1. The Operators by Michael Hastings: non-fiction
2. Oranges by John McPhee: non-fiction
3. Jerusalem by Simon Sebag-Montefiore non-fiction
4. Bismarck by AJP Taylor non-fiction
5. The Dark Angel by Mika Waltari fiction
6. Alexander at Worlds End by Tom Holt fiction
7. Lars Porsena by Robert Graves non-fiction
8. The Witness and the Other World by Mary Campbell
9. Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott non-fiction
10. Travel Writing by Carl Thompson non-fiction
11. The Lawless Roads by Graham Greene non-fiction
12. Whatever by Michel Houllebeck fiction
13. Theogony by Hesiod non-fiction
14. The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje fiction
15. Digenis Akritas fiction/epic
16. The Making of Goodbye To A River by John Graves non-fiction
17. Stones of Aran by Tim Robinson non-fiction
18. In an Antique Land Amitav Ghosh non-fiction
19. The Cloud Forest by Peter Mathiessen non-fiction
20. The Road To Oxiana by Robert Byron non-fiction
21. Butcher’s Crossing by John Williams fiction
22. Herodotus by James Romm non-fiction
23. Names on a Land George R. Stewart non-fiction
24. Poets in a Landscape Gilbert Highet non-fiction
25. Hadrian The Seventh Fr. Rolfe (Baron Corvo) fiction
26. Byzantine Grand Strategy Edward Luttwak non-fiction
27. Vortex Robert Charles Wilson fiction
28. Pandora’s Star Peter F. Hamilton fiction
29. Silk Road Valerie Hansen, non-fiction
30. Why Marx Was Right Terry Eagleton, non-fiction
31. Judas Unchained Peter F. Hamilton, fiction
32. Christianity Diarmid MacCulloch, non-fiction
33. Pre-Ottoman Turkey Claude Cahen, non-fiction
34. A Long Ride Across Texas John Riddell, non-fiction
35. Coronado’s Children J. Frank Dobie, fiction
36. Grailblazers Tom Holt, fiction
37. The Peregrine J.A. Baker, non-fiction
38. Augustus John Williams, fiction
39. Roumeli Patrick Leigh Fermor, non-fiction
40. Memoirs of Hadrian Marguerite Yourcenar, fiction
41. East of Trebizond Michael Pereira, non-fiction
42. The Old Ways Robert Macfarlane, non-fiction
43. The Artist . . . Warrior, H. Strathern, non-fiction
44. The Narrow Road North, Matsuo Basho, non-fiction
45. Mysterium, Robert Charles Wilson, fiction
46. The World of Odysseus, M.I. Finley, non-fiction
47. Gardens of Light, Amin Maalouf, fiction
48. Rome on the Euphrates, Freya Stark, non-fiction
49. Second World War, Anthony Beevor, non-fiction
50. Way of the World, Nicolas Bouvier, non-fiction
51. Goodbye to a River, John Graves, non-fiction
52. Fall of Roman Empire, Peter Heather, non-fiction
53. Our Southern Highlanders, H. Kephart, non-fiction
54. Aladdin’s Lamp, John Freely, non-fiction
55. Here Be Dragons, Sharon Kay Penman
56. Trial of Socrates, I.F. Stone
57. Crucible of War, Fred Anderson

Are there any themes? I read a lot of history this year—and as with most years there’s always a fair amount of classical history like Fall of the Roman Empire, Aladdin’s Lamp, Trial of Socrates, The World of Odysseus and others. The real standout was M.I. Finley’s The World of Odysseus, a revisionist take on the history of the era that when it was published, changed our views of the Odyssey and Iliad greatly. I think Peter Heather was hoping for something similar in his book  The Fall of the Roman Empire but it doesn’t work. While an often-times interesting tome at the end of the book I had to ask myself, “what was the argument he was making?”

The highlight of non-fiction books? The Lawless Roads by Graham Greene and Bismarck by AJP Taylor. The Lawless Roads is a travel book written by Greene during his source material gathering for The Power and the Glory. I found The Lawless Roads to be richer and much more interesting, especially his portrayal of San Antonio, my hometown, and Monterrey, Mexico. But damn, the entire book was fantastic. Bismarck by AJP Taylor? Well, damn, what does one say about AJP Taylor? If you consider yourself a student of foreign policy and you have not read any Taylor you simply don’t know shit. Of course The Struggle for Mastery in Europe is his masterpiece.

Non-fiction overwhelmed fiction last year. But the standouts of fiction were Butcher’s Crossing and Augustus, both by John Williams. The worst fiction book and worst book of the year was Grailblazers, by Tom Holt, who usually writes laugh out loud parodies of myths and legends, think two battling law firms in London, one of werewolves and the other vampires. Alas, Grailblazers was about the search for the Holy Grail by pizza delivery boys. It failed. Butcher’s Crossing, by John Williams is an excellent anti-dote to the mythologizing pulp-Westerns by authors like Louis L’Amour. There are no shootouts. There are no Indian battles. There are no maudlin love scenes. What does it have then? Well, the characters are rich, the scenery magnificent and the story heartbreaking.

Most disappointing book? Garden’s of Light by Amin Maalouf. Just not up to his usual standards like Samarkand and Leo the African.

Slowest read? Christianity by Diarmid McCullough. Jaysus, 1,000 plus pages of Christian history, all of it, the good, the bad, the pedophiliac.

Most surprising book? The Peregrine—about the author’s tracking of a Peregrine falcon for a year in the United Kingdom, a masterpiece of movement and beauty even though so very little happens.

Shortest read: Lars Porsena by Robert Graves.

Best science fiction: Pandora’s Star by Peter F. Hamilton.

Most bizarre book: Hadrian VII, by Baron Corvo, written by an obscure Brit who fantasizes he’s now the Pope and changes the world. Quite a roller coaster read. And worth it.

With a new job and a new wife and all these changes I doubt I’ll read a book a week, but I’ll be back this time next year to repeat.
What did you read this year and what stood out?

I went on the road because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.

Just a few changes, that’s all.

Then again, I do get the hankering to say something, but it usually seems to be about some personal observation that has little to do with travel or politics.

Strange that.

The Homeric texts–the Iliad and the Odyssey–are foundational texts regardless of how Westerners feel about them. They are much like the Ramayana or the Mahabharata in that they are troubling reminders of a past when violence was glorified. (The present, for argument’s sake, has amazingly subtle ways of justifying violence while simultaneously condemning it.)

So, let’s think for a moment what the larger, meta issues, of the Homeric texts are?

It’s okay to be a colossal douche bag so long as you’re good at killing (Achilles)?

But, if you’re an Asian, even if you’re a dutiful son, honorable husband and loyal brother, you’re going to die a horrible death and have your body dishonored after death (Hector).

Of course it’s also okay to while your way across the world for years and abandon your wife and son. Moreover, it’s okay to murder your wife’s maids as a way of torturing them to make sure she has remained chaste while you were gallivanting across the globe screwing just about any witch, woman or whore in your path (Odysseus)?

No wonder Western Civilization is fucked.

We took a wrong turn at the very beginning and now we’re stuck with Kim Kardashian.

Question posed in the New York Times a few days ago:

“If life is messy and unpredictable, and documentary is a reflection of life, should it not be digressive and open-ended too?”

Simple answer: no.

Longer answer for those with a more philosophical nature: humans evolved to tell stories, to create narrative. Narrative, I believe, more than just about anything else in life, gives us meaning.

Vulgar answer for the bloggerati: fuck that post-modern anti-intellectual, anti-artistic bullshit excuse that you’re too fucking cool to narrate a story because you’re an over-educated fuckwit.

Narrative is not dead.

That would be your imagination.

This Blue Jay–from our back yard–died from West Nile Virus two months ago. Most of our ten strong scold, the collective noun used for a group of Blue Jays, died this summer from the disease. Those who did not die were driven off by a stronger, younger scold of jays, only to catch the disease and then die.

The symptoms of West Nile Virus in Jays and other Corvids are such:

Birds do not usually show signs of infection until the last stage of the disease, which is encephalitis or inflammation of the brain. An infected bird may appear drowsy, be unable to fly or walk properly; it may even have problems standing upright

Further, Blue Jays are known to be able to fly while very sick if they start from high in a tree, but cannot fly off from the ground, appear dazed and confused. One neighbor reported a bird falling dead right out of the sky.

Indeed, we have very few Blue Jays left.

This is sad, they are fun birds with big, inquisitive characters. We named most of them, got to know them well. We fed them every day. They knew our patterns and would squawk at us or chatter with us when they were hungry or just wanted to show off.

Jays are my favorite birds. One of the first encounters I ever had with a bird was with a Mexican Jay in Big Bend National Park. I spent hours driving across the Valley this spring looking for the elusive Brown Jay. The raucous calls and shenanigans of Green Jays are impossible to beat once you’ve seen them, looking as they do like a Blue and Green Groucho Marx:

And at Yosemite I saw a Steller’s Jay for the first time. A true high altitude beauty.

Now, here in our yard there are no more birds, except for the ugly and over-proliferating White-winged Dove to take the old family’s place. A few Jays linger, but they don’t know us and we don’t know them yet. Hopefully the disease will pass with the coming of fall and cooler weather. Until then, I won’t be investing in the habits of our back yard friends.

For me there are always a few barely discernible hints that the heat will soon break. First, the humidity evaporates under a dry wind.

Check.

Second, in the mornings, no matter the temperature–this morning was 77*, for example–there is a slight breeze, cooler because it lacks the humidity of high summer, even if the afternoon heat is withering as today it most certainly will be.

Check.

Lastly, the Earth wobbles on its axis. That’s what creates the seasons. And with that wobble comes a change in the color and clarity of the light.

Not yet.

So, I wait. Today it will be 106*. That’s hot for any month, but for early September it’s almost unbearable.

Here are the place we’ll be staying: El Rocio Retreat, Mission Texas, Chachalaca Inn, Los Fresnos, Texas, Alamo Inn, Alamo Texas.

And here are some of the parks we’ll be visiting: Santa Ana National Wildlife Refuge, Las Palomas Unit, Boca Chica State Park, Palo Alto Battlefield, Bentsen Rio Grande Valley State Park.

Our target list includes the following birds for The Brunette: Green Jays, Brown Jay, Yellow-headed Blackbird, Orioles, both Hooded and Audobon’s, White-collared Seedeater.

For me: Green Jays, Brown Jay, Rose-throated Becard, Tropical Parula

It appears as if I have become a serious twitcher. How’d that happen?

“People are taking the piss out of you everyday. They butt into your life, take a cheap shot at you and then disappear. They leer at you from tall buildings and make you feel small. They make flippant comments from buses that imply you’re not sexy enough and that all the fun is happening somewhere else. They are on TV making your girlfriend feel inadequate. They have access to the most sophisticated technology the world has ever seen and they bully you with it. They are ‘The Advertisers’ and they are laughing at you.

You, however, are forbidden to touch them. Trademarks, intellectual property rights and copyright law mean advertisers can say what they like wherever they like with total impunity.

Fuck that. Any advert in a public space that gives you no choice whether you see it or not is yours. It’s yours to take, re-arrange and re-use. You can do whatever you like with it. Asking for permission is like asking to keep a rock someone just threw at your head.

You owe the companies nothing. Less than nothing, you especially don’t owe them any courtesy. They owe you. They have re-arranged the world to put themselves in front of you. They never asked for your permission, don’t even start asking for theirs.”

More like this please. Via Felix Salmon

For good measure, here’s a good one on marketing professionals by comedian Bill Hicks.