This is the finest coming of age novel in the known and unknown universe. It has everything..philosophy, memoirs of a world gone by, lots of quirkiness, and a great sense of heart. The best thing of all..is to have a copy of the 1936 edition. The yellowed pages of the edition are a perfect touch for a book written about time gone by.GREAT

One of the finest books of the 20th century, The Last Puritan was a sensation when published in the 1930's. It tells the triumph and tragedy of Oliver Alden, a youth born into a strict, "Progressive" Unitarian family in late 19th Century Boston. As his life progesses, he struggles to reconcile the harsh idealism in which he was raised with the beautifully chaotic nature of the real world. This conflict gives Santayana the ability to discuss God, love, morality, politics and the permanence of human nature all without ever losing sight of one man's heroic and tragic attempt to find his place in a world not meant for him. The Last Puritan remains the only book that has ever driven me to tears, and the only novel that has ever truly changed my life. If you've ever counted yourself a "lost soul" in the world, this book will hit home like nothing you've ever read.

The philosophy of Santayana is remembered mostly by his theory of aesthetics, which is discussed in detail in this book. His aesthetic theory is basically subjective, or "psychological", and if viewed from a contemporary standpoint, somewhat at odds with current developments in neuroscience, but closer than most schools of Western philosophy. All philosophical theories of aesthetics are interesting to investigate from the standpoint of comparing them to what is said about the human aesthetic faculty in modern research in neuroscience.

As in ethics, Santayana approaches aesthetics in three different ways, namely as the exercise of the aesthetic faculty, the history of art, and the psychological. The first two do not concern the author in the book, his attention devoted entirely to the third. His intention is to remove himself from the influence of the poets and of Plato, and find the out how ideals are formed in the mind, how objects may be compared with them, what properties are shared in beautiful things, and the process by which humans become sensitive to beauty and in turn value it. He is after a definition of beauty that explains its origin in human experience, and one that explains the human capacity to be sensible of beauty and the relation between a beautiful object and its ability to excite the human senses.

The author takes a different definition of aesthetics, being one that he calls "critical" or "appreciative perception", and which results from combining a notion of criticism with that of the notion of aesthetics as a theory of perception. Santayana wanted to develop a theory of aesthetics that relies on perceptions as a judgmental, critical notion. Perceptions that are not appreciations are thus to be excluded. An aesthetic theory then deals with the "perception of values".

The author's view of religion is well-known, and his atheism rare for his time. The religious imagination he says, has resulted in creations that rival those of the poets and novelists, so much so, he says, that humans believe the content of these creations to have objective reality. The ideas of these divinities are further enhanced by the realization of their natural power, with the belief in the reality of an ideal personality bringing about its further idealization, eventually spanning many human generations. History and tradition are cast by the imagination of these deities, in which peity resides and is nourished. The author of course does not excuse the God of Christianity from this, but he acknowledges the possibility that the human conceptions of Christ and Mary may in fact have real counterparts (the evidence of this not to be explored in this work).

The author states that unless human nature undergoes radical change, the main intellectual and aesthetic value of ideas will come from the creative acts of imagination. If human perceptions are not connected with human pleasures, there would be no need to look at things, no interest in them at all, and no importance would be imputed to them. It is indeed amazing how many ideas, thought to be rational, logical, or abstract, actually fit in with the author's aesthetic worldview. Concepts and results in science and mathematics in particular, after their discovery, are sometimes thought of as having their origin in logic and reason. But it was the keen human imagination that brought them about: a grand interplay of intuition and playfullness. Ugly ideas are not permissible: only the most beautiful survive...and oddly, and most interestingly, it is these that usually seem to work the best, and transcend the context in which they were discovered.

In this book, Santayana rejects the Platonic conception of beauty is an intrinsic characteristic of a thing, and argues for beauty that exists only in the mind (and senses, hence the title) of the viewer. The pleasure that beauty gives its audience is universal, but what is beautiful is not universal across audiences. That may be old hat to us, but wasn't quite so old hat in his time. Santayana enumerates various types of beauty, and relates each to the pleasure it gives its audience. Santayana even claims that some of our other preferences -- for example, for youth over age -- are fundamentally aesthetic in nature.

The argument is Santayanaesque, and thus not exactly rigorous. A lot of the physiology ("Psychology is always physiological," he writes) is hokey to our "modern" medical minds. Some of the digressions seem to be just him taking the opportunity to say something clever, rather than advancing the main argument in any way.

Still, Santayana is a virtuoso of putting together large, complex "big think" arguments, and he writes subtly and beautifully. This book is worth it, even if only to see Santayana doing what he does best: arguing broadly and forcefully, this time for a new conception of aesthetics.

A thoroughly engrossing book that delves not only in Wyler the director, but Wyler the man. This books offers a rare glimpse into the inner workings of this phenomenal director, from his early days as a young immigrant to becoming honored by the AFI.

Learn what went on before, during and after some of filmdom's greatest movies (Mrs. Miniver, Best Years Of Their Lives, and Ben-Hur) as well as Wylers' time in the service, shooting award winning documentaries. As well as how the HUAC hearings impacted on his professional life and those he came to rely on, and how he dealt with personal triumphs and tragedies.

Jan Herman has taken what could have been a dry retelling of movie making, and offers up a book that is both informative and entertaining.

Until I read this book, I had no idea that so many of my favourite classic films were directed by William Wyler.

The book tracks through Wyler's early childhood in pre-WWI Europe, his move to the United States and how he made his start making 3 movies a week for his uncle.

The book examines the process behind Wyler's great films - Roman Holiday, The Heiress and so on. Having read a biography of Audrey Hepburn and read about how she coped with the filming of Roman Holiday, it was really interesting to read the director's verion of what happened during filming. The quality of the final product was important to Wyler. He was a meticulous film maker who cared about his films. He was also a man of principle as shown by his efforts to make realistic fims during WWII, often puttin ghis wn life at risk as he shot footage of bombing raids over Europe.

The book also shows a little bit of Wyler's personal life. He was married for most of his life to the same wonderful woman and had a family that he clearly loved.

All in all, the book was a fascinating insight into pre-sound Hollywood and into a very interesting man and great director. It was extremely well written and an "easy read". It was tough to put down!

I loved this account of Aviators. Rock On

My copy of this great book is worn out from heavy use. Each devotion is followed by an appropriate prayer or selected words from a traditional hymn that can be used for prayer. I have used it with my family and with those I have visited during my training for the ministry. A great tool for personal use or otherwise.

William H Rau (1855-1920), one of Philadelphia's preeminent photographers, was commissioned by the PRR in 1890 to photograph hundreds of scenes along its lines in order to promote travel by the general public. This book contains 87 of his 463 original images, which are owned by American Premerier Underwriters, Inc., sucessor firm to the Penn Central and PRR railroads, and on deposit with The Library Company of Philadelphia.
John R. Stilgoe, Orchard Professor in the History of Landscape at Harvard expresses in one of the book's three essays, "These photographs glisten with an energy born of opening, not the opening of pioneers opening the forest nor the opening of the first half-century of railroad technology, but the opening of wholly constructed, wholly controlled, scheduled and maintained, wholly artifical space."
Rau was a world class photographer and this is a fine selection of his PRR work. Therefore, it would be difficult to rate this book as anything other than first class.
These are excerpts from my complete review of this book, which will appear in a future edition of "The Keystone," the official quarterly publication of the Pennsylvania Railroad Technical and Historical Society (PRRT&HS).

Alan B. Buchan
Member, Board of Directors - PRRT&HS

I can't believe that this book is not reveiwed. As a big band trumpet player for twenty five years it provided insight into not just Woody Herman,but the musicians that played on his band . That's what this book is really about. The life of being on the road with a big band. I could relate as I've been their and if you read this book you can live it to. The book is written by the alumni of the band as a kind of tribute to the man who created the band that played the blues. Its' more anecdotes then a actual biography.

Not many books seem to cover a scout's exploits during the Civil War in the form of a personal memoir. Berry Benson's account seems to be a diary mixed with recollection and struggle. Benson's writing is vague at times and a bit hard to follow. He seems to jump from event or time frame without much flow or detail. His involvement at Sharpsburg, Chancelorsville and Petersburg is disappointing when it comes to detail and the action. Had an author placed this book together to build the time frame up and then switch to Benson's accounts would have made this book easier to follow or had Benson been more descriptive in his story it would have completed this book.

What made this book interesting was his escapes from two Union prisons and his personal struggle to survive and get back to Virginia. His descriptions of his escapes and his run for freedom was very interesting and made this book come to life.

The title itself which mentions sharpshooter fails to live up to it's name as very little is written about his involvement as one and again the detail is missing. Had the title mentioned escaping twice from Union hands, it would have been properly titled. Though the lack of details and vague approach stumbles the reader an opposite read is featured in regards to his survival and escaping Union control. Without his prison stories which fortunately takes up a large portion of this book, it would have been confusing and frustrating. Because of those stories I felt this book deserves a 4 star rating.

Berry Benson tells it as it was. He does not fill the pages with fluff, but merely gives a straightforward account of his trials and tribulations during the war. At first, I was skeptical about all that he claimed to have gone through, but after some research, his story holds true. Benson was just shy of 18 when he joined the Confederate army. During his service, he was a sharpshooter, fought under Gen. "Stonewall" Jackson, was captured and escaped TWICE: once from Point Lookout and once from Elmira. At times, I wished that he would have gone into more detail, and that is the only downfall of this book. For example: he goes into some description of Point Lookout yet fails to give a good picture of Elmira. However, his story is not one to miss and I suggest it for anyone wanting to read a more personal account of the war that is a little out of the ordinary.

From the point of view of the enlisted man, this is a really good book. It held my interest well. Let's face it, the enlisted man's perspective of the War Between the States, or any war for that matter, is going to be very narrow. The rank and file do not have the luxury of having access to the grand strategy of general officers. All they can relate is what went on in front of them. Otherwise it wouldn't be their story. This book is about what one common soldier saw, experienced, and felt. And it let me see a refreshing point of view.

Pierre has all the markings of an awful book--flat characters, overblown writing, shameless melodrama. So why is it such a masterpiece? Melville seems to have put all of himself into this work--his despair, his religious doubts, his understanding of human psychology--with an intensity that makes the usual standards of plot, style and character obsolete. The analysis of Pierre's mother as she turns on her husband/son and Melville's agonizing descriptions of the writing process were two of the book's highlights for me. The Beats loved Pierre--maybe they saw a model for their own art, where elegance takes a back seat to energy. The novel was a critical disaster at the time, but look where it ranks on amazon 150 years later. I hope Melville's somewhere watching.

This novel, which I believe to be the greatest ever written by an American, is far too complex and profound to be neatly summarized here. It relates the story of Pierre, a young man born into American high society in the late 19th century, who gradually discovers that his beloved family and society are in reality profoundly false and corrupt. The analysis of this corruption in the novel is centered in the fact that Pierre's deceased and revered father has an unacknowledged, abandoned daughter whose existence Pierre discovers. Pierre attempts to stand up against this corruption and from there the unbreakable threads unwind steadily into tragedy. This is no melodrama or romantic fantasy, it is tragedy as objective and profound as anything created by Aeschylus or Sophocles. It is more bold and profound than anything ever conceived by Melville's contemporary, Hawthorne. But it connects Hawthorne with the Greeks in a most unexpected way: Pierre, or The Ambiguities is the only novel I know of that could be called an authentic Christian trgedy. What I mean is that Melville presents Pierre to us deliberately in a light that recalls classical tragedy all the way back to its mythological roots. He compares Pierre with the rebel, earth-born, giant, Enceladus, brother of the Titans, who perished in his struggle against the transcendent tyranny of Zeus. But though a giant, Enceladus was a mortal who could not overcome corrupt divine power. And early in the novel, in the first chapter, long before we are introduced to the comparison with Enceladus, Melville tells the reader clearly, even while he so beautifully describes the beauty of Pierre and his fiancee, Lucy, that we are dealing with a story of tragic fate, of doomed mortality colliding with divinity: Nemo contra Deum nisi Deus ipse ( No one against the Gods unless a God himself.) But the God that Pierre collides with is not Zeus, but the inscrutable Christian God who seemingly inspires him. The amazing ambiguity here is that it is by trying to be a Christian that Pierre, a beautiful, but mere, mortal, is brought relentlessly to his destruction. Why? For what possible purpose?
One of the most impressive and profound elements of this story is Pierre's relationship with his fiancee, Lucy, and his discovered sister, Isabel. Both of these amazing females, though real individuals, seem to be countering reflections of Pierre's tormented soul, one bright and glorious, the other dark and mysterious, both essential and necessary. What is the answer? What resolution can there be? What is the nature of this mortal? And of this God whose only voice is silence?
If you have not read Pierre, then you have not experienced the deepest places that American ficion has ever gone. Melville was ostracized and virtually exiled for writing Pierre. It went too far, too deep. America has never forgiven him, has never given him his rightful place, but he was and remains America's greatest artist.

I think of two points here than which nothing is more obvious.
1. This novel about a young man from high American society in the late 19th century who gradually discovers the spiritual corruption of his family, his society and of all ordinary human consciousness is a work of genius that remains more modern, more penetrating of frontiers, and more bold in form and content than any American novel before it or after it. It is in that small group of the most profound novels ever created.

2.America has never even begun to really absorb and integrate the genius of Melville, especially as it is manifested in this novel. Americans have so much time and opportunity to cultivate artistic sensitivity, but mostly they choose not to. Most 'educated' Americans have no familiarity with this novel. And this is not an accident. America has always been afraid of Melville, has rejected him, and turned him into a harmless museum-piece, a distinguished man of letters, but he is in reality America's horned black sheep, it's enfant terrible. Pierre is safely put away on dusty library shelves. But this book still burns with prophetic energy and one day the truth of its fire will burn through the walls that enclose it.
Stars? I would give this book enough stars too fill the sky.
"Enter this enchanted wood ye who dare."

I first read Moby Dick; or The Whale over thirty years ago and I didn't understand it. I thought I was reading a sea adventure, like Westward Ho! or Poe's Arthur Gordon Pym. In fact, it did start out like an adventure story but after twenty chapters or so, things began to get strange. I knew I was in deep water. It was rough, it seemed disjointed, there were lengthy passages that seemed like interruptions to the story, the language was odd and difficult, and often it was just downright bizarre. I plodded through it, some of it I liked, but I believe I was glad when it ended. I knew I was missing something and I understood that it was in me! It wasn't the book; it was manifestly a great book, but I hadn't the knowledge of literature or experience to understand it.

I read it again a few years later. I don't remember what I thought of it. The third time I read it, it was hilarious; parts of it made me laugh out loud! I was amazed at all the puns Melville used, and the crazy characters, and quirky dialog. The fourth or fifth reading, it was finally that adventure story I wanted in the first place. I've read Moby Dick more times than I've counted, more often than any other book. At some point I began to get the symbolism. Somewhere along the line I could see the structure. It's been funny, awesome, exciting, weird, religious, overwhelming and inspiring. It's made my hair stand on end...

Now, when I get near the end I slow down. I go back and reread the chapters about killing the whale, and cutting him up, and boiling him down. Or about the right whale's head versus the sperm whale's. I want to get to The Chase but I want to put it off. I draw Queequeg with his tattoos in the oval of a dollar bill. I take a flask with Starbuck and a Decanter with Flask. Listen to The Symphony and smell The Try-Works. Stubb's Supper on The Cabin Table is a noble dish, but what is a Gam? Heads or Tails, it's a Leg and Arm. I get my Bible and read about Rachel and Jonah. Ahab would Delight in that; he's a wonderful old man. For a Doubloon he'd play King Lear! What if Shakespeare wrote The Tragedy of The Whale? Would Fedallah blind Ishmael with a harpoon, or would The Pequod weave flowers in The Virgin's hair?

Now I know. To say you understand Moby Dick is a lie. It is not a plain thing, but one of the knottiest of all. No one understands it. The best you can hope to do is come to terms with it. Grapple with it. Read it and read it and study the literature around it. Melville didn't understand it. He set out to write another didactic adventure/travelogue with some satire thrown in. He needed another success like Typee or Omoo. He needed some money. He wrote for five or six months and had it nearly finished. And then things began to get strange. A fire deep inside fret his mind like some cosmic boil and came to a head bursting words on the page like splashes of burning metal. He worked with the point of red-hot harpoon and spent a year forging his curious adventure into a bloody ride to hell and back. "...what in the world is equal to it?"

Moby Dick is a masterpiece of literature, the great American novel. Nothing else Melville wrote is even in the water with it, but Steinbeck can't touch it, and no giant's shoulders would let Faulkner wade near it. Melville, The pale Usher, warned the timid: "...don't you read it, ...it is by no means the sort of book for you. ...It is... of the horrible texture of a fabric that should be woven of ships' cables and hausers. A Polar wind blows through it, & birds of prey hover over it. Warn all gentle fastidious people from so much as peeping into the book..." But I say if you've never read it, read it now. If you've read it before, read it again. Think Dostoevsky, Shakespeare, Goethe, and The Bible. If you understand it, think again.

It's always dangerous to label a book as a "masterpiece": that word seems to scare away most readers and distances everyone from the substance of the book itself. Still, I'm going to say that this is the Greatest American Novel because I really think that it is--after having read it myself.

Honestly, Moby Dick IS long and looping, shooting off in random digressions as Ishmael waxes philosophical or explains a whale's anatomy or gives the ingredients for Nantucket clam chowder--and that's exactly what I love about it. This is not a neat novel: Melville refused to conform to anyone else's conventions. There is so much in Moby Dick that you can enjoy it on so many completely different levels: you can read it as a Biblical-Shakespearean-level epic tragedy, as a canonical part of 19th Century philosophy, as a gothic whaling adventure story, or almost anything else. Look at all the lowbrow humor. And I'm sorry, but Ishmael is simply one of the most likable and engaging narrators of all time.

A lot of academics love Moby Dick because academics tend to have good taste in literature. But the book itself takes you about as far from academia as any book written--as Ishmael himself says, "A whale-ship was my Yale College and my Harvard." Take that advice and forget what others say about it, and just experience Moby Dick for yourself.

Finishing "Moby Dick" goes up there with my greatest (and few) academic achievements. It was a gruelling read, but---in the end---completely worthwhile.

I've been reading it for 6 months. I started over the summer, during an abroad program in Oxford, and I remember sitting outside reading when one of the professors came over, saw what I was reading, and said: "It's a very strange book, isn't it?"

Looking back, that might be the best way to describe it. The blurb from D.H. Lawrence on the back cover agrees: Moby Dick "commands a stillness in the soul, an awe...[it is] one of the strangest and most wonderful books in the world."

Now there are those who will say that the book's middle is unbearable---with its maddeningly detailed accounts of whaling. Part of me agrees. That was the hardest to get through. But, still, even the most dull subject offers Melville an opportunity to show off his writing chops. He's a fantastic writer---his text most resembles that of Shakespeare.

And, like one Shakespeare's characters, Melville sees all the world as a stage. Consider this beautiful passage from the first chapter:

"Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnifient parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces--though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives which being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced me to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill and discriminating judgment."

The end of "Moby Dick" informs the rest of the book, and in doing so makes rereading it inevitable. It is telling that Moby Dick doesn't appear until page 494. It is telling, because, the majority of the book is spent in anticipation---in fact, the whole book is anticipation. It's not unlike sex, actually---delaying gratification to a point of almost sublime anguish. What comes at the book's end, then, is mental, physical, and spiritual release (as well as fufillment).

The book leaves you with questions both large and small. I was actually most troubled with this question---What happened to Ishmael? No, we learn his fate at the book's end, but where was he throughout it? We all know how it starts---"Call me Ishmael"---and the book's first few chapters show him interacting with Queequeg and an innkeeper. But then we lose him onboard the Pequod---we never see him interact with anyone. No one ever addresses him. He seems to witness extremely private events---conferences in the Captain's quarters, conversations aboard multiple boats, and--what can only be his conjecture--the other characters' internal dialogue. Is he a phantom? What is he that he isn't? Somehow I think this question masks a much larger and more important one.

Try "Moby Dick." Actually, don't try it---read it. Work at it. Like lifting weights a bit heavier than you're used to, "Moby Dick" will strengthen your brain muscle. Don't believe those who hate it, they didn't read it. They didn't work at it. Be like Ishmael, who says: "I try all things; I achieve what I can." Or, more daringly, be like Ahab, whose ambition is his curse, but whose curse propels and writes the book itself.