Excerpt from Corporate Citizen (Roma Series Book 5)

“Is this Mr. DiBello?” said a woman’s voice through the long-distance connection.

“This is he,” Gennaro answered.

Bianca raised her eyes at hearing him speaking in English. She had just come into the room with their afternoon drinks. She was even more concerned that the call had come to Gennaro’s cell phone and not the house phone. They were apartment sitting for their friend Claudio Ferrero, La Stampa’s top investigative journalist, who was on assignment. This call also threatened their afternoon ritual of talks out on the balcony where they enjoyed the sights below of San Salvario, the neighborhood near Turin’s city center. Gennaro was motioning for her to come over and eavesdrop.

“What can I do for you?” he asked the caller.

“Not for me, Mr. DiBello. I’m calling on behalf of your friend, Diego Clemente. He asked me to dial your number for him. It’s not easy dialing Italy from a hospital phone.”

“Hospital?” Gennaro said, alarmed. His eyes flashed his concern to Bianca.

“I’m a nurse at MGH and he’s my patient. MGH is Mass General–”

“Hospital in Boston,” Gennaro stammered. “I know that. Scusi – I mean I’m sorry for interrupting you, but is Diego alright?”

“He took a fall at home and broke his hip,” the woman seemed to sigh, “slip rugs are dangerous, you know. He can tell you the rest himself. There isn’t much time.”

“Wait, please. Much time?” Gennaro asked, confused. “I don’t understand.”

“He’s due for surgery and I’ve started his IV. I’d say that you have about ten minutes before happy hour.”

Gennaro said, not understanding to Bianca. “IV…and ‘happy hour.’”

Bianca bared her forearm and explained in Italian: “Medication; probably anesthesia.”

The voice on the phone said, “I’ll hand over the phone to him so you two can talk.”

“Thank you, Nurse.”

“You’re welcome.” Gennaro heard the phone shuffle and heavy breathing. The connection improved. Gennaro and Bianca heard the pull of the curtain. “Diego?”

Another moment passed, and more ruffling sounds. Gennaro and Bianca huddled closer around the phone as Clemente spoke, “Slip rug, col cazzo.” Clemente had learned some Italian, but only the choice words. “That’s some hell of a story, from Mason Street to MGH and now a hip-replacement. Jesus, I can feel the drug working its way up my arm already.”

“You’re making no sense, Diego.”

“Gennaro, please listen to me, since I don’t know how fast Nurse Ratched’s cocktail will work.”

“Less than ten minutes. I’m listening.”

“Thanks. My head feels light. Damn.”

“Wait — where’s your wife? You shouldn’t be alone in a hospital.”

“My wife passed away. Look, Virgil showed me the apartment, the dead girl, and it’s a real mess, a real setup, and my life is going to hell. To hell, you understand, Gennaro, in a boat, hole in the bottom, and toothpicks for oars.” The voice was Diego irritated, in hyper mode.

“Slow down, Diego. I’m sorry about your wife. Why didn’t you tell me?”

A deep, relaxed sigh. “I didn’t want to trouble you. What could you’ve done? Send me a Mass card? You’ve been through it yourself.”

Gennaro’e eyes turned downward. He remembered Lucia. “But still, Diego. I’m your friend. Friends do something, and I don’t mean send you the latest self-help manual on grief.”

Bianca swatted his arm, “No time for sarcasm,” she said.

“I couldn’t help myself, he told her in Italian.

“Hello? Help me then.” Diego

“First, I need to understand what you’re telling me,” Gennaro said. “Who is Virgil?”

“I wish I knew, Gennaro. I wish I knew. I think Virgil is one of Farese’s people.”

“Farese?” The name, as it came out of Gennaro’s mouth, made Bianca’s eyes widen.

U.S. Attorney Michael Farese was a chameleon of a character, changing colors when he worked for the Department of Justice, when he handled diplomatic requests for the State Department, and when he worked for the CIA, as they thought he might have been after their last run-in with him during their investigation of the Camorra in Naples.

“Diego? Concentrate. Why do you think Farese?”

“That doesn’t matter. She’s dead and he’s dead.”

“Who? Who is she? Who is he?” Gennaro asked. His voice almost cracked.

“Norma Jean. She had such nice lingerie, too, and that son of a bitch was in such a nice bed.” Clemente’s voice was almost singing as he was speaking. The wonders of pharmacology.

Gennaro rubbed his eyebrows. He was frustrated. “Diego, stay with me. Who is Norma Jean? Who was in the bed?”

“Marilyn Monroe was a sad girl.” Diego giggled.

“He’s giggling,” Gennaro said to Bianca.

“Oh, it’s a party line!” Diego almost shouted. “Who else is there?”

“Bianca,” Gennaro announced. “She is staying with me.”

“You naughty boy,” Diego said. “Put her on, please.”

“Here,” Gennaro handed his cell phone to Bianca. “Talk to him. I think the medication has gotten into his brain.”

Bianca seized the phone. “Clemente, this is Bianca,” she said, hoping that using the man’s last name would snap some momentary sense into the man’s head. “Forget about Marilyn Monroe. Who is dead?”“Marilyn, of course. Somebody murdered her,” Diego answered.

“Marilyn, of course. Somebody murdered her,” Diego answered.“That’s right, but who is in the bed?”

“That’s right, but who is in the bed?”

“James Guild, former special agent, FBI, scourge of my loins.”Bianca put her hand over the receiver and repeated, “Guild is dead.”

Bianca put her hand over the receiver and repeated, “Guild is dead.”

“Porca puttana.” Gennaro stepped in closer to the receiver. “What happened, Diego?”

“Hell if I know. Virgil gave me the tour of hell. I got nice slippers, though. He had a needle in his arm.”“Virgil had a needle in his arm?” Bianca asked.

“Virgil had a needle in his arm?” Bianca asked.Clemente became belligerent. “I just told you Guild had a needle in his arm. He was in that expensive bed. I saw it. No gun, too. Norma was out in the living room. He was in her bedroom. Nice bed, and what a nice view, and did I tell you what a beautiful kitchen she had?”

Clemente became belligerent. “I just told you Guild had a needle in his arm. He was in that expensive bed. I saw it. No gun, too. Norma was out in the living room. He was in her bedroom. Nice bed, and what a nice view, and did I tell you what a beautiful kitchen she had?”Gennaro asked, “I couldn’t hear that last part. What did he say?”

Gennaro asked, “I couldn’t hear that last part. What did he say?”“Nice kitchen,” she said in English “He’s getting delirious.”

“Nice kitchen,” she said in English “He’s getting delirious.”“I’m not delirious,” Clemente yelled. “I’m serious! Oh, that rhymes.”

“I’m not delirious,” Clemente yelled. “I’m serious! Oh, that rhymes.”

“Please focus, Clemente,” Bianca said.

“I saw it. I saw the computer. My life, your life…it all goes to shit.”Bianca, trying a soothing voice, said, “You saw a computer. What did you see, Clemente?”

Bianca, trying a soothing voice, said, “You saw a computer. What did you see, Clemente?”

“Black, black background,” Diego’s voice was now sputtering.

In a coaxing tone and hoping for more details, Bianca asked, “What else did you see?”

“Big, big.” More sputtering. Bianca closed her eyes.“Big red R!” Diego said triumphantly.

Bianca and Gennaro understood what they had heard: black background and red R.

She said softly, “Fuck me.”

“Lingerie?” Clemente asked. Bianca handed the phone back to Gennaro. She put her hands to her temples, rubbed them. She thought of Boston, the Sargent case, Nasonia Pharmaceutical, and the body count.

“Diego, this is Gennaro again. We’re coming to Boston.”

“That would be nice. Somebody should feed the floor people. I feel sleepy now,” Clemente said, mewing. Gennaro stared at his phone before he put it to his ear again.

“Get some sleep, Diego. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

Gennaro heard more purring and then the cacophonous drop of the receiver on the floor on the other end. He ended the call on his cell phone.

“Did he say anything else?” Bianca asked.

“He said someone should feed floor people. I think he has cats.”

“How do you know he has cats?” she asked.

Blame it on hanging around Silvio.” Bianca didn’t question the logic. Silvio was a translator, Farese’s interpreter, their friend, member of the team, and lately, animal whisperer.

“We should go to Boston,” Gennaro said.

“He saw the red R.”

“I know. You should call Dante.”

“Do I really have to?” she asked.

“Yes, and you have to tell him.”

“Which part? Clemente and Guild, or that Clemente saw the red R.”

“Doesn’t matter. Tell him everything,” Gennaro said. “It adds up to the same.”

Red R meant Rendition.

Excerpt published with permission from Winter Goose Publishing

Available 5 October 2016

Excerpt from Two Warriors

He had the AC on. He waited for his chance to claim his spot on the highway. He had the radio on. Retro song. He heard the Spanish word colitas in the lyrics. He thought of the language he hadn’t spoken in years. The lilt of her Spanish lived inside his head. Music opened a door that he didn’t want to enter right now. Papà was gone. She was gone. His eyes burned. He had to change the station.

The drive, this embryonic sac of life inside a mechanical beast, would last only so long. He’d have to open the door and take on reality soon. For now, though, for now he’d enjoy the reverie, something on the radio.

The news reported an earthquake in México City. Thousands were missing, feared dead. He heard it in the reporter’s voice. Farrugia deplored this morbid fascination with natural disasters. He heard 8.1 on the Richter scale and the geologist’s analysis. He was thinking concrete and dust. He was thinking Guadalajara cartel, pesos and dollars, cocaine and guns. Those things never slept or died. He turned to another station.

A Ramazzotti tune hurled him back in time. The singer, popular with southern boys such as himself, came from a working-class neighborhood. Ramazzotti had Rome and he, Isidore Farrugia, had San Luca of the Sticks. Different places, but they both shared the same nihilism. He turned the dial again.

He settled into some American music. The synth sounds of Duran Duran recalled parties off the base. Girls with glossed lips and guys with outrageous hair. The synthesizer made its appearance again, rolling in this time with Sting’s breathy ditty about a possessive lover, or was it his homage to Orwell? Never mind. He listened to it anyway.

Madonna made him think of music videos. Video Music, the music channel, was the trend for kids now. He’d see them huddled around a television set, eating up Berlusconi’s programing. Dallas and Dynasty—shows RAI stopped televising after three episodes because of their alleged corruptive power. And he hadn’t forgotten how odd, how cool it was, to have commercials interrupt movies. So fashionable, so chic and cool, so very American. So not RAI.

The sea came into view on his right. Blue raced parallel to the car. The Strait of Messina threatened ahead. He thought of the earthquake he had heard about earlier on the radio. Messina was known for seismic activity. “It could have happened here,” he said to himself.

Soon, he’d see the two rock formations. Homer had sung of Scylla, who ate men and dolphins alike. Scylla had been born a nymph. Glaucus, a fisherman, had fallen in love with her, but had made a terrible mistake; he complained about his unrequited love to Circe. The witch’s brew transformed the attractive girl into a hideous monster with six heads. She raged against the sea from her home in the cliff.

Across from her, there was Charybdis. She was the dutiful and loving daughter of Poseidon. She rode the tides like a California surfer for her father in his war against Zeus. Women always paid the price for men. Zeus exiled her to a cave, to live under a fig tree. Three times a day she’d drink in the sea, ships and sailors with it. Farrugia could hear his old chum Corrado now.

There’s an abundant poetic metaphor for you, Isidò. The Strait of Messina is nothing more than a blue vein between Italy and Sicily. Things are not what they seem, though, because neither blood nor veins are blue. No, they are not. Any kid in elementary biology could tell you that, but we forget what we’ve learned in school. It’s all an illusion. Blood is blood and blood is always red, even when it is starving for breath. Farrugia admitted it; he preferred poetry to science.

Excerpt with permission from Winter Goose Publishing, 2016.

Hammett on Hammett: The Case of the Mystery Editor

Maxwell Perkins coached and encouraged F. Scott Fitzgerald. Gordon Lish often slashed more than half of Raymond Carver’s stories. Thanks to letters, journals, and literary scholars, readers can see the trajectories of manuscripts from draft to printed page. Not just in prose, but also in poetry. What about the author who self-edits his or her own work?

Readers are not inclined to think of editing as a crime scene, but there are fingerprints everywhere, at least with current software technology. Track Changes, for instance, leaves a digital fingerprint for every keystroke. It’s all there: Who did What, When and Where, although the Whys are not readily apparent unless the editor uses Comments. But what kind of editing are we talking about – copy, proofing, continuity, or line editing?

Let’s look at The Maltese Falcon and do some sleuthing. Whether it was Sam Spade or the Continental Op, Dashiell Hammett (1894-1961) changed crime fiction. He wrote a slew of short stories, five novels, and screenplays until he ran afoul of Senator Joe McCarthy and paid dearly for his idealism. He also edited his own work.

Image source

Richard Layman and Otto Penzler stated that there are over 2,000 variants between the Black Mask and LoA versions of The Maltese Falcon. Penzler reprinted the serialized novel, as it appeared in print in The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard, 2012).

In Notes on the Text, the LoA editors claimed that Hammett kept most of his original language (not true, as we will soon see) and Knopf simply had corrected typographical errors. LoA lists those errors, but they fall significantly short of 2,000.

Let us examine the scene.

The Body: The Maltese Falcon.

Time frame: The Maltese Falcon appeared serialized in Black Mask, from September 1929 to January 1930. Knopf published an edition on Valentine’s Day, 1930. Hammett’s first volume from Library of America (LoA), using the Knopf edition, was published in 1934, securing his place in American letters.

Suspect 1: Joseph Shaw, the editor at Black Mask. He claims to have edited and entitled chapters for Maltese for serial publication.

Suspect 2: Harry Block, the editor at Knopf. He sent Hammett requests for changes, particularly to the novel’s sexual content.

Suspect 3: Dashiell Hammett. The author claims to have agreed to Shaw’s copy edits, to Knopf’s proofing for typographical errors and, despite Block’s request to excise scandalous content, kept most of the original language, knowing that he was testing morality.

Charge: Hammett had both copyedited and revised Falcon for Knopf.

Evidence: If you know either the novel or the film version with Humphrey Bogart, you’ll recognize that the passage below is the confrontation scene between Sam Spade and Brigid O’Shaugnessey. What kind of edits do we see here?

Strikethroughs are deletions from original Black Mask for the LoA edition.

Bold text indicates additions found in the definitive Maltese Falcon.

“Listen. This isn’t a damned bit of good. You’ll never understand me, but I’ll try once more, and then we’ll give it up. In my part of the world when your partner’s killed you’re supposed to do something about it. It doesn’t make any difference what you thought of him. He was your partner and you’re supposed to do something about it. Then it happens that were in the detective business. Well, when one of your employees, or a partner, or anybody connected with your detective business is killed, it’s bad business to let the killer get away with it. It’s bad all around, bad for that one agency, and bad for every detective – bad all around. Third, I’m a detective, and expecting me to run any criminal down and then let him go free is like asking a dog to catch a rabbit and then let it go. It can be done, all right, and sometimes it is done, but it’s not the natural thing.”

“But –”

(Black Mask Maltese Falcon, Penzler page 215)

“Listen. This isn’t a damned bit of good. You’ll never understand me, but I’ll try once more and then we’ll give it up. Listen. When a man’s partner is killed he’s supposed to do something about it. It doesn’t make any difference what you thought of him. He was your partner and you’re supposed to do something about it. Then it happens we were in the detective business. Well, when one of your organization gets killed it’s bad business to let the killer get away with it. It’s bad all around ^— bad for that one organization, bad for every detective everywhere. Third, I’m a detective and expecting me to run criminals down and then let them go free is like asking a dog to catch a rabbit and let it go, It can be done, all right, and sometimes it is done, but it’s not the natural thing. The only way I could have let it go was by letting Gutman and Cario and the kid go. That’s–”

“You’re not serious,” she said. “You don’t expect me to think that these things you’re saying are sufficient reason for sending me to the–”

(Knopf 1930 edition and Library of America, pages 581-82)

Is deleting a comma, a conjunction, a dash, correcting spelling mistakes copyedits or proofreading marks from Block’s staff? If so, it stands to reason that Shaw’s editors may have rushed Falcon to print and didn’t catch all the typos.

As you can see phrases were rearranged for flow. Deleting “employees, or a partner, or anybody connected with your detective business” eliminates wordiness. The addition of “organization” not only flows better, but it bolsters Spade’s argument for ethical action. Again, inconclusive whether these edits are Block and his staff. I suspect that Hammett was proofreading Block’s galley when he decided to edit it. The result is a revision.

The additional lines in blue were not in Black Mask. The missing word is “gallows.” The revision packs a wallop. I’ll bet that this revision comes from Hammett himself.

This is not the only revision in Falcon. There are more. Hammett added profanity in describing his Miles Archer and he revised scenes with Joe Cairo and Gutman to create a leaner and spicier final version of The Maltese Falcon. Hammett edited Hammett.

Verdict:

Shaw copyedited Hammett, as they went to press.Block copyedited and proofed Shaw’s 5-part manuscript.

Block copyedited and proofed Shaw’s 5-part manuscript.

Hammett copyedited, proofread and revised Block and himself.

Summary:

Does the evidence support the verdict?

I know that in editing my own work I can’t see missed words and punctuation. I’m too close to the text. I trust my editor to catch the and finesse the lumps out of the carpet. I have another person read for continuity. Did my protagonist enter and leave the room with the same color shoes? With proofreading, I rely on printed copy because it is either on the page or it isn’t. However, fixes from all of my editors will often give me copy in which I might see something new, and I’ll do small revisions to improve characterization and plotting.

What does this example teach you about editing your own work?

Paladins: a charity anthology against Cancer

Mark Wilson’s cover art for Paladin, the charity anthology that editor Aidan Thorn put together to drum up financial support and recognition for the Multiple Myeloma Research Foundation in honor of ‘Henri’ Furchetnicht, wife of Brit Grit crime writer Craig Furchetnicht and inspiration to a cadre of writers and friends in the UK, is astonishing as it is poetic.

My story, ‘Back in the Day,’ appears in Paladins; its inclusion is of double significance for me. I wrote the story in 2010 using first person, a rarity for me. ‘Back in the Day’ was also my second publication, shortlisted for the Fish Prize that year, a story that Ronan Bennett would praise for its unique voice. I had to decline the invitation to participate in the author presentation in Ireland because I had a prior appointment with The Big C, cancer. The details of my treatment are too harrowing (and difficult for me) to recount here. Let’s just say that I still live with the consequences today, with the scars, the losses, and the medications that, ironically, compromise my health. The entire saga was a glimpse of hell from the other side of the divide. See, I’m an experienced nurse. I simply knew too fucking much. So, in a word, this anthology is personal to me.

A few years ago, I started becoming acquainted with the British Scene, with the edgy prose worlds of Paul D. Brazill, Ryan Bracha, Craig Furchtenicht, Cal Marcius, Gareth Spark, and Graham Wynd. These stories were noir, as in bad choice, questionable character, and a cascade of consequences. I glimpsed the feral worlds that faces (British slang for gangster) like Paul Ferris and The Kray Brothers would understand. It’s called Brit Grit. I’m an American, an outsider, so I took in the smoke that I imagined inside the pubs, along with the pulled pints, and I navigated the argot I read in these stories. I would hear and see the solidarity of working-class man and woman forced to eat the sandwich called Life. Grit, to me, is also that intrinsic quality, that speck of insanity to fight the fight when any normal person would quit.

Nobody should have to fight cancer alone. Right or wrong, rich or poor, nobody asks for cancer. The fight affects us all. Every one of us will experience cancer at some point in our lives.

Let’s be honest and set aside the BS we see on television. Cancer is down-in-the-trenches ugly. Cancer is war, literally Self against Self. The clinician here will tell you one semantic Truth: there is no such thing as a ‘good cancer.’ Clinicians such as myself were trained to use the word ‘patient.’ Well-meaning people say ‘victim’, but who wants to be called a victim? We have forgotten that our diction distances common humanity. A person with cancer is a person, a human being: someone’s mother, daughter, brother, father, or lover. We are all connected. I can tell you as a ‘patient’ who has seen the best and absolute worst of life and death in hospitals in my practice, not much matters in the last few minutes of this short existence, other than having loved or been loved. Nothing.

There is Light and Shadow. There is Life and Death.

Equilibrium.

These are mirrored reflections, captured so well in the cover art, as I see it.

In his essay, Aidan had discussed the title, Paladins, and its meaning. The word is a corruption of the Latin palatinus, or knight of the palace. In modern Italian, it is a byword for ‘advocate’ or ‘supporter,’ as in a just case. I’m confident that any writer in this anthology wouldn’t dare say that he or she is a warrior, but we would agree that we support a good a cause. Warriors are forged in the crucible of adversity, both physical and mental. They fight and they help others. Writers use words as weapons against the shadows even when they choose to write about darkness. It’s an honor for me to join these writers to sharpen our words and point the spears at a formidable enemy. We sixteen writers assembled here on these pages, with support from the ranks on both sides of the ocean and around the world, muster morale and call for support for Henri and others like her who fights cancer.

They are the warriors.

The Magical Negro

The title of this post comes from Matthew Hughey by way of Roxane Gay, author of Bad Feminist. She quotes the professor, a sociologist, in her essay-review of the film, The Help, adapted from Kathryn Stockett’s novel. In Bad Feminist she ‘survives’ Django Unchained – although I do think that she missed Tarantino’s excessive use of the N-word for what it was supposed to be: Satire. She offers praise to Ryan Coogler’s Fruitvale Station, Lee Daniels’s The Butler, and Steve McQueen’s 12 Years a Slave, although with reservations around the role of Patsey in that last film.

12 Years, based on Solomon Northup’s 1853 memoir, she saw as yet another “struggle narrative,” but it is the feral violence within John Singleton’s Rosewood, also based on an historical event, this time in 1923 Florida, where the White community, on what turned out to be a false allegation of sexual assault, visited horrific violence upon the Black community that warranted for Gay a “voluntary three-day segregation.” Setting aside the observation that African-American directors directed all the films that she liked, I want to address a passing comment that she makes at the end of her critique of The Help.

Gay asks and answers a rhetorical question: Can a writer write outside of his or her racial experience, sexual orientation and, by extension, culture, class, and ‘privilege’? As a creative person, as an educated woman, she answers: “Yes” but, as a Haitian-American she is cynical and suspicious of white writers when it comes to race. White writers and Hollywood, in particular, can’t help but write in the Magical Negro, she tells readers.

Journalist John Howard Griffin whited himself out (literally) to a shade of brown in order to write his Black Like Me (1961), a chronicle of what it was to be a colored man in the American South of the Fifties. The publication of Black Like Me predated King’s arrest “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” the numerous sit-ins that followed and the deputized white men in cars waving Confederate flags to terrorize peaceful protestors. Black Like Me still inspires mixed responses from readers. In 1967, Random House published William Styron’s Confessions of Nat Turner, which Ralph Ellison and James Baldwin praised. A year later, with a nation reeling from the recent assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy and riots, Confessions had taken the Pulitzer Prize, but not without some backlash, which had come in the form of a critical beating in a publication entitled Nat Turner: Ten Black Writers Respond. Gay’s questions had been posed back then already. Can a white writer write the African-American experience?

Styron was vilified. The consensus opinion was that Styron had crafted an historical distortion of facts, perpetuated racial stereotypes, and substituted his own racism. That Styron was a southerner, a Virginian, amounted to self-incrimination. Detractors claimed that Styron posits Turner’s Rebellion with his character’s lust for a white woman – miscegenation was a crime until the 1967 case of Loving v. Virginia – and not with a slave’s suppressed hatred for the society that equated his personhood with private property. The other charge leveled at Styron was plausibility, since Styron’s Turner is a man who uses educated speech and demonstrates obvious intelligence. Another criticism was that Styron had sanitized white slave owners as being kind and decent to their slaves. Readers had long forgotten Northrop and did not yet have Alex Haley’s Roots. To invert Gay and Hughey’s wording: Styron had written Magical Whites and Maniacal Negroes.

How could a white man write the slave experience? Styron responded in the first edition and again, in 1992, with a special Afterword for the Vintage reprint of Confessions. Styron had been candid; he had taken wide liberties with historical facts, using the lawyer Thomas Ruffin Gray’s 1831 publication of Turner’s confessions, which served as actual court testimony. Styron had this one document and, no doubt, the biased oral tradition on both sides of the racial divide about the two-night killing spree in August of 1831. Styron was explicit that his work was Fiction.

The preface to Thomas Ruffin Gray’s 1831 publication is quoted in the first pages of Styron’s Confessions. Turner’s language is indeed that of an educated man. His master, Benjamin Turner, had had Turner learn how to read and write in order for him to entertain guests. After the insurrection, Virginia would pass prohibitive laws against educating slaves. Styron’s fictionalization fastened on two discordant historical facts: Turner had escaped the plantation but returned to it on his own. Throughout the original 1831 deposition, Turner exhibits fervent religiosity, claiming visions and an ordained purpose in life. In a word, critics claimed that Styron had besmirched an icon by suggesting that a charismatic, devout Nat Turner, who had hoped his violence would inspire waves of armed rebellion, was a psychopath, no different than Charles Manson, who believed a race war was imminent.

The violence in The Confessions of Nat Turner is graphic: axes and knives were used to murder men, women and children. Turner, however, spared poor white folks, seeing them as no better than slaves. This decision alone suggests a profound insight into race and wealth. Nat Turner was the last participant of the rebellion to be executed. His body was sold for dissection and desecrated. White reprisal after the insurrection was swift and violent throughout the South. A section of Virginia State Route 658 would become a veritable Appian Way, where the decapitated heads of suspected participants were staked and displayed as a warning to slaves. A generation later, John Brown would attempt his abortive raid on Harper’s Ferry.

William Styron would write Sophie’s Choice (1979). There was some criticism around his eroticizing Sophie, but none of the responses to that work ever approached the furor that Confessions had provoked. He was not accused of having dared to write a Holocaust story, or a woman’s story, but the tide of politically correct opinion would change that. In 2010, Yann Martel would court controversy with his Beatrice and Virgil because he was a Gentile writing about the Holocaust. It would seem that Gay is right: only the oppressed have the right to write their own fiction. Black is not only a matter of race, but it is a color that cannot be erased. Black is visible and undeniable. In 2009, Jonathan Littell’s The Kindly Ones sparked controversy because the author, a Jew, had written a novel from the point of view of a sadistic SS officer. His crime was not a matter of authenticity, the Holocaust, but one of demonstrating poor taste.

I’ll end here with an observation; this one is from Euripides’s Medea (photo is from a South African production, 1994-96, performed by the Jazzart Dance Theatre.) Medea is the epitome of the woman scorned, but what makes her monstrous is not her gender, nor her lack of maternal instinct, but the simple fact that she is not Greek – she is a barbarian. She, too, is Maniacal. America has not accepted all of its citizens; it has mythologized some as Noble Savages, or as Magical. America sees and fears Black as Other, as Barbaric. The same logic, however, that justified slavery would rationalize Manifest Destiny. Put another way, in this social construct called America, founded on Judeo-Christian principles, society finds “an eye for an eye” a far easier modus operandi than “turn the other cheek.”

Perhaps then, I am naïve: Imagination should have no walls, no boundaries. No privilege. Judge a story by how it is told and how it speaks to this human estate of living, loving, and dying. Don’t judge it by who is telling the story, for nobody owns Humanity.

Immortal Horses and Two Urns

Like most people, I visit online sites for my news, limiting my interest to relevant news, avoiding crime stories and outright negativity in politics. Perhaps it’s browser history and cached cookies, but I am served up content that ranges from heartwarming animal rescues, rehabilitation and reunions to the heartbreaking and outrageous stories of cruelty. The latter makes me dislike the human species. The moving accounts are that: moving and heroic, glimmers of decency and inspiration, and even the mildest of the bad stories are too reprehensible to mention here. When I read these accounts, I can’t help but think of two obscure incidents in Homer’s Iliad.

First, there is that danger of projecting our own standards that comes with interpreting any ancient text (same could be said for  a medieval or renaissance literature, for that matter) — anything pre-Descartes and Galileo. Everything is likely symbolic, layered, and not imbued with the same cultural values we ascribe to speech or events. What I say here is most likely not what Homer intended.

If you have read the Iliad, you know that the story is about the last fifty-two days of the decade-long Trojan War, the days of Achilles’s rage (mênis). Achilles sits there on the sidelines until his friend Patroklos is killed. His decision to exact revenge will explore the Greek concepts of glory (klêos), honor (timê), and Fate (moira). The homicidal Achilles, so grief-stricken and obsessed with revenge, abstains from all things human such as eating, personal hygiene, and sex until his wrath is exhausted. In becoming human again, he must die. And what does this have to do with animal abuse and cruelty?

The Achaean Achilles had three horses that drew his chariot. Two of these horses, Balios and Xanthos, were immortal, gifts from Zeus to the warrior’s father, Peleus. The third horse, Pedasos, was mortal and later killed by a spear thrown at Patroklos. After Patroklos dies, the two immortal horses weep for him. He had fed and cared for the two animals; they mourned his kindness to them. Their grief moves Zeus. Hera disturbs the natural order of life and bestows upon them the gift of speech. Xanthos will tell Achilles that the god Apollo had had a hand in killing Patroklos. Apollo had hit Patroklos from behind and stunned him while two others, including Hektor, assassinated him. The dying Patroklos mocks Hektor and prophesizes that Achilles will kill him. My interest, however, is with Hera’s interference. That Homer anthropomorphizes the horses, that he gives them speech, is rare in classical Greek literature. The significance?

There are three tiers of Being in the Greek model of the universe. There are the immortal gods, mortal humans, and mortal animals. All three are beings have awareness and certain limitations. The gods, though immortal, cannot alter moira, Fate. Zeus, for example, endows Hektor with strength, knowing that Achilles will inevitably kill him. The gods don’t experience or know death. Humans are the only creatures that know that they’ll die. They also are endowed with speech capable of expressing their emotions. Animals die, but have neither speech nor knowledge of their own mortality. Zeus says of humans, “there is not anywhere a thing more dismal than man.” He utters those lines out of pity for the immortal horses voice after he sees their tears.

Gods expect supplication and gifts. The horses, while immortal like the gods, do not. Like domesticated pets, they are dependent on kindness. Animals are capable of feeling fear, happiness, and grief. I think that there are plenty of examples without having to cite them. Animals do communicate with each other, though we don’t know their language. Scientists have studied animal communication. Dolphins use clicks, whales use songs, and so on. Another crucial point: animals kill only when they have to; they’ll kill in self-defense or when they are hungry. Humans are, for the most, capricious about violence.

In addition to the two immortal horses and to Zeus’s comment about humanity, the Iliad offers another rare statement in Greek literature, this one in a conversation between Achilles and Priam, about Good and Evil in the world. This is distinct from the story of Pandora’s box. Achilles explains to Priam that Zeus has, outside his door, two urns: one filled with “blessings”; the other, with “evils.” Zeus disperses them with his thunder, at best mixing the blessings and evils because he cannot choose wholly from one urn without drawing from the other. Man and the world, consequently, must have both fortune and sorrows.

Balios and Xanthos wept for their kind friend, Patroklos. Immortal, they knew sorrow. Heads down, manes falling, and eyes tearing, they wept. Perhaps, we are gods to our pets; they are dependent on us for food and shelter; their looking up at us reminds me of yet another powerful scene in the Iliad. Priam kissed the hands of Achilles, the man who had killed all his sons, in an act of supplication. King Priam had ventured out onto the battlefield to meet with Achilles, who had desecrated Hektor’s body, to ask for the body of his slain son. Homer doubles critical scenes. In an earlier act of supplication, the outcome was cruel, far less civilized.

A supplicant would put one arm around the knees of the person he was begging and with the free hand, reach up and hold the other’s beard. A stalemate ensues since the person petitioned cannot move or look away and the petitioner has no obvious weapon. The petitioner, in looking up, is vulnerable, throat exposed. Lycaon, son of Priam, had embraced Achilles’s knees and asked for mercy.

Achilles slit his throat.

Abandoning an animal, young or old, mistreating a vulnerable creature is a betrayal of decency. We are mortal, we may speak different languages, but our pets know our moods, our scent, our hours of arrival and departure and they speak the ultimate language of acceptance and love. If in looking up at us they see us as gods, then we should act better and demonstrate compassion, mercy and nobility. If thunder brings both blessings and evils, then we magnify the former, diminish the latter when we act humane and noble.

(Image 1: 4th century papyrus containing  parts of the Iliad. Simile Collection. Egypt.)

(Image 2: Automedon tames Achilles’ horses. Henri Regnault. MFA, Boston.)

(Image 3: King Priam supplicating Achilles. Tyre, 
2nd century AD, 
marble sarcophagus. Photo by Steven Damron, Creative Commons license)

Wednesday’s Women: Latina Authors and Their Muses

Twilight Times Books published Latina Authors and Their Muses on 24 Setpember 2015. As I write this, Amazon offers the Kindle version of the 354-page book for 99 cents for a limited time.

Leticia Gomez, CEO & Founder of Savvy Literary Services and publisher of Café con Leche Books, wrote the Foreword. Mayra Calvani, an award-winning author, is the editor and interviewer of 40 Latina authors in this anthology.

This is a brilliant collection of interviews, an inspiration for writers, and a comprehensive introduction to Latina writers, here in the United States and abroad. Each interview begins with the author describing her Muse, followed by a quick biographical sketch, literary influences, a summary of publications and social media details. The interviews are candid and thorough discussions about ‘process,’ their trials and triumphs in life and art. In parentheses, I cite birthplaces for each author in order for readers to see the geography of the Spanish-speaking world that this publication offers. Below, I’ve provided a mere sliver of an opened door onto the conversations each of these talented women had with Mayra Calvani. I will post my review on Amazon and Goodreads soon. ¡Vámonos!

Marta Acosta (California): discusses Jane Eyre and Charlotte Brontë’s influence on her Gothic and YA novels. She opines on the changing YA market; weighs in on her quirky experiences with publishers, and how she wants to write Latina characters against type.

Lisa Alvarado (Chicago): talks about the catalysts to most of her poetry, the value of a mentor, and what she asks from fellow writers.

Julia Amante (Argentina): tells us her Muse has a sweet tooth. Julia considers the importance of dreams, following them and the imperative for discipline at writing.

Margo Candela (Los Angeles): Brenda, her muse, has helped Margo learn patience with writing, editing, and finding an agent.

Kathy Cano-Murillo (Phoenix): a full-time writer and designer of CraftyChica.com discusses the blend of skills needed in her writing.

Mary Castillo: (National City, Calif.): Forever Amber, a gift from her grandmother set this author on her path into indie publishing and writing paranormal novels.

Jennifer Cervantes (San Diego): her ethereal Muse has guided her into the realms of magical realism and YA literature.

Leila Cobo (Cali, Colombia): without a Muse, she has found inspiration in those hazy moments just before sleep. Leila discusses the importance of education and Chopin in her life. Barbara Walters and Oriana Fallaci were iconic figures in her teen years.

Zoraida Córdova (Ecuador): talks about NaNoWriMo, the Little Mermaid (and mermen) and fantasy literature.

Lucha Copi (México): this author met her Muse, Gloria Damasco, in a dream and penned the first Chicana PI in English-language literature.

Sarah Cortez (Texas): her mother hand-sewed her first books before she became a poet-policewoman.

Angie Cruz (New York City): Her Muse has a thing for coffee and cooking. The New York Times compared her Let It Rain Coffee to  Gabriel García Márquez’s magical realism. That is a monumental comparison.

Liz DeJesus (Puerto Rico): from journaling to writing horror, her Muse is a nameless Arab man. She talks about how a bullying incident has informed and spurred her horror creations.

Anjanette Delgado (Puerto Rico): some no-nonsense words for critics of ‘chick lit,’ a discussion about Latina stereotypes and writing sex (mom is in the audience).

Carolina De Robertis (England): keen observations about the different definitions of ‘success’ in America and abroad.

Lyn Di Iorio (Brooklyn, NY): mentions the hilarious discovery in dad’s copy of The Godfather; discusses how she write the magical in her stories and how an impartial observation of a cauldron used in Santería inspired a novel.

Teresa Dovalpage (Cuba): in addition to writing in both English and Spanish, she talks about the importance for authors to understand all aspects of marketing and promotion for their books. Networking worked best for her.

Carolina Garcia-Aguilera (Cuba): a former P.I., she created the Lupe Solano series, which guarantees “three bodies per book or your money is refunded.” Living well is the best revenge: an agent had told her that she had no future as a writer. Framed letter and 10 novels (and counting) later…

Iris Gomez (Colombia): as an immigration lawyer, she visits the definition of ‘career success’ in the U.S. and the ‘untold story’ of mental illness in the Latino community.

Reyna Grande (México): from living in poverty in México, with story-time on the radio for entertainment, she emphasizes education and explores the immigration theme in her works.

Rose Castillo Guilbault (México): again, readers will learn about poverty, how this author wrote to give voice to farmworkers in México and how sweet it is to hold your published book in your hands.

Graciela Limón (California): a professor of Latin American Literature, she addresses Latina stereotypes and how her writing novels is a gestational process.

Dahlma Llanos-Figueroa (Puerto Rico): twenty years and eight drafts toward a first novel, a model of persistence, Dahlma discusses continuity, the oral transmission of stories in her Afr0-Puerto Rican family.

Diana López (Texas): reading Don Quixote led her to a breakthrough as a writer. She explores the challenges that she encountered as a teacher in ‘reaching’ Latino teens and students. “Teens aren’t dumb — they’re inexperienced.”

Josefina López (México): candid about hurtful comments from friends and men, about the endless editing notes she has received over the years, and the pains of revision, yet she writes (and rewrites) plays, novels and screenplays.

Dora Machado (Michigan): thunderstorms awe her, medieval and mythological themes thread her writing fantasy.

Maria Gabriela Madrid (Venezuela): speaks about family pressures — she comes from a family of accomplished writers and poets — and her bittersweet need for solitude in order to write.

Michele Martinez (Connecticut): a crime-fiction with serious chops (federal prosecutor and Assistant U.S. Attorney here), she makes ‘talking shop’ about mysteries and red herrings fun.

Sandra Ramos O’Briant (California): a frank and moving discussion of racism, superstition and witchcraft in the Latino community and how writing has helped her overcome personal setbacks.

Melinda Palacio (California): a late-bloomer, Melinda talks (and writes) about the anti-immigrant experience, grief over the early loss of her mother, and Latino stereotypes.

Caridad Piñeiro (Cuba): her Three B’s are not Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms, but the Brontës sisters, Bond, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Berta Platas (Cuba): discusses fearlessness amongst many other topics, including the pros and cons of writing under a pseudonym.

Toni Margarita Plummer (California): an in-depth look at the editing and publishing process from both sides of the desk since she is also a professional editor.

Thema T. Reyna (Texas): the importance of good teachers; supportive spouses; honoring the writing journey; poetry and networking and an extensive discussion about what makes good, effective blogging.

Lupe Ruiz-Flores (Texas): a childhood experience of flying a kite with her dad led to a poem, to a short story and to her first publication, a picture book. A revealing look at writing children’s books.

Esmeralda Santiago (Puerto Rico): personal essays in major newspapers about her single mother’s determination to raise her children was noticed and it started her unexpected literary career. Solitude – it has its joys and a price.

Eleanor Parker Sapia (Puerto Rico): an insightful analysis of the cross-pollination within the arts, between painting and writing. Watch out for the mysterious grandmother’s friend.

Alisa Lynn Valdes (New Mexico): binge writing and how the improvisatory nature of jazz has kept this writer prolific. Writer’s block? No such thing exists for this writer. She just may write on you if you stand still too long.

Diana Rodriguez Wallach (Pennsylvania): her foray into writing began with a bullying incident, but the motivational kick in the pants came from the paranormal: a psychic told her that she was a YA writer.

Gwendolyn Zepeda (Texas):  like Marta Acosta, she blogged before it was called blogging. Gwendolyn speaks to the need for creative space, vigilant scrutiny of stereotypes, and for writing characters true to life.

Amazon review here.