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could have done more to save the General's reputation from that of a 'bigot and Indian hater'.
For example, the unfair ascription of the so-called proverb 'The only good Indian is a dead Indian' is not challenged, I wonder when it ever will be. From my own limited research, I have found the first recorded public use of this phrase by a Montana politician in 1868, one year before Sheridan is supposed to have uttered similar words. Further, Sheridan's brother Mike also traces the phrase to Montana, saying 'some fool' ascribed the words to Sheridan. Finally, we only have the hearsay evidence
of a single witness (ie someone told someone else who wrote it down), written down 20 years later, that Sheridan used the words at all.
There is of course the larger accusation, that whatever Sheridan said, this is how he felt. Hutton effectively refutes that charge, I only wish he had come out and roundly stated it somewhere in the book. Sheridan shared the objectives of his contemporary humanitarian critics - he wanted Indians to settle down on reservations and adopt white ways, or just live of the bounty of the government. Where he differed was how he treated 'hostiles' or recalcritant Indians. Sheridan believed in waging war on the Indians just as he had made war in the Shenandoah Valley - devastate the enemy's resources, limit his power to make war by depriving him of supplies, with the added extra of rounding up families to be taken to where they white soldiers could watch them.
In essence, Sheridan was given a dirty job, and did in the only way he knew. But he had no especial hate for the Indians - he was not a Himmler figure, as some have made him out. He was fair to Indians who kept the peace. For example, he adjudicated in a dispute between Indians and cattlemen who had leased reservation land. Despite his personal feeling about development, he came down firmly on the Indian side, and thanks to him, the cattlemen were given 3 months to remove their herds, which humbered hundreds of thousands head of cattle.
Sheridan also sponsored early efforts to study Indian lore and customs, and was instrumental in preserving Yellowstone National Park for the nation.
In short this man was not a saint. He had glaring defects - for example, he aggressively defended subordinates even when they were in the wrong, he looked after cronies in the Army and outside. But he was totally uncorrupt in a corrupt age (his personal fortune was quite small at the end of his days, even though he could undoubtedly had many opportunities to enrich himself illicitly). Also, one feels that someone who said "If I owned Hell and Texas, I'd live in Hell and rent out Texas" can't be all bad! Right or wrong, he had a certain spirit, that Little Phil!
It is about time that Americans honored those who stood and fought for freedom and WON. This book is a fine start.
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Excellent material but not enough to really function.
As for the book, the author remains unobtrusive in the story telling, which helps no end (see the Stone Roses bio) in the reading.
A great (continuing) story, parts of which have been well told before (A Beat Concerto, Mr Cool's Dream), but sucessfully well told again.
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First: For each pepper the authors should also have included a photo of the plant and the flower. Without that identification in many cases is almost impossible as many pods resemble each other very much indeed.
Second: The metric conversion chart in the back of the book is wrong. Centimeters and inches must have changed places. The way it is now a 10 inch pepper like for instance Numex Big Jim is about the lenght of a thumb!! I dont think New Mexican commercial growers would like that. Keep that in mind if the publishers are contemplating a new edition.
But otherwise - thanks for a great book which is a must for all pepper fans.
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Finally, Theroux is one of those few novelists (Iris Murdoch and Robertson Davies come to mind) who seamlessly weaves a large amount of knowledge, history and culture into his narratives. In its way, this is also one of the finest books on photography ever written. I encourage you to find a copy--there's something here for those who like literary fiction, vivid description and...an excellent story.
A brilliant novel in many respects, I only subtract a star due to the (in my opinion, of course) overblown nature of some of Maude's rantings. Perhaps that was part of the point -- her visceral passion.
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I nevertheless like Pual Muldoon's poetry. I recommend it and it's fun to read, but his book of poems from 1968-1998 could hardly be considered a string of pearls.
What you will and won't get.
His is like snapshot poetry. Don't expect extended metaphor, conceits, or any overall development in the way of imagery or narrative. His is a quick wit and quick eye. Reading his poem is like setting fire to a box of matches. There's no smoldering pathos hear. His fire leaps from matchtip to matchtip, word to word, until the whole of it goes up in an exciting little burst of flames.
His poetry has been compared to Donne, but similarities are thin. For example, Donne was singularly known for the difficulty of his metrical writing. Expect no metrical daring from Muldoon. He doesn't write by numbers. Muldoon's difficulty can be summed up, I think, by this tidy comparison. Reading Muldoon is like listening to someone else's phone conversation. You will only ever hear half the conversation.
The earlier books in this collected poems are the most accessible and, in certain ways, the more enjoyable. You'll find those matchtip lines like: "Once you swallowed a radar-blip/of peyote/you were out of your tree..." This makes for fun reading.
The book "Madoc: A Mystery", however, dating from 1990 indulges in a stellar example of poetic onanism. Clearly, the writing of Madoc brought great pleasure to the author, but I personally doubt this book will mean much to anyone not having a fetish for erudite cleverness. Clearly, the Princetion professor Muldoon is having a long distance conversation with his Oxford counterpart. You will have to wiretap if you really want to get this stuff. For example:
"[Galen]
"It transpires that Bucephalus is even now
"pumping jet
"of spunk into the rowdy-dow-dow
"of some hoity-toity little skewbald jade."
Get it? If you do, this bud is for you.
The final book "Hay", is the best of them. Even if a portion of the poems strike one as little more than deliciously worded doggerel, the fun of Muldoon's wit evens the whole of it out. "I've upset the pail/in which my daughter had kept/her five-'No, six'-snails." Substitute "reader" for "daughter" and you get the idea.
By the way, did you know he was professor of poetry at Princeton AND Oxford???
These poems are not "easy". Many of them require multiple readings to begin to understand them (although some are quite straightforward, but these are rare). However, Muldoon's use of language, his sense for sounds, his near-obsession with rhyme, and his inventiveness are qualities so far above most other contemporary poets that, well, what can I say? He's the real thing. Today, like Geoffrey Hill, he's very well regarded in the UK, and virtually unknown in the USA. This is tragic. A century from now, the names of Hill and Muldoon will be known, and most US poets will be forgotten - but that's another topic.
If you like difficult but beautiful poetry, pick this up. If you are into pretty easy, conversational verse that you can grasp from a first reading - stay away!
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But any serious student of the NS time will have to balance this and many other works describing many other lead-up/ins to the '30s. The Nazis and their influences are a study in quantum schizophrenia, with ol' Uncle Adolf (sorta) riding herd. And of course the only thing weirder than the Nazis and all their braided streams of influence is the tangled, overgrown paths back to them through the historical literature.