeminate giraffes hardly seem tough enough to run a war college, and they are so dumb they cannot see that Obi-Wan has not been sent to collect the clone army but is an intruder. (Jango Fett deduces this instantly.) Given such stupidity, one wonders how the Kaminians have managed to figure out how to clone humans. But they are very generous in granting credit to customers: they have never written anyone about the 1,200,000 clones they think the Jedi ordered; instead, they wait years for someone to show up and ask how things are going. (And who is paying for all this? Who’s writing checks to Kamino? Why don’t the Jedi try to find out?)
*
The comment track reinforces what I said before. The mechanics again bloviate on how clever they are. See how Sebulba’s tentacles move! Behold him walking on his hands! Lo! Lama Su brushes his knee! (“An extra level of acting and realism” says the commentator. Really.)
*
The weirdest scene in any of the films is Scene 23 in this one. Senator Amidala—who, we recall, is five years Anakin’s senior—tells her young admirer they cannot fall in love. [As Mr. Lucas mellifluously puts it in the commentary, “She’s obviously older and, and, you know, in a professional thing that a queen, a senator, a leader so that she’s much more reality-based in all of this…”] When giving Anakin this message, Ms. Amidala chooses to wear a strapless black leather bustier and shoulder-high gloves, and to meet her ardent bodyguard on a comfy sofa in a richly-furnished darkened room with a cozy fire burning on the hearth.
If this film had any depth, one would assume that the senator is actually trying to seduce Anakin, saying no with words but yes in every other way, or that she is setting him up for an assault charge when the overheated teenage Jedi quite understandably jumps on her.
But because the film has no depth, we may infer that this scene is a tiny serving of cheesecake made to the long-suffering daddies accompany-ing their tots to this kiddie flick—a motif that is repeated at the end of the film, when Ms. Portman, wearing a form-fitting body stocking, has her costume lacerated by a big ugly monster, exposing her cute midriff, after which her bosom unaccountably gets bosomier in subsequent scenes until she is very bouncy indeed at 2:10:26. The commentary track, usually so loquacious, does not specify if this involves CGI, although the effect is certainly more enticing than Lama Su brushing his knee. (The reader will understand my attention to such details is evidence only of rigorous scholarship.)

*
So farewell to Star Wars II, another testimony to Mr. Lucas’s inability to write any more decent or logical scripts, to the poverty of his mind, to the victory of appearance over substance. But let us close with a game. I was hoping to see, among all the wondrous machines shown on the bonus disk, the Alphabet Soup Generator that picks character names. From the list below, select the memorable names of real characters from among the silly names I made up.

1 - Fangor Pondictat

2 - Cronash Tal-Avarin

3 - Figraz Kloongarth

4 - Oppo Racisis

5 - Depa Billaba

6 - Pooja Naberrie

7 - Sio Bibble

8 - Plo Koo

9 - Ash Aak

10 - Elan Sleazebaggano

11 - Gilranos Libkath

12 - Triz Estonna




Answer: Nos. 1, 2, 3, and 12 are mine. The others are Mr. Lucas’s.

AND GLADLY TEACH --An Excerpt

Here is a chapter from And Gladly Teach, my satirical look at life at a prep school. This is Chapter 5.
And Gladly Teach was published in 2001. It's set at St. Lawrence Academy (SLA), an entirely fictional location.

------------------------
V. THE MAGI
As part of the opening week’s meetings, the faculty was introduced to Dr. Rodney L. Glennis, the founder and president of the firm of Broad Horizons, Inc., educational consultants. SLA had hired Broad Horizons to study all aspects of school life and to recommend ways to attract more students, reduce expenses, and, in general, make more money. (As a non-profit organization SLA was naturally very concerned with making as much money as possible.)

What is a “consultant”? The dictionary says, “an expert who is called on for professional or technical advice,” but a far more comprehensive definition might be “someone who is paid a lot of money to figure out things you ought to be able to figure out for yourself.” Another definition, apt for the sort of consultant the educational world produces, is “someone who, not liking to be a teacher or an an administrator, now makes more money than either by telling them how to teach and administrate.”

The world of education teems with consultants, it seethes with them, it is lousy with them. There is probably no school in the country whose substance has not been drained by at least one of these academic lampreys. It is not easy to say why communities consisting of well-educated adults, with decades of experience in every aspect of their profession, shell out thousands of dollars to these self-proclaimed experts. But they do. In the private school world there are even consultants to whom parents can go for the purpose of finding the “right” school for their child. This is a particularly lucrative field, since parents driven to use such services are so desperate to get their kid(s) out of the house that they will pay any amount to find a school which will take them. Such consultants, with just a computer, a phone, a copy of the Bunting & Lyon guide, and a knowledge of which schools are in financial trouble, could place Jack the Ripper in a private school, for a suitable fee.

Dr. Glennis (exactly what he was a doctor of was not clear, but the title engendered confidence in his clients) was a tall, gaunt, balding man in his late fifties, with bushy brows and bright brown eyes. He had arrived with a staff of three and several suitcases full of charts, tables, graphs, and overheads. He spoke for two solid hours. He painted an unnerving picture of the future. He explained how American teenagers were with each passing minute becoming stupider, lazier, and more undisciplined, how their parents were becoming less and less competent at raising them, how independent schools would soon be inundated with these creatures, and how any school which hoped to survive would have to develop “new and innovative programs,” “a clearer vision of viable objectives,” and “a distinctive cachet to proclaim itself unique among the profusion of similar institutions.”
All the while he spoke, his aides were busy flashing transparencies on the screen and whisking them away before the squinting audience could deduce their meaning, if indeed they had any. One chart was displayed upside-down, but that really made no difference.
“Broad Horizons has been conducting an in-depth study of SLA, which will be concluded shortly. We will then be in a position to make further recommendations as to how you can improve recruitment and retention. You have already taken a great step forward by energizing your hockey program, as I recommended to the Board two years ago.”

“So it’s his fault,” whispered several of the teachers.

“SLA cannot rest on its academics. Remember, parents take for granted that every independent school has an excellent teaching staff, superb courses, unlimited individual attention, and fine college preparatory opportunities. That’s a given.”

Now many teachers were glancing at each other. Was this true? Were parents really that dumb?
“What you must have is a further extra-curricular, I mean co-curricular, ...” Dr. Glennis’s volubility momentarily stopped. The word he had almost used, “gimmick,” didn’t seem elevated enough. Then he went on, “... dimension. which will individualize your identity. You must not be thought of as a ‘plain vanilla’ school, but rather as a Neapolitan one, a sort of tutti-frutti, which offers things unique, distinctive, sui generis!”

The teachers didn’t clap, partly because they were mostly appalled, and partly because they did not know he was done. But he was done, for the moment.

In the back row Mr. Vetter turned to Mr. del Rey. “But I like vanilla,” he whispered plaintively.
Mr. Jones, the European History teacher, a crabbed and reactionary man who had a particularly low tolerance for consultants, and indeed for innovations in general, looked at his schedule and noted with regret that tomorrow another speaker would appear. Mr. Jones often wondered who did this scheduling. He thought it was done by the Senior Staff, or SS, at its weekly meeting. The term SS did not mean--as one might think--those members of the faculty who had been at SLA for the longest time. No, the SS was an ex officio group which did not include any full-time teachers. Exactly who it did include was hard to say. Mr. Jones had never seen any list which specified the members of the Senior Staff. The SS exercised power anonymously, like the Venetian Council of Ten, the Neapolitan Camarilla, and the Illuminati. Perhaps the members had a secret handshake or a special tie clip. At any rate, these ghostly councillors seemed to be responsible for bringing to the campus the succession of quacks, mountebanks, and assorted humbugs who periodically bedevilled the busy teachers with their crackpot theories and impractical advice.

On the morrow, the latest speaker turned out to be some sort of child psychologist, an adolescent development “expert.” His presentation was so bizarre that many of the teachers wondered if it was an elaborate practical joke, similar to the one at a convention some years before where the keynote speaker, billed as Margaret Thatcher’s educational advisor and the youngest pilot to have flown with the RAF in the Battle of Britain, turned out to be a comedian. Certainly the clouds of jargon which befogged the room had about them an aura of comic implausibility.

First came something called the “Optimal Environmental Conditions” (which made Mr. Jones think of seventy degrees and low humidity,) which were engendered by a teacher having “Congruent Anticipatory Sets” with his students. This led, somehow, to “Cognitive Behavioral Change.” Intervention in student discipline would succeed, said the speaker, only if “environmental conditions” were “appropriate.” One had to “assess the lethality” of a situation so that one could provide “value-added opportunities” which students would “buy into.”
With everyone reeling from this barrage, the speaker--Dr. somebody, they were always “doctors”--physician, heal thyself--went on to the topic of “Gaining a Meta-Perspective.” A “teacher-student interaction” was something which happened on the “subjective level.” When the teacher then discussed this “interaction” with one or more colleagues, he gained a “meta-perspective.” A discussion of this discussion furnished one with a “meta-meta-perspective.” And ...
Mr. Jones quietly got up and went away. He knew that he might be reprimanded for this desertion, but he thought that a reprimand would be preferable to being jailed for murdering the speaker, which, given his state of mind, was his only alternative to departure. On his way home he marvelled, not for the first time, at his colleagues’ patience in tolerating these verbal assaults. He knew that SLA was not unique. All over the country, probably all over the world, these “experts” were going to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it, chanting their incomprehensible mantras to captive audiences at conventions, school openings, and faculty meetings, and being well-paid for doing so.

At least, thought Mr. Jones as he entered his apartment and sank into his easy chair, this guy hadn’t had us “break up into little groups.” That was a favorite technique of those people. The faculty would be divided into squads of five or six and sent hither and yon to discuss some problem concocted by the speaker. Often each group would be instructed to write its collective thoughts with a magic marker on large, poster-sized sheets of paper. When the faculty reconvened, the speaker would pin up the sheets of paper all around the room, so it resembled a kindergarten, and then everyone would compare the various ideas and try to find “congruence.” After it was found--and it always was--the now-congruent teachers could go home, the speaker would gather up the posters and throw them away, and no one would ever hear or speak of the matter again. This was called a “very productive meeting.”

Looking at the school calendar, Mr. Jones saw that in two weeks the faculty would hear from a firm of architects. He smiled wryly. This would be the third or fourth architectural presentation in about as many years. The Headmaster and the Board were always coming up with wonderful plans for renovating the dorms and classrooms, erecting new buildings, and generally modernizing the campus. This led (of course) to hiring a consultant, who, in return for a few tens of thousands of dollars, would produce plans of striking beauty and marvellous utility. These beautiful plans would be displayed at a faculty meeting and explained by a voluble expert who would make it seem as if paradise would come as soon as the school built the magnificent structures so carefully delineated on his expensive charts.

Mr. Jones recalled the plan for the huge field house connected to Laud Hall by an aerial walkway; the completely-renovated boys’ dorm, with its suites and lounges; the new main entrance to the school, which would have made coming to SLA an experience similar to that of arriving at Versailles. Ah, yes, they were all so wonderful...

The only problem was that none of them was ever built. SLA had barely enough money to perform the routine maintenance required to keep its existing buildings from falling to the ground. Starting work on the architects’ plans depended on a successful Capital Campaign, and this campaign, for which (of course) consultants had been repeatedly hired and paid more tens of thousands of dollars, never started. It never started because the consultants said that one does not start a capital campaign until after half the money has already been raised quietly and behind the scenes, so as to convince prospective donors that the whole amount would indeed be collected, and so far the SLA Board and alumni who were solicited had not promised enough.
And so the architectural plans remained, insubstantial and fairylike: pleasure-domes decreed but never built, until replaced by other, newer, ephemeral drawings and evanescent figments of imagination.

Mr. Jones reflected that if the Headmaster and the Board could remove the opium pipes from their teeth and come down to planet Earth, they might take all the money spent on these consultants and just do something useful with it, like repairing the scandalously decrepit boys’ showers. In thinking this, however, Mr. Jones was merely demonstrating that he would never be a Headmaster, because he lacked “Strategic Vision.” Strategic Vision is the ability to ignore mundane realities completely and to immerse oneself in a world of dreams. All great educational leaders have it.

As for Mr. Jones, well, he really felt, after being exposed to all these consultants, advisors, and experts, that a school in need of guidance would be better off if it hired an astrologer. The fees would be less, and the advice every bit as reliable.
----------------------
From the back cover:

And Gladly Teach is funny, sarcastic, poignant, outrageous, light-hearted, serious, and more realistic than you would wish to believe. It is also short and has a happy ending. It is highly recommended for reading on long plane rides, at the beach, and at dull faculty meetings (as long as you sit way in back so the Headmaster can't see you.)