Hall of Cottage, George Higgins (365 Books, Day 175)

This is from Sunday. I am hoping to catch up presently and not fall behind again, but let us just say that for the next couple of weeks things may be erratic-- if you don't see a review on a particular day, it doesn't mean I've stopped reading, I just feel like I've been hit by a car. That's not an exaggeration. I was hit by a car in college once, and I remember it quite distinctly. However, writing these reviews seems to have become enough of a habit that I get a little twitchy if I don't, and people seem to like even the reviews I've written when not technically really awake or mentally present, so I may as well do what I can.

Anyway. On our mantelpiece there are two sets of books: one side has things people in the house have written or contributed to (Thrud's dissertation, gaudior's dissertation, my poetry etc.) and the other has things people in the house have been helpful with in some way (the anime publications we've provided research data for, Cloud & Ashes, etc.). I noticed a while ago there was this book on the mantelpiece which I'd never heard of, and I had no idea what it was, so I asked Thrud. It turns out to be by her grandfather, George Higgins, and is a self-published biography of a doctor who helped found the hospital Higgins worked at as a surgeon for many years.

I decided to read it because I was curious about Thrud's grandfather, but also because I don't read much that's self-published, and I wanted to know what the differences would be between this and a book which sold to a conventional small press. Clearly it mattered to Higgins very much, or he wouldn't have chosen to do it, but I wasn't sure whether this would be a case of something which has too limited a readership to sell or whether it wouldn't be done well enough.

A little of both, I think. It's a biography of Dr. Richard J. Hall (1856-1897), the first American surgeon to successfully perform an operation for appendicitis. As a brilliant young doctor in New York City, Hall published several papers on abdominal operations and seemed ready to become one of the most famous and prominent physicians in the country; unfortunately, his research interests led him to the then-new study of cocaine solutions for use in local and general anesthesia, and self-experimentation quickly addicted him. After repeated physical and mental breakdowns, he relocated his family to Santa Barbara, California, where the drug would be less accessible, and became the founding surgeon of Cottage Hospital there (still in existence today). In a piece of painful irony, he developed appendicitis himself at the age of thirty-nine, and, as there was no other surgeon on the West Coast able to perform the operation, died before he could successfully teach anyone how to save him.

I can understand why a writer would be attracted to this story-- its multiple reversals, obvious might-have-beens, and ability to shed light on the state of American medical practice at the time make it a great centerpiece for historical work in a variety of directions. However, the lack of primary source material is a major hindrance-- Higgins has as far as I can tell unearthed everything possible, including Hall's published papers and his few surviving pieces of correspondence, and there's just not much there. If it were all put in order, carefully organized, and explained fully, I think a good writer could get a fifty-page pamphlet out of it, but not a book twice that length. It needs to be a centerpiece and jumping-off point for a look at the history of abdominal surgery, or the history of the early medical studies of cocaine and the way it became obvious the drug was dangerous (somebody do this! the bits of it around the edges here are fascinating and tragic!), or even the history of Santa Barbara. Higgins, however, is not an historian, and his book restates every fact twice, has everything in a jumbled and non-chronological order, goes into great detail on the biography of peripherally involved persons in order to take up space (while neglecting the biography of some people who were more involved and more interesting-- we find out in one tossed-off sentence that Hall's wife was the first female professional saxophone player in the country), and in general needs a good line edit.

So I can't fault Higgins' instincts. But no, this was not publishable. Fascinating, but frustrating. And hey, if you're doing this sort of history, here, some of the legwork has been done for you. Please, somebody take this material and go work with it as it ought to be. I'm not qualified in this field myself, but this could be so amazing.

Hall of Cottage, George Higgins (365 Books, Day 175)

This is from Sunday. I am hoping to catch up presently and not fall behind again, but let us just say that for the next couple of weeks things may be erratic-- if you don't see a review on a particular day, it doesn't mean I've stopped reading, I just feel like I've been hit by a car. That's not an exaggeration. I was hit by a car in college once, and I remember it quite distinctly. However, writing these reviews seems to have become enough of a habit that I get a little twitchy if I don't, and people seem to like even the reviews I've written when not technically really awake or mentally present, so I may as well do what I can.

Anyway. On our mantelpiece there are two sets of books: one side has things people in the house have written or contributed to (Thrud's dissertation, gaudior's dissertation, my poetry etc.) and the other has things people in the house have been helpful with in some way (the anime publications we've provided research data for, Cloud & Ashes, etc.). I noticed a while ago there was this book on the mantelpiece which I'd never heard of, and I had no idea what it was, so I asked Thrud. It turns out to be by her grandfather, George Higgins, and is a self-published biography of a doctor who helped found the hospital Higgins worked at as a surgeon for many years.

I decided to read it because I was curious about Thrud's grandfather, but also because I don't read much that's self-published, and I wanted to know what the differences would be between this and a book which sold to a conventional small press. Clearly it mattered to Higgins very much, or he wouldn't have chosen to do it, but I wasn't sure whether this would be a case of something which has too limited a readership to sell or whether it wouldn't be done well enough.

A little of both, I think. It's a biography of Dr. Richard J. Hall (1856-1897), the first American surgeon to successfully perform an operation for appendicitis. As a brilliant young doctor in New York City, Hall published several papers on abdominal operations and seemed ready to become one of the most famous and prominent physicians in the country; unfortunately, his research interests led him to the then-new study of cocaine solutions for use in local and general anesthesia, and self-experimentation quickly addicted him. After repeated physical and mental breakdowns, he relocated his family to Santa Barbara, California, where the drug would be less accessible, and became the founding surgeon of Cottage Hospital there (still in existence today). In a piece of painful irony, he developed appendicitis himself at the age of thirty-nine, and, as there was no other surgeon on the West Coast able to perform the operation, died before he could successfully teach anyone how to save him.

I can understand why a writer would be attracted to this story-- its multiple reversals, obvious might-have-beens, and ability to shed light on the state of American medical practice at the time make it a great centerpiece for historical work in a variety of directions. However, the lack of primary source material is a major hindrance-- Higgins has as far as I can tell unearthed everything possible, including Hall's published papers and his few surviving pieces of correspondence, and there's just not much there. If it were all put in order, carefully organized, and explained fully, I think a good writer could get a fifty-page pamphlet out of it, but not a book twice that length. It needs to be a centerpiece and jumping-off point for a look at the history of abdominal surgery, or the history of the early medical studies of cocaine and the way it became obvious the drug was dangerous (somebody do this! the bits of it around the edges here are fascinating and tragic!), or even the history of Santa Barbara. Higgins, however, is not an historian, and his book restates every fact twice, has everything in a jumbled and non-chronological order, goes into great detail on the biography of peripherally involved persons in order to take up space (while neglecting the biography of some people who were more involved and more interesting-- we find out in one tossed-off sentence that Hall's wife was the first female professional saxophone player in the country), and in general needs a good line edit.

So I can't fault Higgins' instincts. But no, this was not publishable. Fascinating, but frustrating. And hey, if you're doing this sort of history, here, some of the legwork has been done for you. Please, somebody take this material and go work with it as it ought to be. I'm not qualified in this field myself, but this could be so amazing.

You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.

The Enchanted Island of Yew, L. Frank Baum (365 Books, Day 176)

This is from Monday. I read it at Project Gutenberg.

Baum is one of my go-tos when I am exhausted because he is not going to emotionally involve me, tends to be short, and is usually interesting. This is one of his more obscure non-Oz books, and I am rather sad it has fallen into obscurity, because I can best describe it as Baum Does Dunsany-- it's straight-up high chivalric fantasy and he isn't half bad at it.

Well, beyond the usual issue with Baum. Yes, there is an instance of appalling and horrific racism in this book. It is about two paragraphs long and is even more blatant than Baum usually gets. It is neither plot-related nor involved with significant character interactions, and was both sufficiently late in the book and sufficiently self-contained that I did not throw the book across the room. Just, you should know to brace for that.

The rest of this is some of his better and more unusual writing. In a standard high-fantasy country, full of castles etc., the inhabitants are aware that there are fairies, although they aren't seen often. A group of high-ranking maidens on a picnic are accosted by a fairy, who states that she is tired of her immortal life, sick of never being able to make mistakes, and annoyed by her own omniscience. The fairy says that, just as fairies have the capacity to change mortal things into other shapes, so mortals have the capacity to change fairies, and asks to be transformed into a mortal for a year and a day.

So they change her into a mortal prince, and he goes off a-questing.

This is like the fifth Baum thing I've read with a protagonist who is in some direction genderqueer. It doesn't read as explicitly feminist here, necessarily-- the fairy fails to separate the fact that mortal women's circumstances are limiting from their capacities being limited-- but it does read as explicitly subversive and intended as subversive; the fairy's a better prince than many and doesn't see any difference in personality after changing gender, and for 1903, well.

The questing is also well done. When I say Baum Does Dunsany, I mean his language is more liquid and rhythmic than usual, there aren't anachronisms or odd turns of phrase, and the whole thing has the air of the pre-Raphaelites and their medieval revivals in a way I haven't seen Baum do before. The Land of Twi, one of the places the protagonist winds up, is genuinely fantastical and striking: everything in it is twinned and acts in duplicate, from plant growth patterns to people, so that individuals who come into it from outside terrify the inhabitants by being only half-persons. There's not much in the way of plot, but there doesn't need to be, and if this is the sort of book you like, you will indeed very much like it.

I found it an unexpected pleasure on a very tired evening.

The Enchanted Island of Yew, L. Frank Baum (365 Books, Day 176)

This is from Monday. I read it at Project Gutenberg.

Baum is one of my go-tos when I am exhausted because he is not going to emotionally involve me, tends to be short, and is usually interesting. This is one of his more obscure non-Oz books, and I am rather sad it has fallen into obscurity, because I can best describe it as Baum Does Dunsany-- it's straight-up high chivalric fantasy and he isn't half bad at it.

Well, beyond the usual issue with Baum. Yes, there is an instance of appalling and horrific racism in this book. It is about two paragraphs long and is even more blatant than Baum usually gets. It is neither plot-related nor involved with significant character interactions, and was both sufficiently late in the book and sufficiently self-contained that I did not throw the book across the room. Just, you should know to brace for that.

The rest of this is some of his better and more unusual writing. In a standard high-fantasy country, full of castles etc., the inhabitants are aware that there are fairies, although they aren't seen often. A group of high-ranking maidens on a picnic are accosted by a fairy, who states that she is tired of her immortal life, sick of never being able to make mistakes, and annoyed by her own omniscience. The fairy says that, just as fairies have the capacity to change mortal things into other shapes, so mortals have the capacity to change fairies, and asks to be transformed into a mortal for a year and a day.

So they change her into a mortal prince, and he goes off a-questing.

This is like the fifth Baum thing I've read with a protagonist who is in some direction genderqueer. It doesn't read as explicitly feminist here, necessarily-- the fairy fails to separate the fact that mortal women's circumstances are limiting from their capacities being limited-- but it does read as explicitly subversive and intended as subversive; the fairy's a better prince than many and doesn't see any difference in personality after changing gender, and for 1903, well.

The questing is also well done. When I say Baum Does Dunsany, I mean his language is more liquid and rhythmic than usual, there aren't anachronisms or odd turns of phrase, and the whole thing has the air of the pre-Raphaelites and their medieval revivals in a way I haven't seen Baum do before. The Land of Twi, one of the places the protagonist winds up, is genuinely fantastical and striking: everything in it is twinned and acts in duplicate, from plant growth patterns to people, so that individuals who come into it from outside terrify the inhabitants by being only half-persons. There's not much in the way of plot, but there doesn't need to be, and if this is the sort of book you like, you will indeed very much like it.

I found it an unexpected pleasure on a very tired evening.

You can comment here or at the Dreamwidth crosspost. There are comments over there.