Book Report: Boundary Waters

21. William Kent Krueger, Boundary Waters (1999) (10/20/25)

Still in the mood for something light—by which I usually mean a mystery, something with a strong plot to hold my interest—I picked up the second in this series set in the far north of Minnesota. (I reviewed the first one two months ago.) This one takes us deep into the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, where a young country western star, known as Shiloh, has sought refuge—and all sorts of people show up looking for her, several of them claiming to be her father. You can see why she needed a break! Though as we learn, her reasons were less ones of escape and more of needing/wanting to find her true self, and to do so she has returned to the land, and people, of her youth.

We get a bigger, very enjoyable dose of Ojibwe/Anishinaabe culture this time, as a young Native boy, Louis Two Knives, takes the lead in the hunt for Shiloh. He used to accompany his uncle, Wendell, on regular visits to Shiloh, supply and mail runs, during which Wendell taught the boy the old ways, the old stories. But now Wendell has gone missing.

The story loops back to an incident fifteen years earlier when Shiloh's mother was killed; various suspects were identified, but no one was ever arrested. Now, FBI agents from that old case turn up, as does Shiloh's adoptive father. And a couple of very bad people also arrive, kicking off the story. 

Then too, there's Cork O'Connor, former sheriff of the town of Aurora, who has taken up running—he recently ran his first marathon—and turns out to be handy with a canoe. He has close, if complicated, ties with Wendell's brother, who requests his help. Cork's wife, Jo (they're estranged but working thing out), and family play a larger background role as well. Jo happens to be the attorney for the Tribal Council, so gets pulled in as a large-scale search is mounted. 

There's lots of good action, and I especially enjoyed "seeing" the BWCA, a place I've always wanted to go (except for the bugs!). I was pleased to learn that one isn't obligated to see it by canoe—there are also hiking trails. Not that I'll ever actually use that information, most likely, but it's still nice to know...

I was well enough satisfied with the dénouement of the story, including the ultimate stakes. I'll read another of Krueger's books.

Book Report: Death at the Sign of the Rook

20. Kate Atkinson, Death at the Sign of the Rook (2024) (10/16/25)

This book was a mess. It's as if Atkinson had an idea of a story—the theft of a possible Raphael, from a down-at-the-heel manor estate with an assortment of residents and tenants. A story she went with for a while—including the possible earlier theft of another grand master, at another estate. Until there was nowhere else to go. And then, oh! look! a murderer has just escaped from prison. Maybe he can shake things up! And oh, let's throw in a debilitating snowstorm as well!

When all that wasn't enough, Atkinson decided to wrap the entire confection in a traveling players scenario. There! An unsatisfyingly complicated mystery with too many characters.

That said, the writing is good, often drolly amusing. And I do like the main protagonist, PI Jackson Brodie, whom I met in the first of the series (this was the sixth). But I had reservations then, too—at the cleverness of the plot, though that shouldn't be a slight. Still, I guess I'm happier with simpler tales. Will I read another in the series? Possibly. But I will have to approach it as a confection, and justify the choice by wanting to learn more about Brodie. I'll have to remember that I need to be in a certain mood.

55. Dog breeds

I am reading a schlocky mystery right now which mentioned a couple of dog breeds in passing: some sort of terrier, and a Leonburger, with its sweet disposition. I had never heard of a Leonburger, so I looked it up. Turns out it's a huge breed of a dog—so yeah, not for me. 

Having never heard of that particular breed, though, I wondered what others were out there. Medium-sized ones, for example. And HA! 166 breeds just in A–D on the Wikipedia list of "extant breeds." Granted, these "breeds" are not all recognized by any major kennel club, but my own darling doodle Milo is not recognized by any major kennel club, so what do I care? These dogs all have a name, somewhere, somehow, and that's enough.

I'll just mention here a few of the breeds whose names I find especially winning, one from each letter of the alphabet, chosen by their musicality or oddity or geographicality:

alopekis (Greek origin)

bankhar dog (Russian, Mongolian)

chongqing (China)

drever (Sweden)

erbi txakur (Spain)

fila brasileiro (Brazil)

gascon santongeois (France)

huntaway (New Zealand)

Irish terrier (Ireland)

jagdterrier (Germany

kombai (India)

lagotto romagnolo (Italy)

McNab (United States)

Newfoundland (Canada)

otterhound (England)

pungsan (Korea)

rafeiro do Alentejo (Portugal)

Saarloos wolfdog (Netherlands)

tamaskan (Finland)

viszla (Hungary)

Welsh terrier (Wales)

xoloitzcuintle (Mexico)

Yakutian laika (Russia)

zerdava (Turkey

I only had to do one reshuffling to make this a geographically diverse list. And many countries were omitted. This breeding of dogs is a universal thing. It's something that draws us all together. Shouldn't we be focusing on those things that draw us all together? 

Dogs do. For sure.

Here's a picture I took today of my beloved goldendoodle, Milo. He'll be fifteen years old in another couple of weeks. He's showing his age. But he also makes plain his love of life.

We love our Milo so much.

54. Berlin Wall

The opening credits of The Big Bang Theory (our main go-to show at the moment) comprise 121 images that encapsulate the history of the planet Earth. We like to play the game of pausing, randomly, on one of those snapshots and marveling at its significance. Tonight, we hit one we'd never seen before—which is striking, since we're on our second go-round of this 279-episode show. You'd think we'd've seen them all.  

The image we landed on: the graffiti'd Berlin Wall:  

Which got me thinking: of course I've seen images of the Berlin Wall. Haven't I? In spy movies, for example. The Spy Who Came in from the Cold. No?

I did a little research. My first good find was a list of the "top 11 films about the Berlin Wall," which includes Wings of Desire 

at the number 1 spot, as well as a bunch more films I perhaps need to see.

And then I searched for photos of the wall generally. And found these.

Today, 36 years later, the wall is mostly gone. One remnant that remains is the Berlin Wall Memorial on Bernauer Strasse:

It was never a big wall, but it—together with the police state that created it—was certainly formidable. I of course think of the stupid wall on my country's southern border, and the Great Wall of China, and the insanity of trying to keep any territory unchanging, any people from mingling.

I saw a piece of the wall not too long ago on a visit to Seattle, and felt content that the wall was busted down and spread far and wide, no longer a barrier:

But really, I think a visit to Berlin proper is called for. I've never been there. It's a world-class city. Ich spreche deutsch. Warum nicht? Jawohl! Geh ma! I will have to include Bernauerstr. on my sightseeing itinerary.

53. Gary Oldman in conversation with Stephen Colbert

This is a compilation post, because I just discovered that recently—six months ago—Stephen Colbert did a wonderful interview with (interview-shy) Gary Oldman, and it exists on YouTube in several segments. And I will want to watch them all again, because . . . Gary Oldman! Gary Oldman's laugh! Plus, Colbert is a terrific interviewer, and Oldman was in form. So, here you go. Maybe not in order, I can't tell. I hope I caught them all.

And of course, the Colbert Questionnaire:

And finally, here's another, related, interview with several of the Slow Horses cast and Colbert:

That's enough. I'm waiting until all the episodes of season 5 of Slow Horses drop, and then you know I'll be binge-watching. It's a wonderful series of books, and the filmic rendition is perfect.

Plus, I guess I need to go back and watch more of Gary Oldman's filmography, which according to iMDB is 107 strong (including not a few video games). Maybe starting with ones rated above 7 (not including said video games):

Oppenheimer (Harry Truman)

Darkest Hour (Winston Churchill)

Dawn of the Planet of the Apes (Dreyfus)

The Dark Knight Rises (Commissioner Gordon)

Lawless (Floyd Banner)

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (George Smiley)

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2 (Sirius Black)

Kung Fu Panda 2 (Shen, voice)

The Dark Knight (Gordon)

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Sirius Black)

Harry Potter and the Golbet of Fire (Sirius Black)

Batman Begins (Jim Gordon)

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Sirius Black)

Beat the Devil (a short; Devil)

Greg the Bunny (TV series; Gary Oldman)

Interstate 60 (O. W. Grant)

Friends (TV series; Richard Crosby)

Tracy Takes On . . . (TV series; hairdresser)

The Fifth Element (Jean-Baptiste Emanuel Zorg)

Murder in the First (Associate Milton Glenn)

Immortal Beloved (Ludwig van Beethoven)

Léon: The Professional (Stansfield)

Timewatch (TV series; Lee Harvey Oswald, voice)

True Romance (Drexl Spivey)

Dracula (Dracula)

JFK (Lee Harvey Oswald)

Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead (Rosencrantz)

State of Grace (Jackie)

Prick Up Your Ears (Joe Orton)

Sid and Nancy (Sid Vicious)

52. "Things I Didn't Know I Loved" by Nâzim Hikmet

A poem today, one that Mark Doty mentioned yesterday in our workshop (a new session just begun) in response to the poem I offered up for critique. 

Nâzim Hikmet (1902–1963) is considered the first modern Turkish poet, with his interests in Futurism and avant-garde free verse. Raised in Istanbul by a Turkish father and German-Polish-French-Georgian mother, he shifted back and forth between Turkey (some of that time spent in jail for his radical politics) and the Soviet Union and Eastern Block, leaving Turkey for the final time in 1951. He died in Moscow in 1963. (The photo here is from 1956.)

(As a side note, His poem "Kız Çocuğu," or "The Girl Child," also known as "I Come and Stand at Every Door," "I Unseen," and "Hiroshima Girl," conveys a plea for peace by a seven-year-old girl, ten years after she perished in the atomic bomb attacks on Japan. It is the basis for an antiwar song that has been recorded variously by Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, and the Byrds.) 

Things I Didn't Know I Loved

it's 1962 March 28th

I'm sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train

night is falling

I never knew I liked

night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain

I don't like

comparing nightfall to a tired bird

I didn't know I loved the earth

can someone who hasn't worked the earth love it 

I've never worked the earth

it must be my only Platonic love

and here I've loved rivers all this time

whether motionless like this they curl skirting the hills

European hills crowned with chateaux

or whether stretched out flat as far as the eye can see

I know you can't wash in the same river even once

I know the river will bring new lights you'll never see

I know we live slightly longer than a horse but not nearly as long as a crow

I know this has troubled people before

     and will trouble those after me

I know all this has been said a thousand times before

     and will be said after me

I didn't know I loved the sky

cloudy or clear

the blue vault Andrei studied on his back at Borodino

in prison I translated both volumes of War and Peace into Turkish

I hear voices

not from the blue vault but from the yard

the guards are beating someone again

I didn't know I loved trees

bare beeches near Moscow in Peredelkino

they come upon me in winter noble and modest

beeches are Russian the way poplars are Turkish

"the poplars of Izmir

losing their leaves . . .

they call me The Knife  . . .

     lover like a young tree . . .

I blow stately mansions sky-high"

in the Ilgaz woods in 1920 I tied an embroidered linen handkerchief

        to a pine bough for luck

I never knew I loved roads

even the asphalt kind

Vera's behind the wheel we're driving from Moscow to the Crimea

             Koktebele

       formerly "Goktepé ili" in Turkish

the two of us inside a closed box

the world flows past on both sides distant and mute

I was never so close to anyone in my life

bandits stopped me on the red road between Bolu and Geredé

         when I was eighteen

apart from my life I didn't have anything in the wagon they could take

and at eighteen our lives are what we value least

I've written this somewhere before

wading through a dark muddy street I'm going to the shadow play

Ramazan night

a paper lantern leading the way

maybe nothing like this ever happened

maybe I read it somewhere and eight-year-old boy

         going to the shadow play

Ramazan night in Istanbul holding his grandfather's hand

 his grandfather has on a fez and is wearing the fur coat

  with a sable collar over his robe

 and there's a lantern in the servant's hand

 and I can't contain myself for joy

flowers come to mind for some reason

poppies cactuses jonquils

in the jonquil garden in Kadikoy Istanbul I kissed Marika

fresh almonds on her breath

I was seventeen

my heart on a swing touched the sky

I didn't know I loved flowers

friends sent me three red carnations in prison

I just remembered the stars

I love them too

whether I'm floored watching them from below

or whether I'm flying at their side

I have some questions for the cosmonauts

were the stars much bigger

did they look like huge jewels on black velvet

      or apricots on orange

did you feel proud to get closer to the stars

I saw color photos of the cosmos in Ogonek magazine now don't

 be upset comrades but nonfigurative shall we say or abstract

 well some of them looked just like such paintings which try to

 say they are terribly figurative and concrete

my heart was in my mouth looking at them

they are our endless desire to grasp things

seeing them I could even think of death and not feel at all sad

I never knew I loved the cosmos

snow flashes in front of my eyes

both heavy wet steady snow and the dry whirling kind

I didn't know I liked snow

I never knew I loved the sun

even when setting cherry-red as now

in Istanbul too it sometimes sets in postcard colors

but you aren't about to paint it that way

I didn't know I loved the sea

      except the Sea of Azov

or how much

I didn't know I loved clouds

whether I'm under or up above them

whether they look like giants or shaggy white beasts

moonlight the falsest the most languid the most petit-bourgeois

strikes me

I like it

I didn't know I liked rain

whether it falls like a fine net or splatters against the glass my

 heart leaves me tangled up in a net or trapped inside a drop

 and takes off for uncharted countries I didn't know I loved

 rain but why did I suddenly discover all these passions sitting

 by the window on the Prague-Berlin train

is it because I lit my sixth cigarette 

one alone could kill me

is it because I'm half dead from thinking about someone back in Moscow

her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue

the train plunges on through the pitch-black night

I never knew I liked the night pitch-black

sparks fly from the engine

I didn't know I loved sparks

I didn't know I loved so many things and I had to wait until sixty

 to find it out sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train

 watching the world disappear as if on a journey of no return

            19 April 1962

            Moscow

51. Time capsule

This evening we watched the second episode of the newest season of the Great British Baking Show, with a focus on biscuits (i.e., cookies). The showstopper involved creating a time capsule plus five self-defining things to plant in said capsule. Many of the bakers included dogs (we all love our dogs!); there was a fish for enjoying fishing; one woman had a marvelous articulated figure of herself on the GBBS; another included a portrait of her parents, back in Sri Lanka. 

Which got me to thinking about what I might include. 

Milo—of course: we all love our dogs!

a pair of hiking boots—for my love of climbing, mountaineering, hiking, walking 

a book—for my career as an editor, for my love of reading

an airplane—for all the travel I've done, most of it by plane

I'm not sure about number 5, though. 

What do I love? It's a real question.

I asked David what his five would be, and he began with Milo (of course!), on to music and math, then for his fifth he went for a heart—a heart for his love for me. Um, no. Maybe a heart for being alive and, hopefully, appreciating that fact. But for me? 

Sure, sure, sure, we're each other's helpmeet, support, partner, love. But it feels somehow trivializing to try to render all that as an object in a time capsule. Plus, what does the fact that we're each other's spouse really say about us? (Okay, I suppose you could say the same of putting Milo as number 1. But then again, maybe Milo represents something bigger, that is also encompassed by a heart: love, caring, our capacity for connection and devotion.)

Okay, I've given it two seconds of thought, and I think my number 5 will be a cloud. A cloud for beauty, for life-giving rain and blanketing snow, for evanescence, for the hugeness of the sky, for the cooling shadow that's created when the sun moves behind a cloud on a hot day, for all the creatures and stories we find in clouds when lying on our back on a hot slab of granite letting our imagination fly, for this amazing earth without which I wouldn't exist. 

Though like a cloud, I might change (my mind) entirely if I ever actually have to do anything as taxing as plant five tokens of my self in anything as optimistic as a time capsule.