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This started as a comment to Mark Paxson, but then it occurred to me there may be other people as weird as me who might enjoy it too.

First, cue up a walkthrough video of an old mall, abandoned factory, or even an empty cruise ship, like the below. (Turn the sound off.)

      Then, cue up a long Sovietwave music playlist. This is a good one:

      Watch the first video while listening to the second one. It’s best if you can put the video on a big screen TV.

      Now, sit back and bask in melancholic techno-decadent nirvana! 🙂

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      As usual, I’m using the last Friday of the year to recap all the books I reviewed over the past 12 months.

      In January, I reviewed Adam Bertocci’s Travailing Through Time followed by the “choose-you-own-adventure”-esque Brutal Moon by Andrew Morris and Laura Dodd. For Vintage Sci-Fi Month, I reviewed The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K le Guin, and then it was time for a book I returned to over and over again throughout the year, Daniel J. Boorstin’s The Image. I finished of the month with the Lovecraftian Eldritch Declarations by Osvaldo Felipe Amorarte.

      For February, I reviewed the literary romance with the cheesecake-y cover, In Love with Eleanor Rigby by Stacey Cochran, followed by the disappointing The Martian General’s Daughter. Then I finished the month with a new Geoffrey Cooper thriller, The Plagiarism Plot.

      March began with Audrey Driscoll’s gorgeous and melancholy Winter Journeys, followed by C. Litka’s Glencrow Summer. I followed this up with the collected tweets of Adam Bertocci, Please RT, followed by the long-awaited review of Lorinda Taylor’s The Termite Queen Volume One: The Speaking of the Dead.

      April started off with Seth Wickersham’s It’s Better to be Feared, a book about football, but I tried to make an interesting even for those immune to the charms of the gridiron. Then I followed that up with The Pup and the Pianist by Sea Kjeldsen, and the stylish noir short story The Night Train by Evelyn Archer. I then reviewed The Beach Wizard and the Easy Mind, the third book in Zachary Shatzer’s wonderful Beach Wizard series, and finished the month off with a how-to book for Walpurgis Night: Night of the Witches by Linda Raedisch.

      I began May with John C. Reilly’s survey of apocalyptic literature The Perennial Apocalypse, followed by Norman Spinrad’s speculative sci-fi satire, The Iron Dream. Switching gears a bit, I reviewed Sterling North’s wistful memoir of his pet raccoon Rascal. I ended the month with Beth Brower’s The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion.

      June started with my review of C. Litka’s The Darval-Mers Dossier and the delightful sci-fi caper The Wrong Stop by Rex Burke. Then it was time for a deep dive into the history of Prussia with Christopher Clark’s Iron Kingdom.

      In July I reviewed Richard Pastore’s short story Twilight of the Guardians and Nelson DeMille’s The Book Case. Then it was time for another Shatzer book with his annotated commentary Wit and Assurance: Reviewing the Jests of 18th Century Humorist Joe Miller.

      For August, I reviewed the unfathomably depressing but also extremely well-written Stoner by John Williams, followed by a biography of Oliver Cromwell by Theodore Roosevelt. Sticking with that rebellious motif, I reviewed the alternate future YA adventure Rebel Heart by Graham Bradley. And then, to close out the month, I reviewed the weirdest, wildest, most off-the-wall book in Jeff Neal’s Awful, Ohio.

      September began with a long-expected party for the release of Mark Paxson’s absurdist political thriller masterpiece, The Jump. Next up was the military sci-fi adventure Go Tell the Spartans by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling and then, for a change of pace, the Autumn cozy mystery Candy Apple Curse by Eva Belle. Then I tackled Adam Bertocci’s darkest tale, The Fairfield County Friday Night Gridiron Bonanza

      October, also known as Halloween month, is when I devote myself to reviewing books related to the great spooky holiday. I started with John A. Keel’s classic of paranormal literature The Mothman Prophecies. Then I reviewed another Geoffrey Cooper thriller, Betrayal of Trust, and Graham Bradley’s action-adventure spin on the classic story of the Headless Horseman with Sleepless Hollow. Then it was on to Adam Bertocci’s much-anticipated first novel The Sorcery of White Rats. Then I did a comparison of Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot mystery Hallowe’en Party with the vaguely-related parody adaptation film by Kenneth Branagh. And finally, for the big day itself, I reviewed Ray Bradbury’s The Halloween Tree.

      November began with another Litka book, The Founders’ Tribunal, followed by a pair of reviews of related books: Paul Kingsnorth’s Against the Machine and the CCRU: Writings 1997 – 2003, which might as well have been called “For the Machine.”

      For December, I reviewed Yukio Mishima’s controversial Sun and Steel, then Bertocci’s latest short, McKenna gets Mercutio. I ended the year by reviving the Victorian tradition of the Christmas ghost story with The Green Room by Walter de la Mare.

      A very happy holiday season and a happy new year to you, dear reader. Let’s make 2026 another year of reviewing interesting books.

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      I’m a big believer in tradition. Not for nothing have friends compared me to Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof. Especially on topics like Halloween and college football, I am something of a zealot on matters of tradition. And I have to be! A tradition is like a plant: it must be nurtured, tended, and cared for. Otherwise it dies.

      Today’s book is an example of a dead tradition. The introduction informs us that “reading a ghost story on Christmas Eve was once as much a part of traditional Christmas celebrations as turkey, eggnog, and Santa Claus.” In Victorian times, the “Christmas ghost story” was a cliché, but now the only trace of it that still exists in the popular consciousness is in Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and its many adaptations. (In the words of Bart Simpson, “TV writers have been milking that goat for years.”)

      A cartoonist known as Seth aimed to revive this tradition, by republishing classic ghost stories, of which this is one, originally published in 1925. It’s about a young man who sees a ghostly woman in a bookstore, which was previously a residence. In a little-used annex, he finds a manuscript of poems she had written in life. Thinking perhaps it will put her spirit at rest, he decides to publish them himself.

      Now, you might say, that sounds like a simple enough story. And it is—but the Victorians had another tradition, you see, and that tradition is also preserved in this volume. That tradition is: incredibly overwrought prose.

      I’m no stranger to complex writing. I grew up on Gilbert, Hardy, and Lovecraft, you know. I’m not one of those people who thinks writing should be as concise as possible, as I’ve said more than once. But damn, this thing is something else. Everything is described in the minutest detail, and once you’ve got through reading it, you realize that you don’t know much more than when you started. It reminded me of Henry James, only more so.

      It’s not actually a bad story in itself. It has kind of a twist, and it’s a twist that I think will appeal to writers in particular. I’ll give you a hint: how would you feel if someone published your drafts without permission? But the problem is that I had to plow through so much ornate verbiage to get to it that by the end I’m like, “is that it?”

      That said, maybe it would work better read aloud to friends by firelight on a cold December evening, while drinking eggnog. Perhaps eggnog mixed with a goodly helping of rum. Then you and your friends could enjoy the story together, and engage in the delightful parlor game of debating why the room was green and what it symbolizes. And isn’t that the real point of reading?

      Well, no, of course it’s not. That would be silly. Still, like the ghost of Maiden’s Peak haunting the summer festival, I enjoy keeping alive all the old legends that people have forgotten over the years. And I must thank Lydia Schoch for bringing this book to my attention. It took four years, but I finally got around to reading it! 🙂

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      They call him the Bard for a reason. Shakespeare took the English language and used it like he owned it, constantly inventing memorable turns of phrase. He was so good at it that by now it actually works against him. You’ll be watching a Shakespeare play and somebody says something and you roll your eyes and go “oh, that old cliché… oh, wait,” suddenly remembering that it wasn’t a cliché back then.

      We still have some creative users of the English language with us today, even as modern communication technology homogenizes speech patterns. Adam Bertocci is one of them, and his latest book shows off his skill at the playing of words.

      It’s a simple enough story, about a teenaged girl named McKenna who is cast as Mercutio in her high school’s production of Romeo and Juliet. Now, I have to confess my ignorance: I’d forgotten there even was such a character in R & J, if I ever knew it. It’s not my favorite Shakespeare—give me Macbeth or better yet, Coriolanus, any day.

      But anyway, McKenna is assigned the rôle, as people used to call it, and it’s a tough challenge for her, because Mercutio, in case you also forgot, is a male. So she has to get in touch with her masculine side, and she figures that the best way to do that is hang out with her brother’s friends, including the boy she has a crush on.

      What follows is a typically Bertoccian mix of wit and philosophy. Because of the age of the characters, it’s less about the angst of figuring out life as an adult, and more about the experience of growing up in the first place. As a result, it has more of a carefree, breezy quality to it, which is exactly as it should be.

      I could go on, but I’ve been rallying people to read Bertocci’s books for years now, and I have a mind to keep on doing it. So what are you waiting for? Get out there and read it already!

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      I promise, I really will get back to this blog’s main purpose of reviewing indie books soon. This strange detour we have been on for the past few weeks is actually related to that project, albeit—in typical Ruined Chapel style—not in an obvious way.

      You see, I am trying solve a problem. The problem is what we might call ensloppification. (There’s another term, but I decline to use it.) In other words, why is everything becoming awash in slop? It’s getting hard to even find the kind of books I enjoy reading, due to the fact that the entire market for books is now being flooded with slop. Not all of it is AI-generated slop either, though I think some non-trivial and swiftly growing amount is.

      Nor is this problem limited to the realm of books. Every facet of life is subject to this problem. There is a profound feeling among people my age that everything has gotten worse in a significant, yet undefinable way since the end of the 20th century. Maybe this is just nostalgia. But I submit to you that it isn’t. That it is rather the acceleration of trends documented by (among others) Paul Kingsnorth and Daniel J. Boorstin. These trends have been with us for centuries, but are now becoming increasingly large parts of life.

      Which is not to say they are all bad. As one commenter pointed out, Kingsnorth’s “Machine” has brought with it innumerable material benefits. And when you come right down to it, slop itself can be viewed as a good. Give a starving man slop, and he’ll enjoy it as though it were a banquet. Give a gourmand a banquet, and he may well complain that the meal is ruined because the appetizers included plain gouda when he specifically asked for smoked. It’s all a matter of perspective.

      That’s why I like to seek out different, rare perspectives. The author of today’s book is a case in point. In my opinion, Yukio Mishima is probably the greatest ultranationalist bisexual samurai bodybuilder ever to be nominated for the Nobel Prize for Literature. If you can find anyone else at the intersection of that Venn diagram, I’d like to hear about them.

      So what is Sun and Steel about? Well, the truth is, it’s a self-help book. But, um, not exactly a typical self-help book.

      The quick summary is that Mishima was a quiet, sickly, bookish youth who demonstrated great facility with words, and not so much with sports and physical activity. But later in life, he realized the importance of physical exertion and muscular development to complement his artistic and aesthetic sensibility. So he started working out with weights and getting fresh air and sunshine, and in doing so, developed a closer connection with his own body.

      That’s the CliffsNotes version. But see, there’s more to how Mishima approaches this than “lift heavy stone, make sad head voice quiet.” As in:

      It was thus that I found myself confronted with those lumps of steel: heavy, forbidding, cold, as though the essence of night had in them been still further condensed. 

      He makes lifting a dumbbell sound like a magic ritual in communion with powerful spiritual forces. They should have given him the Nobel just for that. And he’s not done:

      Muscles have gradually become something akin to classical Greek. To revive the dead language, the discipline of the steel was required; to change the silence of death into the eloquence of life, the aid of steel was essential. 

      Of course, this isn’t actually what Mishima wrote. It’s a translation from the Japanese. But something tells me it’s a good translation, because that sticks with you.

      In summary, exercise strengthens not only the body, but the mind as well. People forget this, but the mind isn’t just the brain. It’s more complex than that, and anyone who has ever done any kind of physical exercise knows that it has a noticeable effect on one’s mental state.

      So far, so good. But now, we have to talk about the more problematic aspects of Mishima’s work. You see that subtitle about “Art, Action, and Ritual Death”? Yes, well, it’s time we talked about that last bit. Part of Mishima’s desire for a powerful physique was driven by his wish to die young as an impressive and tragic figure, rather than wasting away in old age.

      What’s more, he accomplished this by committing ritual suicide after attempting—with little hope of success, which he must have realized—to inspire the military to overthrow the Japanese government.

      Now, it should go without saying, but this is the internet, so I will say it: Ruined Chapel does not endorse these activities. The fact that I admire Mishima’s writing should not be confused with support of all his actions. Suicide is never the answer, and as for his subversive activities, well, while I am not terribly familiar with the politics of mid 20th-century Japan, (or any other period Japan, for that matter) I do have some general comments on the concept.

      Do you know why popular opinion holds that the American Revolution was awesome, but the French Revolution was super creepy? Part of the reason might be that America is a global superpower that spreads its own version of history everywhere, but I think another part of it is that the Americans didn’t insist on destroying the British monarchy. A lot of the revolutionaries probably would have if they could have, but because of the Atlantic Ocean, they couldn’t. So, they were forced to settle for making a new government somewhere else.

      Which is actually the much cooler thing to do. If you try to take over the existing government, then even if you succeed, you’re just taking on their problems. It’s like the Statutory Duel in The Grand Duke: “The winner must adopt / The loser’s poor relations / Discharge his debts, / Pay all his bets, / And take his obligations.” After their revolution, the new French government had the same problems as the old one. Even the most obsessive, hyper-focused, and determined administrative nerd of the age couldn’t fix the country’s fundamental problems. Much better to start anew someplace else.

      So, in summary, I approve of Mishima’s ideas on the relationship of body and mind, of the inadequacy of words to express certain feelings. I do not approve of his ideas regarding ritual death and leading futile coup attempts. Now that that’s cleared up, we can focus on the important point: how all this relates to the problem of slop I noted earlier.

      As the last several posts have discussed, we live in an increasingly technological, mechanical, and fundamentally anti-biological epoch. Our shelter from the harsh realities of the natural world means that our primary emotional experiences come in the form of transmitted images, produced artificially for our passive entertainment.

      Now, a lot of people have started to notice this, and they are bothered by it. For example, I cannot tell you how many articles and videos I’ve read and watched about how movies nowadays seem so fake and lifeless. This is a valid critique, but it also does not go far enough.  It’s true that Lawrence of Arabia looks more realistic than Marvel Spandex Brigade #7000, but that makes it easy to forget that Lawrence of Arabia is also fake. Sir David Lean was standing behind the camera, capturing the perfect shot, which he and Anne V. Coates then edited for our consumption. Everything nowadays is so fake that the artisanal, meticulously-crafted fakes of yesteryear seem real to us.

      (This, by the way, is why Boorstin is so valuable. He was writing in an era that people of my generation look back on as comparatively brimming with genuine reality—and it was—but that Boorstin already saw as thoroughly laced with the seeds of the fake and the simulated.)

      This is where Mishima comes in. Reality is not in images or even words, much as it pained a wordsmith like Mishima to admit. Reality is muscle, it is sweat, it is the “runner’s high” that comes once you are thoroughly exhausted from physical exercise.

      Most important, of course, is that reality is not always a pretty picture. Rather it is chiaroscuro of both pleasant and unpleasant things, and the true experience of reality must contain elements that are not strictly pleasurable, at least as the term is normally understood. Physical exercise is the perfect distillation of this concept, because it is an activity that can feel great and hurt like hell at the same time.

      Understanding this strange duality, accepting that pain is a part of experiencing actual life, as opposed to consooming slop, is the philosophical insight at the core of Mishima’s writing and his aesthetic sensibility. It is also, in my opinion, the key to experiencing life after Kingsnorth’s “Machine.”

      Note that I chose my words there very carefully. I did not say “resist” or “fight” or “destroy” the Machine. As Kingsnorth documented exhaustively, and then somehow himself failed to understand, people have been going against the Machine for over 4,000 years, and they have made no progress on getting rid of it. Despite some of the more occult takes that I’ve entertained, I ultimately don’t think the Machine is a supernatural force. It is just a thing. It does some good things and it does some bad things. Trying to fight it is like trying to fight the existence of atmospheric pressure.

      Rather, what we are seeking is a way to survive in the absence of the Machine, just in case it stops. A way to find meaning in life separate from anything Machine-related, whether good or bad. Mishima’s philosophy is the philosophy of someone who has set himself apart from the world of the Machine, and learned to accustom his mind to the harshness of physical reality. Clearly, not everything he found there was idyllic, and to live in reality is by no means synonymous with living happily. It is only a start, not a final goal to be achieved. And as the old saying goes, the best time to start was 30 years ago. The second-best time to start is now.