I was compelled by my Archaeology professor to read 300 pages in this book, which I did—putting my entire summer reading list on hold in order to do so. These conditions are hardly favorable to a balanced review. However, with the modicum* of fair-mindedness left in me, I admit this text is in a class of its own; it melds practical navigational help with a wealth of archaeological and historical detail.
The book is arranged in chapters pertaining to each city of note, i.e., Antioch, Bethany, Cana, etc. No locations are overlooked. And suffice to say, each chapter is so detail-rich that I digested only the historical and biblical overviews and speed-read the site specifics at about 5 seconds per page. (Don’t tell my professor.) Where the book ventures into theological/historical commentary, it sometimes lapses into liberalism, but the distraction is slight. This book restores a host of biblical sites to vivid life. Despite the coercive nature of my journey, Fant and Reddish’s Guide is the top contender in a crowded field.

How does one “review” Augustine? In short, one doesn’t—seventeen-hundred years of history already has. It’s not a question of whether his writings are relevant today, but how much of life you’ll dedicate to reading them. Like Henry James or Shakespeare, Augustine’s brilliance is in effect timeless. This review, as a result, focuses not so much on Augustine’s thought (which justifies books) but on one translation.
I’d wanted to read The Confessions for years, and prior to jumping in, I felt compelled to evaluate the translations available. One thing emerged quickly: In terms of clout and immediacy, Will’s work was getting the buzz. I bit.
Now having read Wills’ first installment of “The Testimony,” as he translates Augustine’s title, I’m ready to add my vote to the New York Review’s take: “his translations…sizzle.” Childhood, as communicated and contextualized by Wills, flows smoothly, and the main streams of Augustine’s thought are exposed clearly. Wills’ introduction, annotations and commentary are perceptive, and thoroughly documented with complementary texts from the saint’s other writings; at the get-go, his identification of The Confessions as a long, devotional prayer is enlightening—and other comments are similarly insightful. To sum up, Wills has put in the time—extensive language work and Augustinian research (including a Penguin Famous Lives biography)—to make his translation the hands-down winner. He is a sterling frame for one of history’s keenest minds.

I started this book on our trip to Glacier Park, interrupted it with various required Archaeology texts, and was still able to pick it back up effortlessly when I had the time. This fact says something about Haggard’s ability to write fiction that grabs you. True, She is not “shocking” by 21st century standards, but the book does have some surprising, even hair-raising twists. The Tolkien and Lewis parallels which I’ve heard of for years (and which are spelled out in the introduction) are fascinating, and I think I would concur with many reviewers who praise She’s slightly haunting mythic quality.

However, I can’t see myself reading this book more than once—multi-readability being a trademark of classic fiction—and Haggard’s writing could use polishing. (A fact that was noted by his contemporary, Robert Louis Stevenson, who cautioned Haggard not to write “too quickly.” (Haggard stated that he ripped off She in six weeks!) Thus, while Haggard’s work was more sensational and better-selling at the time, Stevenson’s works have better stood the test of time. )

No one, including Haggard, has been able to nail down the “allegorical” nature of She, which continues to bemuse and tease… Do all men long for unavoidable, inconsolable love of a woman? Some might differ, but I don’t think so… Perhaps it is the inconsolable aspect of She that gets people, though, couched as it is in action-adventure form. We don’t expect it. The feeling catches us off guard, and we realize a thriller doesn’t normally cut so deep. Haggard’s form of inconsolable longing sticks us in a place that isn’t often probed. We don’t necessarily want a goddess/woman, who would turn out to be human after all…but we do want Someone.

Kudos to Haggard for (inadvertently) bringing up a subject that is rarely breached in fiction. This in itself relegates She to the coveted rank of “solid.”

-Rookie hoopla, rave reviews, a movie deal with the star treatment. In a sense, I get it. This was Frazier’s first novel, he splashed hickory smoke and blood across 400-some pages, so real you could smell it, and grabbed the National Book Award. Wrote a #1 bestseller—and I see it. Sort of.

Frazier’s characterizations are lean but thorough, his language is in-your-face crude and still tugs at heart-strings; this is an intense, gripping book, and worth a read. Unfortunately, the philosophy is incoherent—a trait in literature that never fails to annoy.

If Cold Mountain is taken as a Civil War-era documentary, an unsparing microcosm of our national tragedy, well and good. But Frazier can’t resist crossing into philosophical speculation. The protagonist, Inman, must be considered a stoic in the modern sense, violently self-sufficient, meeting horror with resigned despair: “All the resurrection any man might expect was…to be dragged dead from the grave at rope’s end” (p. 397). Inman is a dead-earnest cynic with a gun, and the world Frazier paints is harsh and starkly material. (Ex: His dialogue, lacking quotation marks, gives conversations an understated feel, as if the words arise more from narrative circumstances than from the characters’ minds.) Frazier’s story becomes nonsensical when it marries vivid natural beauty and “cures of all sorts” (p. 418) to this mechanistic life—as if a brutal, Darwinist world occasionally dresses in pastels, and ought to be adored. Are we to fight and claw or are we to sigh and make daisy chains? Despite its romantic inconsistencies, this story is ultimately deterministic, and the ending bears this out. In some ways, Cold Mountain is like reading The Call of the Wild starring not dogs but humans.

McRay’s book combines technical solidity with unequaled breadth. That means that he covers a lot of ground, and hits the high points of 1st-century archeology. Occasionally he spends too much time unpackaging controversies of limited relevance, but the scope of this book makes it a solid reference text and good intro to the science.

I’m told this is the best book going in regard to “on the ground” Holy Land sites: Personable writing style and technical excellence, even if the theology is overly liberal. We shall see…

This was one of those Christmas gift books you debate whether to open before reselling or (worse yet) giving away. But Roper quoted George MacDonald on the first page of his preface, and I determined to give the book a shot. What emerged was solid and insightful. Roper has a pastoral heart and a knack for drawing sound applications from his texts. Groundbreaking analysis of Elisha’s character was lacking, sidelined in favor of observations drawn from various episodes of the prophet’s life. However, the exegetical/inspirational results are hardly space-filler.

The Jane Austen reference on the back cover drew me in, and I can’t say I’m disappointed. Enjoying Emma and Persuasion seemed somewhat counterintuitive at the time, and Grownups was similar, only more so. What had I to do with a fat, widowed older woman? Not much, really, but I still cared about her. That’s the genius of Tyler’s writing: characterization, dialogue, and motives spun with nuanced authenticity that convinces you without seeming to try. The conversations were so good I didn’t notice them. Likewise, the central premises, deftly developed. Has Rebecca become a person she doesn’t like? Domestic drama is seldom this fascinating.

My wife recently read this, and in a fit of post-final exams euphoria, I dove in. The Jane Austen comparisons on the back cover made me curious. The verdict is still out.

Peterson’s contemplative writings on the Songs of Ascents—Psalms 120-134—are a handbook for life on the road. The road toward Christ, that is. The spirituality Peterson espouses is dynamic, straightforward and refreshingly “un-produced.” Combine this direct approach with Peterson’s highly perceptive mind and you have a classic. Initially rejected by 17 publishers, this was Peterson’s first published work: a bracing discipleship text I would recommend to anyone.

Simply (and counter-culturally), Peterson asserts that the essence of discipleship is persistent obedience.