In 2016, during the final few moments of the final debate — and I use all these words very loosely — the “contestants,” excuse me, I meant “candidates” were asked if there was anything at all that they liked or admired about their opponents.
Clinton said, “Look, I respect his children. His children are incredibly able and devoted, and I think that says a lot about Donald.” She was lying. I knew it, and you knew it. I suppose it was the best she could do. She still thought, as a politician, she had to be polite.
I believe we have all learned otherwise in the year since.
Trump accepted Clinton’s words as “a nice compliment,” and added, “I will say this about Hillary. She doesn’t quit. She doesn’t give up. I respect that. I tell it like it is. She’s a fighter.” Really? Wow. Praise indeed.
It was the “high point” of the event. The high ground of a depressing hour of television but ironically, not nearly as depressing as reality was going to become a mere one month later. It probably was funny … and maybe, if I live long enough, I’ll laugh. Not yet. I think my sense of humor is just not up to par.
This is not a new book. It was released again on Kindle in May 2013. Desperadoes has been available in soft or hardcover (currently, only soft) since 1997.
I love western movies and have since I was a kid. I’ve read a lot of “western” novels too over the years, enjoyed some, didn’t much like others. Over all, I prefer this genre as cinema rather than on the printed page. Nonetheless, I was drawn to this book after I realized I know very little about the personal lives and motivations of these notorious bandit gangs of the turn of the century wild west.
Until this book, I hadn’t realized the James boys, the Youngers, Coles and the Daltons were all related. Cousins, it turns out. This led me to interesting speculations about the relative importance of DNA versus environment in character formation. The familial relationships certainly present some intriguing possibilities. Perhaps the cousins were all copying each other’s “feats.” The story hints that there was at least some jealousy by the Daltons of cousin Jesse’s fame.
Desperadoes is well-written and feels authentic, so much so that I found myself asking how much of this was “made up” and how much was historical.
The answer is that although a lot of it is fact, a lot of it isn’t. Fiction and fact are beautifully woven throughout the story until it is difficult to tease them apart. Nonetheless, this is a novel, so if you are want history, this isn’t it. On the other hand, if you are more interested in the psychological profile of these characters and the feeling of being transported to another time and place, this might be exactly the right book. Sometimes fiction contains more truth than “only the facts” can convey.
Whether you enjoy the book will depend on if you can find a way to emotionally connect with any of the characters. All of the Daltons and their close associates lack a moral compass as well as a fundamental understanding of right and wrong. Even granting that they came from backgrounds of extreme deprivation — and their role models were as depraved as they themselves became — it’s hard to understand the characters’ rapid, virtual overnight, transformation from relatively decent people and officers of the law into rustlers, bank robbers and sadistic thrill killers.
Despite occasional actions that could be interpreted as “gallant” or at least decent, their primary goal was attention. Fame. They wanted to be feared and recognized. Towards that end, they also stole money but money was never a primary motivator. To achieve this end, there were no lines they would not cross, no rules they would not break. At no point is there any feeling that it mattered a whit to any of them how many people’s lives they ruined or ended. They were sociopaths (maybe psychopaths — I’ve never been entirely clear on the difference), utterly lacking in empathy except for one another … and there were limits to that, too.
The story is told in the first person by Emmett Dalton, the one brother who survived. He went out to Hollywood where they were happy (apparently) to pay him big bucks to “advise” and provide authenticity to the making of movies.
Of all the bandits — all his brothers and cousins — only he remained alive to “cash in” on the notoriety.
Ironically, they started as lawmen. While still functioning in that capacity, they began rustling horses. They didn’t think there was anything particularly wrong with it. It wasn’t that they didn’t know it was illegal, but the whole “right” and “wrong” thing seems to have been rather hazy to them. Moreover, working as a sheriff or deputy sheriff was so poorly paid they actually couldn’t live on the money. So they initially considered horse-stealing a way to supplement their incomes. They eventually were caught though only big brother Gratton (Grat) (probably mildly retarded) was arrested for rustling. Grat spent a bit of time in jail, but was ultimately released. A trial would have embarrassed the judge who had employed the Daltons as lawmen. He didn’t want it known his employees were horse thieves. Except that everyone knew. It just wasn’t official — and never became official.
The Dalton boys’ decision to become an outlaw gang was exactly that: a choice. They were not forced into a life of crime. They genuinely enjoyed being outlaws and criminals. They liked beating people up, breaking their body parts and killing them, sometimes just because they felt like it. No sense of remorse is forthcoming through the voice of the narrator.
Emmett, as the first-person narrator, supposedly was privy to every moment of the life of his brothers. This is a bit hard to swallow unless the other gang members spent all of their free time telling Emmett everything they had done since they’d last talked. You have to suspend your credibility or there’s no way to get into the book.
Of the Dalton lads (there were 15 brothers and sisters and you never learn what happened to most of the others) Bob is the true glory hound. Grat is a big dumb guy who seemed to not have any thoughts about much of anything. Emmett, two years younger than Bob, is his older brother’s passionate admirer. His adulation of his Bob Dalton was unlimited, though to Emmett’s credit (?), he did occasionally think up an interesting crime to commit, so he was not without a degree of personal creativity. He also appeared to be, of the gang, the only one with any capacity for love — in a severely circumscribed way.
Then there’s Bob’s psychopathic girlfriend, Eugenia Moore who was the real brains of the outfit, though perhaps brains is too strong a word.
As you can probably tell, I didn’t like the characters. There is a high probability that the author has captured the essence of these people accurately, but accuracy alone wasn’t enough to make me enjoy being in their company. Ultimately, if I can’t relate to at least one character in a book, it’s difficult for me to enjoy the story. I spent the first half of this book looking for a redeeming feature in someone. I spent the rest of the book wishing I’d never started reading it in the first place.
This was Ron Hansen’s first novel. He has written a dozen or so since then and he is highly regarded. I have no argument with his skill as a writer and perhaps I would like his later novels and non-fiction better than Desperadoes.
I didn’t hate the book, but I didn’t enjoy it. Perhaps the nature of the material fore-ordained my response. Sadistic, vicious sociopathic killers are not romantic. I don’t find a trip through their minds pleasant or fun. Interesting is as good as I can give it.
They make my skin crawl. But other people obviously did like the book and it has received some excellent reviews on Amazon. If you can read it as a case study of a bunch of old-timey criminals, you might like it better than I did. It is well-written and thoroughly unpleasant at the same time. I guess that’s what you get when you write about outlaw gangs, even when you write really well.
Sue Vincent from Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo, a wonderful site about the magical stones of the British Isles not to mention many other posts that get me thinking about … well … everything, really. From the joy of writing to the passion of archaeology and the care of the planet. A thinking person’s website. Anyway, she hailed me to come join this challenge. Again. Oddly, I said yes. Why not?
I did this first time around on behest of Judy Dykstra-Brown, who originally roped me into it. Sometimes, getting roped into something is exactly what we need. My black & white photography hadn’t gotten the energy and effort I’ve used in color photography and this project definitely improved my work.
“Seven days. Seven black and white photos of your life.
No people. No explanation. Challenge someone new each day.”
Having directly or indirectly finagled quite a few people to join the challenge a few weeks ago, I’d feel a bit bashful to ask them again, but I invite you to consider having a go at this … even if you have done it before. A push to do better pictures of a type you don’t normally do is good for your art.
Also, the idea of not only finding a good black & white picture, but one that represents “you” in some way poses an interesting mental challenge — an artistic double-whammy, so to speak. And, at least one of the pictures I used in the last challenge has been turned out to be one of my most popular-ever posts.
Who’d have thunk it.
Would you rather take a 2 week vacation with an organized tour or take a cruise of your choice?
First of all, the idea of an organized tour gives me the creeps. I think of being in fourth grade, in a line. At the beginning of the line because I was short, either the shortest or next-to-shortest kid in the class. The being marched as a group to “enjoy an activity.”
Garry and I have been on two cruises. They were (for us), the opposite of “organized.” The boat is a gigantic floating hotel, except other than booze, everything is paid for in advance. You can do anything available on the ship and there’s usually a lot to do — and the ships are really big. We think of the Titanic as huge, but modern cruise ships are much bigger.
You can watch a new movie in a theater — or watch the same movie in your room. Hang out on the deck, day or night. Exercise. Lounge. Swim. Eat. Eat more. Eat even more. Watch the sunrise from atop the ship … and eat. Have dinner in the dining room. Have dinner anywhere else they serve food — and they serve food everywhere. Go see a show in the evening. See another show, after the first show. Dance, if you like. Stroll the deck. Then check out the midnight meal — but if you value ever getting into your clothing again, do NOT become a regular attendee at the midnight food revels.
Spend however many hours at any of the places where the ship stops. My favorite was Jamaica. I hoped we’d go back, but it didn’t happen. I bought four pounds of Blue Mountain coffee beans and it made the best coffee I’ve ever had. We found a taxi driver on the island who became our guide and took us everywhere. It was wonderful.
The thing about cruises — you don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to eat on a schedule. Shows you obviously have to see when they are on, but there are usually a variety of shows. And there’s always a singer in the lounge.
I loved watching the dolphins leap in the wake of the ship. I love the ocean everywhere.
Did you like swinging as a child? Do you still get excited when you see a swing?
I loved swinging as a child. As an adult, too. I don’t get excited to see a swing but it does bring up happy memories.
What is the most important thing that you ever learned ? (I bet it’s not something you learned in school)
Actually, it was something I learned in school and it became the basis of my world. I learned to read. In first grade. Nothing else I ever learned — or could learn — would mean as much to me as reading. Reading gave me the entire universe.
What inspired you or what did you appreciate this past week?
I realized once and for all we cannot keep hauling groceries up the stairs to the house. More to the point, Garry can’t keep doing it. We aren’t getting any younger or stronger — so I ordered one of those weird three-wheeled carts that is supposed to let anyone — even me — haul stuff upstairs. I hope it works.