I love eastern philosophy. I really love chess. One would figure that this book would hit some magical combo-zone and have me praising and sharing it with all my friends. Unfortunately, The Tao of Chess fails on the most important parts.

I’ll admit it, the premise is fantastic. I’ve felt for a while that chess carries enough complexity to warrant numerous metaphors worthy of contemplation. In fact, I’ve already begun picking apart aspects of chess to use as a martial arts structure in my novel. Perhaps this is the same line of thinking that lead Peter Kurzdorfer to write this book. Honestly, I think the idea can work well, he just didn’t pull it off here.

You see, Mr. Kurzdorfer writes as a man who knows his chess aphorisms well, as a player who can show you games to illustrate a point, as a Master of the game. What he does not do is write as a student of Tao.

Each of the 200 chess “principles” is followed by a short explanation. Often he cites a game to illustrate the reasoning behind it. Finally, the author gives us a sentence or two attempting to connect the chess principle into real life. Unfortunately, these connections are shallow at best, often completely missing the point. Rather than spend a few paragraphs describing the emotional state of the game, the psychology of position, the depth and beauty of the constant ebb-and-flow that makes up every single game, he chose to say things like, “Successful people go after what they want, and in that they resemble successful rooks. Unsuccessful people don’t go after what they want nor do they freely interact with others. In that way, they resemble unsuccessful rooks.”

Not only does this type of insight fail to capture anything worthwhile that might arise from the chess principle of placing rooks on open files, (No mention of clearing your paths before putting your strongest forward efforts into something? How about the idea of looking for openings and opportunities to strike fully? Or maybe you can think of it less aggressively as an acknowledgement of your most peaceful path.) he instead chooses to blurt out a ridiculous claim that has no basis in anything. Unsuccessful people don’t interact freely with others? What on earth is that about? It’s meaningless and downright wrong.

Perhaps if he had titled this book: The Superficial Life Metaphors of Chess, I would have been more satisfied. Though I’d be hard pressed to find even that level of usefulness in here.

This was my first Agatha Christie novel and what a wonderful read it was. Ms Christie’s firm command of her characters was clear even in this early work. Their hopes, fears and secrets were all plotted carefully and executed magnificently. While the ancillary actors may have not displayed much growth in this novel, it was clear that type of writing was firmly in her skill-set by the subtle method used on her narrator. Enough can’t be said about the life she breathes into her characters–no small achievement with them being so damned British.

If her characters popped, then her twisted plots soared. Every twist aimed toward another possible suspect, sometimes two. She had no fear at insinuating guilt in the most innocent of characters, either. I’ll admit freely that she tricked me thoroughly, and by the end I was as surprised as the narrator to learn the truth. What a marvelous thing to find in a work from 1920 that a modern reader can still find himself lost in her world and unable to deduce the secrets before they are finally revealed. It was no matter of author trickery, either. I will say this, the facts were all present. If I were capable of the feats of logic and patience of Hercule Poirot, I too would have solved the crime.

I will certainly be continuing on with these books!

This hasn’t been a great year in the reading department so far. Jenny Pox, by J. L. Bryan, was really the first book of 2012 that I enjoyed. I wouldn’t call it a great book, and I probably won’t continue the series, but it was solid and entertaining.

The story is about a remarkable and unfortunate girl named Jenny Morton who has a terrible super-power. Everything she touches becomes infected and dies. This earns her the nickname Jenny Pox for a short while, and then Jenny Mittens after she learns to live her life covered up from head to toe, even on the warmest days.

Jenny grows up in a small town in South Carolina complete with all the fixin’s that you’d imagine the setting to have. Her chief antagonist, Ashleigh Gooding, is the preacher’s daughter, class president, cheer captain, and total sociopath. Life is hard for Jenny Morton, and Ashleigh seems to take pleasure in making it harder.

As the story grows, Jenny and the reader learn more about her powers and the existence of other powers in the world. Mixed up in all this fantasy is a pretty straight forward story of bullying and harassment mixed with a dash of falling in love.

The ending delivers pretty much exactly what you’re hoping for as you read the whole book. There is a little too much exposition right at the very end for my tastes. It seemed more like the author wants you to know that he really thought about the origin story of these powers and how it all ties together, even though it really didn’t come up at all in the book. Still, it does open the story nicely for a series of sequels.

The actual writing of the novel wasn’t particularly noteworthy. The two main protagonists did show a bit of growth in their arcs, though the rest of the cast seemed pretty much to follow their template for the whole story. The pacing was good, and the action was horrifically descriptive.

I don’t want to give away too much, so I’ll put it this way: if you enjoyed Carrie, read this book.

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When I was in boot camp we weren’t allowed to drink things while walking. You could drink your water, sure. You could walk around (albeit at right angles), but you couldn’t do the two things together. I seem to remember someone asking why to a muttered response about preventing accidents. Whether it had a reason or not, it was one of the parts of our culture there.

I bring it up because a few minutes ago I was filling up my water bottle by the office sink. I screwed the cap back on top and went to take a drink when it hit me: I was walking. There I was, deep in thought about some project or another, when I experienced “Navius-Interruptus”. I was standing again in the mess during service week, wearing my utilities and feeling less than clean. How strange.

We had a million of these little rules. How many more will creep up on me over the years? It took half a decade to stop walking in step with everyone around me. I imagine it will always feel weird to take a drink while walking now. Old habits die hard, even the silly ones.

When I begin there is this moment of confusion. It’s like wonder, but less wondering; the mysterious without any mystery. Maybe it’s like a tingle if someone told you what a tingle felt like without ever having felt one yourself. Things are about to move forward, life is about to take a step, then bam! I have no idea what to say about any of it.

I guess that’s all natural. It doesn’t make it any less disconcerting, though. How is that such a common feeling? Why are we all so comfortable and accepting of things being so universally unintelligible. Why doesn’t it bother me that I can still be totally confused at nothing.

It’s something about us, I think. We’re all talk about how we struggle against the unknown. Our curiosity drives us all toward some make believe higher whatever– but does it really? Do we really? I think we love the unknown. I think we crave it.

Maybe I just feel the need to project some of that mystery where there isn’t any. Maybe it’s the shock of things being too simple. Maybe I’m just tired and I should stop ranting about nothing. Maybe I should go pick up the phone.