My plan for today was to
review a book I just read (once again invading Marlyn's space), but in reviewing it, I found myself thinking about the
difference between a good read and a great read, for me. So I'm going to start
with a short review, then talk about the kind of material that gets to me as a
reader.
The book I wanted to
review is "Black and White" by Wes Albers. It's a mystery and a
procedural and a fine cop story that rings with truth. I'll go ahead and
disclose that, although I did purchase this book, I've known Wes for quite a
few years. In addition to being in law enforcement for eons, he is one of the
directors of the Southern California Writers Conference, which I attend. He's
also a damned good writer.
The story revolves
around John Hatch, a patrol cop in the San Diego area and a veteran on the
force. There is a murder to be solved, but the real story is about a man who
has been at his job for such a long time, it has grown into his skin and
penetrated his heart. He is saddled with a young partner and even younger sergeant.
Each one pulls at him to leave his years of experience and instincts behind to
join a world of computers, procedures and statistical studies that run counter
to his street smarts.
There's plenty of
action, and even a little romance. I loved the way Wes weaves information about
police procedures in with each scene. Not only was I entertained, I felt like I
was more knowledgeable about the how and why of chasing, capturing, and
questioning suspects.
But more importantly, I
liked the way this book left a feeling with me. By the last page, I was weary
of the way some things never change, resigned to the fact I could not change
them, and resolved to try to change them anyway. In other words, I had become
the main character, to the extent that I will always remember and connect with
that book on a visceral level.
I've read a lot of good
books by a lot of wonderful authors. The stories are rich and well-told, the
writing is perfect for the piece. But the books I remember are the ones that
leave me with a feeling. I can always single out two books that had that
effect.
One is "The Good Shepherd"
by C.S. Forester. The story follows the captain of a battleship during WWII who
is part of a convoy, escorting supply ships through U-boat infested waters,
from the U.S. to England. It takes place over a three-day period where they
know there is at least one U-boat in the vicinity and they are trying to keep
their supply ships safe. Everyone is on high alert. The captain must keep his
ship ready, but not trigger happy. For three days, he does not sleep, barely
eats, and has to plan his visits to the head. The reader is there for all of
it.
By the end of that book,
I was exhausted. It's been years since I read it, and I still recall the scene
where he downs a pot of cold coffee, grounds and all, because it is there and
he needs fuel.
The other is "Wanderer of
the Wasteland" by Zane Grey. Too many drinks lead to a gunfight over a pretty
girl, forcing a young man to run for his life, straight into the Mojave Desert,
where he has a bigger fight on his hands – how to stay alive where there is no
food, no water, nothing but unrelenting sun during the day and shivering cold
at night. It's a tale of self-discovery as much as survival.
The book has a funny, O.
Henry-esque ending, but what sticks with me is the desert. I was parched by
this story. Reading it made my skin feel as warm as if I were in that
unbearable sun.
"Like breath of a
furnace the heat rose from the rocky, sandy soil; and from above there seemed
to bear down the weight of the leaden fire."
It's not just, when I
think of these books, I feel these feelings. It's also, when I have these feelings,
I think of these books. On days when I'm running from one task to the other and
wolfing down a McD-burger in my car on my way to the next emergency, I think of
that captain trying to figure out if he's got enough time to pee before the
next U-boat sighting. Lately, it's been unbearably hot in southern California,
and our air conditioning is on the fritz. I sit in the kitchen,
under the fan, all the windows open, with a wet towel around my neck, and
picture that young cowboy, throwing himself on the rocks in his despair and
exhaustion, only to scramble back to his feet because the ground burns his
skin.
And in these election
days, I think of John Hatch's wealth of knowledge and know what a millstone it
is, to have seen it all, know it's not going away, and yet be unable to keep
from trying to stop the crazy.
Are you drawn to books
that punch you in the gut until they're in your muscle memory? Or are you in
love with finesse? Forget good books. What are some of the books you live with?
