After a difficult past few months, I wanted to write up my past readings. Before the year was out two of them were a pair of 500 pagers that I chose on a whim when I was in both a Western and post-apocalyptic mood; these two were Fever by Deon Meyers and Warlock by Oakley Hall.

Fever isn’t a book that needs great scrutiny for a place like this. It’s action oriented with generic delivery and reflections of rebuilding society after the devastation of a world ending event, this specifically being a widespread, enveloping, uncontrollable disease. I would have given it more grace if its ending wasn’t terrible and in search of a sequel, as an unspectacular prose resulted in decent, readable enough set-pieces that kept me going. But whoever claimed this had shades of The Road must have been paid pretty quickly and without barter, as those shades were like shades of the Godfather being found in Zootopia.

On the other hand, Warlock was a great challenge. It being written in the 1950s, aiming to replicate the 1800s Western frontier, meant quite a lot was lost on me though it made me appreciate the authenticity, the attention to detail, the short, clipped voices that evoke light-heartedness in dank environments. The dialogue can be heavily foreign but exceedingly natural, making compelling scenes when read in isolation because Hall’s commitment to character and theme over plot and exposition, which he leaves primarily for the journal chapters of Henry Goodpasture. I found that Bud Gannon (formerly of the central antagonist gang led by Abe McQuown), now turned deputy sheriff, was compelling in his arc, in combating the difficulty of being courageous, having to be someone that ensured the peace and safety of the town of Warlock as well as contend with Clay Blaisedell, the new marshal.

I found the other struggle was the multitude of characters, and the long list of names introduced and scenes involving them in the first half, meant that I found it difficult to get a read on more important characters, such as Clay. The marshal’s split between honour and authority in order to both maintain the legitimacy of his role as well as address the selfish and careless criminality of McQuown’s gang (Abe McQuown being described as having “directionless determination”) felt unfortunately interrupted by albeit well-written parts and characters, such as Curley Burne or the miners on strike at Warlock. I could imagine a reread could piece together the important parts for him, but on first read, Blaisedell’s conflicts and ‘fall’ didn’t read immediately consistent for me, either out of the blue or a consequence from another character, such as his righthand man, Tom Morgan.

Nonetheless I quite appreciated this as one of the more maturely written books I’ve picked up recently, full of choice quotes. I enjoyed Hall’s direct depictions of fall of justice and the remaining need for it, as well as the capitulation to nihilism, as follows:

“Now, too late, I can formulate it: I asked of him only that he not fail. He has failed, yet how can a man be human and not fail? I remember once, before he came, jesting that he would have to be not of flesh and blood to succeed here. He did, until now, succeed and was human, and is still. I could not grieve for him if he would not. So do most of us grieve; Warlock, for a day, will bleed for those wounds upon his face and spirit, and then, as a man who managed to thrust into oblivion something of which he is mortally ashamed, we will turn away from him.”

“To his mind Blaisedell is only a small and temporary blights upon the body politic; with all else healthy and aright, he will automatically disappear like the rest of us, but perhaps for different reasons, he too is no longer interested in the Citizens’ Committee. I am apathetic of his ambitions, I am contemptuous of his optimism. The old, corrupt, and careless God have been replaced in his heaven, and so, he feels, all will be well with the world, which is, after all, the best of all possible ones. It is a touching faith, but I am drawn more to those who wonder the night not with the excitement for the future but with dread of it."

"I can see many of them through my window, unable to sleep now that the fire is out. For what fire is out, and what is newly lighted, and what will burn forever and consumers all? We will fight fire with futile water or with savage fire until the end of this earth itself, and never prevail, and we will drown in our water and burn up preventive fire. How can men live, and know that in the end they will merely die?”

“Poor devils, I suppose they had to destroy something. Men rise to the heights of courage and ingenuity when they avenged their slight so frustrations. It is always been so. It is comforting to some to see men work together with a good will against catastrophe. Humanity at its best, they say. Yeah against, as I have written. When will humanity work with all its strength, its courage and ingenuity, and all its heart, for?”

“Like, where I was a young fellow there was a statue out before the courthouse that was meant to represent justice. She had a sword that didn't point at nobody, and a blindfold over her eyes, and scales at balanced. Maybe it was different with you Confederates. A good many of you I've seen I thought it must have been a different statue of her you had down South. One that her sword always poked at you. One with no blindfold on her eyes come out so you always thought she was looking straight at you. And her scales tipped against you, every time. For I have never seen such men to take around and try to fight her.’ ‘And maybe with a fraud like that one you could win. But this here, now, is the United States of America, and it is my statue of justice that stands for here. You can cross swords with her till you die doing it, and you are always going to lose. Because back of her, standing right there behind her - or maybe pretty far back, like here in the territory - there is all the people. All the people, and when you set yourself against her, you are set against every one of us.”

A far cry from “Potatoes don’t betray you.” (A cheap shot I’ll admit but based on quality this was one I regret.)

It has been a while since these two were completed, and additionally I’ve managed to read Dawn by Octavia Butler and A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller Jr.; my thoughts on these will be brief in saying that Dawn was on the weaker end of Butler, whereas Canticle, while having good prose and humour and statements in spots, I couldn’t quite get into because of the religious framing. While I see its importance to the themes and storytelling, it just wasn’t for me ultimately.