Dictionary of Problem Words and Expressions, by Harry Shaw (1975)

Ever since I became an avid reader and consequently fell in love with words, I've been trying to master the language much like a musician might memorize chords, scales, arpeggios, and other musical phrases. Beyond its more visceral rewards, I believe such a pursuit is worthy of my time and energy. Partly for this reason, I abhor sloppy writing as a substitute for clear, lucid prose.

I should mention that both in conversation and on social media (Facebook, Twitter), I'm that guy who frequently corrects people when they abuse our otherwise wondrous language. Probably why I'm so damn popular. (Incidentally, Shaw correctly identifies the preceding statement as irony, not sarcasm, which is more derisive irony, something along the lines of “What a great friend you turned out to be!”)

Because I love the English language and am grief stricken when it's abused or treated with indifference, while reading this treasure I was pumping my fist in the air and affirming this and that entry with a “Thank you, Shaw!” and a “In your face, illiterates!” Not really, but at this point you can probably imagine me as the type.

Beyond the most commonly misused words such as then and than; there, their, and they're; less and fewer, effect and affect; exercise and exorcise; stationary and stationery; incisive and decisive; allusion, illusion, elusion, and delusion, Shaw distinguishes between exceedingly and excessively; effective, efficient, and effectual; urban and urbane; lie, lay, and lain; wake, awake, awaken, awoke, awoken; felicitous, fortuitous, and fortunate; meticulous, scrupulous; ingenious, ingenuous, and naive; inhuman, unhuman; precedence, precedent; and decent distinctions between (not among) myth, fable, and legend.

I've long since given up correcting people who all too often opt for the word literally when they mean to say figuratively or practically or virtually, or, better yet, veritably. I no longer waste my time pointing out to the alleged educated the difference between evidence and proof. And I've become inured to a certain family member who unerringly errs with pronouns: “Between you and I ...” etc. However, I, too, was given a valuable education regarding other words I've misused. Egoism and egotism; dissemble and dissassemble; prescribe and proscribe. And for those who struggle with who, whom, whoever, and whomever, Shaw offers the easiest method I've found for understanding which pronoun to apply.

Some differences between the entries are minor or vary only in degree (refute and deny); some are interchangeable within certain contexts (relatively and comparatively); some appear similar but are antonyms (enervating and invigorating); and some entries are mildly amusing:

corespondent, correspondent. These words differ in spelling, meaning, and pronunciation. It is usually safer to be a correspondent (KOR i spon dent), one who writes letters, than a corespondent (KO ri SPON dent), one charged with adultery in a divorce proceeding.

With the exception of the above example and a few others, Shaw begins an entry by listing the similarities between the words in question, whether the words share a Latin, Greek, or Gaelic derivation, highlighting where they differ and in what way, frequently including the words in examples (phrases, sentences), and finally, occasionally providing synonyms for each. This book is a valuable resource. One I'll probably keep and refer to often. Four out of five stars. 

The Cat Who Talked To Ghosts, Lilian Jackson Braun (1990)

This novel offers what every good mystery should – fine writing, engaging characters, an unsolved murder, and a sleuth driven to determine what happened. All of Braun's novels deserve this recipe. Unfortunately, not all of her books provide it. Braun clearly knows how to apply tension, intrigue, and suspense. For that reason, I can't understand why so many of her books often lack these winning elements. It's as if she's merely stumbling on these devices blindly. Which I refuse to believe. Yet in some cases the contrast appears too great to be otherwise. 

Some of her novels convince you this is a mystery writer to follow. Others make you wonder whether this is the same author. I mean, how do you go from a well-plotted novel with engaging, intriguing characters, tension, an unfolding of events and clues and sleuth-work to a satisfying finale in one novel, such as this one or her novel The Cat Who Saw Red (which is also excellent) and then on to the next novel that chronicles (stress free), irrelevant conversations, summaries of menus and luncheons, soirees, benefits, charities, and just about anything else that would serve a personal diary, as her novel The Cat Who Smelled a Rat does? I acknowledge that not everything a given author writes can be a masterpiece. But with Braun, the difference between the two, the contrast from a keeper to a throw away, is staggering. 

Still, ...Talked to Ghosts is good. Four out of five stars. PG 

Ivanhoe, Sir Walter Scott (1820)

I've read this novel twice now for two reasons. One, it's a classic that demands repeated reads, and two, my first manuscript was influenced by this period, as is my sequel-in-progress. So I wanted to immerse myself in the cast's diction again. 

Most writers of fantasy fiction set their stories in a period that mirrors our own middle ages. Yet despite their adherence to its form of government (monarchies), its mode of transportation (horse, mule, wagon, carriage), its architectural structures (castles, towers, temples), its tools of war (sword, spear, bow), and its dress (tunics, robes, bodices, armor), when it comes to dialogue, these same writers tend to assign their characters the contemporary colloquialisms of today. This has always struck me as lazy. Granted, creating dialogue that approaches the lexicon of a begone era is a challenge. But ever since reading the gracefully worded dialogue in Donaldson's Covenant Chronicles, Ben-Hur, Don Quixote, The Iliad, as well as Ivanhoe, I've been enamored with that lofty, archaic speech and have wanted to reproduce something similar, what I refer to as the pseudo-authentic, namely not the diction people of such a period spoke (since we can't know for certain), but certainly something we as readers come to expect from knights and courtiers of a similar age. I'm convinced that contemporary writers of this genre who dismiss this important element do their characters and their setting a disservice. Five out of five stars. PG-13

The Adventures of Pinocchio, by C. Collodi (the non de plume for Carlo Lorenzini) translated from the Italian by Carol Della Chiesa (1883)

From what I remember of the Walt Disney animated film Pinocchio, this original version is comparable to how the Brothers Grimm might treat the material. It's a dark fable, a fable because of its cautionary lessons and its supernatural elements, including talking animals. Pinocchio is a mischievous urchin fast approaching that of a reprobate. Not until he faces potential death (which he does in nearly every chapter) does he appear mildly remorseful, and that remorse is short lived as yet another temptation appears which, again, distracts him from the sagacity of his elders.

Despite the darker tone, this story is still amusing and fun. I caught myself smiling throughout and even chuckling quite a few times. An intermittent, interactive quality abounds. We've all probably experienced those stories in which the author stops his narrative to flatter us, calling us his “gentle reader” or his “dear reader.” Something along the lines of “As it happened, dear reader, Sally sold those sea shells to the stentorian steer for seven silver smackaroos” or some such. But I've never read anything quite like this. One can see the crowd of children gathered round the animated adult, their small hands clenched, eyes wide, mouths agape, as she reads aloud and gesticulates.

Everyone, at one time or another, has found some surprise awaiting him. Of the kind which Pinocchio had on that eventful morning of his life, there are but few. What was it? I will tell you, my dear little readers. On awakening, Pinocchio put his hand up to his head, and there he found –

Guess!

He found that, during the night, his ears had grown at least ten full inches!

I couldn't help but grin at these delightful moments. At the same time, the tale could double as a sermon to wayward boys, since Pinocchio is constantly warned against sloth and disobedience and, sure enough, encounters trouble whenever he chooses vices over virtues. Then, while either dying of starvation or imprisoned, wallowing in despair and self-rebuke, he's reminded of his selfishness by some tradesman or talking animal, cautioning him of the hazards of ignoring the creeds of those who themselves have learned the hard way the lessons they seek to impress upon him. A cautionary, but adventuresome, tale, to be sure, full of both high jinks and endearment. Four out of five stars. Rated G

Past Forgetting, My Love Affair With Dwight D. Eisenhower, Kay Summersby Morgan (1975)

Like The Groucho Letters in my previous post, this was another hardback amid a hidden stack of books in a box in the closet of my garage. I decided to read it not in anticipation of the sensationalism – the idea of a love story between Eisenhower and his mistress – but rather because I expected to learn something of that period: the war, the decision makers involved, maybe even a few facts I hadn't come across in the history books. I wasn't disappointed.

As the publishing date makes explicit, Summersby wrote this decades after the facts. Eisenhower had since died; Summersby herself – partly to quail the rekindled media gossip at the time and partly because she'd been diagnosed with terminal cancer and given six months to live – decided to set the record straight as to what really happened.

Chronicling her experiences during the second world war as an officers' driver, she doesn't even begin discussing her love affair until midway into the book. Even then she treats the illicit encounters tastefully by avoiding details. She writes briefly about some of the more secret operations too – Torch (the invasion of North Africa), Overlord, and, of course, D-Day. Not all of her war experiences happened safely away from the front lines either. She and Eisenhower's staff were often forced to race to an underground bunker to avoid German shelling. Though her style and approach is dramatic at times, she's unassuming and quite modest about her accounts as a potential casualty during these bombing raids.

She began driving for the fairly unknown two star General Eisenhower roughly three years before the war would end. During that time, he would be promoted from two stars to three, to four, to eventually the Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces in Europe, and ultimately, of course, the President of the United States.

She also provides some intriguing accounts of some of the brass and celebrities she encountered and regularly worked with. Her personal accounts of some of the icons of that era are particularly telling, icons such as Franklin D. Roosevelt, Patton, Churchill, and of course Eisenhower. Eisenhower, a chain smoking workaholic, loved the troops and made it a point to interact with the lowest ranking soldier frequently. Roosevelt was capricious but kind and personable. Patton, quite chivalrous regarding the fairer sex, spoke in a high pitched womanly voice and was socially unpredictable; once, when giving a tour to a couple of friends, he abruptly fell to his knees and prayed out loud for a number of people, after which he rose, unabashed, and resumed the tour. But my favorite character of the cast is easily Churchill, whom I've admired for years, at least ever since I discovered some of his famous quotes and other writings. Turns out he was quite a slob at the dinner table.

He would slurp his soup, spill things, pick up food with his fingers. He would pick his nose while he listened to the rare person who managed to get a word in edgewise and would quite uninhibitedly unzip his siren suit to scratch his crotch. I remember once at dinner he interrupted himself in mid-anecdote, banged his fist on the table and demanded, “What happened, General [Eisenhower]? Did you run out of claret?” Mickey [Eisenhower's batman of sorts] rushed to fill his glass. At that moment the P.M., engrossed in his story again, made a sweeping gesture and knocked the glass to the floor. He paid no attention to what he had done. … Mr. Churchhill, you really had to acknowledge it, was adorable – but his manners were horrifying. The truth was that it did not matter. He was absolutely brilliant, and all these possibly purposeful gaucheries seemed trivial when he started talking. He had the most fabulous command of the English language. I could have listened to him forever.

The book contains nearly 40 black and white photos of the characters involved and a few of the events. Worth reading if you're curious about the European theater at that period in history. Four out of five stars. Rated R

The Groucho Letters, Letters From and To Groucho Marx, Simon & Schuster (1967)

My father introduced me to the Marx Brothers when I was about ten. This would've been in 1975, long after vaudeville and even after the Brothers' heyday in film. Too young to appreciate their puns, satire and wit, I wouldn't truly take notice until decades later when I'd catch a scene or two on some TV special giving tribute to classic comedies or comedians. Several years later I bought a DVD boxed set of their films which included just about everything but “Animal Crackers” and “Duck Soup.” My favorite film in this collection is still “A Night at the Opera.”

A week ago, while cleaning a house I indirectly inherited from my late grandmother, I was going through some old boxes hidden away in a back closet of the garage and found a number of hardbound books I didn't know about. Among them was the aforementioned book. No introduction, forward, afterward, or backward is provided. Nothing but letters, as the subtitle indicates, from and to this then aging comedian.

But they're a treat. Sometimes cynical but always amusing, Groucho corresponded with dozens of acquaintances, friends, and family both in and out of entertainment and politics. Many of his correspondents, the likes of which include some of my literary heroes – E. B. White, T. S. Eliot, and James Thurber – gave as good as they got. I suspect people had thicker hides back then than most do today. The insults these individuals dish out, some of them women, would be considered fighting words from strangers and perhaps even hostile if addressed to friends in the twenty-first century. This might not sound surprising until you realize some of these correspondents were initially strangers to Groucho. I wanted to include some excerpts, but there are simply too many to choose from. It's a quick read. (I read it over a weekend.) And I laughed out loud several times. Four out of five stars. PG

Murder in Three Acts, Agatha Christie (1935)

Another great Hercule Poirot mystery, this one without Hastings. I'm developing a real fondness for this diminutive Belgian. In a way, he's a precursor to Columbo, maybe inspiring Columbo's invention. His syntax and hesitant phrasing frequently strays from the English, sometimes with amusing results. After he solves the case in this novel, a character asks him: “Why do you speak perfectly good English and at other times not?” Poirot replies: “... to speak the broken English is an enormous asset. It leads people to despise you. They say 'A foreigner; he can't even speak English properly.' It is not my policy to terrify people; instead, I invite their gentle ridicule. Also I boast! An Englishman he says often, 'A fellow who thinks as much of himself as that cannot be worth much.' That is the English point of view. It is not at all true. And so, you see, I put people off their guard. Besides,” he added, “it has become a habit.” Five out of five stars. G