Friday
means Friday’s Forgotten Books with Patti Abbott. B. V. Lawson is subbing for
Patti this week and collecting the links so look here for them today. Her blog
is one you should be following already if you haven’t been as there is always
lots of good stuff there.
I
am partial to Westerns though I don’t get that many submitted for review. Don’t
know why that is any more than why I get so many requests to do horror novels
when I don’t read or review them. One of life’s little quirks. As we start the
merry month of November which includes the national holiday of Thanksgiving as
well as my birthday (which should be a day of praise and worship) I give you
the below review of The Shootist by Glendon Swarthout as
submitted by Patrick Ohl.
Weave a circle round him thrice
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Last year, when I reviewed Shane by Jack Schaefer, I admitted that
I did not know much about Westerns and that I intended to rectify the mistake.
And so today I’d like to talk about another Western that was recommended to me
by Bill Pronzini: The Shootist by
Glendon Swarthout. Western fans might recognize the title as the title of John
Wayne’s final movie, and for good reason: that movie was adapted from the book
by the author’s own son, Miles Hood Swarthout. The film co-starred such
legendary actors as Lauren Bacall and Jimmy Stewart, and it included other
high-profile names: Ron Howard, Scatman Crothers, Richard Boone, Harry Morgan,
and John Carradine all come to mind. I consider the movie to be one of the
finest Westerns ever made, a poignant valentine to the Western and the type of
iconic hero John Wayne might have played. (Indeed, the movie began with a
unique sequence, in which a series of clips from Wayne’s glory days in film
were used to show his character’s
glory days.)
So Glendon Swarthout had a tough act to
follow, even though his novel came before the film. I don’t know much about
Westerns – honestly, when I think of vintage Westerns I think of the books in
the section next to the vintage mystery/thriller section in my favourite used
bookstore. Based on my brief perusal of those books, they seem rather similar
in content and style, in a derivative pulp-fiction kind of way. But I’m not
qualified to comment – I’m as ignorant on the subject as the average mystery
writer today is ignorant of the Golden Age of Mysteries. This is simply my impression.
So imagine my delight when I discovered that The Shootist was just as good a book as it was a movie – in fact,
it might be even better.
John Bernard (J. B.) Books is the titular
“shootist” (a term that was once the popular word for a gunman). He comes all
the way from Creede, Colorado to El Paso, looking for a doctor. Specifically,
he is looking for Dr. Charles Hostetler, who once saved his life when he was
shot in the belly. As a consequence, Hostetler is the only medical man Books
will trust. Books complains about severe pain in his crotch. After an
examination, Hostetler delivers his diagnosis: Books has a carcinoma of the
prostate: cancer. He can’t expect to live much longer, and his eventual death
is going to be slow and excruciatingly painful. At Books’ request, Hostetler
delivers the harsh truth about the kind of death he can expect:
Hostetler pursed his lips. "You will
waste away. The process will be slow at first, then rapid."
"Waste away?"
"Loss of flesh. Known as `cachexia.'
bones of the face become prominent. The skin takes on a grayish cast. You will
be a pretty awful sight. No one will dare tell you, but you will. Pretty
awful."
"What else?"
"There will be increasing severity of
pain. In the lumbar spine, in the hips and groin."
"What else?"
"Must we go on?"
"Yes."
"Your water will shut off
progressively. The bladder will swell because you can't unload it. You will
gradually become uremic. Poisoned by your own waste products, due to a failure
of the kidneys. By this time the agony will be unbearable, and no drug will
moderate it. Hopefully, you will become comatose. Until you do, you will
scream."
"Jesus Christ."
Charles Hostetler picked up his bag, walked
to the door. His look for the first time was severe, almost angry. "I regret
you forced me to be specific, Mr. Books. If you need me, telephone. Good day,
sir."
And thus, J. B. Books gets ready for the
hardest battle of his life, a battle he is guaranteed to lose. He has gained a
reputation as an assassin, and he’s never backed down from a fight. If these
are to be his last few weeks on earth, he is going to go out like a man.
But there are other things to consider. He
takes up lodgings with Bond Rogers, a widow with one son, Gillom. There is
reason to worry about Gillom, who’s been keeping bad company of late. Gillom
looks up to and respects J. B. Books, however, and Books decides that he will
teach Gillom what it takes to be a real man. At one point, he outlines his
moral code to the youngster:
"Everybody has laws he lives by, I
expect. I have mine as well."
"What laws?"
Bond Rogers was dismayed. Yet she waited,
evidently as curious as her son.
"I will not be laid a hand on. I will
not be wronged. I will not stand for an insult. I don't do these things to
others. I require the same from them."
The
Shootist is a poignant novel which chronicles the
last days on earth of J. B. Books, and how he slowly gets ready for his own
death. Reporters come to him eager for his life story, wanting to examine the
psychology of a murderer. The undertaker comes by to see about Books’ final
arrangements. Other local “tough guys” hear that the great assassin is on his
deathbed and decide it’d be a fine feather in one’s cap to kill the infamous J.
B. Books.
Throughout the novel, the author paints a
fascinating and complex portrait of Books, Bond Rogers, and her son Gillom.
These three are changed forever by the experience they share in this novel.
There are elements of tragedy to this all, and Books’ journey in particular is
expressed by a poem which Doc Hostetler shares with Books in an attempt to make
conversation. These four lines of poetry keep showing up throughout the novel,
and although the poem’s initial appearance is cryptic, its purpose becomes very
clear by the novel’s end.
Overall, The Shootist is a masterpiece and a must-read for anyone who enjoys
Westerns. Like the best genre fiction, it uses the boundaries to craft a
quality piece of fiction. The result is tragic, poignant, and beautiful. The
prose, the characters, hell, even the story on its own… all of them are
terrific. This is a book that comes highly recommended – it must be experienced
to be understood.
Patrick Ohl ©2013
Patrick Ohl is a 20-year old Canadian crime
fiction aficionado who enjoys hobbies such as taxidermy and runs a dilapidated
motel in the middle of nowhere alongside his crazed mother. He enjoys relaxing
in his subterranean evil lair while watching his favourite hockey team, the
Toronto Maple Leafs, and will occasionally make chicken chow mein to die for.
His life is accompanied by a soundtrack composed by John Williams, and James
Earl Jones provides
occasional voice-overs.
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