613. Ecce nunc benedicite

A paraphrase of Psalm 134, the last of the Songs of Ascents or pilgrimage hymns (Pss. 120-134) and thus, the end of this series of hymns. Hear my sigh of relief! It's a quicky: a tiny little psalm, and for once I wasn't up to the challenge of out-economizing it. In fact, I had to repeat a bit from the beginning at the end to make it work. And again, I'm not turning up an existing tune to fit this text, so I did have to write one, below. ART: A Swedish priest giving the Aaronic benediction, photograph dedicated to the public domain.

Behold, bless ye the Lord,
Ye servants of the Lord,
Who vigil stand
With prayerful hand
Uplifted all night toward
The altar of the Lord.

The Lord is He who made
The heav'ns, in light arrayed,
And made earth, too:
May He bless you
From Zion. Bless the Lord,
Ye servants of the Lord!

612. Ecce quam bonum

A paraphrase of Psalm 133, a Song of Ascents or pilgrimage hymn by David. I'm a bit reluctant to write it, since I'm inordinately pleased with a musical setting of this psalm that I wrote some years ago. But a paraphrase it wasn't, so here goes. I am acquainted with only two tunes that would fit this text: Henry Jenner's mediocre QUAM DILECTA (cf. Service Book & Hymnal, "We love the place, O God", etc.) or the just slightly less unremarkable ST. CECILIA by Leighton G. Hayne, †1883 (CF. SBH, "Thy kingdom come, O God"). I'd rather go for the Hayne (below) than write another original tune. ART: Moses anointing Aaron, from the Medhurst Picture Torah, 1835.

O brethren, it is well
And pleasing to behold
For us as one to dwell,
Like oil most dearly sold—

Yea, oil most dearly sold
That, poured on Aaron's head,
Onto his garment's fold
And o'er his whiskers sped—

As Hermon's, Zion's dew
The mountainsides descend.
The Lord His word will do—
The blessing without end.

611. Memento, Domine

A paraphrase of Psalm 132, a Song of Ascents or pilgrimage hymn. It's the biggest one in the group (Pss. 120-134). Compared to other paraphrases in this set, I took more liberties with this one, stretching here and compressing there, and rearranging the thoughts in a more explicitly Christocentric manner. Tune: MAGDALEN by John Stainer, 1875 ("My hope is built on nothing less"). ART: David prepares to build God's house, an illustration of 1 Chronicles 22 from the Providence Lithograph Company, 1896, public domain.

Remember Lord, when David swore
That he would build Your house before
His own: and in return, his Son,
You vowed, would sit upon his throne.
From Bethlehem the tidings flew,
Wherefore we come to worship You.

Let us to Christ now go with haste,
The offered Victim touch and taste,
In flesh as our eternal Lord
To dwell with us has not abhorred.
His weakness now our ark of strength,
Let Israel shout for joy at length!

O Christ! We fall before Your feet,
Enthroned upon the mercy-seat.
Robe us in Your own righteousness,
Nor hide from us Your holy face.
As You once tabernacled here,
Encamp with us, our Savior dear!

Bless Zion, Lord, with holy food;
Provision her with all things good.
Let priests, in Your salvation clad,
And all Your saints shout and be glad.
Oh, lamps be lit! Oh, trumpet sound!
The Lord's Anointed One is crowned!

610. Domine, non est exaltum

A paraphrase of Psalm 131, a Song of Ascents or pilgrimage hymn by David. I struggled to make this hymn fit a tune in a different meter, but it was having none of it. Then I turned a page in my hymnal to BOYLSTON by Lowell Mason, 1832 ("Blest be the tie that binds"), and the words started to come. In a trickle, to be sure, but with so brief a psalm, it was enough. ART: An illustration by Jessie Willcox Smith, 1920, from "The Princess and the Goblin" by George MacDonald, public domain.

My heart, Lord, is not proud,
Nor are mine eyes grown vain;
My thoughts, by weighty things unbowed,
From mysteries abstain.

O soul, be calm and still
As child at mother's breast!
Upon the Lord, O Israel,
Your hope forever rest!

609. De profundis

A paraphrase of Psalm 130, a Song of Ascents or pilgrimage hymn. I approach this psalm with fear and trembling, since I don't expect my setting to hold a candle to Martin Luther's Aus tiefer Not. And I'm definitely not so arrogant that I'd choose the same tune. So, instead, here it is, arranged to fit the tune TENBURY by Frederick A.G. Ouseley, 1861 ("It is not death to die," etc.). ART: The oubliettes of Fort-la-Latte, Brittany, France, photographed by Pierre André Leclercq, 2017. Licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license.

My whimper from the pit
I beg You, Lord, to hear.
To the petition I submit,
Incline a gracious ear.

Should You take note of sin,
Lord, who had dared appear?
But You forgive: the grounds wherein
I cry to You in fear.

I wait on You; my hope
Is in Your faithful word.
As eastward eyes for morning grope,
My soul waits for the Lord.

Hope, Israel, in the Lord!
For mercy dwells with Him,
Who bounteous goodness will afford
And Israel redeem.

608. Saepe expugnaverunt

A paraphrase of Psalm 129, a Song of Ascents or pilgrimage hymn. While it may seem, from the speed with which I'm shooting this series of hymns out, that they present no difficulty, believe me, I struggle mightily with their form and structure – some more than others. And when a particularly resistant text finally falls into place, as often as not, I find that without meaning to, I've invented a new metrical or syllabic verse form that compels me to write an original tune as well. So it is with this hymn. I could probably add a few syllables here and there to make it fit something, but I don't want to, since above all I prize economy of words. ART: A thatched roof in Lesotho, photograph by Tjeerd Wiersma, 2004. licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.

Let Israel say: How often from my youth
The wicked have oppressed me for the truth!
Yet they won not in their attack,
Though plowing furrows in my back.
The Lord is just, redressing wrongs;
He cut apart their binding thongs.

Let those who tilt at Zion be turned back,
Like grass upon the housetops, withered black:
The mower's hand fills not with leaves,
Nor does the baler's arm with sheaves.
Then none who pass them in their shame
Shall say, "We bless you in God's name."

607. Beati omnes

A paraphrase of Psalm 128, a Song of Ascents or pilgrimage hymn. Tune: ICH DANK DIR SCHON by Michael Praetorius, 1610, as paired with "The King of love my Shepherd is" in The Lutheran Hymnal. ART: Michelangelo Cerquozzi, †1602, still-life with grapes, figs and other fruits, public domain.

Blest are you all who fear the Lord,
Who walk in His ways, tasting
Fruit of your labor as reward,
Yea, pleasure everlasting.

Well shall it go with you—your mate
A vinestock richly fruited,
Your children growing in full spate
Like olives, firmly rooted.

From out God's throne may you be blest
And be His city's blessing,
Till all your seed obtain the rest
To which your days are pressing.

606. Nisi Dominus

A paraphrase of Psalm 127, a Song of Ascents or pilgrimage hymn by Solomon. Tune: ST. BRIDE by Samuel Howard, 1762 ("And wilt Thou pardon, Lord," etc.) ART: Building the wall of Jerusalem (cf. Nehemiah), from Sunrays Quarterly, 1908; public domain.

Unless God build the house,
The workmen toil in vain.
Unless the Lord His watch maintain,
In vain the watchmen rouse.

Why eat the bread of pain
From rising with the sun
To midnight watch, if such a One
The gift of rest ordain?

Behold, it is His gift
A fruitful house to build,
With children as with arrows filled—
Full quiver, fletched and swift.

Oh, happy be those walls
And they who dwell therein!
They shall respond with no chagrin
To the besieger's calls.

605. In convertendo

A paraphrase of Psalm 126, a Song of Ascents or pilgrimage hymn. The latter verses of this psalm have been set to music multiple times, including a motet by Heinrich Schütz ("Die mit Tränen säen") and parts of the first movement of Brahms' German Requiem. There it is combined with Matthew 5:4 ("Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted"), which I've taken the liberty of citing at the end of this hymn. Tune: WEIL ICH JESU SCHÄFLEIN BIN, Leipzig, 1784 ("I am Jesus' little lamb"). ART: The Sower by Jean-François Millet, c. 1865, public domain.

Like a dream it was, O Lord,
When the captives You restored!
Zion's mouth was filled with laughter;
Throats welled forth in song thereafter.
Nations could not but discuss
What great things You did for us.

Great things You have done indeed:
Let us all the more be freed.
Freshen us, like washes streaming
With the springtime torrents gleaming.
Come captivity again,
Break, we pray, oh, break its chain!

Though with tears we till our field,
Fill with joy our harvest yield!
We who sow with voices weeping
Will return with gladness reaping.
Lord, who calls the mourner blest,
Give the weary captive rest!

604. Qui confidunt

A paraphrase of Psalm 125, a Song of Ascents or pilgrimage hymn. I couldn't find a usable tune to suit it, so I wrote one on the spot; tune in when I release Profitable Hymns to get a look. ART: Mount Zion, engraved by W. Finden, 1836, after a sketch by F. Catherword, public domain.

Those who on the Lord rely
Stand like Zion's mount:
Firm, immovable for aye,
Guarded all around.

Evil's scepter shall not rest
On those reckoned just,
Lest iniquity should wrest
Them from pious trust.

Lord, do good unto the good,
Those upright at heart.
Grant that, having sin withstood,
They be set apart.

Those who turn to crooked ways
Cause, Lord, to decrease,
That on You may rest all praise,
And on Israel peace.

EDIT: All right, all right. Here it is:

603. Nisi quia Dominus

A paraphrase of Psalm 124, another Song of Ascents or pilgrimage hymn by David. For the tune, I'm turning to the old Lutheran Hymnary, John Adcock's 1882 tune DERWENT ("Behold, how good a thing").

Were God not on our side—
Proclaim it, Israël—
Were God not on our side
When foes upon us fell,
We had been swallowed in their ire,
Consumed by its volcanic fire.

Were God not on our side—
Let all His people say—
Were God not on our side,
We had been swept away.
The raging torrent would have drowned,
Without His ward, this holy ground.

Praise be to Adonai
Who, His belov'd to spare,
The dogs' teeth would deny,
Would break the fowler's snare.
In His name lies our hope of aid:
The One who earth and heaven made.

ART: Gustave Doré, The Great Flood, 1866, public domain. And the tune:

602. Ad te levavi

This is a paraphrase of Psalm 123, a Song of Ascents or pilgrimage hymn, continuing a series that goes back to Psalm 120 and forward (God willing) to Psalm 134. It's pretty brief, so don't blink. I'm recycling the tune SHEMINITH that I wrote for my paraphrase of Psalm 6, back here.

I lift my eyes to Thee,
Whose throne the heavens spans.
As man and maid beseechingly
Look to their masters' hands,
So too our eyes look the Lord
Till He full mercy doth accord.

Have mercy on us, Lord;
Yea, let Your love descend!
For men's contempt on us is poured,
With scorn that knows no end.
Hear the derision of the crowd,
The cruel catcalls of the proud!

ART: The Mocking of Christ by Matthias Grünewald, c.1503-05, public domain.

601. Levavi oculos

A paraphrase of Psalm 121, another Psalm of Ascents, or pilgrimage hymn. I'm thinking I might paraphrase the whole set of them. Not the whole psalter (goodness, no), just the Ascents ones, from Ps. 120 (which I've already done) to 134. Don't expect me to re-do 122, which I treated way back here. May the Lord bless this modest undertaking. For the tune, I picked a ditty called TUNBRIDGE by Jeremiah Clarke (†1707).

To the hills I lift my eyes:
Where is He who help supplies?
He so loved me that He willed
Even heav'n and earth to build.

He your every step will keep,
Lest you slip: He will not sleep.
Rest, O Israël, rely
On His watchful, wakeful eye!

See the Lord o'er you revealed
As a helm and sturdy shield:
Neither sun by day shall smite
You, nor fickle moon by night.

With the Lord, fear no alarm:
He will keep your soul from harm
And will guard you round about,
Coming in and going out.

ART: Jerusalem (1935) by Konstantin Ivanovich Gorbatov, public domain. And the tune:

600. Ad Dominum

A paraphrase of Psalm 120 – a Song of Ascents, or pilgrimage hymn. This is the psalm that references Meshech and Kedar, foreign places far to the north and south of Israel. As I wrote this paraphrase, stanza 4 was originally stanza 1, but I found it hard to let the hymn end the way this psalm does and I was loath to add any new ideas to it. Not that that should necessarily stop a hymnwriter – some of my other psalm paraphrases are actually quite loose – but I didn't feature tampering with this one any more than absolutely necessary. For the tune, I plumped for a supposed Norwegian folk-tune called DRAW US TO THEE, from the old Concordia Hymnal.

False tongue, what shall put paid to you?
Bolts from the arm'rer's smithy!
Wry lips, what are you fit to do
But burn like kiln-fired withy?^*

Alas! I sojourn far from home,
For blest communion pining!
How long, Lord, will You bid me roam,
Far from Your precincts shining?

Alas! For I am domiciled
With hateful men surrounded,
And though I plead, "Be reconciled,"
Their war-lust is unbounded.

To God in my distress I cry,
His ears my plea receiving:
Lord, save my life from lips that lie
And from a tongue deceiving!

---

^* a reference to the ancient craft of charcoal-burning.

The Song of the Quarkbeast

The Song of the Quarkbeast
by Jasper Fforde
Recommended Ages: 12+

Jennifer Strange is only 16, but she has a head on her shoulders. She'd better. Since the wizard she works for disappeared eight months ago, the former foundling is the de facto manager at Kazam – part talent agency, part retirement home, catering to a coterie of cracked sorcerers. Kazam has only one competitor in the Kingdom of Snodd (the area around Hereford in the Ununited Kingdoms), recently rebranded from Industrial Magic to iMagic and led by a sleaze named Blix who has just gotten himself appointed as the Royal Wizard. Blix is in cahoots with King Snodd and his chief advisor to turn magic, which powers all technology in their world, into a lucrative, government monopoly. Jennifer and the wizards at Kazam think magic should freely benefit everybody. So a challenge is thrown down: whichever house of wizards gets the farthest in rebuilding the collapsed bridge at the center of town will get to decide.

To make sure he wins, Blix pulls some dirty tricks. Between Kazam's wizards being jailed on trumped-up charges and a few of them getting turned to stone for their efforts to restore their home's magical battery to full use, Jennifer is pretty much down to one wizard – a youth who has only just passed his license exam – to put up against Blix's three-sorcerer team. She turns to everyone she can think of to help. The old crone who ran the home for foundlings where she grew up. The bitter ex-sorcerer who hasn't done a single spell since she was kidnapped in 1975. Even a daring, supersonic trip on a magic carpet to chase down a wizard's premonition of where her missing boss might momentarily appear – smack in the middle of a demilitarized zone patrolled by the kingdom's deadly enemy, the trolls. She must survive being scrobbled by the bad guys and imprisoned in a tower, face a contest of magic with the odds stacked against her – and mind you, she has no magical talent herself – and somehow save magic, and the kingdom, from a dastardly plot.

This is a fun book, set in a quirky world where utter weirdness is taken in stride. I haven't even figured out a way to describe the creature mentioned in its title, let alone the Transient Moose – a quasi-sentient simulacrum that somehow plays a pivotal role in this story. There's a bit of youthful romance in it. There's a stiff snort of sociopolitical satire in it – relating to the way upper classes, and especially royals, treat common people, and especially foundlings. There is a bizarre blend of fantasy world-building and modern technology in it, from Volkswagens to mobile phones (although the tech hasn't been working so well lately, due to magic being in decline). There are hilarious notions, such as light globes powered by sarcasm, and moments of breathtaking danger blended with whimsy, such as when a couple of troll sentries try to coax Jennifer out of hiding with "Here, person, person, person." There are fiendish plots, creepy curses, sweat-eliciting buildups of suspense and, running through it all, a nonstop flow of clever originality that can only be described as magical.

This is the sequel to The Last Dragonslayer, and I've been meaning to read it for something like 12 years. So remiss am I that I only lately discovered the series continues after it in The Eye of Zoltar and The Great Troll War. Jasper Fforde, whose name (I believe) is pronounced exactly like Ford, lives in Wales and is the author of many books I have read and some I have yet to get around to. I'm working on it. His titles include now eight "Thursday Next" novels (the most recent addition being Dark Reading Matter), the two "Nursery Crime" spinoffs, Shades of Grey and its recent sequel, Red Side Story, Early Riser and The Constant Rabbit. Three of these titles are already on my TBR pile.

Just One Damned Thing After Another

Just One Damned Thing After Another
by Jodi Taylor
Recommended Ages: 14+

Madeline Maxwell, a.k.a. Max, takes a demotion from Dr. Maxwell to Miss Maxwell when she goes to work for St. Mary's Institute of Historical Research. It's a secretive outfit that, she learns only after she signs on the dotted line, does its research "in contemporary time." Like, via time travel. Their pods run circles around TARDIS; for one thing, you can pick the exact coordinates in time and place where you want to materialize. More or less. There's still a lot of mapping to do, and there are risks. St. Mary's chews up historians and sometimes doesn't spit them out. But Max survives her first five years with the organization before a three-month study of the Cretaceous period takes a disastrous turn.

You'd think being stalked by velociraptors would be the biggest danger. But as Max finds out, her fellow man is just as deadly. Besides a traitor within St. Mary's, there also seems to be a rival outfit that doesn't bat an eye at tampering with history, so long as they can make a profit off of it. Despite Max's best efforts to protect St. Mary's independence from outside interference, another visit to the Cretaceous uncovers evidence that the enemy is cruelly exploiting dinosaurs for the entertainment of trigger-happy tourists. And their trigger-happiness isn't confined to exctinct reptiles.

Max perseveres through disaster after disaster, getting closer and closer to the center of the conflict between St. Mary's and the villainous Clive Ronan. It all comes to a head during a daring exploit to save what they can from the burning library of Alexandria. Her adventure is packed with danger, devastating loss, heartbreak and discouragement – but also sharp comedy, thrilling adventure and sexy romance. St. Mary's is packed with almost too many eccentric characters to keep track of, lampooning the types of characters many of us deal with among the departments of our real-world workplaces. And Max's narration, which is to say Taylor's writing, crackles with the kind of inventive wit that makes me want to quote it. Like:

He was built like a large brick shithouse. Two large brick shithouses actually. In fact he was so big it was possible he distorted time and space. He had his own gravitational pull, like a blond planet, and he'd fallen for Kal like a sperm whale failing to clear the Grand Canyon on a bicycle. He thought no one knew.

And:

We watched the show and then the disco started, so after shouting pointlessly at each other for a few minutes, we got up to dance. The usual thing hapened. Just as we arrived on the dance floor the good music stopped and they started with the smooch stuff.

I'll stop there, because if I go on, I'll give away the punchlines of a couple jokes that made me laugh loud and long. You wouldn't want that. So go read this book for yourself, and you're welcome.

This is the first novel in the soon-to-be-15-book series known as the Chronicles of St. Mary's. Among its sequels are A Symphony of Echoes, No Time Like the Past, What Could Possibly Go Wrong, An Argumentation of Historians, A Catalogue of Catastrophe and, coming in August 2027, Well, That Could Have Gone Better – all besides several short stories sprinkled throughout the series. Jodi Taylor is also the author of three "Frogmorton Farm" novels and its companion short stories, the quartet of "Elizabeth Cage" thrillers, six Time Police novels plus short stories (which apparently overlap with the St. Mary's series), a couple of "Smallhope and Pennyroyal" books (also related to time travel) and the historical novel A Bachelor Establishment, published under the name Isabella Barclay. If this isn't the first you've heard of her, you probably first ran across her under the rubric "readers who enjoy Jasper Fforde also buy..." Either way, you'll probably see more reviews of her books on this blog in time to come.

Today's Dream

This morning, just before I awoke, I had a weird dream that, in retrospect, makes me feel a bit like I can understand Beethoven's deal. I was responsible for playing the organ for a big, important worship service, but the organ console was apparently sequestered in some kind of soundproof booth and I couldn't hear a note of the music I was playing, or the singing of the crowd accompanied by it. Also to my disadvantage, the sheet music I was given had only the melody I was supposed to play, and I had to improvise the harmony on the spot. I had to make do with hearing what I was playing in my mind's ear. It should have been a mortifying dream. Embarrassing or frustrating, maybe. But other than the impression that I was being judged by some highly critical VIPs, I didn't feel like I was doing too badly. And the hymn tune I was hearing in my mind's ear at the moment I awoke was REX GLORIAE, by Henry Smart, a.k.a. "See, the Conqueror mounts in triumph."

It's not all that far-fetched a dream. I've played the organ at two different churches where the acoustics of the joint conspired with the location of the organ console so that I couldn't get a real-time impression of how loud I was playing. People complained that I was playing too loud and it gave them a headache. In one of those situations, the acoustics were so bad, and the console was in a recessed alcove below and behind the speakers that were aimed out at the nave, that during postludes when people were standing up and talking at the tops of their voices, I couldn't hear a note of what I was playing. You really need auditory feedback to do the job properly, as I stressed when the latter congregation installed a new organ – making sure they put the console up at the front of the church this time.

As for hearing the music in one's head ... well, that's how Beethoven did it, isn't it? And it's not all that exceptional. I've spent hours at the wheel of my car, driving from one state to another, unable to stop my mind from turning over voice-leading problems in my head. Chord progressions that I could both see and hear in my mind, as if reading from sheet music. I felt like it was driving me insane. It gave me an insight into the conditions under which a musically inclined person might feel they just have to compose music. It pours out of one, sometimes.

Heart of the Beast

My local, three-screen movie theater gave me the choice, last night, of what looked like a wilderness survival drama starring Brad Pitt (Heart of the Beast), an Aaron Sorkin legal drama about the Facebook files (The Social Reckoning) or an adaptation of a trashy novel (Verity). I wasn't super excited about any of them, so I asked the kid at the cash register, "What am I going to see?" – specifying either Heart of the Beast or The Social Reckoning. She said something to the effect of, "I haven't seen either one, but the one I'm looking forward to seeing is Heart of the Beast," so I said, "Give me a ticket to that."

Well, I don't want to spoil the whole movie for you, but it's not quite accurate to call it a survival drama. Remember my synopsis of another brutal Brad Pitt flick, Ad Astra? I quote myself: "A man travels 2.7 billion miles to find his absentee father, only to learn that the old man doesn't care to have a relationship with him." Well, this movie is almost as much of a one-man show as that one was. It's long stretches of one dude (Pitt) alone in the Alaskan wilderness with his dog, credited on screen as Odin (actually the name of the dog character, played by four actual dogs), suffering in seemingly every conceivable way. And yet despite the ending, at which I have already hinted too much, you come out of this movie feeling altogether better than from Ad Astra. Man and dog go through hell on earth (I emphasize, on earth), yet somehow their lack of human company and the, um, incomplete fulfillment of their quest doesn't leave you depressed. I would even say there's something uplifting about it. And it's all about the fully believable love story between Jim, the human, and Odin, the dog.

There are a few other human characters in the movie. Canadian First Nations actress Anna Lambe has a tiny role in a scene that frames the main body of the movie. J.K. Simmons appears in approximately one scene, and says probably 50% of the entire movie's dialogue, as a guy in a canoe who crosses paths by chance with Jim and Odin just before the feces hits the air circulation device, though (you may be surprised to learn) it's none of his fault. A seaplane is the next most important character, other than Army guys glimpsed in PTSD flashbacks (backstory for the combat veteran man and dog), and I won't conceal from you that when said plane crashes, it's no fault of the plane's or even the storm Jim has just flown it through. Dude straight-up has a heart attack at the yoke, and it's amazing that he survives the initial crash and how hard he fights to save himself and his dog from their seemingly inevitable doom in the back of nowhere, 49th Stately speaking.

What do they survive? Well, not just the crash itself, and the heart attack that led to it, but also starvation, painful trips and falls, probably hypothermia, attacks by a bear and a pack of wolves, a perilous crossing over a whitewater gorge that doesn't go to plan, griveous injuries, strenuous passages through almost every kind of difficult terrain, etc., etc., etc. How many things go smoothly for them? Not a single one. But do they give up? Well ... not on each other. And the way they look at each other, and the way they talk to each other (within a given definition of "talk"), is so tender it'll go right to your heart. Whatever this is a tale of, and it's not entirely one of survival, it has healing from trauma and, above all, friendship in it. Across a landscape that feels like a very big, very real place, this seemingly very real man – not altogether lovable – and his completely lovable dog struggle together, struggle to save something, and the movie is well crafted to keep you hanging on what they do save, if anything.

Three Scenes That Made It For Me: (1) The crash sequence, a total nailbiter in which you wonder how either of the hero pair can possibly survive. (2) In another callback to Ad Astra, specifically to its gruesomely clinical specificity, Pitt self-administers a medical procedure that requires Odin's assistance, sparing the audience not one awful detail of his disturbingly realistic ordeal. (3) The last moments the man and his dog share with each other, in which their mutual love reaches an emotionally devastating level. Moral: See this, not that Aaron Sorkin thing. Facebook, shmacebook!

The Kaiju Preservation Society

The Kaiju Preservation Society
by John Scalzi
Recommended Ages: 14+

Jamie Gray goes into his six-month performance review at a tech startup with big ideas about how to improve the food delivery app, and comes out with a pink slip and an opportunity to become a delivery driver just as COVID-19 hits. It's a tough break, but luckily he runs into an acquaintance while making a delivery and gets offered a job. Lifting things. For an organization called KPS that protects large, endangered animals. The pay is good, so Jamie takes it. And then he's let in on the secret. The off-the-grid, foreign-country situation he'll be working in? It's a parallel earth. An earth with a warmer climate, a thicker atmosphere, and kaiju. Like, you know, Godzilla.

The Kaiju Preservation Society is what KPS stands for. And Jamie adjusts quickly from gosh-wow-sense-of-wonder to more than competent lifter of things who, with his group of newbies, soon becomes passionately committed to protecting Kaiju Earth's mountainous, nuclear-powered denizens. Despite the fact that said denizens, and their parasites and other critters down to insect-sized, would gladly eat a human being if they can. Jamie and friends have a few tricks to defend themselves, though. Like stun batons and monster pheromones.

They're there mainly to study the creatures, but now and then they also have to babysit tourists – mainly richie-rich investors, government and military officials – and one of the first group Jamie gets saddled with turns out to be the evil CEO who fired him. On a bet. This guy, Rob Sanders, tries to throw his weight (and money) around on Kaiju Earth and very nearly gets thrown to the parasites for his pains. But while he pretends to learn his lesson, he still has something up his sleeve that's going to turn the final act of this funny, fast-paced, intense novel into a life-or-death fight to save a momma kaiju and her brood.

This is my first time reading a book by Scalzi and I'll give him credit for making it a fun ride. His characters patter with wit and well-delineated personalities. They're smart, tough and recklessly brave, yet understandably scared at the same time. There are whole scenes that are so good, you'll want to find someone who'll let you read them aloud. (I read to my dad an early scene in which a doctor tells Jamie about the side effects of a series of vaccines.) I could complain about the left-wing politics that everything filters through – sometimes distracting to the point where I, for one, had to double back to understand the antecedent of a character's pronouns – but in the big picture, the only bone I really want to pick at is Scalzi's disinclination to describe.

When the kaiju appear, I yearned for a paragraph, a sentence, a phrase, a metaphor or simile, whatever, to suggest a mental image over and above the implied "you do know what a kaiju is, don't you?" Establish it for those of us who aren't plugged into your mental movie, Scalzi. Paint with words, just for a little bit! I psychically begged him on this, multiple times, but did he listen? No. He told what happened and reported what the characters said, which was (I admit) sufficiently entertaining to keep me turning the pages. But at the expense of slowing the pace just a sukoshi, he could have seeded the reader's imagination with, like, imagery. Just sayin'.

John Scalzi is the Hugo- and Locus-award-winning science fiction author of the seven-book "Old Man's War" series, the "Interdependency" trilogy (The Collapsing Empire, etc.), some "Dispatcher" mysteries, and the novels Agent to the Stars, The Android's Dream, Redshirts, Starter Villain, When the Moon Hits Your Eye (in which the moon turns into cheese), Constituent Service, Monsters of Ohio and End of All Things.