The Ninth Configuration – William Peter Blatty, 1999 ★★★½

Nuttier Than a Wagon Load of Pralines

In the last 30 years of rewatching The Ninth Configuration, something about the shock of my first viewing has never worn off.

Like Jake and Elwood Blues, screenwriter-director William Peter Blatty was on a mission from God. If he left a few overturned cars or crushed motorcyclists in his wake, it was a feature, not a bug. Wonder what was going on in his head? Too late to ask now; he died last year. But we do have this book featuring the original shooting script.

Escape To Adventure – Fitzroy Maclean, 1950 ★½

All This and World War II

Woody Allen once said 80 percent of life is just showing up. Fitzroy Maclean validated that maxim if reading his memoir of life as a diplomat, soldier, and other in the 1930s and 1940s is any clue. Whether sitting ringside at a Soviet show trial or joining a commando raid in Benghazi, there’s a bit of Zelig in the old boy.

Long Time No See – Ed McBain, 1977 ★★½

Shaking Up the Old Eight-Seven

Breaking out of an old formula sounds fine in theory, but can result in career death for a successful fiction writer. Ed McBain found himself in the mid-1970s with a need to shake things up, though, and so he gave his 87^th Precinct police procedural series a major retooling.

The Year They Called Off The World Series – Benton Stark, 1991 ★

Everybody Loses

The New York Yankees have amassed more World Series rings than any two other baseball franchises combined, but weren’t always the sport’s overlords. The year 1904 found them in the unique role of outsiders and underdogs chasing after their first championship.

They weren’t even the Yankees then, but the Highlanders. How might a Highlander World Championship team be enshrined at Monument Park? We will never know, because they didn’t win the 1904 Series. Nor did anyone else that crazy season, the titular subject of this book.

Selected Poems And Two Plays – William Butler Yeats, 1962 ★★★★

Perning in the Gyres with W. B.

I have always loved reading. I have never cared for poetry. It is like spinach or broccoli on my reading plate, except I actually love spinach and broccoli. May I add I’m not keen on metaphors, either?

With poetry, it comes down to being a born skimmer. I find myself reading at angles, grasping at words like Tarzan swinging from vines, never working line-by-line and seldom methodically. Scansion might as well be a Swedish engineering firm for all I care. For reader as well as composer, poetry demands fine concentration. Ruined perhaps by decades of television, I find such concentration unpleasant.