Feet of Clay by Terry Pratchett

A while ago, in remembrance of Terry Pratchett's passing, I said I wanted to read a Terry Pratchett novel.  Read While Walking: Terry Pratchett.


I read Feet of Clay, one of the Discworld novels featuring the City Guard.  I think I read Guards, Guards some time ago, but enough time has passed that I didn't recognize any of the characters in Feet of Clay.  I didn't feel I had any need to have any particular prior knowledge of any of the characters or the world.  Perhaps there would have been a touch more depth to the experience, but I don't think I suffered for it.


The novel finds a very nice balance.  The plot is engaging enough that it's probably worth reading for itself.  The humour reminded me very much of the city watch in Shakespeare's comedies, and the farcical elements were fun.  I wouldn't say I found much of it laugh out loud funny, but it was certainly enjoyable to read, often bringing a smile and I wanted to see how the plot resolved. 


I probably would have preferred a little more plot and characterization, or alternatively more elements just for laughs, but overall I think Feet of Clay walked the line very neatly.  Too much silliness and it would be a denser read, more like Douglas Adams' novels.


There are a few big picture thoughts about free will, religion, the use of labour in production, but none are explored in any great depth.  One of the elements I thought was neatly incorporated was the idea that most groups of people, however egalitarian their viewpoint, need someone they can feel superior to or someone they can order around.  Commander Vimes tries hard to treat everyone as part of his job, and perhaps has some element of growth in his view towards the undead (albeit not vampires).  But there's a neat reminiscence he has about playing hopscotch where he fondly thinks of how he bullied one of the children on his street, without internally recognizing it as such.


I thought that was neatly done by Mr. Pratchett, because while Vimes longs at times for the good old days, there's sometimes an insidious subtlety to people's habits that is hard to change, can be damaging, but is sometimes forgotten in the glow of nostalgia or resistance to further change.


I think a teenage or preteen audience would particularly enjoy Mr. Pratchett's novels.  For myself, I found Feet of Clay diverting and fun, but do not feel any compulsion to read the next or previous in the series.  If sometime I want something lighter, or need a smile though, I'd find a Discworld novel easy to pick up and I'd be happy to do so.

Rehabilitation and the nature of imprisonment

The last few novels I've written about,
Read While Walking: The Reader by Bernard Schlink,
Read While Walking: Dry Ice by Stephen White, and
Read While Walking: The Two Minute Rule, by Robert Crais, deal with the question of rehabilitation.


I'm reminded of Red, Morgan Freeman's character from The Shawshank Redemption answering for the parole board at each hearing the question of whether he is rehabilitated.  Ultimately, he says he doesn't know what that word means.


In The Reader, Hannah goes to prison, but only towards the end of her incarceration does she seem to conclude that she must personally make reparations to earn forgiveness.


In Dry Ice, Alan Gregory concludes that there are some people who can't be rehabilitated and perhaps the death penalty is warranted.  He has reversed an earlier position that most evil has either external or internal causes which can be treated or addressed and rehabilitation achieved.


In The Two Minute Rule, Max is an ex-con who wants to be a good person, but his only answers to problems involve returning to his pattern of criminal activity and the people with whom he shared a criminal past.


Erle Stanley Gardner is one of my favourite authors, and I really enjoy the novels he wrote under the pseudonym A.A. Fair (the Bertha Cool and Donald Lam detective novels).  In the later novels (I think once his pseudonym was common knowledge) he included forewords addressing some of the figures in penal studies, and asking questions about rehabilitation, although the novels themselves don't engage with those problems or questions.


I find I'm enjoying novels considering those aspects of late (I've got a couple of A.A. Fair novels in my stack currently, as well as The Vendetta Defense by Lisa Scottolini, and I recently finished Identical by Scott Turow).


Incarceration presumably is intended to (1) prevent further crime/protect society from the offender during the term of incarceration; (2) make a statement to the individual that their action was wrong and has consequences; (3) make a statement to society that these types of actions have consequences (and presumably influence behavior of other persons thinking of undertaking such acts); and (4) make the individual unlikely to commit that crime or others again (rehabilitation).  I'm not sure that remorse for the crime, confession or reparations to victims are goals of incarceration in and of itself, though those may be elements which demonstrate rehabilitation.


There may be other aspects as well, but those are the ones that presently come to mind.  My sense is that rehabilitation tends to be the main focus for people considering the role of  incarceration as a penalty for a crime


So, if an offender is completely rehabilitated, should that be the sole determinative criteria for the release of an offender from incarceration (or does it mean there is no need for incarceration in the first place if an offender will not offend again)?   If the offender is not at all rehabilitated at the end of their sentence, is there any justification to release or not release the offender? 


Part of the reason the question arises in my mind are some news stories describing a practice (it seems) of charging persons with additional crimes (which pre-date their incarceration) just as their term of incarceration is about to end.


While it would be difficult to argue that past crimes are not deserving of punishment, does that undermine the rehabilitation process?  It accomplishes goals 1 and 3 (protecting society during the term of incarceration and making a statement that the past behavior is wrong), but in so doing, does it undermine goals 2 and 4?  The individual will likely not feel that it seems like justice to have crimes prosecuted piecemeal for the purpose of  obtaining consecutive sentences and removing from the judge the ability to determine an appropriate sentence for the entirety of the criminal activity.  It also renders any rehabilitation achieved meaningless, as it deprives the offender of the chance to demonstrate his or her rehabilitation, and makes the balance of the sentence or the new sentence exist for the sake of punishment alone.  Even goal 1 may not be achieved, because if the offender is truly rehabilitated, then there would then be no further risk to society.


Perhaps (if rehabilitation is the sole determinative criteria) an ideal answer would be a flexible sentencing system that incarcerated people until they were rehabilitated, almost irrespective of anything else, but in such case there would need to be means both to achieve rehabilitation and to evaluate whether it had in fact been achieved.  It's a challenging political problem though, because (as A.A. Fair points out) there is little political capital to be made in recommending studies and spending on criminals already incarcerated particularly if there is a suggestion that rehabilitation could be better achieved absent incarceration.


As I said, I'm enjoying novels that consider the problem.  Any suggestions for fiction addressing the rehabilitation question would be appreciated.

The Two Minute Rule, by Robert Crais

The Two Minute Rule by Robert Crais is a standalone novel, that does not feature Elvis Cole or Joe Pike or any of his recurring characters.


The Two Minute Rule refers to the time a prospective bank robber has from when he announces a hold-up to the time he must exit the bank so that police won't have time to respond.  The protagonist, Max Holman, is a convicted bank robber, recently released from prison.


Robert Crais does a nice job of making a sympathetic protagonist who is wholly rehabilitated, while showing some of the struggles ex-convicts face on re-integration.  He also shows a number of the supports available to ex-convicts, and the people and social services who genuinely want to see them succeed.  I wouldn't say that Max is a fully developed character in the way that Elvis Cole however.  Like Joe Pike, Max seems to wait in limbo until the next action moment arrives.


The other major character is Katherine Pollard, a former FBI agent.  There were aspects of her characterization that I really liked, though at times I wasn't sure all of her personality traits fully meshed into the character.

What I really liked though was the relationship between Max and Katherine.  I thought Mr. Crais did a very good job of showing their relationship and justifying how there could be a relationship between an ex-con and a law enforcement agent.  It was believable and moving, and I haven't really seen that in the Cole and Pike books.  Although I really like Carol Starkey, and always hope that Cole will see it too, I haven't seen either Cole or Pike make a connection in a way that feels like a relationship with depth and chemistry. 


As a result, I need to reevaluate the Elvis Cole and Joe Pike books a bit.  I find Elvis' partner, Lucy Chenier, to be lacking depth, and never really saw why Elvis felt so strongly about her.  Seeing Max and Katherine, it's clear that Mr. Crais can write strong male-female dynamic relationships, so if he's choosing not to, it must be to put the emphasis on the Cole-Pike friendship.  Thinking about it, some of the clearest moments to me from the various Cole and Pike books are things like where Elvis, just rescued, gets a bucket to wash Pike's car.


I was never in doubt about the strength of their friendship, but it does make me wonder if the construction of the novels is intended to show that the depth of their friendship leaves no room for anyone else... because that wouldn't seem like a rewarding friendship but more of a dependent relationship.  I had always liked how Elvis tended not to let cases consume him, but still made time to eat, sleep and exercise.  He values a well rounded approach to work and life.  Pike has always been more of an action-only cipher and harder to picture in a romantic relationship.  I like that they complement each other, understand each other, admire each other and work well together, but could it also be to such an extent that neither is capable of forming bonds with anyone else?  Or that anyone else just can't measure up? 


As I say, I need to think on that some more, though I think I'd go back to someone like Carol Starkey, where Elvis and Joe could both have a level of understanding and admiration for someone who operates in their own line of work.  It's just too bad Elvis doesn't see Carol as a romantic possibility.

Dry Ice by Stephen White

Dry Ice by Stephen White, features his protagonist, Alan Gregory.  I think I've read an Alan Gregory novel once before, though it was several years ago. 


Alan Gregory is a psychologist, and in the novels he uses his psychological expertise to unravel mysteries.  It sounds from this that perhaps he uses psychology tricks to catch criminals, but it's fascinating in that it's much more the passive, therapeutic approach he takes that permits him to listen, encourage confidences and piece together the things he has learned.


Dry Ice deals with an escaped prisoner and a potential frame-up centered on Dr. Gregory.  The prisoner escaped from an institution for offenders suffering from mental health issues, and he had been confined there after a previous attack on Dr. Gregory's wife.  I suspect it is a sequel of sorts to an earlier novel, though I didn't feel as though I missed any key aspects of the novel from being unfamiliar with the earlier adventure.


What is interesting to me, is the shift, almost within the novel itself, of Dr. Gregory's views on appropriate treatment for violent offenders.  He indicates in the novel that he previously held the view that violent offenders can't be held solely responsible for the matters occurring within their own minds that are beyond their control.  He later comes to the view that everyone is responsible for the choices they make, and becomes more willing to embrace the concept of punishment (up to and including a death sentence) for people with mental health issues.


It's curious coming from a protagonist like Dr. Gregory, since he is very mild mannered and almost passive, while holding very, very firmly to his concept of his professional obligations.


It's an interesting and tricky question I think, and I would have enjoyed even more discussion on the topic.  I'm a little unclear, in the context of the novel, whether it is a true shifting of Dr. Gregory's beliefs, or if it is further evidence of his decomposing state of mind after the death of a patient.  In Dry Ice Dr. Gregory is clearly having trouble coping.  He is alcohol dependent to the point of having a problem, and later  he blackmails a fellow psychologist into breaching patient confidentiality.  Given the extremely high value I have seen this character place on confidentiality, to the point of maintaining it at risk to his own health and personal relationships, I have to think this was used as a way of showing just badly Alan Gregory's judgment has been impaired.


So is his shift of view part of impaired judgment, or part of an insight he has gathered over time?  I think it's part of his stress and willingness to abandon principles at this stage of his life.  I don't think he has a principled reason for abandoning his prior conviction that offenders deserve treatment, rather than punishment for actions which are a result of mental conditions beyond their control.  I think that seeing the consequence of the offender tracking him down and endangering his family, his abstract principle collided with his reality and he couldn't support it any more.


I look forward to later novels to discover whether Mr. White can create a situation where sympathy is created for an antagonist, to see whether it shifts Alan back to his original view, or if Alan takes the vigilante approach to dispense "justice" to a dangerous offender, whether or not suffering from a disease Alan devotes his life to helping to treat.

The Reader, Exploitation and Victimization

I mentioned in earlier posts on The Reader by Bernard Schlink, that it is a very well crafted novel, but a word of appreciation is also due the translator, Carol Brown Janeway.  Although the story is always unmistakably taking place in Germany and addressing German issues, it's easy to forget it wasn't written in English.


I know three posts on one book is a lot, but as indicated earlier (Read While Walking: The Reader by Bernard Schlink), I'm treating you as my book club.


So why does the narrator act as he does?  He refuses to forgive Hannah, he seems to have deep anger with her, while also caring for her.  A central issue facing him seems to be him attempting to resolve why, or if, he loves her and how to work past that.


The descriptions of Hannah are fascinating, in that they don't depict her as beautiful, nor do they indicate what he likes so much about her, but they betray a fascination with her that he can't leave alone.  The descriptions encompass both the attraction and the repulsion he feels.  When he describes her scent in detail, he describes it in very tactile, but mostly negative terms as though trying to repulse himself, though when describing more positive times in their relationship, he simply says her scent was always clean.  Similarly, his physical descriptions of her are bland, unless he dwells on that which simultaneously repulses and attracts him.


Why does he visit the judge to tell him about Hannah's illiteracy, leave without saying anything about it, and feel a sense of relief? 


I think Michael feels sexually exploited.  I don't know enough about German law to know whether his relationship with Hannah would be rape, or sexual interference or some other legally inappropriate conduct, but Michael seems to struggle between the idea that he initiated the contact, and encouraged the development of the relationship, but feels exploited nonetheless, as though without his consent Hannah forced him to fall in love with her.

There's no indication that Hannah knew he was underage, and much of the narrator's sense of malaise, aimlessness and willingness to dive into a relationship with an older woman feel more like The Graduate than an exploration of underage exploitation.


And yet, the level of intimacy that developed between Hannah and Michael indelibly marked him.  He measures all future relationships against the one with her, he only feels right sleeping next to her, his fantasies relate to moments with her, and yet he feels, when she abandons him, that she didn't place the same fundamental significance on her relationship with him.  He questions that somewhat when he discovers her clipping of his graduation, but doesn't seem to want to explore that question further.


When he discovers her history with the war, he wants to lash out and blame her for it.  He notes that most of his classmates blame their parents for Germany's role in the war, which he does not appear to do, transferring that blame instead to Hannah.  When Hannah asks the judge what she could have done differently, not only does the judge fail to answer, but Michael recognizes it as an impossible question.  He doesn't know what he would have wanted her to do differently.


And yet Michael has been studying, perhaps wallowing in the history of Germany's actions in World War II, and identifying with the concentration camp victims.  By identifying with the victims, he can remove himself from the heritage of guilt associated with his nationality.  And when he finds that Hannah had reading relationships with some of the prisoners, he finds it easy to lump himself in with the victims, as one more victim of Hannah and therefore not one of the perpetrators of crimes in war, but one of its victims, with Hannah as the wrongdoer that he can blame.


Yet through all of this, Michael loves her, and I think is angry that she made him love her.  To me, that's the principal crime that Michael cannot forgive, that she made him love her, as his first love, and he can't let her go.  So my explanation for why he reads and sends the tapes is partly one-sided self indulgence, partly to make himself feel good about himself, but partly to make her fall in love with him as her only love, and be unable to understand why he abandons her like she abandoned him without explanation.

The Reader: Forgiveness for whom?

The Reader, by Bernard Schlink, ends with its narrator (Michael Berg) musing about the writing of the story he's just finished telling.  He says he's started writing a number of times, and has taken different approaches, but this is the story that wanted to be told.  He then tries to make sense of why he had to tell the story.


It's kind of a fascinating ending because the narrator is inviting us to look at the motivations underlying his decision to tell us the story in this way.  Throughout the novel, he has hidden most of his motivations from us.  The epilogue (if I can call it that) makes explicit that Michael himself may not understand his motivations and may tell himself one thing while having a different underlying reason.


It also invites the reader to ask why do we think the narrator recorded this?  Why do we think he recorded it in this way, with these things included and other aspects excluded?  It's a neat construction that would start a discussion without need of a book club checklist at the end.  And once you start to ask those questions about why the story was told this way, and what motivates the narrator, it prompts the deeper questions about the narrator's actions and motivations throughout the novel.


The narrator indicates he wrote it initially to try to be free of the hold these memories had upon him, an exorcism of sorts.  He said that didn't work.  Then he tried to write it to hold onto and rediscover his memories relating to the story, but that didn't work.  Then when he put it aside for a while, it came back to him as a story that needed telling, perhaps in the same way that he needed to create the tapes he read (arguably a matter of self-indulgence).  Then he reevaluates to consider that perhaps it was what he needed to be free... though I wouldn't say the ending leaves me feeling as though the narrator has any greater sense of freedom than he had before.


So why did he write it the way he did?  It's a curiously distant yet internalized novel.  He does not engage in much speculation on the motivations of Hannah, and other than a brief attempt to understand his father, spends virtually no time considering any other people.  He doesn't talk about his ex-wife in any detail, nor about their meeting, how he fell in love with her or any other matters.  I'm fairly certain more text is given to unnamed lovers than to the woman he married and with whom he had a child.  He spares a sentence or two for his daughter as a token nod to the obligatory affection he understands he's supposed to feel, but she takes up no space in the story.  Siblings, friends, the nature of his work, his mother, none of these get any time in the story, and yet the story is all about the narrator, all from his perspective.  Yet it has distance to it.  Whenever he feels he may be getting too close to his own feelings and thoughts he backs away.  When he visits the concentration camp, the perspective jumps such that he's not remembering his visit as a young man, but his subsequent visit many years later, to further remove himself from the feelings he had at the time.


So why does the story have this construction focused on himself while avoiding examination of his relationships with people and the world around him?  Is it because he's extremely self involved, and has no room in his thoughts for anyone except himself and the impact that Hannah made on him?  Or that he's treating this story as pure self-indulgence or exorcism and is excising every part of his thoughts except for that involving his relationship with Hannah?


For myself, I think it's a combination of both.  I think Michael feels that his relationship with Hannah cast a shadow over his entire life, and some part of his mind is always analyzing it, turning it over, and looking at it, to the point that it overwhelms the rest of his life and interactions with other people.  His mind can't let it go, and he hopes by writing that it lets him leave some of it behind.


So what story is he telling then?  I have to think it's more than a bare recitation of his perception of historical fact, though I think it's very intentional that he leaves his own thoughts and feelings out of the story where he can.  Partly that's because the narrator doesn't share feelings with people, and partly it's that he wants to present an objective account.  That's what makes it feel like a confession to me.  That he has a need to expiate his guilt or Hannah's guilt, and thinks that this story is the best way to do it. I think he's told the story in a way that was intended to show him, or Hannah, in the best possible light, but somehow the story took over and didn't do that the way he intended.  Whenever the facts start to show him in a poor light, or seem to beg for an examination of his own conscience or motives, he backs away, as though he doesn't dare look too closely at what he has done or why he did it.


So is it an apologia for himself, or for Hannah?  I haven't decided, but I think it's Michael's story.  I think he's trying to explain and justify himself, and perhaps have a story, if not of forgiveness, of understanding.  I wonder if perhaps he can't reach an understanding of his own motivations, so is looking to us as readers to do so.


Trying to avoid explicit spoilers, at the very end of the novel I think it's significant that he says he only visited Hannah once, and explicitly withholds the information about whether he gave her the letter addressed to her and thanking her for the donation.  Somehow I don't think he did.  I think he withheld that absolution for her.  Which leaves me with the question, is he leaving it for us (the readers) to absolve Hannah? Is that the understanding and forgiveness the story seeks to achieve? I don't think so.  I think he intentionally withholds absolution for her, and doesn't think we are in a position to grant it in his place. 


The story has been internal and has been crafted to show a pattern of self indulgence on the part of Michael.  As he depicts himself, he doesn't consider anyone else's feelings, and doesn't seem to live for anything but his memories.  In working through those memories, he came to an understanding of Hannah (though always well after the time the understanding could have made any impact).  And he withheld from Hannah the knowledge that he had that understanding, since understanding would lead to empathy, and from empathy to forgiveness.  He ends the novel (like the author in New York), still unprepared to offer Hannah that forgiveness.


And yet he wants understanding from us readers for his actions.  He's not quite prepared to ask absolution for himself, but tries, throughout the story, to present himself in an objective, distant way, without delving into all his internal justifications, to see if we can understand him, like he ultimately understood Hannah.  The question for the readers, I think, is whether we are prepared to offer him forgiveness or whether we would withhold that from him.  And if we withhold it, then perhaps we've arrived at a perfect understanding of his actions.  Which is perhaps why he told the story.

The Reader by Bernard Schlink

I have been wanting to read The Reader for some time.  It was probably on my "to read" list since I saw that the movie based on the book had been nominated for an Academy Award, which I now realize was in 2009.  I saw The Reader at a book market and remembered I had wanted to read it.  For reference, I haven't seen the film, so don't know how closely it follows the book or the extent to which it makes clear some of the matters left more obscured in the novel.


I note from the cover it is an Oprah Book Club Book.  I think this may be the first book I've read that I identified as an Oprah Book Club book.  In that regard, the book works very, very well.


The chapters are short (almost James Patterson style), so it's easy to feel like you're making progress.  The Reader deals with heavy subject matter, but to some extent feels distanced, so you appreciate the depth on reflection without it feeling too weighty while you're in the process of reading.  And it leaves open a number of questions to interpretation and assessment in a manner that would be very susceptible to discussion.


I've never been part of a book club.  Despite hinting and outright asking people I have known who are members, I tend to get deferred with the comment that they're not really about reading or discussion, but more about drinking wine.  But if I did have a book club (or if I can consider you my book club) I think The Reader would be excellent in that it combines the qualities of being easy to read while having lots of depth for discussion.  I don't know if this combination is a feature of Oprah's Book Club books, but if it is, I'll try to seek out more of them.


I've noticed at the end of some of the Lisa Scottoline books (I'm thinking of Look Again) that they have questions for book club discussion.  I'm not sure if that's helpful or not.  One of the things I really liked about The Reader is that the nature of the story and the writing prompted the questions and discussions in my own mind.  I didn't need a questionnaire to frame the questions for myself.


One of the reasons for that is that the narrator and the principal character are both very opaque in their thought processes.  Their actions are described, and occasionally the narrator reports on his motivations, but those stated motivations remain suspect and often involve leaps that are not necessarily intuitive or logical.  It begs for the reader to impute motivations and read things into the characters that may or may not be supportable by the text alone.


I'm still not sure how I feel about The Reader.  I didn't finish with the excitement or eagerness to read about the protagonist again, or the satisfaction of a mystery solved.  It had an ending sequence somewhat like Lord of the Rings which at first read seemed anticlimactic and not integral to the story, then later felt heavy handed in its allegory (though I'm still thinking about that).  So I left saying "huh".  Then started to think about it some more.  And some more.  I think I liked it, and it certainly gave me a lot to mull over.  I liked that I needed to think about it, I liked that I'm still thinking about it, and I know I want to discuss it in further detail.