I’m back to reading Sebastian St. Cyr novels.  I took a month off because I was really disconcerted by the anti-religion slant of the books, but as I thought about it, I realized that Harris isn’t so much anti-religion as anti-hypocrisy.  She never once censures characters whose actions match their profession, rather lashes out at those who just talk about things – and often talk about them in judgmental ways. Yes, her main character professes to be atheistic, except when he doesn’t.

So, I brought 3 books on vacation.  I finished book #3, Why Mermaids Sing on Monday.  On Tuesday I read half of book 5, What Remains of Heaven, before realizing it wasn’t the next book (major spoilers there!) and went back to read most of book 4, Where Serpents Sleep.   Somewhat disappointing because I was really enjoying the mystery in book 5.

Anyway, I thought I’d include the John Donne poem, Go and Catch a Falling Star, that is the inspiration for the murder done in book #3 for you all today.  Poetry isn’t my strong suit, but there are some interesting images here.  St. Cyr is supposed to be more of a poetic turn of mind than his deceased older brothers, which leads to his father’s disappointment that he’s the heir.  In the series, this is the first inkling of that, in my opinion.

By John Donne

Go and catch a falling star,

    Get with child a mandrake root,

Tell me where all past years are,

    Or who cleft the devil’s foot,

Teach me to hear mermaids singing,

Or to keep off envy’s stinging,

            And find

            What wind

Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be’st born to strange sights,

    Things invisible to see,

Ride ten thousand days and nights,

    Till age snow white hairs on thee,

Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me,

All strange wonders that befell thee,

            And swear,

            No where

Lives a woman true, and fair.

If thou find’st one, let me know,

    Such a pilgrimage were sweet;

Yet do not, I would not go,

    Though at next door we might meet;

Though she were true, when you met her,

And last, till you write your letter,

            Yet she

            Will be

False, ere I come, to two, or three.

What are you reading this week?

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