Saturday, May 25, 2024

Recently Published Books: Artificial Wisdom, by Thomas R. Weaver

 Artificial Wisdom, by Thomas R. Weaver

 

 


Publication Date: May 1st 2024

ARC by Net Galley 

Keywords: sci-fi, crime, detective story, thriller, mystery, technothriller, philosophy, politics, drama, environmentalism, dystopian futures, current events, social media, humanity.

4.5 out of 5 stars! I had a lot of trouble putting down this book. It's a political thriller that poses a lot of very important questions regarding the fate of humanity, our current social and political issues, and social media. The writing is easy and light and, even though the issues can be heavy and emotional, things never get too depressing. It's the perfect combination of a light read with a profound and well-constructed story. It reminded me of Stieg Larsson at times. It also has many strong and well-written female characters.
However, I'm not sure I liked the ending. It was either terrible or genius (that is up to you to decide), but I can see why it was written to end like that though, that is, I think I understand the thought that must have been behind it. I also wonder if the author is leaving a door open for a second book. I both hate and love that idea...
Anyway, this is an amazing book for a wide range of tastes. Whether you're into detective stories, sci-fi, politics, drama, environmentalism, dystopian stories, philosophy, or current issues, I guarantee that this book will have something for you.

And it's now out!
You can also connect with the author (and the book) at thomasrweaver.com.

 

 

Saturday, May 18, 2024

Upcoming Books: The Treasure Hunters Club, by Tom Ryan

 The Treasure Hunters Club, by Tom Ryan




Publication Date: October 15th 2024

ARC by Net Galley 

Keywords: hidden treasure, exciting, summer read, beach, ocean, secret clubs, childhood friendships, dark secrets, family secrets, plot twists, mystery.

This review is for an ARC which isn't the final version, so some things might change. Hopefully, some things might improve, because this book really deserves some further attention. I almost gave it 4 stars out of 5 (ended up giving it a 3), but I didn't like how one of the twists at the end was done, which was frustrating because it's a really nice idea that could have been explored much better. Apart from that, I liked it. It's a light summer read, preferably while you're on the beach, and it's entertaining. 

The writing is light and easy, in an informal tone (which I'm not usually a fan of, but that's a personal preference) but the story is intricate enough to keep you wanting to know what comes next. I'd also like to point out that maybe to fans of lighter, more informal reads and YA books this might be actually a good pick

Wednesday, April 10, 2024

A Tale A Day: The Old Street Lamp

 The Old Street Lamp

 


Did you ever hear the story of the old street lamp? It is not remarkably interesting, but for once in a way you may as well listen to it. It was a most respectable old lamp, which had seen many, many years of service, and now was to retire with a pension. It was this evening at its post for the last time, giving light to the street. His feelings were something like those of an old dancer at the theatre, who is dancing for the last time, and knows that on the morrow she will be in her garret, alone and forgotten. The lamp had very great anxiety about the next day, for he knew that he had to appear for the first time at the town hall, to be inspected by the mayor and the council, who were to decide if he were fit for further service or not;—whether the lamp was good enough to be used to light the inhabitants of one of the suburbs, or in the country, at some factory; and if not, it would be sent at once to an iron foundry, to be melted down. In this latter case it might be turned into anything, and he wondered very much whether he would then be able to remember that he had once been a street lamp, and it troubled him exceedingly. Whatever might happen, one thing seemed certain, that he would be separated from the watchman and his wife, whose family he looked upon as his own. The lamp had first been hung up on that very evening that the watchman, then a robust young man, had entered upon the duties of his office. Ah, well, it was a very long time since one became a lamp and the other a watchman. His wife had a little pride in those days; she seldom condescended to glance at the lamp, excepting when she passed by in the evening, never in the daytime. But in later years, when all these,—the watchman, the wife, and the lamp— had grown old, she had attended to it, cleaned it, and supplied it with oil. The old people were thoroughly honest, they had never cheated the lamp of a single drop of the oil provided for it.

This was the lamp’s last night in the street, and to-morrow he must go to the town-hall,—two very dark things to think of. No wonder he did not burn brightly. Many other thoughts also passed through his mind. How many persons he had lighted on their way, and how much he had seen; as much, very likely, as the mayor and corporation themselves! None of these thoughts were uttered aloud, however; for he was a good, honorable old lamp, who would not willingly do harm to any one, especially to those in authority. As many things were recalled to his mind, the light would flash up with sudden brightness; he had, at such moments, a conviction that he would be remembered. “There was a handsome young man once,” thought he; “it is certainly a long while ago, but I remember he had a little note, written on pink paper with a gold edge; the writing was elegant, evidently a lady’s hand: twice he read it through, and kissed it, and then looked up at me, with eyes that said quite plainly, ‘I am the happiest of men!’ Only he and I know what was written on this his first letter from his lady-love. Ah, yes, and there was another pair of eyes that I remember,—it is really wonderful how the thoughts jump from one thing to another! A funeral passed through the street; a young and beautiful woman lay on a bier, decked with garlands of flowers, and attended by torches, which quite overpowered my light. All along the street stood the people from the houses, in crowds, ready to join the procession. But when the torches had passed from before me, and I could look round, I saw one person alone, standing, leaning against my post, and weeping. Never shall I forget the sorrowful eyes that looked up at me.” These and similar reflections occupied the old street lamp, on this the last time that his light would shine. The sentry, when he is relieved from his post, knows at least who will succeed him, and may whisper a few words to him, but the lamp did not know his successor, or he could have given him a few hints respecting rain, or mist, and could have informed him how far the moon’s rays would rest on the pavement, and from which side the wind generally blew, and so on.

On the bridge over the canal stood three persons, who wished to recommend themselves to the lamp, for they thought he could give the office to whomsoever he chose. The first was a herring’s head, which could emit light in the darkness. He remarked that it would be a great saving of oil if they placed him on the lamp-post. Number two was a piece of rotten wood, which also shines in the dark. He considered himself descended from an old stem, once the pride of the forest. The third was a glow-worm, and how he found his way there the lamp could not imagine, yet there he was, and could really give light as well as the others. But the rotten wood and the herring’s head declared most solemnly, by all they held sacred, that the glow-worm only gave light at certain times, and must not be allowed to compete with themselves. The old lamp assured them that not one of them could give sufficient light to fill the position of a street lamp; but they would believe nothing he said. And when they discovered that he had not the power of naming his successor, they said they were very glad to hear it, for the lamp was too old and worn-out to make a proper choice.

At this moment the wind came rushing round the corner of the street, and through the air-holes of the old lamp. “What is this I hear?” said he; “that you are going away to-morrow? Is this evening the last time we shall meet? Then I must present you with a farewell gift. I will blow into your brain, so that in future you shall not only be able to remember all that you have seen or heard in the past, but your light within shall be so bright, that you shall be able to understand all that is said or done in your presence.”

“Oh, that is really a very, very great gift,” said the old lamp; “I thank you most heartily. I only hope I shall not be melted down.”

“That is not likely to happen yet,” said the wind; “and I will also blow a memory into you, so that should you receive other similar presents your old age will pass very pleasantly.”

“That is if I am not melted down,” said the lamp. “But should I in that case still retain my memory?”

“Do be reasonable, old lamp,” said the wind, puffing away.

At this moment the moon burst forth from the clouds. “What will you give the old lamp?” asked the wind.

“I can give nothing,” she replied; “I am on the wane, and no lamps have ever given me light while I have frequently shone upon them.” And with these words the moon hid herself again behind the clouds, that she might be saved from further importunities. Just then a drop fell upon the lamp, from the roof of the house, but the drop explained that he was a gift from those gray clouds, and perhaps the best of all gifts. “I shall penetrate you so thoroughly,” he said, “that you will have the power of becoming rusty, and, if you wish it, to crumble into dust in one night.”

But this seemed to the lamp a very shabby present, and the wind thought so too. “Does no one give any more? Will no one give any more?” shouted the breath of the wind, as loud as it could. Then a bright falling star came down, leaving a broad, luminous streak behind it.

“What was that?” cried the herring’s head. “Did not a star fall? I really believe it went into the lamp. Certainly, when such high-born personages try for the office, we may as well say ‘Good-night,’ and go home.”

And so they did, all three, while the old lamp threw a wonderfully strong light all around him.

“This is a glorious gift,” said he; “the bright stars have always been a joy to me, and have always shone more brilliantly than I ever could shine, though I have tried with my whole might; and now they have noticed me, a poor old lamp, and have sent me a gift that will enable me to see clearly everything that I remember, as if it still stood before me, and to be seen by all those who love me. And herein lies the truest pleasure, for joy which we cannot share with others is only half enjoyed.”

“That sentiment does you honor,” said the wind; “but for this purpose wax lights will be necessary. If these are not lighted in you, your particular faculties will not benefit others in the least. The stars have not thought of this; they suppose that you and every other light must be a wax taper: but I must go down now.” So he laid himself to rest.

“Wax tapers, indeed!” said the lamp, “I have never yet had these, nor is it likely I ever shall. If I could only be sure of not being melted down!”

The next day. Well, perhaps we had better pass over the next day. The evening had come, and the lamp was resting in a grandfather’s chair, and guess where! Why, at the old watchman’s house. He had begged, as a favor, that the mayor and corporation would allow him to keep the street lamp, in consideration of his long and faithful service, as he had himself hung it up and lit it on the day he first commenced his duties, four-and-twenty years ago. He looked upon it almost as his own child; he had no children, so the lamp was given to him. There it lay in the great arm-chair near to the warm stove. It seemed almost as if it had grown larger, for it appeared quite to fill the chair. The old people sat at their supper, casting friendly glances at the old lamp, whom they would willingly have admitted to a place at the table. It is quite true that they dwelt in a cellar, two yards deep in the earth, and they had to cross a stone passage to get to their room, but within it was warm and comfortable and strips of list had been nailed round the door. The bed and the little window had curtains, and everything looked clean and neat. On the window seat stood two curious flower-pots which a sailor, named Christian, had brought over from the East or West Indies. They were of clay, and in the form of two elephants, with open backs; they were hollow and filled with earth, and through the open space flowers bloomed. In one grew some very fine chives or leeks; this was the kitchen garden. The other elephant, which contained a beautiful geranium, they called their flower garden. On the wall hung a large colored print, representing the congress of Vienna, and all the kings and emperors at once. A clock, with heavy weights, hung on the wall and went “tick, tick,” steadily enough; yet it was always rather too fast, which, however, the old people said was better than being too slow. They were now eating their supper, while the old street lamp, as we have heard, lay in the grandfather’s arm-chair near the stove. It seemed to the lamp as if the whole world had turned round; but after a while the old watchman looked at the lamp, and spoke of what they had both gone through together,—in rain and in fog; during the short bright nights of summer, or in the long winter nights, through the drifting snow-storms, when he longed to be at home in the cellar. Then the lamp felt it was all right again. He saw everything that had happened quite clearly, as if it were passing before him. Surely the wind had given him an excellent gift. The old people were very active and industrious, they were never idle for even a single hour. On Sunday afternoons they would bring out some books, generally a book of travels which they were very fond of. The old man would read aloud about Africa, with its great forests and the wild elephants, while his wife would listen attentively, stealing a glance now and then at the clay elephants, which served as flower-pots.

“I can almost imagine I am seeing it all,” she said; and then how the lamp wished for a wax taper to be lighted in him, for then the old woman would have seen the smallest detail as clearly as he did himself. The lofty trees, with their thickly entwined branches, the naked negroes on horseback, and whole herds of elephants treading down bamboo thickets with their broad, heavy feet.

“What is the use of all my capabilities,” sighed the old lamp, “when I cannot obtain any wax lights; they have only oil and tallow here, and these will not do.” One day a great heap of wax-candle ends found their way into the cellar. The larger pieces were burnt, and the smaller ones the old woman kept for waxing her thread. So there were now candles enough, but it never occurred to any one to put a little piece in the lamp.

“Here I am now with my rare powers,” thought the lamp, “I have faculties within me, but I cannot share them; they do not know that I could cover these white walls with beautiful tapestry, or change them into noble forests, or, indeed, to anything else they might wish for.” The lamp, however, was always kept clean and shining in a corner where it attracted all eyes. Strangers looked upon it as lumber, but the old people did not care for that; they loved the lamp. One day—it was the watchman’s birthday—the old woman approached the lamp, smiling to herself, and said, “I will have an illumination to-day in honor of my old man.” And the lamp rattled in his metal frame, for he thought, “Now at last I shall have a light within me,” but after all no wax light was placed in the lamp, but oil as usual. The lamp burned through the whole evening, and began to perceive too clearly that the gift of the stars would remain a hidden treasure all his life. Then he had a dream; for, to one with his faculties, dreaming was no difficulty. It appeared to him that the old people were dead, and that he had been taken to the iron foundry to be melted down. It caused him quite as much anxiety as on the day when he had been called upon to appear before the mayor and the council at the town-hall. But though he had been endowed with the power of falling into decay from rust when he pleased, he did not make use of it. He was therefore put into the melting-furnace and changed into as elegant an iron candlestick as you could wish to see, one intended to hold a wax taper. The candlestick was in the form of an angel holding a nosegay, in the centre of which the wax taper was to be placed. It was to stand on a green writing table, in a very pleasant room; many books were scattered about, and splendid paintings hung on the walls. The owner of the room was a poet, and a man of intellect; everything he thought or wrote was pictured around him. Nature showed herself to him sometimes in the dark forests, at others in cheerful meadows where the storks were strutting about, or on the deck of a ship sailing across the foaming sea with the clear, blue sky above, or at night the glittering stars. “What powers I possess!” said the lamp, awaking from his dream; “I could almost wish to be melted down; but no, that must not be while the old people live. They love me for myself alone, they keep me bright, and supply me with oil. I am as well off as the picture of the congress, in which they take so much pleasure.” And from that time he felt at rest in himself, and not more so than such an honorable old lamp really deserved to be.

_____________________________________________________

 A beautiful tale about leaving behind a whole life (hopefully) well lived. I'm not sure if the author meant it to be about what comes after we die, since he was a Christian and therefore probably didn't believe in reincarnation, but it can also be interpreted like that. After all, the thought of death and what comes after is pretty obvious in this tale. Or perhaps it talks about retirement and its fears, that one might become useless (a death of sorts) or a different person. It might be talking about the gifts we can give our loved ones, if only we're given the chance. Either way, much like Kafka's "Metamorphosis", it seems to talk about that time in the autumn years of one's life when frightening changes approach and, even if we're lucky enough to be safe in the bosom of a loving family, we must deal with them on our own. 

Tuesday, April 9, 2024

A Tale A Day: Two Brothers

 Two Brothers


On one of the Danish islands, where old Thingstones, the seats of justice of our forefathers, still stand in the cornfields, and huge trees rise in the forests of beech, there lies a little town whose low houses are covered with red tiles. In one of these houses strange things were brewing over the glowing coals on the open hearth; there was a boiling going on in glasses, and a mixing and distilling, while herbs were being cut up and pounded in mortars. An elderly man looked after it all.

“One must only do the right thing,” he said; “yes, the right—the correct thing. One must find out the truth concerning every created particle, and keep to that.”

In the room with the good housewife sat her two sons; they were still small, but had great thoughts. Their mother, too, had always spoken to them of right and justice, and exhorted them to keep to the truth, which she said was the countenance of the Lord in this world.

The elder of the boys looked roguish and enterprising. He took a delight in reading of the forces of nature, of the sun and the moon; no fairy tale pleased him so much. Oh, how beautiful it must be, he thought, to go on voyages of discovery, or to find out how to imitate the wings of birds and then to be able to fly! Yes, to find that out was the right thing. Father was right, and mother was right—truth holds the world together.

The younger brother was quieter, and buried himself entirely in his books. When he read about Jacob dressing himself in sheep-skins to personify Esau, and so to usurp his brother’s birthright, he would clench his little fist in anger against the deceiver; when he read of tyrants and of the injustice and wickedness of the world, tears would come into his eyes, and he was quite filled with the thought of the justice and truth which must and would triumph.

One evening he was lying in bed, but the curtains were not yet drawn close, and the light streamed in upon him; he had taken his book into bed with him, for he wanted to finish reading the story of Solon. His thoughts lifted and carried him away a wonderful distance; it seemed to him as if the bed had become a ship flying along under full sail. Was he dreaming, or what was happening? It glided over the rolling waves and across the ocean of time, and to him came the voice of Solon; spoken in a strange tongue, yet intelligible to him, he heard the Danish motto: “By law the land is ruled.”

The genius of the human race stood in the humble room, bent down over the bed and imprinted a kiss on the boy’s forehead: “Be thou strong in fame and strong in the battle of life! With truth in thy heart fly toward the land of truth!”

The elder brother was not yet in bed; he was standing at the window looking out at the mist which rose from the meadows. They were not elves dancing out there, as their old nurse had told him; he knew better—they were vapours which were warmer than the air, and that is why they rose. A shooting star lit up the sky, and the boy’s thoughts passed in a second from the vapours of the earth up to the shining meteor. The stars gleamed in the heavens, and it seemed as if long golden threads hung down from them to the earth.

“Fly with me,” sang a voice, which the boy heard in his heart. And the mighty genius of mankind, swifter than a bird and than an arrow—swifter than anything of earthly origin—carried him out into space, where the heavenly bodies are bound together by the rays that pass from star to star. Our earth revolved in the thin air, and the cities upon it seemed to lie close to each other. Through the spheres echoed the words:

“What is near, what is far, when thou art lifted by the mighty genius of mind?”

And again the boy stood by the window, gazing out, whilst his younger brother lay in bed. Their mother called them by their names: “Anders Sandøe” and “Hans Christian.”

Denmark and the whole world knows them—the two brothers Ørsted. 

_____________________________________________________

 A little tale honouring two important Danish personalities, Anders Sandoe Oersted and Hans Christian Oersted, who were brothers. Anders Sandoe was a lawyer and the 3rd Prime Minister of Denmark, whereas his brother Hans Christian was a physicist and a chemist. 

But I also see implied in this tale that there is more than one path to find the so called "truth" of the world. One can be more philosophical, more scientific, look for the truths of nature, or for the truths of humans. One can gaze at the world in wonder or strive to defend what is right and just. One can see the truth in many different ways. Some, like these two men, even devote their lives to it.

Book of the Week: April 1 to 7

 In Defence of the Act, by Effie Black


This week I devoured the following books:

  • The Knife and the Serpent, by Tim Pratt
  • The Ballad of Mary Paulson and Other Sonnets, by TS S. Fulk
  • How to Cook and Eat the Rich, by Sunyi Dean
  • Little Free Library, by Naomi Kritzer
  • In Defence of the Act, Effie Black
  • Pippi Longstocking, by Astrid Lindgren
  • Lady Susan, by Jane Austen

 

Pippi Longstocking is always a pleasure to read and never fails to bring a smile to my lips and How to Cook and Eat the Rich was an absolute delight (and made me fall in love with Sunyi Dean’s writing), but the title of Book of the Week has to go to In Defence of the Act, by Effie Black.

This is without a doubt one of the best books I've ever read. The subject matter (suic*de) is an incredibly difficult topic to address in any shape or form, but Effie Black manages to talk about it beautifully, with tact, facts, kindness and even humour. It's got to be the saddest funniest book I've read. Or is it the funniest saddest book? The story is captivating (and it includes a lesbian love story) and the writing is simply perfect. It's so light and pleasant that you end up easily reading through a lot more pages in one sitting than you were expecting. It's also the best informal speech I've ever read.

I cannot recommend this book enough!

The Proverbial Tongue: A Bird in the Hand is Worth Two in the Bush

 A Bird in the Hand is worth Two in the Bush

 

A BIRD IN THE HAND IS WORTH TWO IN THE BUSH - Meaning: It's better to have a  lesser but certain advantage than the pos… | Hand quotes, Idiomatic  expressions, Quotes

 

The next proverb on the list is:

    3. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush

A proverb that advises you to keep what little you have instead of letting it go in search of something more, and possibly more uncertain, for you might end up with nothing.

The book offers equivalents in German, French and Portuguese:

German

-         Ein Sperling in der Hand ist besser als zehn auf dem Dache (a bird in the hand is better than ten in the roof)

French

-          Mieux vaut moineau en cage que poule de léau que nage (better have a sparrow in a cage than a water hen that can swim)

-          Moineau à la main vait mieux que grue qui vole (better have a sparrow in the hand than a flying crane)

-          Un bon aujourd’hui vaux mieux que deux demain (a good today is worth more than two tomorrows)

-          Un oiseau dans la main vait mieux que deux dans la haie (a bird in the hand is worth more than two in the hedge)

-          Un tiens vaut mieux que deux tu l’auras (One “have” s worth more than two “will haves”)

Portuguese

-          Mais vale um pássaro na mão que dois a voar (better have a bird in the hand than two flying)

-          Mais vale um toma que dois te darei (a “have this” is better than two “I will give you”)

-          Nunca deixes o certo pelo duvidoso (never give up something certain for something doubtful)

 

Other equivalents I found online:

 

Spanish

-          Más vale pájaro en mano que ciento volando (better to have one bird in the hand than one hundred flying)

 

Finnish

-         Parempi pyy pivossa kuin kymmenen oksalla (better to have a hazel grouse in the hand than ten on the branch)

 

Polish

-          Lepszy wróbel w garści niż gołąb na dachu (better to have a sparrow in the hand than a pigeon on the roof)

 

Swedish

-          Bättre en fågel i handen än tio i skogen (better to have a bird in the hand than ten in the forest)

 

Italian

-          Meglio un uovo oggi che una gallina domani (better to have an egg today than a chicken tomorrow)

 

Bulgarian

-          не оставяй питомното, за да гониш дивото (do not leave the tame to chase the wild)

 

Hungarian

-          Ki sokat markol, keveset fog (he who grabs a lot will grab little)

-          Jobb egy lúdnyak tíz tyúknyaknál (one goose neck is better than ten chicken necks)

 

I find it interesting that so many of these involve birds. I suppose birds have always been a symbol of freedom and wilderness, as well as difficult animals to hold tight in your hands, so perhaps it does make sense that they should come up in so many of these.

I also noticed that, while in English you’d say, “a bird in the hand is worth…”, other languages will put it as “a bird in the hand is worth more than…”, “a bird in the hand is better than…”, or “better to have a bird in the hand than…”. It’s a small difference, I know, but I found it interesting. I wonder if such proverbs should be translated into English as “worth” or “worth more than”/“better than”? I wonder if following the “rules” of English proverbs will make the translation better understood by the target culture or if maintaining the original structure will make it more obvious what is being said by the source culture.

How would you translate these types of proverbs? More closely to the target culture formulae or as similar to the source culture’s expression as possible?

And does your language/culture have an equivalent to this particular proverb?