Audiobook: Istanbul: Turkish Travel Phrases for English Speakers.

25 June 2019

I am pleased to announce the release on Audible of my first Audiobook. It was a pleasure to return to Turkish–a language I have not had much of a call to use for sometime now–to assist Sarah Retter in the production of Istanbul: Turkish Travel Phrases for English Speakers. The Best 1.000 Phrases to Get Around when Traveling in Istanbul. This is a very useful travel book for English speakers visiting anywhere in Turkey, not just Istanbul, phrases to use while shopping, going out, renting a car, doing business, and so on. It is available on Audible here. Happy travels, all. İyi yolculuklar.

Book review: The Beautiful and Damned, by F. Scott Fitzgerald

It had been years since I had last read a work of F. Scott Fitzgerald. In fact, The Great Gatsby was the first and last thing I had attempted from this great American writer, and that only because it had been required of me to read it back in college. I don’t think I was overall particularly impressed while reading The Great Gatsby, largely because I lacked the maturity and experience to understand what Fitzgerald was saying. Yet, at our instructor’s urging, I came away from it with enduring images of a beacon flashing in the distance symbolizing … something. And the conviction that the author had highlighted how wasteful and irresponsible some people can be. I know—a rather shallow reading.

When scanning my shelves recently, looking for something to read, I noticed The Beautiful and Damned, and I thought, maybe now, years later, I am ready to try Fitzgerald again. Some impressions? Well, throughout the novel I kept mumbling to myself, “My God, how did this man come up with such brilliant descriptions?”  I have come to envy Fitzgerald for his keen and vibrant use of language. The Beautiful and Damned is indeed beautifully written. From my perspective.

If anything disappointed me in this novel, it was that I found no one—not a single character—whom I could like. That may seem superficial, but many readers do tend to enjoy literary journeys more when accompanied by a fictitious character they can believe in, cheer for, cry for. I found all the characters in The Beautiful and Damned to be at best annoying and at worst despicable. I read a review once of this novel that referred to the “fall” of the lead couple, Anthony Patch and Gloria, and I thought, “What fall? They were awful to begin with and awful at the end!”

Having admitted that rather personal response to the novel, I should acknowledge that this is indeed a story about decline—both moral and physical decline, encouraged by the financial decline of Anthony and Gloria. Anthony was to be heir to the fortune of a relentless, cold tycoon. And while Gloria strikes one initially as a woman who could care only for that eventual wealth of the man she chooses to wed, her commitment to Anthony seems founded on a greater affection or love than would have thought possible, considering the repeated descriptions of her as little more than a player, a woman seeking nothing but her own pleasure in life.

Beyond the failings and failure of these two people, the novel paints a portrait of American society with harsh class divisions and a constraining expectation that a man defines himself professionally more than anything else. At various points in the story, we read of political opinions, religious beliefs, personal aspirations, but Anthony’s woes, brought on by his own faulty character, are often expressed in his inability to define himself professionally. The only resilient definition that Anthony and Gloria adhere to is that life must be fun, a notion they cling to even when the money runs out and they are no longer welcome to the loudest of parties yet, the Roaring Twenties.

Book Review: The Light and the Dark, by C.P. Snow

The Light and the Dark is a novel in the Strangers and Brothers series by C.P. Snow. The narrator throughout the series is Lewis Eliot, in part a fictional representation of the author himself. But the real antagonist of this episode in the series is Roy Calvert.

Calvert is viewed by some as a brilliant young scholar, an Orientalist whose area of expertise—the ancient Sogdian language—is about as esoteric as one can get in Middle Eastern studies. To others, especially several of the older scholars of Cambridge, Calvert represents something inappropriate in youth and potentially scandalous for the college, particularly considering the many rumors that have spread about concerning his affairs with various women.

Is there any truth to these rumors? Most certainly. Which is not presented by Snow as damning evidence of what is wrong with Roy Calvert. Rather, Calvert’s youthful enthusiasm and irrepressible individuality appeal to many, even members of the crusty upper class. Calvert touches people, inspiring in them perhaps a desire to embrace that which he seems to represent—a brilliant life.

Yet the narrator knows him better than this, knows Calvert better than any, and understands that Calvert’s life is far from blissful. And at the core of The Light and the Dark is not only this vibrant figure, Roy Calvert, but the deep, enduring compassion that he has engendered in Lewis Eliot. Many periods pass during which they are separated from one another, and even then, we read nearly nothing of what is happening in Eliot’s life, including his desperate relationship with his unstable, suicidal wife (which is at the center of another of the Strangers and Brothers novels).

Instead, through every development of the novel, whether ponderous, even pretentious in the world of Cambridge academia, or startling and sinister, particularly as World War II approaches and Calvert seems drawn to the Nazi movement, Eliot’s thoughts return ever and again to Roy Calvert. His hopes are for Calvert, and his sorrow seems ever near the surface whenever Calvert faces the depression that plagues him in his darkest hours.

In all, what often appeared to me to be a fairly mechanical view of the goings-on of a major institution of learning and its faculty and staff proved only barely to conceal a surprisingly passionate story. There is, in often condensed and even repressed form, a great deal of emotion in this tale. And all centered on a man whose star seems destined to rise, if only because Calvert appears so capable of unintentionally winning the hearts of others. Yet he is a man who in the end is much more drawn to a tragic fall, incapable as he is of finding what he truly needs—not the love that so many others are eager to grant him, but an enduring truth or faith or belief that he can embrace.

Roy Calvert is a man who is loved more than he wishes to be, promoted by those he endures if not detests, desired by women who mean nothing to him or, in the case of one woman, whom he suffers the guilt of having harmed—people, in other words, who are more than willing to commit themselves to him, even while he fails to find anything eternal to commit himself to. His life fluctuates between passion, pleasure, and pain, a pain that Lewis Eliot understands better than any, but a pain from which Eliot is unable to save his dear friend. Snow’s The Light and the Dark is, then, a fairly compelling story of friendship and love, desire and loss.

When the book chooses the reader

Yes, you could say my reading tastes have altered somewhat over the years.

I made it through high school—miserable years indeed!—with my imagination intact, nurtured by Isaac Asimov and Ray Bradbury. Having entered the literature program at San Francisco State University a committed fan of Charles Dickens and William Shakespeare, I graduated a voracious reader of Graham Greene and Philip Roth. One zealous professor shared his love of W.B. Yeats and James Joyce, while another expounded on George Eliot and the Bronte sisters. When I took a fancy to writing suspense, I developed a deep attachment to John Le Carre and Martin Cruz Smith. My other life—the one in Turkey—introduced me to Ahmet Ümit and Aziz Nesin.

And with each new discovery, I was certain that literature could not get any better, although I was humbly willing to accept the notion that somewhere out there I might yet encounter a poet of finer skill than Yeats or Cummings, a writer more talented than Nikos Kazantzakis or Vladimir Nabokov. None of these masters of the written word could ever be supplanted in my heart, although I am always willing to make room for more.

There is an immense expanse in each soul that no amount of delicious experience or vibrant expression can ever truly fill. Which makes us really quite human, I think. As does our tendency to leave so much of ourselves unfilled and unfulfilled, preferring the more modest security of habit. And why not? In a world of such consuming fear and violence, who wouldn’t choose the calm stability of a banal existence over a boisterous exploration of the unknown?

(“Who indeed?” he asks, ticket to Turkey in hand.)

But what led me to this particular consideration of literature was something that happened to me yesterday. After a good 45 minutes of masochistic suffering on my exercise bike while reading Toni Morrison’s Beloved, I stopped peddling, waited for my frantic breathing to slow, and continued reading. And as usual, after completing another chapter, I put the book back on the small Syrian table next to the bike and wandered into the kitchen to get a long, welcomed drink of water. Standing there, enjoying the cool liquid, I picked up the book I had left on the dining table—Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Which was when it struck me.

I wandered the house to check my theory. You see, I used to be a one-novel-at-a-time reader. But with age and loss, my habits have changed as much as my tastes. And this is what I found—along with Beloved in the exercise room and The Chocolate Factory in the dining room, I had left Edith Warton’s The Reef in the laundry room, Eliot Pattison’s Bone Mountain in the meditation room, Woody Allen’s Getting Even in the TV room, and F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Beautiful and the Damned in my car.

I won’t bore you with my hollow summaries of these books, although I would readily urge you to read each and every one of them. However, this investigation did give me pause to consider—does the reader really choose the book? Or does the book in fact choose the reader?

Along with the very space in which it is to be read.

“Lord love a duck!” or “What’s wrong with a good book?”

I love learning. You could even say I crave it. I lust after knowledge the way a “normal” man lusts after a beautiful woman, an exciting football match, a cold beer, or a fast car. I find it appalling how quickly we demean education in this country. The United States has grown more and more anti-intellectual as the years have passed. Al Gore, as should be clear to all by now, did not lose the election to George Bush. Gore won the popular vote, which is the only truly democratic vote in national elections in this country. Sad to say, we maintain a system in this country whereby the democratic vote is cast aside in favor of the elitist electoral college. Still, let’s assume for the sake of argument that Gore actually lost. It’s obvious why, yes? He was far too intellectual for the tastes of most Americans, who distrust scholars, who fear knowledge, who abhor education.

I sit down with my daughter sometimes to watch her favorite cartoon, and I try to keep my hands on the remote the entire time, so that I may mute every commercial break. I missed one once. The remote had fallen between the cushions and could not be extracted quickly enough. Consequently, I saw a commercial for flat, pocket-sized toy cars. And how did the ad company chosen by the manufacturer of this particular toy, choose to promote this product? By depicting children sitting in a boring classroom, of course. Unbearable atmosphere. Yet once the exceedingly dull teacher turns his back, two clever boys remove their cars from their pockets and have a grand old time as the crowd goes wild. Once again proving that school is a waste of time, teachers are morons, and kids will always maintain the upper hand so long as they focus on what really matters in life – fun!

Fun comes in many packages. Allah’a şükür! I imagine no more joy in a one-size-fits-all form of entertainment than I would expect to find in a Happy Meal. How dreadful the world would be if it all came down to this: a Ford in every garage, a Starbucks on every corner, a McDonald’s in every school, English on every channel, a Bible in every home. Personally, I prefer watching a good sumo match over a Nascar race, but that doesn’t mean I would force everyone to watch one rikishi force another out of the ring when viewers could instead watch their favorite soccer team, tennis player, golfer, or just turn the bloody TV off and go for a walk, play with their kids, or work in the garden. Homogeneity is the height of tedium. Trust me on this one.

And yet … and yet. What’s so wrong about reading a good book? What is so wrong about finding a book “good” to begin with? Why can’t a book be fun? Sexy? Exciting? Thought-provoking? What am I saying – books are all of these things and more. Much more. My daughter came home from school recently and said, “Baba, you’re not going to like this…” My faced cringed. What this time, I wondered. “I hate to ask,” I said, “but go ahead and tell me. What am I not going to like?” She grinned. “I don’t like books.” I tried to joke about it. I tried to shape my expression somewhere between stern and stolid. With very little prodding from me, she admitted that a popular girl in school had been bad-mouthing books. And school. And learning. While of course life cannot get any better than Hannah Montana, silly bands, and left-over Halloween treats. I sighed, nearly defeated, and did my best to offer my daughter … a different perspective.

Why is it so easy to belittle learning? I have often declared to my students, when poised precariously on my classroom soapbox (oh, come on – tell me you don’t pontificate from time to time in the class!), that a life without learning is not a life worth living. I truly believe that. Which makes me … what? Silly? Dim? Boring? If it’s not on Wii, then how can it be worth doing? So maybe that is the next stage – school on Wii! Okay, maybe I am not kidding. With the capacity for amazing graphics and fantastic interaction, video games could easily be designed into Discovery channel-type explorations into the past, where the player “walks through” the tomb of King Tut or the temples of Angkor Wat or the monoliths of Stonehenge. I’d be one of the first to give it a go. Why not? Why shouldn’t popular technology be used to “educate”? … So long as we don’t call it “education,” for fear of turning people away.

When did “education” become a bad word?

Still, we have to keep our sense of humor about us, don’t we? What’s the point if we can’t laugh at ourselves from time to time. God forbid we ever stop laughing! The more seriously we take ourselves, our cultures, our beliefs, the easier it is for us to cross over from patriotism to nationalism, from pride to arrogance, from enthusiasm to extremism. So in keeping with this mood of self-effacement, I wanted to share this brief quote from Aziz Nesin in a story entitled “When was Şermendi Born?” In this story, we read about a phenomenal scholar who is writing the definitive study explaining how the poet Şermendi was not in fact born on 4 May, as had previously been assumed, but somewhere in the night between the 3rd and 4th of May. This scholar spent fifteen years working on the first volume of this momentous work. God willing, he will complete the second volume before he dies. Which would be useful, since the first volume really only covers the point that Şermendi was not born on 4 May.

You’ve got to love satire.

The character in the tale who is explaining all this, and who clearly has nothing but great respect for the “scholar” working on this multi-volume masterpiece, declares:

Bilgin demek, herkesin bildiği şeyleri, hiçkimsenin bilemeyeceği biçimde yazabilen, beş kelimeyi beşyüz sayfa uzatabilen adam demektir. Bir bilginle, bir bilgisizin ayırımı işte budur.

Which I would translate:

To be a scholar is to be able to write what everyone knows in a way that nobody can understand. It is to be a man who can stretch five words into five hundred pages. This is the difference between the scholar and the fool.

Who says men of learning can’t poke fun at themselves? … We just can’t win public office. At least, not when a cowboy is the opposing candidate. After all, this is America, ain’t it? Who here doesn’t love a well-armed tough guy who can barely speak, who rides a horse, and who blows away the bad guys in a dichromatic land where everyone is either good or evil? Ah, the joys of a simple, uncomplicated life! A life without books and schools and teachers. Wouldn’t we all be better off if all them there no good for nothing scholars would just pack up their books and mosey along back to wherever they come from?

Lord love a duck!

Book Review: Surrender of an Empire, by Nesta Webster

I was unaware of the controversy surrounding Nesta Webster when I began to read her Surrender of an Empire, concerned with, as she saw it, the betrayal of Britain by internal forces seeking to bring the great empire to its knees and surrender its realms and wealth to ignorant Germans and greedy Jews. Not that Germans and Jews are to blame for everything. She has apparently expanded her grand conspiracy theory to include Bolsheviks, Freemasons, and Jesuits.

And God only knows how many other real, perceived, and reincarnated forces of evil she saw in the world around her. (She seems to have viewed herself as the reincarnation of a French countess, brutally guillotined by revolutionaries.) Paranoia has a remarkable capacity for breeding conspiracy theories. She would have made a fine Hollywood screenwriter.

As for Surrender of an Empire, a worse bit of fascist, nationalist, imperialist, pseudo-history I have not encountered for quite some time. This book now holds my personal record for the least bit I have ever read (23 pages out of 350) before angrily tossing a book away. Of course, I never have sought to read anything from Newt Gingrich or Geert Wilders, so there is hope yet that I won’t make it through even a single page of a book before trashing it.

Manichaeism among the Turks

I was just reading a text from Fuat Bozkurt on Turkish religions, and in this case, Manichaeism. Very interesting dualistic approach to reality. Bozkurt argues that with the religion of Mani, for the first time, the Turks of Asia (this is long before the Ottoman Empire or the Republic of Turkey existed) chose a religion based on ethical principles (as opposed to a religion promoting tribal cohesion and providing answers to questions raised by the natural world, such as shamanism had done for the Turks before this). Here is a quote from the text briefly explaining the view of the world from the Manichaean Turks. (My apologies for any inaccuracies in my translation.)

The world is filled with two elements: good and bad. One is the light, the other is darkness. In a time without beginning, the land of the light and the land of the darkness were separated from one another. But the land of darkness stole a spark from the land of the light. And from this, matter and light intermixed, and the soul was born. This is the form of the world today. The true duty of knowledge is to understand this mingling and to distinguish the light from the darkness and matter. To realize this goal, God imparted to man a gleam of the soul as his intelligence. Under the influence of intelligence, the spark would be liberated from matter and return to its first home, the land of the light. Thus, over time the two first main principles would undergo separation, melding, and purification. (The separation took place in the past, the intermixing is happening now, and the purification will occur in the future.)

Dünyayı iki öge doldurur: iyi ve kötü, biri ışık, öbürü karanlıktır. Başlangıcı olmayan bir dönemde ışık ile karanlık ülkesi birbirinden ayrılmıştır. Karanlıklar ülkesi ışık ülkesinden bir parça ışık çalmıştır. Bunun üzerine madde ve ışığın karışıp, ruh ortaya çıkmıştır. Bu, dünyanın bugünkü biçimidir. Gerçek bilginin görevi, bu karışımı tanımak, ışığı karanlıktan ve maddeden ayırmaktır. Bunun gerçekleşmesi için Tanrı, insana “aklı,” ruhun bir parıltısı olarak yollamıştır. Aklın etkinliği ile ışık, maddeden kurtulacak ve ilk yurduna, ışık ülkesine dönecektir. Böylece ilk iki ana ilke, zaman içinde ortaya çıkan ayrılık, karışım ve arınma katılmış olur. (Ayrılık geçmişte olmuştur, karışım şimdiki durumdur, arınma ise gelecekte olacaktır.) (Fuat Bozkurt, Türklerin Dini, 62)

Book Review: Travma, by Osman Aysu

Like his father, Murat works in the construction trade. Quite successfully. In fact, life couldn’t be better. Business is thriving, and his personal life even more so with the clever, vibrant Derya beside him, perhaps soon to be his wife. Of course, such perfection cannot last, and in Murat’s case, the idyllic image of his life is shattered one night when his mind is assaulted by a most disturbing nightmare. Racing into a house atop a hill and climbing the steps to the top floor, he finds his beloved naked and bound to a table. And before his very eyes, Murat witnesses Derya’s murder at the hands of a cruel, sinister, and faceless man.

So opens Osman Aysu’s haunting tale entitled Trauma. It is not the first time Murat has suffered from these visions in his sleep. Nor will it be the last. The reader accompanies Murat through various manifestations of his nightmares, apparently coming closer and closer to a dark, disturbing truth that underlies them all, memories of a traumatic event from his childhood that his mind simply could not bear. Can he manage to uncover the truth before the visions drive him insane?

Trauma is an engaging story, fairly well written, of course by an author who has penned numerous novels of crime fiction and suspense. I quite enjoyed the twists of this story, the sense of mystery enveloping the nightmares—could they be supernatural in origin? Is Murat being haunted by the spirit of a man who has been dead for years, yet who apparently just recently visited Murat’s father? As often happens with Osman Aysu’s tales, I rather quickly became irritated by the narrator’s persistently repetitious details, unnecessary observations made by the protagonist again and again. I would prefer watching the action unfold before me than be repeatedly told what is happening and what has already happened and what might happen next. Still, the story kept me reading until the end, eager at least to see the mystery unravel.

Review of my novel, The Beast in the Blood

The war on drugs — from İstanbul to the mountains of southeastern Turkey

Arguably, the worst evil in the world today is drugs. Tens of thousands are kept in dependency, their lives torn apart by an addiction they cannot shake.

It drives many to petty crime to feed their habit. Others in their own country cynically become rich as they exploit their clients’ habits, pushing drugs to the vulnerable, even offering free first tries to get people hooked. Pan half-way around the world to South America, or in the other direction to Pakistan and Afghanistan, to find robber barons becoming rich from their harvests that are destined to destroy the lives of many. And in between are the organized crime rings that smuggle raw materials across borders, refine and process them into drugs, and distribute these pills and powders to the dealers and pushers. It is suspected that the proceeds of this whole sordid industry do not just line the pockets of the super rich at the top of this ugly food chain but that used to finance wars, civil wars and terrorism. The war on drugs is closely linked, through issues such as arms-smuggling, to the war on terror.   

Because of its geographical position at the crossroads of two of the most important trade routes in the world — east-west from Europe to Asia and down south through the Middle East into North Africa, Turkey cannot escape from being used as a conduit for drugs en route to the streets of Amsterdam, Paris and London. Ancient roads that used to transport china, silk, tea, spices and emeralds now see some convoys of a far more lethal nature.

Keeping friendly relations with Turkey is important for European governments for very many reasons. One that is not often mentioned during ministerial visits is that Turkey is often the first line of defense for Europe against the drug trade. Cooperation between European governments and police forces with Turkish ones is effective in tracking the path of these potentially destructive powders, and with the intelligence gained from their partners in Turkey, European customs officers and law enforcement agents can make seizures and arrests as soon as the goods reach their borders.

George Ellington explores this murky world of the drug trade and its link to terrorism in Turkey in his fast-paced thriller, “The Beast in the Blood.” We first meet his hero, Alex Soysal, a half-Turkish half-American member of the İstanbul Narcotics Team in a stake-out outside the Bebek mansion of drug lord Bekir Halas. Alex and his fellow cops are “fighting a seemingly endless war against a growing number of dealers, druggies, mules and several exceedingly wealthy families.” But this raid has surprising results. The guard dogs have been shot dead, and on entering the building Alex and the team find the drug lord’s daughter, Ebru, shot dead. Her assailant is still in the house, and the dark shadowy figure turns their gun on the police, Alex included. However, in the last few seconds before he is hit, Alex sees the assailant with an envelope in his hand, seemingly stolen from the safe in the mansion.

The drug lord is dead too, in an incident that has all the hallmarks of a Russian hit. After Alex asks his colleagues about the envelope and is met with a stone wall of silence, he overhears a shadowy conversation of his chief inspector’s:

“You just deal with Alex Soysal.”

“You think he knows?”

“Why else would he be here now?”

“Don’t take any chances. Find him. And kill him.”

When the chief inspector himself disappears shortly afterwards, Alex is wrongly implicated. His one chance of survival is to run, and to try to locate the envelope and solve the mystery behind it.

His adventures take him throughout İstanbul, to a number of other drug lords’ mansions, seeing more hits and being viciously attacked himself a number of times en route. On the run, and pursued by the police at every turn, he finally discovers the envelope contains a narcotics seizure list, all initialed by an officer from the anti-terrorist squad — the mysterious “OS.” Sadly, things have gotten worse for Alex, and he doesn’t know whom he can trust, as he travels to Ankara, to the offices of the Anti-smuggling and Organized Crime Bureau (KOM), to the source of the vital piece of paper.

There, he discovers the link to terrorists and to five villages in Elazığ province. Suspecting that an army major is the next on the hit list, and getting himself entangled in live operations against a breakaway Kurdish terrorist group from the Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK), Alex discovers the link — that some villagers are employed by İstanbul drug barons to ship heroin to the big city in return for weapons. These weapons come south to them from the Black Sea, and it is to Amasya that Alex must go to discover who is the shadowy figure behind the whole operation, and to face the final showdown with an assassin who has been tailing him all the way.

Alex Soysal is a man with a mission because his own life had been destroyed by drugs some years before, and he has only just recovered. He also seems to be some form of super hero: I lost count of the number of times he single-handedly fought off more than one professional thug at a time, or how he managed to be severely beaten but then back on his feet within a few hours, running across the country as if very little had happened. Towards the end of the story he does have to hobble on a stick due to a shattered knee, and people are beginning to notice he has a few blood-stains on his clothes, but you or I would have been confined to bed with severe internal bruising many days before. But this is all part of the genre! A few weeks ago I had to suspend similar disbelief while watching Angelina Jolie in the film “Salt.” All of the other elements of a good thriller are here, too.

We have the good cop represented by Alex’s partner Barış — “they share a dislike for crooks and their chief inspector Kemal” — and Kemal is a bad cop. We have bad guys who have all fallen out with each other — the drugs emperors of the Halas family, the Erdoğan family and Şişko Hilmi — all with their own hired thugs.

We have the beautiful but lethal female assailant, who could have stepped straight off the set of a James Bond film. Alex is helped by a savvy intelligence officer from the US embassy, who is an expert on Öktem’s group that split from the PKK when Abdullah Öcalan was arrested. We meet brave army officers, and one or two sinister characters amongst them, the villagers who have become rich quickly, and other villagers scared to talk. Suspects disappear, or are killed before Alex can speak to them. Oh, and don’t forget, he himself is dodging arrest or murder at every turn.

On the surface this tale is escapist fun, but it deals with reality in a thought-provoking way. Turkey is portrayed not as the source of the problem, but the victim trying to deal with it. The major expresses the agony of all those involved in Turkey’s fight against drugs as he snarls, “Maybe if you people did a better job of putting away the dealers and dopers then we wouldn’t have to worry so much about our end of things. There wouldn’t be this goddamn problem with drug runners if there weren’t no demand.”

About two-thirds of the way through the pace falters in a few places, and perhaps the book could have been shortened by a few chapters, but this is in general an adrenalin-racing chase around the darker realities behind the balance of power in parts of the country. The morphine base entering Turkey through Iran and then being processed and smuggled on causes damage not just on the streets of Europe, but also scars those who live on its deadly route.



“The Beast in the Blood,” by George Ellington, A Yellowback Mystery, published by James A Rock & Co. (2010) $19.95 in paperback ISBN: 978-159663425-1


19 September 2010, Sunday