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Over on Twitter, I asked for recommendations of little-known books that deserve more attention. Richard Pastore answered the call by recommending this one, a post-apocalyptic tale from the 1950s.

While reading it, I thought to myself that there is an easy way to summarize this book: “Catholic Fallout.” This describes it remarkably well, in my opinion, but since I’m guessing few of my readers have played any of those classic RPGs, more elaboration will be necessary.

The story begins with a young monk, Francis, holding a vigil in the desert. When a mysterious wanderer passes by his outpost, Francis uncovers a fallout shelter from the past nuclear war, which holds artifacts which appear to belong to “the Blessed Leibowitz”–an engineer from the pre-war era who, after surviving the nuclear holocaust, joined the church and strove to preserve knowledge during a Dark Age called “The Simplification.”

Francis’s discovery of the relics paves the way for the beatification of Leibowitz, and ultimately, after many years, the young monk makes his way to New Rome for an audience with the Pope himself.

Time–measured in centuries–passes. Technological progress begins, and with it comes a kind of renaissance, as well as feuding tribes and political machinations and scientific progress. All the while the Order of Saint Leibowitz carries on.

More time passes, until society has developed computers and off-world colonies. And, most significantly, nuclear weapons have returned, and the Order is once again faced with preserving their traditions and teachings in the face of horrific devastation.

The book, in short, is not really a feel-good tale. But it does include two of the hallmarks of 1950s and ’60s zeitgeist: space travel and nuclear war. In that sense, it’s very much a work of its time, and that, of course, is one of the great things about Vintage Sci-Fi Month: the opportunity to look back on what people of the past thought were the burning issues of the day.

Ah… perhaps that was an unfortunate choice of words. But, never mind! The techno-optimists of the era were enthralled by space travel, the techno-pessimists obsessed with nuclear armageddon. It’s clear enough that Miller, in addition to being a Catholic, was definitely in the pessimist category. And this is rather understandable when you learn he fought in World War II, and was present at the destruction of a Benedictine Abbey at Monte Cassino. It haunted him, and that comes through clearly in the text, as the cyclical destruction of all efforts to build civilization is perhaps the central theme of the book.

Usually, I don’t like generational epics. Stories that span huge swaths of time tend to leave me feeling distanced from the characters. Call me simple if you like, but I generally prefer my stories to follow one character, or group of characters.

However, while this book spans centuries, it definitely worked for me. Each set of characters was so carefully-drawn that I could relate to all of them, and get involved in their struggles. Which in turn made it all the more poignant when their time came, as it always does.

All right, I’ve tap-danced around the issue long enough; I can’t put it off any longer. This book involves some very weighty moral and religious ideas, and does not shy away from taking a stance on certain issues. How one feels about this may color one’s perception of the entire story.

I, however, am in no position to pontificate about such matters. I have my opinions, as everyone does, but in the grand scheme of things, I am just a thirty-something blogger who has probably consoomed more Content than is really healthy. It is not for me to sit in judgment of the philosophy of a man who led the life that Miller did, and saw the things he saw, as though I am somehow “above” him. Nothing is more obnoxious than to judge the past without at least being willing to ask how the past would judge the present.

So, yes; the last third especially might be off-putting to some readers. Nevertheless, I encourage approaching it with an open mind and an understanding of the author’s experiences. Seen in that light, it is an especially haunting and gloomy story, but one which I recommend to all sci-fi fans.

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After the rather depressing tale that was Childhood’s End, I needed something lighter to lift my spirits during this über-bleak month of January. I needed a cozy mystery. But, not just any cozy mystery; so I searched Amazon for cozy sci-fi mysteries and this came up.

It’s about a pair of twins, Milly and Tilly, who run a restaurant on a space station. But when the competitor who runs the diner across the way is found dead after having an argument with the twins, it’s up to them to find the real killer, with the help of their cybernetically-modified cat.

Is this deep, like Asimov and Clarke? Not even remotely. Is it goofy and amusing? Absolutely yes. It’s a breezy, funny, quick read with a lot of standard tropes of both sci-fi and cozy mysteries. And this reflects one of the great dichotomies in literature. As Chuck Litka reminded me on last week’s post, not everyone wants their sci-fi drenched in philosophy and intellectualism. Sometimes you just want to sit back and read a fun story.

And is there anything wrong with that? Nope, not a bit! Stories are meant to be primarily used as entertainment, and that is exactly what this is. Sure, it’s kind of unbelievable and the mystery in question is not especially tough to solve. That’s not the point. The point is to have fun. Otherwise, what are we even doing?

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I first read this book more than 20 years ago, when I was only a 12-year-old lad.  I remember enjoying it immensely, especially a certain plot twist about 1/3 of the way in. For years after that, I felt no hesitation about listing it as one of my favorite science-fiction books.

But, a curious thing happened as the years went by. When I would hear Clarke’s name or the book mentioned, I would think back and remember it fondly, but I realized I had only the vaguest memory of what actually happened in it. There were aliens, of course; and I remembered the revelation regarding their physical appearance very well, but what happened after that? I found I couldn’t recall.

I started to wonder what the book was actually about. After all, my 12-year-old self’s judgment is not always to be trusted, and the fact that I had forgotten huge swaths of the book made me wonder if it peaked at the Big Reveal scene, and perhaps the rest was mere twaddle.

So, what better excuse to go back and reread it than Vintage Science Fiction Month, during which we all revisit and review the classics of the genre? Vintage Sci-Fi Month was made for things like this, and you should be sure and check out all the posts related to it.

Now then, Childhood’s End. Again, as a boy, I thought it was a pretty cool story. But now, upon re-reading it with a mature eye…

…I think it is perhaps the greatest science-fiction novel of the 20th century, and it’s holding its own well into the 21st, as well.

The plot twist that blew my mind as a kid still works, sort of like a Twilight Zone punchline. The difference is, that’s only the beginning of the story, not the end. It’s only the end of Part I, after all. From there, it gets much more interesting.

In broad outlines, the story of Childhood’s End is that aliens come to Earth, demonstrate that they have vastly superior technology, and quickly begin to reign as benevolent overlords, so much so that they are actually called “the Overlords.” Under their firm but peaceful rule, humanity is shepherded into a new Golden Age of Peace and Plenty.

And yet… there is a strange sense of something not quite right about it all. The Overlords seem to have some greater purpose, yet no one can tell what it might be. Early on in Part II, we learn that the old customs have been shattered:

“…by two inventions, which were, ironically enough, of purely human origin and owed nothing to the Overlords. The first was a completely reliable oral contraceptive: the second was an equally infallible method—as certain as fingerprinting, and based on a very detailed analysis of the blood—of identifying the father of any child. The effect of these two inventions upon human society could only be described as devastating, and they had swept away the last remnants of the Puritan aberration.”

Clarke wrote this in 1953. The birth control pill was introduced in 1960. DNA testing came along in the 1980s. How’s that for some prescience?

Still, here we are in 2024. This is 40 -to-60 year old tech at this point. So what if a dude in the 1950s predicted the next 30 years? That’s like reading somebody in the 1800s predicted the existence of the airplane; a mere minor curiosity.

This middle part of the story dragged a little; although there is a scene with a Ouija board. Personally, I’ve always been suspicious of Ouija boards, largely because Art Bell, a man known for his openness and willingness to be exposed to the strange and surreal, unequivocally cautioned his listeners against using them, for reasons he refused to explain. When a man like that tells me not to do something, I listen.

In any case, the Ouija board in this story reveals key information to several characters, although exactly what it is does not immediately become clear. Instead, Part II ends on this haunting note:

“They would never know how lucky they had been. For a lifetime, mankind had achieved as much happiness as any race can ever know. It had been the Golden Age. But gold was also the color of sunset, of autumn…”

And then we come to Part III, which begins innocuously enough on an island colony of artists, called New Athens, created by a man who wanted to give humanity a chance to excel at something on their own merits, apart from the watchful eye of the Overlords.

As one of the residents of the island explains:

“There’s nothing left to struggle for, and there are too many distractions and entertainments. Do you realize that every day something like five hundred hours of radio and TV pour out over the various channels? If you went without sleep and did nothing else, you could follow less than a twentieth of the entertainment that’s available at the turn of a switch! No wonder that people are becoming passive sponges—absorbing but never creating. Did you know that the average viewing time per person is now three hours a day? Soon people won’t be living their own lives any more. It will be a full-time job keeping up with the various family serials on TV!”

Again, this was written in 1953, people. Nineteen Fifty-Three.

We can’t write this off like we did the stuff about the pill and the DNA testing; this is getting into the realm of eerie prophecy. Which is particularly disturbing considering where we’re about to go from here.

Gradually, it becomes apparent that human children are mutating into… something else. Some kind of inhuman psychic hive-mind consciousness that no longer recognizes their own parents. The Overlords ship them off to a sequestered colony, and people just… stop having children. That’s right, the human race ends.

Well, except for one guy who stowed away aboard an Overlord ship to visit their homeworld. They send him back, and thanks to relativity, he has only aged a little while everyone else is dead. Lucky him, he wins the special prize of getting to witness the psychic collective consciousness gang annihilate the Earth and ascend to the heavens.

The Overlords, who explain that they have witnessed this same phenomenon occur many times with many species, simply move on to their next assignment.

Here’s the weird thing about this book: the Overlords are practically as irrelevant to the plot as Indiana Jones is to Raiders of the Lost Ark. They really are neutral observers.

Which leads us to another realization: so many of Clarke’s other predictions came true, without the intervention of the Overlords. Should we feel a bit unsettled about what this means for the future?

Words fail me, reader; they really do. When I finished reading this book I was left with a haunting disquietude that was frankly rather hard to shake. The Overlords, and the implication that due to the non-linear nature of time, their appearance heralds the end of humanity, wasn’t even the most disturbing thing in the tale.

If you enjoy science-fiction at all, and given that you are reading this I presume that you do, then this book is a must-read.

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This is a collection of Christmas-themed science-fiction/fantasy short stories. You may be asking, “Why are you reviewing a Christmas book in early January?” Well, I could try to be clever and point out that Eastern Orthodox Christmas is on January 7. But, the actual truth of the matter is that I started reading it December 25, so I couldn’t very well review it before then, now could I?

The book includes five stories by five different authors. I’ll give very brief reviews of each, though the nature of short stories is such that I can’t say too much without spoiling them.

“Workshop Rebellion” by T.J. Marquis, which is a sort of dark fantasy re-imagining of Santa Claus as some one who does battle with ancient demons after they cast a spell over his elves. Very Robert E. Howard-esque.

“Grandpa Got Run Over by a Bane Deer” by Kaylena Radcliff. Also a dark fantasy with some unsettling monsters and hints of parallel universes, all uncovered by a very tired man on Christmas Eve. The image of the Bane Deer really stuck with me.

“Julinesse Pays A Visit: A Reversed Black Maria Story” by Jeff Stoner. This is a sci-fi tale, about Christmas on another planet where the controlled climate suddenly goes haywire and brings snow for the first time. Cozier and more light-hearted than the first two.

“The Fairy Tree” by William Jeffrey Rankin. This is a dream-like magical realism story about (what else?) Christmas fairies. Very ethereal, a bit like one of Lovecraft’s more mystical Randolph Carter stories in a way.

“Christmas Spirits” by Alexander Hellene. A fun adventure about a roguish Han Solo-type on a quest to get a bottle of wine for his grandmother as a Christmas gift. Sci-Fi action and banter; probably my personal favorite story in this collection.

The foreword by Katie Roome, who edited the collection, explains that it is intended to “provide you with a little holiday escape,” and indeed that’s exactly what it did for me. Obviously, it’s too late for you to read it at Christmas (unless you are Eastern Orthodox) but I’d say if you’re into speculative seasonal fiction at all, it’s a good one to bookmark for next year.

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As usual, I am using the last Friday of the year to do a recap of all the book reviews I wrote in the past twelve months.

In January I reviewed Henry Vogel’s pulp sci-fi adventure Trouble in Twi-Town. Then, for Vintage Science-Fiction Month, I enjoyed the oldest sci-fi book on record, A True Story by Lucian of Samosata, followed by Phillip McCollum’s A Nuclear Family. Then I reviewed a rare genre for me: biography, namely David C. Smith’s book on Robert E. Howard. I also celebrated Second Halloween with a review of C.S. Boyack’s The Midnight Rambler.

For February I reviewed Hank Bruce’s magical realism environmental novel A Prayer for My Mountain. Next up was another unusual one for me: a Wonder Woman comic. I followed that up with Sorcerers Lost by Zachary Shatzer (remember that name) and the epic alternate future-history unreliable narrator work of utter genius, Fitzpatrick’s War by Theodore Judson.

March began with the raunchy adventure story Romance Raiders of the Lost Continent, followed by a St. Patrick’s Day tale with Adam Bertocci’s Kiss Me, I’m Iris. Then I reviewed the classic mystery novel Dead Cert by Dick Francis. Finally, I completed Peter Martuneac’s Ethan Chase trilogy with Gold of the Jaguar.

April started off with The Last Adventure of Dr. Yngve Hogalum, then moved on to The Beach Wizard’s Big Mistake, another Shatzer tale. Up next was Fractured Oak, by Dannie Boyd, and I wrapped up the month with another Bertocci story, Wordsworth, Wilde and Wizards.

I began May with Queen’s Shadow for Star Wars day, and then Three for a Girl by Kevin Brennan. After that, Andrew Crowther’s sci-fi novel Down to Earth and yet another Bertocci tale, I’ll Never Forget You.

June started with my review of the little-known ghost story Grayling, or, Murder Will Out and Richard Harding Davis’ Soldiers of Fortune. Then, being in a Napoleonic mood, I reviewed Courage, Marshal Ney. Then–what else?–Shatzer’s Grab Bag followed by Kingsley Amis’s entertaining bit of literary criticism on the James Bond books.

July began with an entry from a genre near and dear to me: B.R. Keid’s military sci-fi Intrusion Protocol, After that, I reviewed the thriller Agent Zero and a Kevin Brennan classic, Yesterday Road. Then I polished off the month with another Shatzer tale, Molly McKeever and the Case of the Missing Clown.

For August, I reviewed the weird western The Widow’s Son by Ryan Williamson and The Fifth Student by Geoffrey Cooper. Next up was Christopher St. John’s delightful fantasy War Bunny and the sci-fi adventure The Matrioshka Divide by Isaac Young.

September began with The Stench of Honolulu by Jack Handey. Then it became technothriller month, beginning with Sheldon Pacotti’s disturbing and prophetic Demiurge. Then a more traditional technothriller followed, with Tom Clancy’s Rainbow Six. I capped off this techno-trilogy with Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty. And then, to finish the month, another Shatzer book: The Cowboy Sorcerer.

October was of course Halloween month, and therefore I reviewed the cozy mystery Halloween Hayride Murder, the football history (but secretly Halloween-related) Paul Brown’s Ghost, the collection of cryptid tales Phantom Menagerie by Megan Engelhardt, and finally Roger Zelazny’s A Night in the Lonesome October, which came recommended by Richard Pastore, and did not disappoint.

November began with a review of Bill Watterson’s long-awaited return, The Mysteries, followed by Kristin McTiernan’s time-travel Fissure of Worlds. Yeah, I only reviewed two books that month. November is rough for me; I’m always a little down after Halloween.

For December, I reviewed a romance novella by Napoleon Bonaparte (!), Brina Williamson’s Merona Grant and the Lost Tomb of Golgotha, and of course, to finish things out, another book by the prolific Shatzer, The Hero and the Tyrant.

I wish you all a very Happy New Year, and I look forward to discovering what wonderful books 2024 has in store for us!

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In my undergraduate poli sci classes, they told us that Aristotle defined three forms of government: rule by the one, rule by the few, and rule by the many. Of these, each came in good and bad flavors, so the good version of rule by the one is “monarchy” and the bad version is “tyranny.”

As the title suggests, Zachary Shatzer’s latest comic novel concerns itself with the latter, and we are quickly introduced to the land of Kragolia, which is ruled with an iron fist by the Grimheart family.

But within a few pages, the reigning Dictator and his eldest son perish in the course of terrorizing the population, and the role of dictator falls to Trin, the younger son, who is a mild lad with no appetite for cruelty. However, he is quickly urged on to more tyrannical acts by the senior advisor to the dictator, Mysborn.

Ah, Mysborn! One of the most interesting characters in the story, because he is a classic archetype from history. From Michael Psellus to Talleyrand, the figure of the clever, manipulative advisor is a familiar one. For fictional equivalents, see Grima Wormtongue or Sir Humphrey Appleby.  Mysborn is a man who uses deceit and manipulation to get his way.

At first, he thinks he’ll easily have his way with the soft-hearted Trin, but the reluctant dictator refuses to oppress the people. Eventually, he decides to sneak out of the castle, along with his faithful manservant Malcolm, and see the kingdom for himself.

Meanwhile, the people of Kragolia, led by a woman named Gail, are contemplating rebellion against the oppressive regime. But they’re not very optimistic about their chances, since the military might of the Empire seems overwhelming. That is, until a mysterious hero named Eric Strongbow appears, and rallies the resistance with his bravery, not to mention his good looks. He looks like “a conquering hero, but not the kind of conquering hero who had let his victories go to his head. No, his appearance was that of an easygoing sort of conquering hero. The kind you could make a mild joke about without fear that he would be obliged to slice open your torso to restore his sense of honor.”

I have to say it: men, what’s stopping you from looking like this?

As with all his books, Shatzer’s humorous prose sparkles throughout, and I love the style of the narration. It’s a sort of distant third-person tale, with occasional reminders that we are, in fact, being told a story, as the omniscient narrator makes frequent parenthetical asides. This style of storytelling has fallen out of favor lately, and I think it’s high time it made a comeback.

The thing that makes this book great, right up there with Shatzer’s wonderful Beach Wizard, is that it has a real emotional core to it. The scenes with Trin and his mother are perhaps the most poignant, although there are several others. While the book has a jolly tone, Shatzer is never afraid to shy away from moments of true emotion, and that gives it a certain weight that so many humorous stories lack.

For this is more than just a silly comedic adventure. It is also a commentary on government. Dare I say, it’s a kind of mirror for princes, meant to instruct on the virtues that make a hero and warn against the vices that make a tyrant. The contrast between the cruelty of Mysborn and the Grimheart regime vs. the heroism of Eric Strongbow is the distillation of the difference between Aristotle’s good and bad forms of government.

This is a wonderful story. On Twitter, I said it was “like if P.G. Wodehouse wrote fantasy,” and I’m hard-pressed to think of higher praise. Shatzer is a national treasure. (Admittedly, I don’t know what nation he resides in, but whichever one it is, he’s a treasure of it.) And I wish like anything I could persuade more people to read his books.

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Don’t ya just love good old-fashioned pulp adventure stories? You know, the kind where there’s a fearless adventurer on a quest for some long-lost treasure, joined by loyal companions, as well as maybe some not-so-loyal companions, and plenty of exciting battles, ancient puzzles, and terrifying monsters.

Well, this is the book for you. Look at that cover; isn’t that just everything you want in an adventure book? Drew Struzan couldn’t have done it better.

The protagonist of the story is Merona Grant, the daring mercenary treasure-hunter and her faithful dog Argos. When she finds herself down on her luck after being double-crossed, a wealthy aristocrat offers Grant a job to lead her on a hunt for an ancient treasure. Grant accepts, on the condition that her friend, the burly Russian pilot, Sasha Durov, joins them as well.

Together, along with the beautiful Carlotta and the timid Dr. Watt, the group sets out in search of adventure.

What follows is a tale of derring-do in the vein of The Mummy (the 1999 one) or Indiana Jones. Of course, those films were themselves homages to an earlier era of adventure fiction. Indeed, Merona’s mercurial personality reminds me more of Charlton Heston’s character Harry Steele in Secret of the Incas than of Dr. Jones. Kudos to Williamson for creating a new character and setting for a new generation of adventure lovers.

I’d been wanting to read a good treasure-hunting book ever since I finished Peter Martuneac’s latest tale, and this one proved to be just the ticket. If you liked any of the stories I referenced above, check this one out.

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Yes, you read that right.

I promise not to turn this into an all-Napoleon, all-the-time blog, but it just so happened that while looking something up as I was writing my review of the Ridley Scott film, I stumbled across the fact that the old Emperor of the French had written this short romance story in his youth.

The book was unpublished during Napoleon’s lifetime, and had to be gradually pieced together by scholars and collectors. That’s right; before he was renowned as a military genius, before he was Emperor of most of Europe, before he was regarded as either one of the most brilliant leaders or most ruthless tyrants ever to appear on the stage of History, Napoleon Bonaparte was, like so many of us, an indie author. Reader, how could I not review it?

The book tells the story of Clisson, a brave and accomplished young French officer, who has won great honors for his military victories, but who is unfairly slandered by enemies jealous of his success.

Um… okay, so there might be just a tiny bit of Mary Sue-ism here. Clisson is a thinly-veiled version of Napoleon himself. And Eugénie, the woman with whom he falls in love, is a thinly-veiled version of Désirée Eugénie Clary, a woman to whom he was engaged.

The story has the feel of a young man’s work. It’s big on passion and romance and adventure, and a bit short on realism. Not that there’s anything wrong with that; that’s very much as it should be.

A modern critic would no doubt rebuke Bonaparte for his reliance on telling instead of showing. But, this is just how people wrote back then, and plenty of classic works of literature do this all the time. So, maybe we can just ignore the modern critics on this point.

Still, there’s no question that drawing deep and multi-faceted characters is not Bonaparte’s strong suit. Clisson and Eugénie’s relationship feels not unlike one you might find in a YA novel. On the plus side, there are no sparkling vampires.

The story ends on a tragic note, which I wasn’t expecting. Napoleon always seems like a fellow who thought he could get out of any trouble, however dire. So the way he has Clisson’s story end up was surprising to me. (Then again, a tragic ending is in line with the original Mary Sue story.)

Overall, my reaction to the story was pretty indifferent. Not horrible, but also definitely not something anyone would find noteworthy, except for the fact it was written by Napoleon. But that in itself is pretty noteworthy! And so the next time you find yourself reading some unremarkable tale by an unknown author, just remember… you might be reading the work of one of the great icons of our age.

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It’s always tough to review sequels. Especially a sequel to a sprawling book like Sunder of Time, that has a large cast of characters and multiple different timelines. Thus, there are not only a lot of characters, but different versions of the same character. (Probably this is one of those books where it’s helpful to keep notes, so you can remember who is who.) And when you add in that I don’t want to spoil what happens in the first book, it’s pretty hard to explain the plot of this one.

So, what’s a poor book reviewer to do? I could just say that if you liked the first book, you’ll probably like the second one, too. And that’s true. But, of course, probably not very helpful. Especially if you haven’t actually read the first book yet. (My review is here.) I highly recommend it.

But as to this book, it carries on the story of the first one, although in an interesting way. I don’t think it’s a spoiler to say that while the first book takes place mainly in the distant past, this one is largely in the far future. But still, the same kind of intrigues and political machinations are there, as is the brisk pace and intense action.

I think what I’ll focus on here, to avoid giving away major plot spoilers, is McTiernan’s keen grasp of psychology. Everything the characters do is informed by this, perhaps most notably in the way one character uses subtle psychological tricks to manipulate people into giving him loyalty he really doesn’t deserve. There are people like this in real life, and knowing how these kinds of mind games work is helpful in dealing with them.

This is an excellent sequel to a very good book, and I’ll be interested to see where the series goes from here.

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If you asked me who is the greatest artistic genius my home state of Ohio has ever produced, I’d say Bill Watterson without hesitation. The creator of Calvin & Hobbes ranks close to Wodehouse in my mind for his sheer mastery of his medium. But really, Watterson was an expert practitioner of two forms, both the language and the art. He married his wit and his complex philosophical musings with gorgeous images, especially in the Sunday comics, which allowed him to show off his abilities in full color.

I loved Calvin and Hobbes as a kid, not least because Watterson captured beautifully the Ohio landscapes I would wander, much as Calvin does. It made the strip feel relatable to me. What’s really amazing is how I remember enjoying it when I was about nine years old, but upon revisiting it as an adult, I started to understand it differently; jokes that just seemed funny for their big words and philosophical abstractions now make sense to me on a deeper level.

For ten years, Watterson ruled the comics world, leveraging his creative talent to convince the papers to give him more colors and more control over the layout of his strip, until at last he could create the grand adventures he imagined for the boy and his tiger.

And then, in 1995, he stopped. He sent Calvin and Hobbes off into a vast empty white space to fill with their considerable imaginative power. The world he created lives on, of course, on the internet, where new generations of fans still enjoy the vibrant, hilarious, poignant wonder of that magical decade-long run.

But Watterson himself largely disappeared from the public eye. With good reason have other cartoonists compared him to Bigfoot; as he seldom gives interviews and only very rarely produces any art for public consumption. Indeed, he had in a sense passed into the realm of legend.

And now, in this, the year 2023, up he shows! It is as if one of the dinosaurs Calvin so vividly imagined has materialized in the park, trotted up to us, and said, “Well, I’m back! What’d I miss?”

Watterson returns from his 28 years of self-imposed exile with a peculiar volume; a “fable for grown-ups” called The Mysteries, co-illustrated with John Kascht. The book is short, only about 400 words in all, and illustrated with haunting black-and-white images. The story is this: the people of a kingdom are plagued by forces known only as “Mysteries”. The King sends his knights out to capture one of these “Mysteries.” When a lone knight returns with a Mystery in tow, the people study it and come away unimpressed.

One by one, “the Mysteries” become not so mysterious, and the people gradually believe themselves to have mastered the world, and bent it to their will. Indeed, they revel in their dominion over The Mysteries.

I won’t tell you how it ends up. But then, do I even need to? Yes, this is a classic Hubris Will Be Your Downfall story, and in the few words within, it tells a suitably cautionary tale.

The real showstopper here is the artwork, which is striking and memorable. If the goal was to create a story where each sentence is associated with a memorable image, so that it sticks in the reader’s mind, well, mission accomplished.

But what about the moral of the story? It is a fable, after all, and fables are supposed to teach some lesson. What lesson does this teach? That, as people have gradually lost the superstitious fear of the dark that medieval peasants possessed, they have become arrogant and vain, believing themselves somehow apart from nature? Have they, in attempting to use scientific rationalism to explain wild nature, stripped it of its beauty and romance, and set the stage for the world to be devoured by machines? (“Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice…” I hold with those who favor gray goo.)

Well, I mean, obviously that’s my interpretation. But it’s not like it’s a novel idea. The sense of looming techno-apocalypse is plain to see on every street. In the memorable words of H.P. Lovecraft:

A sense of monstrous guilt was upon the land, and out of the abysses between the stars swept chill currents that made men shiver in dark and lonely places. There was a daemoniac alteration in the sequence of the seasons—the autumn heat lingered fearsomely, and everyone felt that the world and perhaps the universe had passed from the control of known gods or forces to that of gods or forces which were unknown.

That was in 1920. It’s no secret! Why, everybody knows!

The question is, what do we do about it? Here, Watterson’s story grows rather vague; almost fatalistic or nihilistic. Which is a really odd thing for a fable.

Then again, maybe not. In a way, it’s the same as one of the most famous sayings in history. A pearl of wisdom that has been quoted many times many ways, but perhaps one of the best versions is from Abraham Lincoln:

It is said an Eastern monarch once charged his wise men to invent him a sentence, to be ever in view, and which should be true and appropriate in all times and situations. They presented him the words: “And this, too, shall pass away.” How much it expresses! How chastening in the hour of pride! How consoling in the depths of affliction!

In the words of the Stoics, Memento mori. In the words of the Church, “Remember, Man, that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.” In the words of Clint Eastwood, “We all have it comin’, kid.” I could go on, but you get the picture.

But again, this awareness of mortality implies a question: what, then, do we do with our lives? Which is of course the question. Watterson doesn’t give us the answer in this text, but since this is perhaps the most fundamental question of all of human existence, asking for it to be answered in a short picture book is perhaps unreasonable.

And yet… in a way, Watterson did give us the answer. Not in this book, but in the body of his work. Famously, Watterson fought to preserve his control over Calvin & Hobbes, and refused to sign away licensing rights, likely forfeiting millions of dollars by doing so. That is why we don’t have Calvin & Hobbes 2, or Calvin & Hobbes: The Animated Series, or The Gritty Origin Story of Miss Wormwood: A Calvin & Hobbes Prequel. (It would star Emma Stone and be available for streaming on Disney+.)

Watterson insisted on integrity. He wanted to make something great that was his, and share it with the world, and not have it diluted through commercialism or commodification. He just wanted to create art he cared about, and do it well. And he did. There’s a lesson in that.

And thus we see that the meaning of The Mysteries is in the careful work that Watterson and Kascht poured into it. Could they have made something not unlike it in a few minutes with an AI image generator? Sure, but the goal was to see what they could do by challenging themselves, pushing themselves (and each other) to find new ways of realizing their vision.

Like all the great artists, Watterson’s work is his philosophy, and his philosophy is his work. Is The Mysteries, on its own, a work of great art? Well, maybe. Some may complain that it is a rather slight piece, after nearly three decades of waiting for Watterson’s next act. Then again, isn’t the most famous painting in the world a small portrait of an ordinary-looking woman in muted colors? Like the fella once said, “There’s treasure everywhere!”