On "Gunman's Reckoning" by Max Brand ***

I was long under the impression that Max Brand was a pulp writing active and working today. This is because years ago when I worked in a bookstore, Brand's books still came out about once a month, staying on the shelves about a year before going out of print in favor of some other title. (Our western section was very small, mostly made up of Louis Lamour, which was the only author who actually sold much.) Brand wrote a lot, I suppose, and the mass market company publishing his stuff was still pumping it out on a schedule--putting it back into print and then taking it back out of print. But in terms of when he was writing, well, that part I had dead wrong. His stuff goes back to the 1920s; the publisher was merely recycling old stuff.

I discovered this rather recently, as I started reading this list of westerns, a genre I haven't spent much time with. I'm reading mostly chronologically, so I had intended next to turn to Zane Grey, but I wanted to be devoted to that book, and Brand was available for free public domain download on my phone--I figured I'd read it in between the more serious other reading I was doing, that is, whenever I found myself in a waiting room with nothing but my phone in hand.

The text definitely is what I would have expected from a pulp western. It was rather silly overall, with lots of tough talk, lots of fighting, lots of plot twists, and characters who seem too over-the-top to be real. The book centers on one Donnegan, but it doesn't start off with him. Rather, we're introduced first to some hobo on a train who is out to murder a man who has broken up his gang. That man who is to be killed as it turns out to Donnegan, who remains a rather shadowy figure for much of the novel. He seems more like a sheriff in these early passages, but once he jettisons from the train, holding on to his life, he is seen for what he is: a hobo also, a wanderer of the world--but one with a keen ability to wield a gun, to see through people, and to manipulate people.

Donnegan finds his way to a house, where he meets a woman (Lou) whom he almost instantly falls for, even though they've barely spoken a word. He wants a place to stay, but that requires the approval of the woman's father (the colonel), who won't take visitors. Donnegan insists, and somehow the old man comes to view Donnegan as an asset who can help him reclaim a mine for himself and his daughter's fiancé (Landis) for herself. In fact, the woman is in love with this fiance, who in turn has gone to work in the mining town, fallen in love with yet someone else, and run off with the old man's fortune. Donnegan is on the trail to help. Sure, he wants the daughter, but since the daughter wants this other man, Donnegan, because he truly loves this woman, sets out to get this other man back for her. I can't say the motivation here really convinces me: men will do lots for folks they love, but for someone they've barely met and mostly to enable that person to have someone else? It seems rather crazy to take one's life in hand that way.

 Donnegan's plan essentially involves making himself into a "big" deal in the town, impressing folks with his gunwork and some money he comes into through a shady interaction with another shady character, a gambler whom Donnegan robs and sends away. This plan involves making the mining town woman (Nelly) who has run off with the fiancé (Landis) of the woman who is in love with him (Lou) fall in love with Donnegan himself. The plan largely works, it seems, but as it turns out, the woman, Nelly, who has taken the fiancé is actually just doing so as a ruse, as she's in love with yet another man (Nick), who in turn is absconding with the old man's mining interests through the fiancé but only because the old man himself had absconded with the mining interests of a friend of Nick's. More plot twists follow, and love seems to come and go quick for the men and women at the center of the story. In the end, of course, there's a reckoning, a shootout, and most all is sorted out (except maybe what happens to Landis in the end, but who cares--he's just a plot point).

On "Christian Antioch" by D. S. Wallace-Hadrill ***

This work details the culture and ideas that developed among Christians in Antioch in the third century through into the seventh and even the ninth. As such, it's a bit out of my usual reading about Christian history, insofar as I mostly focus on the first two centuries. Still, knowing how thought progressed later can be helpful in understanding how it progressed earlier--or at least, that was my hope. The work is very much one of scholarship and not terribly accessible. Although terms are defined and people introduced, the degree to which such specialist terms and people are referenced throughout the work means that you have to read very slowly, take notes, or have recourse to some kind of reference work to get the full scope. That said, the gist of the arguments can still be gleaned from even a quicker read.

Watson-Hadrill shows how Antioch grew in distinctive ways from the process of thought that came to be more acceptable in Alexandria and, by extension in Rome. Antioch, though influenced by ideas coming out of these places, turned much of its attention to the east--to Mesopotamia and Persia, where its ideas found slightly more accepting ground.

After a brief introduction on the background of the church, Watson-Hadrill focuses on six major themes: biblical interpretation, historiography, the nature of God, the use of Greek philosophy, Christology, and desert monks. With regard to interpretation, I'd long read that Antioch took a more literal view of scripture as opposed to the Alexandrian way of reading scripture allegorically. What Watson-Hadrill brought out was somewhat surprising, however. Certainly, qualifiers must be made, insofar as many Antiochenes still used typography and this is really not easily differentiated at times from allegory. But what came to me as a surprise is the fact that some Antiochenes read the scriptures really literally--to extents that some come off sounding like today's secular reading of scriptures. They might go so far as to reject the idea, even though its made explicit in the New Testament, that Noah's ark or the Red Sea were types of baptism. More to the point, they often rejected prophecies taken to be about Jesus or future events, stating that these pertained only to ancient Israel.

With regard to historiography, the writers Watson-Hadrill studies are mostly later ones. As such, he talks a bit about Eusebius's history as being an interpretation of Christianity as reaching its fullness with the adoption of it by Constantine. It is a story, in other words, of triumph. Later historians in the region would try to pick up where Eusebius left off, but by then, such triumph was clearly not the end of the story, given how much infighting there had been in the church. As such, one might pick up the history from where Eusebius leaves off, but no one picks up the same story.

The nature of God, philosophy, and Christology discussions get truly into the weeds, with the Arians versus the Trinitarians and various groups in between (Monophysites, Nestorians). I always find this discussion a bit frustrating if not over my head. It's frustrating because these theologians get so caught up in the philosophy behind theology and lose track of, it seems to me, the real message--the way one should act (in some cases, it's not even clear that they're really that far apart in terms of thinking--but that doesn't stop them from treating each other horribly). The Nestorians, we might say, largely emphasized the human side of Jesus, while the Monophysites emphasized his divinity and the unity of God. Interestingly, Wallace-Hadrill points out how the Antiochenes and the Eastern church focused more on Aristotle's philosophy than Plato's, even though they might not have known it. Rather than the "ideas" being real and everything physical being a copy of those ideas, as in Plato's system; Aristotle focused on the particulars being real and the "ideas" being abstractions. As such, one can read the trinity as three persons who are unified as "God" as a kind of concept, rather than as a concept that finds form in three manifestations (although, in asserting that last part, I'm really presenting the trinity as modalism, which of course is another heresy to most Christian thinkers and so not a precise way to think of the concept).

In a final section, Wallace-Hadrill focuses on the religious devotion of many of the Antiochenes, Syrians, and Eastern Christians. He makes a case that their form of asceticism differed from that of the earlier Gnostics insofar as it was not asceticism based on the evil nature of physical things but on a desire to get closer to God, in the same way that Jesus was close. It's a valuable distinction but also, like so much that the church in the third through seventh centuries argued over, one that is difficult to really see. After all, the Gnostics too, even if rejecting the physical as evil, were aiming to get closer to God and the spiritual; that, after all, was the whole point.

On “Paul, Antioch, and Jerusalem” by Nicholas Taylor ***

This book aims to correct a common view that Paul squared off against Peter and James and the Jerusalem church, that he had one brand of Christianity, they another, and the two were essentially enemies after Paul attempted to correct Peter in Antioch. That said, even as Taylor aims to correct this view, he seems in many ways to defend it. Mostly, what he tries to do is point out that the situation was actually much more complex than that summary affords. In the end, we get a viewpoint that is more inclined to see Paul as squaring off against certain of the Jerusalem church but coming to respectful terms with Peter and James themselves sometime after that Antioch meeting. Much is made of the two gospels, one by Paul to Gentiles and one by Peter to Jews.

The author essentially aims to show that Paul's relationship with the Jerusalem church varied over time. He did not contact Jerusalem early on and did not have a relationship with the church early on. Only when called to deal with how fellowship with Gentiles should be configured did Paul really start to deal with Jerusalem. This led eventually to the confrontation with Peter. After that, he tried to establish his own apostleship independent of Jerusalem (and Antioch, which had accepted Jerusalem's authority over his own) and created a number of independent church. In time, however, he came to some reconciliation with Jerusalem, or at least with the lead apostles, enough that he, as per agreed upon earlier, went forward with plans to collect donations for the Jerusalem church as a way of folding his own churches in with the lead church. This agreement was actually via/through Antioch, so Paul was actually doing something beyond or outside that agreement. When the timing proved to olate for Antioch's own donations, he had to go forward to Jerusalem on his own, which then led to troubles with the Jerusalem authorities and his eventual deportation to Rome and death. Or at least, that's much of what I got out of it. Taylor, as noted, seems to thread the needle a lot, showing how Jerusalem was never not in charge except that Paul was somewhat independent of it. It's a complex argument—much more difficult than simply saying Paul was on his own or Paul was not on his own.

The book itself is based on Taylor's dissertation. It doesn't appear that more than small changes have occurred between the two. The book is long on literary review and very definitely aimed at scholarly audiences, as his argument is one that would likely appeal only to those deep in the mud over what Paul's break or nonbreak with Antioch and Peter really consisted of.

On "The Virginian" by Owen Wister ****

This book was a staple on the shelf at a bookstore where I used to work, a Penguin classic. I don't know that we ever sold a copy. It looked rather dull to me, like one of those books you should read but won't until it's assigned in some class. It never was. I never read it.

Here I am some thirty years later, and I read it, because Wister's book is known in some circles as the first true Western--a book with all the conventions of a cowboy novel--and actually written in the early 1900s rather than in the 1800s as I had once supposed. And it is a surprisingly good read--difficult to follow in parts but generally not too difficult, and in some ways narratively unconventional.

It is one of the few books I've read that is told from the perspective of a first-person narrator that is actually about a third person. Think Great Gatsby--which is really about Gatsby and Daisy and Tom and not so much about the guy telling the story--or to a lesser extent, On the Road, which in some ways is really about Dean Moriarty more than Sal Paradise, though Sal's ideas play a much larger role than in Gatsby. Here in "The Virginian," our narrator tells us all about a certain class of men that the Virginian perfectly fits and that is disappearing along with the American West. We don't learn too much about the narrator (he's from out east and doesn't really know much about Western ways, at least at the start), and many times in the narrative, the narrator completely disappears, as if he's simply recounting stories he's heard from the Virginian or his friends about the Virginian.

The Virginian is a southerner who for a long while has been a cow-puncher. One-half of the book revolves around his relationship with a man name Trampas, who early in the novel feels insulted by the Virginian at a game of cards. Thereafter, Trampas is forever looking to one-up the Virginian, and the Virginian constantly manages to put him down. Trampas is a brute, a man who only stops stealing cows from the ranch at which the Virginian works because after beinghired by the ranch. One day Trampas says insulting things about a lady from Vermont who has moved to the nearby town to be a school teacher; the Virginian defends her, even though he doesn't know her. He also, at some point, saves her from drowning. These incidents drive the Virginian to take an interest in the woman, even as Trampas again feels put out by the man. An ultimate insult occurs when the Virginian is put in charge of carrying cows east to Chicago with a crew; on the way back, Trampas attempts to abscond with the crew by telling them of the fortunes to be made in a mine. The train on which they travel breaks down; they're stuck. The mine is real temptation. The Virginian manages to keep his crew aboard by going frog hunting and then selling the cooked frog legs for high dollars to the various passengers and by telling a good number of tall tales about the great money to be made from frog legs. On his return to the ranch the Virginian is promoted to foreman.

Eventually Trampas quits, and cows begin disappearing again. Meanwhile, the schoolmarm is drawn to the Virginian but also repulsed. She has no desire in general to marry, but also she is disgusted by the way that our cowboy serves as the law in a place where there is no law--that is, the Virginian occasionally has to kill a man. Such an instance occurs when the Virginian and a crew are sent out to hunt down and kill a cattle rustler gang. They catch two, one of whom is an old friend of the Virginian's, and execution then proceeds.

Trampas is one who manages to get away, though the Virginian has no real proof. Meanwhile, Trampas buys a horse from a financially desperate man who promises to buy the horse back. Trampas treats the horse miserably and eventually kills it. This is the sort of man Trampas is. He also, in the process, realizes Indians are after him, and he departs; the Virginian is not so lucky. His schoolmarm finds him and nurses him back to health and finally falls for him.

This same Trampas executes the man who he has taken in as an accolade in order to escape from the lynch posse. And on the day of the Virginian's wedding tells the Virginian that he has till sundown to get out of town or face his death. And so we have the inevitable duel.

The book ends somewhat surprisingly on a quiet note, focusing mostly on the teacher and her Vermont family. One can think of it, I suppose, as an extended coda. In a sense, that's its proper function. After all, as the narrator states in the first chapter, he's documenting a kind of man who is disappearing from the landscape, as the West is being tamed.