Bad Traffic, by Simon Lewis

The illuminated signs outside the bus window all said the same thing -- 'You do not understand.'

This is the essence of the experience of Inspector Ma Jian, a Chinese policeman searching for his troubled daughter in England, in the new thriller Bad Traffic, by Simon Lewis.

In the middle of the night, Jian receives a call from his daughter, pleading for help. She is abruptly cut off, and her phone rendered inoperable. With no other information available, Jian sets off to find her. All he knows is her address at university, but he quickly discovers she had dropped her classes and moved out three months earlier. He has no idea where else to look for her, or how to reach her. Unable to speak, read, write, or even understand English, Jian faces an impossible task.

His experience as a police officer helps him discover a cold trail. But his troubles multiply. He finds his daughter's phone, on which is saved a brief video of her being stabbed to death. The images give him a clue to identifying her killer, and revenge becomes his goal. He must summon all his wits and experience to overcome an endless series of pitfalls and setbacks, and then just to survive.

Merging into this storyline is a subplot involving Ding Ming, a young Chinese peasant who has been smuggled into England to work as little more than an indentured slave. The promise of a wage incomparable in China lures him and others into this illegal bargain. But the exorbitant fee for smuggling, and the expenses for food and lodging, mean he will be working for twenty years before paying off his debt.

Ding Ming has studied English, but his language skill is a crude utility. His path crosses with Jian, who uses Ding Ming as a translator and guide. Ding Ming's confusion increases, as he is unable to tell who is the good guy and who is the bad guy. At times he thinks Jian will help him, and at other times he thinks he would be better off with his gang master. Whatever situation he finds himself in, he soon worries that the other is preferable.

Though the signs at the beginning of the novel tell Jian that he does not understand, he has no doubts. He knows what crimes have been committed, and he knows what he must do. He does not struggle with questions of morality, or even legality. He struggles with himself, the realisation that he did not have a close relationship with his daughter, and therefore has failed her. Ding Ming, however, is never clear about what is right or what is wrong. The place where he is taken to work was known in China as Gold Mountain, but all he sees is mud. This mud comes to symbolise his outlook on events. In his desire to make things work, he rationalises everything. Ding Ming is the one who does not understand.

This is the spot of our disappointment with the novel. Though the story begins and ends with Jian, much of the middle is given over to Ding Ming. Even when the two characters are together, events are often related through Ding Ming. Jian has 37 scenes totaling 145 pages; Ding Ming has 26 scenes totaling 115 pages; and three other characters combine for 19 scenes totaling 90 pages. The result is that Jian narrates only 45% of the scenes in the novel, or 41% of the pages. The book cover states "An Inspector Jian Novel" but there is simply not enough of Inspector Jian to justify this for us. It is that subtitle that creates unfulfilled expectations for us, and ultimately disappoints.

Inspector Jian is an interesting character more than capable of carrying an entire novel. A jian is an ancient Chinese double-edged straight sword, and this weapon captures the inspector's personality. He is no supercop, but a flawed man who has superficial relationships with his daughter and his lovers, who believes the end justifies the means, and who has a tarnished past. Fully exploring the costs of knowledge, instead of displaying the foibles of naivete, could have resulted in a much richer story.

This is a minor flaw in an otherwise compelling novel. Mr. Lewis has written a very accessible book. Short, declarative sentences make the writing clear and concise. Combined with scenes that average no more than five pages, the pace is swift. The lead characters can be thoughtful and reflective, yet they are always active, never captured in a dull moment. Any of us could find ourselves faced with similar situations, making up for failures, or compensating for inadequacies. The universal threats lend an immediacy to the story, and give the reader reason to cheer for the compromised protagonists.

Near the end, as Ding Ming blames himself for all the troubles that have occurred, he decides the reason for his suffering is so that others might benefit. He was a poor man and the lot of a poor man was the consumption of bitterness.... This echoes throughout the novel, in all of the characters. They all have ambitions that exceed their abilities. The nefarious characters prey upon these ambitions. In Ding Ming, and Jian's daughter, and several of the minor characters, we see how easily they become victims, how thin the line is that separates good from evil, and what a slippery slope to doom lies on the other side of that line. It is often too easy to take advantage of what is foreign to us, but that is only because we do not understand.

Inaugural Poetry

Elizabeth Alexander is the American poet who was chosen to solemnize the Presidential Inauguration. A spokesman for President Obama called her "incredibly gifted." Before an estimated crowd of 2 million people, she delivered her poem, composed for the event, entitled Praise Song For The Day.

Jim Fisher, of Salon.com, predicted Ms. Alexander would be “skillful in tone, bold in emotion, deeply rhythmic in delivery.” Unfortunately, the honored poet was none of these things. She spoke every word as if it stood alone, enunciated every syllable as if speaking to a group of preschoolers. What might have been a moving work turned out to be an exercise in proper speaking.

More than anything, a poem is about rhythm. Her delivery was devoid of rhythm. Instead of allowing us to feel the power of her words, we were forced to consider each one of them on its own merits. She read like a conceited poet who believes each one of her words is golden. She failed to allow that only taken together, as a single poem, not as a string of 336 words, did her writing have meaning.

She would have done well to hire a professional speaker.

Compare her delivery to that of Reverend Rick Warren, the evangelical pastor who was chosen to give the invocation. He did not set out to compose a poem, yet the prayer he read to the crowd was poetry. His prose had rhythm. He did not assume his audience consisted of preschoolers who needed to be presented with each word one by one. His words flowed together to form a coherent whole, giving his message precedence over his words.

To some, this inaugural poem sent a signal that poetry would resume its formerly important role in celebrating special events. Sadly, Ms. Alexander instead embarrassed herself today, and showed millions of people just how dry and boring poems can be. Rev. Warren showed a better part of religion: the soaring poetry of its language.

An Open Letter to Nancy Pelosi

Madame Speaker,

I am the owner of Mad About Books (www.madaboutbooksonline.com), a used bookshop in Oglesby, Illinois. My business has been clobbered by lackluster sales and choked credit, and could go under before year's end. Such a collapse would be a severe blow to our local economy -- and to the view of the nation's economic strength -- and deal a crippling blow to the ability of many Americans to afford quality books for education and pleasure in these trying financial times. In addition, the loss of our online international sales will further undermine an already unstable world economy, and the export of American ideals.

In order to prevent the failure of my business, I would like Congress and the Bush Administration to take action to provide immediate, targeted assistance to allow my business time to develop a plan to assure its long-term viability. I understand such emergency assistance would be conditioned on compensation restrictions, a prohibition on golden parachutes, rigorous independent oversight, and other taxpayer protections to ensure that my company -- and not the taxpayers -- bears the full burden of repaying any costs that are incurred.

I am sure you will agree that books will continue to play a crucial role in the expansion of our nation's knowledge, culture, and leisure, at home and in the global marketplace. I am willing to work with Congress to meet all conditions, and provide a plan for long-term viability and competitiveness, in order to receive short-term assistance through the Troubled Assets Relief Program (TARP) recently authorized by Congress.

Thank you.

It Takes a Village to Raise an Idiot

I remember the formative years of my childhood. I learned so much from my father. I worked with him in the yard. He taught me how to paint. We washed and waxed cars together. He took me to his jobs, where first I could only watch, but later could assist. He taught me how to drive a car.

Our time together was not all spent in work, though. He taught me billiards. We played catch together. He took me golfing. On sunny afternoons we swam in the pool together. He taught me how to ride a bicycle and roller skate. And, of course, he took me to my first major league baseball game.

He constructed an electric train set for me. He built an orange crate scooter for me. He took me to Cape Canaveral, Disney World, the World's Fair, sites of American history, the zoo, and the ice cream parlor. I acquired from him an appreciation for Big Band music, old movies, and redheads. Needless to say, he clothed, fed, and sheltered me.

Some things he just didn't do. He didn't ask the neighbors to supervise me. He never expected them to pick up my toys. I wasn't left after school to the care of the television. I wasn't allowed to venture beyond the sight of my house. He never raised his voice or his hand to me. And there was never a time that he didn't know where I was.

When I grew older, he gave me advice. He bought me my first car, and later we bought an antique car together. We became golf partners. I knew that no matter where either of us were, or whatever our circumstances, he always kept one eye on me, ever alert to my well-being. And one day our roles even reversed, when I taught him how to use a computer.

Maybe the most important thing about my father was I could go to him if I needed comfort, or assistance, or rescue, or when I experienced one of childhood's inevitable cataclysmic disappointments. He would answer my questions with understanding. He would teach me with patience. Perhaps without even knowing, he was a role model for me. And I always knew where I could find him. And it was never in the neighbor's garage drinking beer.

The Celebration of Christ, or When in Rome

Welcome to Good Friday.

We just finished two outstanding books about early Christianity. The first, called The Magdalene Legacy by Laurence Gardner, meticulously detailed the development of the Christian faith, from before the time of its central figurehead up to the time it was adopted as the official religion of Rome. If you want to know why a certain rite is performed today, or how the canonical Gospel of Mark differs from the apocryphal Gospel of Thomas, or how to reconcile the various contradictions in the New Testament, this is the book for you. The second, called Jesus and the Goddess by Timothy Freke and Peter Gandy, exposes the similarities between Jesus Christ and the dying-and-resurrecting gods of every other ancient culture. If you want to decode the earliest religious texts and learn the mystery that formed the foundation of the modern Christian faiths, this is the book for you.

We were utterly convinced by the first book, which accepted, argued, and explained the historical facts of the nascent church, including everything in the New Testament. Then we were utterly convinced by the second book, which accepted, argued, and explained the myths that revealed the secret mysteries of the nascent church, including everything in the New Testament. Finally we realised that anyone with enough time and resources could find supporting texts for almost any theory they proposed. The unknowable and undeniable truth of that past time is almost certainly to be found somewhere in the middle of those two positions, taking parts of each.

Today is an important day for people of the Christian faiths, the day several years ago when God decided it would be a good thing to crucify His only Son. These events are reenacted all over the world, in some cases with the full compliment of brutality. Church-appointed leaders will speak to millions of people and tell them what it all means, why it all matters. Believers will kneel prayerfully before a cross, perform certain rites of commemoration, celebrate the triumph of Jehovah and His Son.

A few thousand years ago Rome ruled the western world. Most citizens of the empire did not recognize any monotheistic, revealed religion. There was a whole pantheon of gods who were worshipped and believed to play an active part in people's lives. Romans daily honoroued, celebrated, and sacrificed to their gods. They carried charms and amulets, said prayers, and generally tried to propitiate their gods. Today scholars have clearly identified cults of Jupiter, legends of Marius, superstitions of Robigo, and myths of Mithras, to name just a few of the popular beliefs. There was even a national day of prayer to the goddess Salus.

That modern civilization is far more sophisticated in its belief systems is a fallacy. Today television stations are showing choirs singing praise to a convicted criminal. Big box retailers are selling chocolate bunnies and plastic eggs at a discounted price. Income at the florist shops is blooming. Half the banking institutions are closed, or all of them are half-closed. Schoolchildren are on holiday. Many businesses have either given employees the day off, or granted employees the day off. There is a noticeably fishy smell in the air. Indeed, if Jesus were to appear today, a jury of his peers would find he had a rough childhood, he was abandoned by his parents, everyone made fun of him, and so would pronounce him not guilty by reason of insanity. The Resurrection would have to be canceled.

In ancient times, Jerusalem was located prominently in the center of every map of the known world. But the world no longer revolves around the city and the religions that sprung from it. Grant for one moment the possibility that the Christian faiths--indeed all faiths--are based on myth: we are suddenly painfully aware how like the Romans we really are. When we laugh at their silly beliefs, we laugh at ourselves, we laugh at all of mankind. The sole cause of the perceived difference between them and us, then and now, is hubris. Christians know their God is the one and only God, and warn us that if we don't believe and obey this God, we will be welcomed in hell.

We are secure in the belief God favors the humble, the meek, the pure of heart.

Disposables, or Throwing It All Away

We have in our hands an encyclopedia from 1909 which has an article about flying machines. The encyclopedia has been constantly updated and revised, so within a few decades the bulk of that original material on flying machines has been replaced. And if the encyclopedias themselves have been replaced and destroyed, then that knowledge is lost.

Perhaps a book on flying machines has not been checked out from the local library for over ten years. At the same time the library's patrons are demanding more copies of Tuesdays With Morrie. The library decides to remove the books that have not been checked out in some time, to make room for the books in demand. And perhaps the government won't let the library give these books away without lots of red tape, or a threat to the future budget. The library simply tosses the books in the dumpster. Gone forever is the earliest, detailed, first-hand history of flying machines.

This may seem an extreme example, but it occurs all over the world. John Warnock, the father of Adobe Systems, owns a 1543 edition of Copernicus' De Revolutionibus Orbium Coelestium. This is not simply an artifact to him, he has read the work and was amazed by Copernicus.

His argument for the earth's rotating around the sun, considering the tools he had and the observations he made, was absolutely compelling. He did it masterfully. In a modern textbook, you don't get that. You get, "Copernicus suggested that the planets rotate around the sun."

Even if the pure knowledge Copernicus possessed is no longer of use, even if his tools are long outdated, we can still learn something that seems to be diminishing in our modern society: critical thinking. Knowledge only of the end result will prevent a child from following the process of discovery, from replicating the experiments, from learning, not about the world itself, but how to think about the world.

The ancient Egyptians possessed knowledge which is no longer with us. So did the Mayans, and probably any other lost civilization. What could we do with that knowledge? How would that knowledge affect our way of living? Adaptation to change has made man the most successful animal on the planet. If we continue to dispose of knowledge that no longer seems useful, will changes present ever greater challenges? Might we regress and have to start over, as surely as those who succeeded the Egyptians and Mayans did? Fantastical as it may seem to us now, could a Planet of the Apes scenario threaten our future?

Sacred Sunday Mornings, or Waking Up With Proust

One of the reasons we so look forward to Sunday is the quiet of the early morning. We are conditioned to wake before dawn, and with no other commitments on this day we can indulge those unsullied hours in reading Proust. Much of our reading time occurs in the evening, in bed before falling asleep. Inevitably we can read but two or three pages before drifting off. In such a short span it is difficult to really appreciate Proust. In those two pages he might have described only one small thing, like meeting an old friend on the street. To get a strong feel for the fullness of his work, one is best to consume much larger chunks at one sitting. Ninety minutes and thirty pages pass as if in an instant, and we are immersed in his world. And then, though we must rise and deal with feeding dogs and cleaning bathrooms and plotting acts of anarchy, we know there exists in life a privileged moment by which we may be exalted, if only we should take note--like sacred Sunday mornings.