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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PreethaRajahKannan is the author of Shiva intheCity of Nectar , an enthralling collection of stories based on the revered Tamil text, ThiruvilayaadalPuranam. She is also the editor of Navagraha Purana, a translation of the eponymous Telugu work on the mythology of the nine planets, by celebrated author V. S. Rao. Kannan has contributed extensively to newspapers and magazines, such as The New Indian Express and The Express SchoolMagazine. A homemaker and a mother of two boys, she lives with her family in Madurai, Tamil Nadu.
Son of Shiva
Preetha Rajah Kannan
Author’sNote
Writing Son of Shiva has been a fascinating voyage, combining discovery with memories. I recovered treasured childhood tales and knit them with fresh insights and content.
Skanda, the aloof Vedic warrior god of the Skandapurana , takes on very personal connotations for us Tamilians. As a little girl, one of my cherished possessions was a slim, wooden cutout of Kartikeya, or Murugan – The Beautiful One, as we fondly know him. He is the ancient god of our hills. We adore him as the embodiment of beauty, wisdom and valour and address him possessively as TamilKaduval–Our God. He is many things at the same time: our intermediary with Shiva; the indomitable warrior who slays demons; the adorable child who sulks when his parents award his elder brother a coveted mango; his father’s mentor.
Thousands throng his temples on Thaipusam day to celebrate Shakti gifting him the mystic spear. Long lines of barefooted devotees carry kavadison the pilgrimage route. These ‘burdens’ run the gamut of devotion from simple pots of milk and semicircular pieces of wood, to cruel metal hooks and spears piercing tongues and cheeks. His victory over the demon Surapadma is annually enacted with fervor on the crowded Tiruchendur seashore. Reciting the Kanda Shasti Kavasam is a part of daily prayer in many households.
SonofShivais an amalgam of various sources, including oral tales passed on through generations, and temple murals and legends. I must particularly mention Dr. Akila Sivaraman’s SriKandhapuranam ,
and the precious nuggets I mined from http://murugan.org/index.htm and http://www.sacredtexts.com/hin/index.htm .
My narrative is largely based on Kachiappa Shivachariar’s fourteenth-century magnum opus, Kandhapuranam . Legend holds that Shivachariar placed each day’s writing at the foot of the idol at the Kumara Kottam temple and returned the next morning to find his work edited by Kartikeya himself!
Dear Reader, here’s hoping you enjoy the exploits of Kartikeya, Champion of Light.
As we say, ‘VetrivelMurugannukkuAraharohara!’
Our Salutations to Kartikeya, bearer of the Spear of Victory.
17 The Birth of Parvati
18 The Transcendental Yogi
19 Kama Reduced to Ashes
20 Aparna’s Penance
21 Shiva Weds Parvati
22 The Birth of Kartikeya
23 Kartikeya’s Leelas
24 Devayanai and Valli
25 Devasenapati
PartIV War
26 Taraka and Krauncha
27 Kartikeya Worships Shiva
28 Veerabahu’s Embassy
29 War is Inevitable
30 Day 1: Bhanugopan’s Offensive
31 Day 2: Surapadma Takes the Field
32 Day 3: The Asura Princes Go to Battle
33 Day 4: Bhanugopan Meets his End
34 Day 5: Singhamukha’s Death
35 Day 6: Surapadma’s Fall
36 Kartikeya’s Wedding
Epilogue
Glossary
Prologue
Mammoth waves crashed against the shore in a frenzied lather of foam and mist. Forked lightning splintered the glowering sky. Dark clouds brooded over the ominous drumrolls of thunder, heralding the battle to come.
In the forefront of the amassed deva army, with the wind god at its reins, was Manovegam – the golden chariot that could fly at any desired speed. Kartikeya, the commander-in-chief of the gods, stood majestically behind the charioteer. His six faces blazed with blinding beauty, surveying the earth, the sky and the four directions. The cockerel-emblazoned banner in his hand fluttered in the sea breeze and his divine spear, the golden vel, emitted dazzling sparks. A sword, mace, bow, arrow, staff, elephant-goad, trident, discus, conch and the thunderbolt vajra, gleamed in each of his other ten hands. Vishnu, on Garuda, hovered to one side of him; on the other was Brahma on his pristine white swan. Behind them stood Indra, mounted on the towering elephant Airavata, leading row upon row of gods – on flying chariots, on handsome stallions pawing the ground, on enormous elephants swinging iron clubs in their trunks. Bringing up the rear was a host of gigantic bhutaganas, armed with truncheons, uprooted trees and massive boulders. The immense army’s rearguard was swallowed up in the cloud of dust on the horizon.
The Devasenapati raised his flag. On cue, the blowing of thousands of conches was heard, the sound lingering in the shimmering columns of air. Drums beat a furious tattoo,
accompanied by the deafening clash of cymbals and the clarion call of bugles.
The sky and the earth shook with the battle cry raised by millions of throats: “Hara!Hara!”
Vayudeva gave rein to Manovegam and the chariot dashed forward, rising up into the sky, followed by the deva host. In their wake, the ganas trudged through the ocean, churning up the waters, sending the denizens of the deep into swirls of panicked flight.
Kartikeya’s army crossed the Southern Sea, and headed towards Mahendrapuri, the fabled island capital of the asura king Surapadma.
The roots of the epic battle to come were embedded in the annals of cosmic time, on a sunny afternoon on Mount Kailash…
Part I Daksha
The Conch Shell
The snows of Mount Kailash sparkled, as if reflecting the brilliance of the august assembly gathered in homage before Shiva. The mahayogi was immersed in transcendental meditation. Parvati, beauty incarnate, sat beside him, a benign smile lighting up her face. Vishnu and Brahma stood in reverence before the supreme lord, along with Surya, Chandra, Indra, Agni and the other guardians of the eight cardinal directions. The music of the gandharvas wafted softly on the blossom-scented breeze, melding with the devout chant of the ganas, “OmnamahShivayah!”
The air vibrated with tangible divinity as Shiva slowly emerged from his deep trance, smiled serenely at his audience and raised his right hand in the varadahastaof benediction.
As the gathered gods bowed in reverence, Parvati turned to her husband and remarked, rather smugly, it must be admitted, “My lord, it is eminently fitting that the devas pay obeisance to us. It is but their overt acknowledgement of our sovereignty over the worlds. After all, it is you who ordain and define Brahma’s and Vishnu’s
respective roles as Creator and Protector. You alone hold the cosmos in your being – of course, in my body and form.”
The atmosphere darkened and a low rumbling punctuated Kailash’s serene calm. Shiva’s ash-smeared body stiffened ominously.
Unaware of the incipient frown on her spouse’s brow, Parvati blithely continued, “You control the workings of the universe, which lies in me. I am the embodiment of…”
“Parvati!”
The furious voice cut through her words like cold steel and sparks flew from the third eye that gaped open on Shiva’s shining brow.
Mahadeva declared, “I am the cosmos. Like the fragrance innate in a flower, like the oil fused into a sesame seed, like the sound implicit in a bell or the heat inherent in a flame – I pervade every being, including you, for all eternity. Without my consent, the tiniest ion will not stir.”
He sprang to his feet and roared, “Behold!”
Before Parvati’s horrified gaze, the furious god gathered his cosmic force into himself, withdrew from the worlds and towered over her as a dense, swirling pillar of flame. Bereft of energy, the universe abruptly came to a standstill. Night and day, the earth and water, the sun and the moon, devas and mortals, all sank into oblivion. The only thing that remained in the eerie silence was an immense, dark void.
Parvati froze in terror and closed her dazzled eyes, as vicious tongues of fire darted round her. Slowly, she raised her hands in supplication. “My lord, you are an ocean of compassion. Forgive my thoughtless pride. Restore the universe and shower your blessings on creation once more.”
ShivaembracedParvatitenderly.
The fiery pillar slowed its gyration and stopped. Its blinding radiance dimmed. Shiva, his anger appeased, resumed his benevolent form. He surveyed the bleak wasteland that was the universe and closed his eyes in meditation. A flurry of dazzling sparks flew from his third eye and metamorphosed into eleven crore rudras. At his bidding, these fierce manifestations of his power renewed the ravaged cosmos. Light dispelled the darkness, wind and water reanimated the cosmos, and the shaken devas once more
stood before the sovereign lord. With a serene, reassuring smile, Shiva directed them to go about their ordained tasks.
He then turned to his wife. “Parvati, you are the universal mother, yet you allowed your pride to shroud the cosmos in darkness. According to the dictates of dharma, I cannot overlook this transgression; it calls for some form of penance.”
Filled with remorse, Parvati said, “My lord, I bow to your will.”
Shiva pondered for a moment. Then he directed, “Go to the river Yamuna, which is especially blessed as the sister of Yama, the god of death. There, take the form of the auspicious shankha – the conch shell – and perform your penance to me, while floating on the petals of an immaculate white lotus.”
Parvati was aghast. “My beloved, how can you do this? You and I are one. My heart aches at the very thought of parting from you.”
Shiva’s eyes melted in love, but he remained stoically silent.
Accepting the inevitable, Parvati pleaded, “If it must be so, at least promise me that our separation will not be for long. When will we be reunited?”
“Shakti, Daksha prajapatiwill raise you as his daughter. I will wed you when you attain womanhood.”
Shiva embraced her tenderly. Bowing in sad resignation, Parvati descended to earth. Taking the shape of a milky-white, rightwards twisting conch shell, valampurishankha,she rested on the petals of a white lotus in the crystal clear waters of the Yamuna. Oblivious to the world, she immersed her entire being in worship of her beloved Shiva.
Daksha’s Boons
“Father and creator of the worlds, my salutations to you.”
Brahma, seated in meditation on his white lotus in Satyaloka , opened his eyes and smiled.
“Daksha, first among my sons, my blessings on you. What brings you here?”
Daksha prajapati said, “Father, you are the master of the Vedas. Tell me, who is the greatest of the gods?”
“That is easily answered, my son. Shiva is the peerless eternal sovereign of the cosmos. He is the creator, sustainer and destroyer of the three worlds. He alone bestows moksha on souls. He has neither beginning nor end. All other gods execute his orders unquestioningly.”
Daksha remained silent. Brahma looked thoughtfully at his discontented face and continued, “My son, there is a streak of obstinacy in your nature which makes me fear for you. Pay heed to my advice. Go to the shores of the holy lake Manasarovar and perform rigorous penance as you meditate upon Shiva. He will ease your troubled mind and shower you with boons.”
Taking his father’s words to heart, Daksha performed tapas dedicated to Shiva, on the banks of the beautiful Manasarovar whose emerald waters reflected the snowy peaks of Mount Kailash. For an incredible twenty-one thousand years, the tenacious prajapati persisted in his penance through all seasons: standing waist-deep in swirling storm-fed waters, oblivious to the blizzards that froze his breath, unmoved by the blazing summer sun that scorched his skin into blackened scabs.
Moved by the strength of his devotion, Shiva finally appeared before Daksha and said, “O Daksha prajapati, firstborn of Brahma, your single-minded tapaspleases me. Ask of me what you will.”
Daksha paid homage to the blue-throated one and said eagerly, “O imperishable Shiva, grant me overlordship of all the worlds. Let every being, whether mortal, asura or god, worship and obey me unconditionally.”
Shiva inclined his head in benign acquiescence. Daksha quickly continued, “O bestower of boons, bless me with numerous sons, learned in the Vedas, and many daughters. May Gauri be one of them. Grant me the privilege of becoming my sonin-law by marrying her.”
Shiva held out his hands in blessing. He said, “Daksha, as long as you follow the path of dharma, my grace will abide with you,” and vanished.
The jubilant prajapati summoned his father, Brahma, and ordered him to build a great capital city. The Creator, secretly troubled at Daksha squandering the chance of attaining union with Shiva through his penance, reluctantly consented. Dakshapuri, filled with marvels and riches beyond measure, emerged at Brahma’s command. Daksha installed himself there in regal splendour and compelled the gods and sages to render service to him. The prajapati’s arrogance and complacence grew apace with the pomp and grandeur of his reign. Daksha went on to wed the beautiful Vedavalli.
Obsessed with gaining absolute dominion over the cosmos, the prajapatibegot a thousand manasaputras– sons born of the mind –
and instructed them to propitiate Shiva through rigorous tapas and obtain from him the boon of independently executing creation.
Sage Narada, with his penchant for sniffing out the smallest buzz in the cosmos, got wind of Daksha’s scheme. He hurried to meet Daksha’s sons and successfully convinced them to seek the boon of moksha instead. The furious prajapati created another thousand sons and dispatched them to Manasarovar to do penance. Again, the irrepressible Narada diverted Daksha’s sons from their intended objective and sent them on the quest of deliverance from the cycle of rebirth. His designs foiled, Daksha roared, “Hear me, Narada, you meddler. This is my curse! You, who have sent my manasaputras on the eternal pursuit of liberation, will spend all your days as a wanderer in the three worlds!”
“Narayana! Narayana!” piously intoned the insouciant Narada and blithely continued to play his role of cosmic messenger, ignoring the prajapati’sredundant malediction.
As for Daksha, he begot a multitude of sons and daughters through Vedavalli. In due course, Daksha gave twenty-seven of his daughters in marriage to the handsome Chandra. Blindly infatuated with Rohini, the moon god deliberately turned his radiant face away from his other twenty-six brides.
Incensed by the sorrow of his spurned daughters, Daksha summoned his recalcitrant son-in-law, and thundered, “Chandra, you dolt! Despite my warnings, you have failed to love my daughters impartially. Hear my curse: may you wane into nothingness!”
The hapless Chandra rapidly lost his brilliance. At the end of fifteen days, all that remained of his once-luminescent, rotund self was a sliver of feeble light. The terrified moon god hurried to Mount Kailash and begged Shiva for succour.
Shiva, pitying Chandra, plucked the dimming crescent from the sky and placed it securely amid his own matted locks, becoming Chandrasekara, the one who holds the moon in his hair.
The mahayogi said, “Chandra, you will progressively regain your full lustre over the next fifteen days. Subsequently, you will gradually decrease in radiance in the course of the following fifteen days. You will repeat this cycle of waxing and waning every month, remaining under my eternal protection.”
On hearing of Chandra’s redemption, a dark seed of resentment took root in the depths of Daksha’s arrogant being.
“Who is Shiva to interfere in my punishment of my errant son-inlaw?” Daksha complained to sage Pulakar.
The sage replied, “Daksha, your increasing wealth and prestige do not make you immune to Shiva’s might. Remember that you received your boons from the lord’s hands.”
“Hah!” scoffed the prajapati . “Those boons were not alms bestowed in charity. They were but the fruit of millennia of tapas.”
The sage was placatory. He said, “Daksha, Shiva has not categorically annulled your curse. After all, Chandra will continue to wane for a fortnight in every lunar cycle. That is punishment enough for him. Now, think of what is to come. Shiva himself is to be your son-in-law!”
Although he nodded in apparent agreement, the misguided prajapatibegan to look with jaundiced eyes upon Shiva as a rival to his proclaimed dominion over the universe.
Gauri’s Penance
With the sun in makaram (Capricorn) and the maha nakshatra (the star Regulus) ruling the sky, Daksha, accompanied by his wife and a large entourage of gods and rishis, arrived on the bank of the Yamuna for his ritual bath. As he entered the cool water, a flash of dazzling white caught his eyes. Among the profusion of pink and red lotuses, was a single bloom of pristine white. An exquisite, flawless white conch lay cushioned in its unfurled petals. The prajapati carefully picked up the shankha. To his amazement, the fragile shell vanished and his hands now held a beautiful infant girl, gurgling happily up at him.
Flooded by love, Daksha cradled the child tenderly and gave her to his wife saying, “Vedavalli, this is our daughter Gauri, the fair one.”
Vedavalli kissed the baby’s forehead, gathered her into her heart and carried her home. Gauri filled Daksha’s household with joy and laughter and became his favourite child.
At the age of five, Gauri went to him and said, “Father, my games and toys no longer interest me. There is a vast emptiness within me
that I just cannot understand. My heart yearns to meditate on Shiva. Please give me your permission to set aside the palace routine and undertake penance.”
Daksha was deeply moved by his little daughter’s precocious piety. Conscious of what the future held, he made arrangements for her to embark on her tapas, accompanied by her companions and maids. He soothed his anxious wife’s doubts. “Vedavalli, Gauri is none other than Parvati. She is the fruit of my penance to Shiva, who is destined to become our son-in-law,” he beamed with pride. “We must bow to the destiny ordained for our precious daughter, my dear.”
Gauri immersed herself in an increasingly brutal regimen of penance and self-mortification. Years went by. Gauri was now a young woman.
One day, a Brahmin entered the hall in which she performed her daily rituals. Gauri greeted him respectfully with folded arms and seated him on a comfortable chair.
“Sir, I am honoured by your visit. What can I do for you?” she asked solicitously.
The Brahmin leaned back luxuriously and scrutinized the beautiful girl, from her lustrous hair to her exquisite feet. With a lewd glint in his eyes, he smirked, “For a start, you can give me your petal-soft hand to hold.”
The horrified Gauri drew back, her body shaking with revulsion. She lashed out at the man in indignant fury. “You despicable wretch! It is clear that your brain is addled! Do you not know that the sole purpose of my tapasis to become Shiva’s wife? Be gone at once before I…”
Gauri stopped short, the flame of her righteous anger abruptly extinguished. There, in the place of the lecherous Brahmin, stood Shiva himself in all his glory!
He smiled at her with a twinkle in his eyes. “Gauri, your penance has captivated my heart. I am here to make you my own.”
Gauri’s heart melted at her beloved’s voice. A blush tinted her cheeks and she bowed her head.
Gauri’s companions rushed to Daksha with the momentous news of Shiva’s encounter with Gauri. An elated Daksha hurried to meet Shiva and escorted him to his palace, along with his daughter.
The devas and rishis descended on Dakshapuri, whose doors were festooned with mango leaves and streets carpeted with flowers. Showers of blossoms rained on the bridegroom. The gods anointed Shiva with fresh sandalwood paste and garlanded him with lotuses. The sweet music of the gandharvas filled the marriage hall, where Brahma tended the sacred fire and led the chant of auspicious mantras. Gauri, bedecked in exquisite finery, made her entrance accompanied by Lakshmi and Sarasvati. Ramba, Tilottama and their company of apsaras danced joyously at the head of the bridal procession. Daksha tenderly escorted Gauri to the marriage dais. He took his daughter’s hand in his own and prepared to place it in the hands of her groom. To his amazement and that of the gathering, Shiva was nowhere to be found. The divine groom had vanished!
A buzz of consternation rippled through the hall: what did the lord’s disappearance portend? Whispers and accusatory glances were directed at Daksha, whose arrogance, after all, was common knowledge.
The prajapati, aware of the covert looks, burst into a flood of acrimony. “I am Daksha prajapati , firstborn of Brahma, overlord of the three worlds!” he spat. “How dare this Shiva… this vagrant of unknown pedigree… this denizen of cremation grounds… this pauper whose bow is made of goat’s horn… how dare he insult me?”
The assembled gods and sages, keenly aware of Shiva’s might, made their unobtrusive exits, anxious to put a safe distance between themselves and the fulminating Daksha.
Meanwhile, the devastated Gauri threw aside her rich silks and ornaments and resumed her resolute tapas.
After a long passage of time, she was visited by an ascetic, clothed in ochre, smeared with ash, wearing rudrakshabeads round his neck and sporting a trident and skull in his hands. Gauri greeted this devotee of Shiva with deep respect and gave him an honoured seat.
Before her startled eyes, the ascetic vanished. In his place appeared the lord of Kailash, mounted on the majestic bull – his rishabhavahana – with its gleaming horns and tinkling golden bells. A divine fragrance pervaded the hall and blossoms showered down from the heavens. The auspicious music of the kinnaras and gandharvas filled the air. A radiant smile on his face, Mahadeva tenderly held out his hand and Gauri reached out her own in ecstasy. In an instant, she melted into his embrace – Shiva and Shakti were reunited once more.
Daksha’s Resentment Grows
Gauri’s companions ran pell-mell to Daksha with their account of the momentous developments. Their tidings added fuel to the prajapati’s hatred of Shiva.
Daksha raged, “This king of thieves has now stolen my precious girl… This unkempt beggar, without kith or kin, has abducted my daughter, ignoring customs and rites!”
The devas, constrained to bow to Daksha’s sovereignty, trembled at the possible repercussions of the widening rift between him and Shiva. In one voice, they urged him to put aside his anger.
“Daksha,” advised Vishnu, “it serves no purpose to demean Shiva, who is now your son-in-law. In fact, this relationship enhances your own stature in the cosmos.”
Brahma added persuasively, “My son, go to Mount Kailash. This will establish that you hold no rancour in your heart for the untoward incidents of the past.”
The partially placated Daksha made his way to Kailash. To his humiliation, he was barred entry into Shiva’s abode.
“Halt!” ordered a belligerent gana . “You cannot enter without my lord’s permission.”
Daksha retorted haughtily, “Move out of my way, underling! I am Daksha prajapati.”
The gana stood his ground and sniggered, “So?” He continued, “Daksha, your overweening conceit makes you forget that your sovereignty over the three worlds is a gift from my lord. Await Mahadeva’s pleasure or leave!”
Daksha, incensed, turned his back on the gatekeeper and stalked off. Back in Dakshapuri, the prajapatibrooded in dark hatred before summoning the devas and rishis to an assembly.
Seated in regal splendour on his gem-encrusted throne, Daksha announced, “Hear me, gods and sages. I hereby decree that it is forbidden to offer prayers, homage or tapas to Shiva. Anyone breaching my command will be stripped of his position and severely punished!”
His docile audience studiously avoided his gaze and dispersed quietly, obviously believing that after all, discretion is the better part of valour!
In reluctant accordance with the prajapati ’s command, yagnas were discontinued. As all offerings to the gods were halted, their divine powers diminished; natural calamities and suffering increasingly buffeted the three worlds. Brahma, troubled by this dire state of affairs, set aside his fear of Daksha and visited Mount Kailash.
Bowing in homage before Maheswara, the Creator said, “Lord, grant me your blessing for the yagna I plan to conduct and accept the principal share of the havis,which is yours by right.”
Shiva smiled benevolently and said, “So be it! I will depute my trusted Nandi to your yagna.”
Brahma wrangled Daksha’s permission for the sacrifice and made grand preparations at an auspicious site on the summit of Manovati, on majestic Mount Meru. Brahma received the gods, goddesses, sages and manasaputras, including his son, Daksha, with due respect and installed them in seats of honour. The assembled company, with the notable exception of Daksha, bowed in obeisance
as Nandi made his entrance, accompanied by a hundred crore ganas . Brahma hurried to receive him and escorted him to a golden throne on the dais.
Daksha jumped up and berated Brahma, “You who are the master of creation. Surely you know better than to invite this common gatekeeper to the yagna?” He continued angrily, “Let me make one thing clear: on no account is this creature’s master to be offered a share of the sacrificial offerings. And…” his voice dripped with cold menace, “believe me, if you were not my father, your head would have parted company with your torso for this!”
“Daksha!” A loud roar shattered the stunned silence, as Nandi came to his feet. “You fool! My lord Shiva is the absolute yagnapati: the presiding deity of any yagna.” He thrust out his razor-edged hooves. “I would not hesitate to cut out the tongues of those who dare criticize my lord. However, I will let you off today as it is clear that the hour of your death is fast approaching… Your conceited head will soon fall to the ground.”
Nandi then turned to the petrified spectators. His every word had the reverberation of a drumbeat. “As for you, you spineless participants in this yagna… hear my curse: you will experience Surapadma’s unremitting torments!” With these imprecations, Nandi and his entourage vanished from the yagna salai prompting the chastened Brahma to hastily bring the yagna to an ignominious halt.
The devas and rishis, rattled by Nandi’s words, went about their routines in sombre silence, avoiding all sacrifices, weighed down by the certainty of impending doom.
Determined to break Shiva’s grip on the cosmos, Daksha summoned the devas and declared scornfully, “It is clear that the bull’s empty roars have you quaking in your sandals! Very well, I will prove to you once and for all that there is no need to fear Shiva. I will personally conduct a grand yagna without giving a share of the havis to that unkempt beggar. That will stiffen your wobbly spines and set the precedent for all future sacrifices in the universe!”
At Daksha’s command, Vishwakarma designed a yagna salai at Kanakalam, on the banks of the sacred Ganga. The site was an astounding thousand yojanas in width (a yojana is a unit of
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CAMP, WALTER CHAUNCEY. Football without a coach. il *$1.25 Appleton 797
20–13870
The object of the book is to supply a perfect pen-and-ink coach for a football team, telling it how to progress from week to week, warning it of the dangers that will crop up and telling it how to surmount each difficulty that arises. It is intended as a text-book for the grammar school boy, the high school student, and the young man from the shop or office. Contents: Building the foundation; Sizing up the candidates; The first scrimmage; Practice without a scrub; The line and the forward pass; The line; The backfield; Building plays; The strategy of football; Things that make or break a team.
Booklist 17:102 D ’20
“The book comes as near to taking the place of an expert coach as printed words can. ”
CAMP,
WALTER
CHAUNCEY. Handbook on health and how to keep it. *$1.25 (3c) Appleton 613
20–5624
In formulating a “simple, reasonable and practical system of preserving physical fitness” for all ages, the author has had in mind the “simplest, shortest, least exhausting and most exhilarating form of calisthenics” that can be devised. He has concentrated his setup exercises with four groups of three each thus: Hands, Hips, Head; Grind, Grate, Grasp; Crawl, Curl, Crouch; Wave, Weave, Wing. Portions of the book are devoted to practical suggestions as to the value of certain sports at proper periods of life and to cautions as to the general health and the follies of some habits. Contents: Problems of youth and age; Daily dozen set-up; Reviewing follies; Children, schoolboy and collegian; Industrial worker. Booklist 16:333 Jl ’20
“Mr Camp’s latest book should be useful to the instructor of gymnastics and the Boy scout leader. The author’s insistence upon athletics will readily be forgiven on the ground of a specialist’s natural enthusiasm; but the space given to it and other general considerations in the book hardly make it a very practical ‘handbook’ for the individual in need of advice and stimulus.” B. L.
Survey 44:252 My 15 ’20 160w
CAMPBELL, HENRY COLIN. How to use cement for concrete construction for town and farm. il $2 Stanton & Van Vliet 693.5
20–6499
This comprehensive book covers such subjects as Farming with concrete; What concrete is, how to make and use it; Making forms for concrete construction; Reinforcement; Concrete foundations and concrete walls; Tanks, troughs, cisterns, and similar containers for liquids; Concrete floors, walks and similar concrete pavements; A concrete garage on the farm; Poultry houses of concrete; Concrete silos, etc. The author writes from the point of view of both engineer and farmer. There is an alphabetical table of contents, and the book is very fully illustrated.
Booklist 17:97 D ’20
CANBY, HENRY SEIDEL. Everyday Americans. *$1.75 (5½c) Century 917.3
20–16765
The book is a “study of the typical, the everyday American mind, as it is manifested in the American of the old stock. It is a study of what that typical American product, the college and high school graduate, has become in the generation which must carry on after the war. ” (Preface) This typical American the author finds to be “the conservative-liberal” in whom the inherited liberal instincts have become petrified and who suffers with a sort of a hardening of the arteries of the mind. There is also a radicalism of a sort but it is a very different thing from European revolutionary radicalism. The soul of America now in which abides the future, is the bourgeoisie and he advises all who wish to speculate in postbellum America to study the younger leaders of the labor parties on the one hand and the college undergraduates on the other. They are the future. Contents: The American mind; Conservative America; Radical America; American idealism; Religion in America; Literature in America; The bourgeois American.
“Written in a clear, rather colorless style.”
Booklist 17:110 D ’20
“If Mr Canby’s book had been written long ago it would have remedied in large degree the appalling ignorance existing abroad concerning American mind and thought.”
Bookm 52:272 N ’20 180w
“A timely, undogmatic contribution to an exceedingly lively issue.”
Dial 70:232 F ’21 70w
“As far as it goes, Mr Canby’s book is very good and very interesting. On the whole, his analysis appears to be sound; and his candour is admirable.” R: Roberts
Freeman 2:308 D 8 ’20 1150w
Nation 111:512 N 3 ’20 280w
“Thoughtful and lucid appraisement of American values. Though the style is simple, it is closely packed; the substance is weighty, and no one will get it all in the first reading.”
Review 4:17 Ja 5 ’21 580w
“It may be argued that there is no special brillance or insight in these pages, but if one really wishes to convince the average thoughtful American, it is well to be neither too philosophical nor too paradoxical. Mr Canby at least shows us that he has an active mind, capable of searching the underlying issues of the time in which he lives.”
“This study of the American mind is altogether delightful because of its directness, sincerity and penetration.”
B. L.
Survey 45:369 D 4 ’20 280w
CANFIELD, CHAUNCEY L., ed. Diary of a forty-niner. *$3.50 Houghton 979.4
The book is based on the authentic diary of one Alfred T. Jackson, a pioneer miner who cabined and worked on Rock Creek, Nevada County, California, from 1850 to 1852. It is a “truthful, unadorned, veracious chronicle of the placer mining days of the foothills, a narrative of events as they occurred; told in simple and, at times, ungrammatical sentences, yet vivid and truth compelling in the absence of conscious literary endeavor.... It sets forth graphically the successive steps in gold mining, from the pan and rocker to the ground sluice and flume.... No less fascinating is the romance interwoven in the pages of the diary.” (Preface) The editor states that he has verified many of the incidents and happenings. An edition of the book was published in San Francisco shortly before the earthquake and fire, during which the plates and many of the copies were destroyed.
“This book is well printed in large type but the solid character of the contents, in spite of the chapter headings, will repel some readers.” H. S. K. Boston Transcript p3 D 11 ’20 600w
“One of the most fascinating features of this remarkable document is the diarist’s self-revelation of his evolution from a Puritanical New Englander, bound and shackled with the prejudices of generations, into a broad-minded man whose mental growth is miraculously stimulated by the freedom of his environment and associations.”
N Y Times p22 Ja 16 ’21 2850w
R of Rs 63:223 F ’21 100w
CANNAN, GILBERT. Release of the soul. *$1.75
Boni & Liveright 149.3
20–8452
“The surface of life has been broken by the war, says Mr Cannan; there is no longer any structure in social existence: ‘For the artist there is metaphysic or nothing.’ And in this highly metaphysical, mystical essay he attempts to convey a programme for the immediate future of society and especially for the artist. We are told that the book was written during Mr Cannan’s recent visit in America, in a period of intense creative inspiration. As a record of mystical experience, as an endeavor to express the ineffable, it expects from the reader a coöperation more sympathetic than that of the intelligence. Stripped of its mysticism, the argument is a tolerably familiar one; it is a fusion of certain beliefs almost universally held now by the younger writers and artists, beliefs regarding the industrial régime, bourgeois democracy, intellectualism, the instinct of workmanship, the release of the creative impulses.” N Y Evening Post
“Mr Cannan’s new book is, indeed, unusual. The words God, soul, life, occur with extraordinary frequency but the variety of their syntactical connections throws no light on their meanings. Since we are neither provided with, nor enabled to deduce, definitions of Mr Cannan’s chief terms, we find his book unintelligible.”
Ath p764 Je 11 ’20 500w
“The tone of the book is rhapsodical; its sentences are so desultory; and even the illustrations drawn here and there from history, art and literature are so loose, that it is difficult, if not impossible, to decide at times what he exactly does mean. ”
Cath World 111:832 S ’20 230w
“There is little art in his exposition and less evidence of work. And it takes more religion of a charitable nature than Mr Cannan preaches to restrain one from saying that the author of this work has released his soul so very successfully that it has disappeared.”
Dial 69:433 O ’20 110w
“Flashes of fine thought are not incompatible with loose thinking. A book may be very stimulating and suggestive in its details and yet as a whole leave behind an impression of hopeless confusion. This is just the kind of book Mr Cannan has produced.” Edwin Bjorkman
Freeman 2:19 S 15 ’20 1600w
“It is not unlikely that many, perhaps most, of the people who read Mr Cannan’s new book will wonder what he is driving at. A little of
this bewilderment will be due to Mr Cannan himself; for when he passes over from the dramatic to the discursive a certain elusiveness invades his speech. The book is one of those which must be read two or three times over before its whole significance becomes clear; but it is abundantly worth that trouble.” R: Roberts
Nation 111:301 S 11 ’20 1100w
“His book is a curious, largely incomprehensible and thoroughly dull rhapsody upon God and nature, life, love and the soul.” S. C. C.
New Repub 24:152 O 6 ’20 220w
“The charm of the book is to be found in some of the brief ecstatic meditations in which from time to time the pages flower.” Van Wyck Brooks
N Y Evening Post p7 My 8 ’20 950w
“Mr Cannan has flung a light bridge from mysticism to internationalism over which it is quite conceivable that an exposition so airy, chary, and fleeting as his own may pass in safety. But the plain man, the logician, and the investigator can not be urged to trust his weight to the inadequacies of the trembling fabric.”
Review 3:711 Jl 7 ’20 500w
“It is an embarrassing book to read. One feels like an intruder upon a privacy, for really Mr Cannan appears to have suffered considerably. Either so ‘private and confidential’ a book ought not to have been written, or we should not be reading it.”
“Obviously what Mr Cannan says is largely platonic doctrine, to many incomprehensible; but spiritual emphasis at this time is so needed that the book is justified in spite of its frequent cloudy and chaotic passages. ”
Springf’d Republican p8 Jl 8 ’20 220w
“Mr Cannan, weary of criticism and all negative activities, has turned to mysticism; and this book is the result. It is sincere, passionate and interesting, but it lacks structure, and so is a little difficult to read.”
The Times [London] Lit Sup
p417 Jl 1 ’20
1850w
CANNAN,
GILBERT. Time and eternity; a tale of three exiles. *$1.90 (2½c) Doran
20–7059
London is the abode of these three exiles. One of them is an Englishman, Stephen Lawrie, at odds with the world about him and with the war, living in voluntary seclusion in the London slums, trying to solve the riddle of the universe in silence and inactivity. The other, Perekatov, is a Ukrainian Jew eking out a precarious existence in London as a correspondent for a Russian paper. He obtrudes himself on Stephen with whose face, seen at a public meeting, he had been impressed. There is much spasmodic, intangible talk between
them and their intercourse ripens into friendship of a sort. Valerie du Toit, the third exile, is a South African of French Huguenot extraction, who has come to England athirst for the eternal verities. With elemental force the spirits of Stephen and Valerie meet and melt into each other. This kindles insane jealousy in Howard Ducie who acts the Othello to Valerie’s Desdemona, smothers her in her sleep and has himself run over by a train. Stephen accepts the tragedy as a happening in time which can not interfere with the eternity of his love.
Ath p1035 O 17 ’19 240w
“Mr Gilbert Cannan’s novels are important novels, but they are not good novels. They are the illustrative material of his essays and they do not illustrate them in any creative fashion. The theories shine through too glaringly, as in ‘Time and eternity.’ Mr Cannan started out with a naive creative impulse, but the events of the past six years have aroused in him, as in many of us, so much impassioned thinking about life that the material of creation itself slips from his grasp. ”
Nation 110:658 My 15 ’20 400w
“Though the book frequently reveals creative strokes, though its general plan is majestically conceived, yet it conveys the sense of being a preliminary work. ‘Time and eternity’ suggests the need for a future work which will see the thing through. The sculptor is still groping.” J.
C. L.
New Repub 23:182 Jl 7 ’20 730w
“‘Time and eternity’ is the result of a serious lack in its author, the lack of a sense of humor. The piece has untold burlesque possibilities, and they have been wasted. ‘Time and eternity’ may be ascribed only to a rapidly advancing senility.” Henrietta Malkiel
−
N Y Call p10 My 9 ’20 420w
“We have all long known the phrase ‘ a welter of words,’ but to read Gilbert Cannan’s new book ‘Time and eternity’ is to realize just exactly what it implies. The reader’s strongest feeling after he has at last toiled his weary way through this extremely dull book is a desire for plenty of soap and water and good fresh air.”
N Y Times 25:204 Ap 25 ’20 900w
Reviewed by H. W. Boynton
Review 2:489 My 8 ’20 520w
“Mr Cannan writes too quickly and too often. He writes with a sort of hungry rage, because he despises something, though he does not know what, and desires something equally unknown to him. His work is as restless and as inconclusive as a conversation between adolescents teased with growing pains.”
Sat R 128:419 N 1 ’19
1200w
“In ‘Time and eternity’ Mr Cannan presents a piece of tedious writing and speculation about slinking individuals who are out of harmony with the ages. ”
“Mr Cannan has not yet, in this method, passed the experimental stage. Moreover, he has not enough to say about the souls of his three exiles, to each of whom by name is allotted one-third of this short book, to engage unflagging attention. They are queer if not tiresome, but vaguer than people speaking uninspired lines from behind a curtain. They do nothing very much; they appear to want nothing very special; they certainly are nothing very intensely.” The
CANNAN, GILBERT. Windmills; a book of fables. *$1.60 (3c) Huebsch
20–17654
A volume of satires. The first two, Samways island and Ultimus, altho written before 1914 have to do with a series of wars between Fatland (England) and Fatterland (Germany) and, except in matters of mechanical detail, they indicate remarkable foresight. Of the two that follow, Gynecologia describes the women governed world that succeeded the great wars, and Out of work is a social satire involving Jah, the devil, and a certain Nicholas Bly, a labor agitator. The author writes a preface to the American edition. The book was published in England in 1915.
“Mr Cannan’s satire is not as keen and cutting when bare and exposed in these sketches as it is in some of his other books where it half hides behind a veil of romance. ‘Windmills’ is brilliant in places, but not as a whole.”
Boston Transcript p7 Jl 31 ’20 310w
“What he says is inexpugnably true; it is only his prose which is ineffective.”
Dial 69:433 O ’20 70w
“When the time and circumstances of the book’s composition are remembered one ’ s admiration for Mr Cannan’s clear and trenchant perspicacity is of the highest. At that point, however, one ’ s admiration ends. Here, as in all his recent books, there is, on the side of art, a total lack of modulation, of warmth, of felicity.” Ludwig Lewisohn
Nation
111:160
Ag 7 ’20 650w
“It makes light of high things and low and at the same time heavy reading for both. It sounds like Greenwich Village at its futilest.”
Outlook
125:615
Ag 4 ’20 60w
“The truth is, Mr Cannan, with all his pose of independence, is nothing if not a partisan. He belongs to his time and his school; and neither his paradox nor his satiric whimsy nor his flashes of sentiment could have been what they are without the example or let us say the inspiration of a Chesterton, a Shaw, and a Wells. The book
has, above all, the assertiveness, the bumptiousness, the determined brilliancy, and unease which will, we may fear, be the hallmark of the passing literary generation to the eye of posterity.” H. W. B.
−
Review 3:192 S 1 ’20 920w
CANTACUZÈNE, PRINCESS (COUNTESS SPÉRANSKY, née JULIA DENT GRANT).
Russian people. il *$3 Scribner 947
20–6483
“Many who have followed the Russian articles in the Saturday Evening Post of Princess Cantacuzène will no doubt greet with pleasure their appearance in book form under the title ‘Russian people: revolutionary recollections.’ Similar to Princess Cantacuzène’s earlier book, ‘Revolutionary days,’ these pictures of Russian life are seen through the eyes of a member of the upper classes, residents for years in the country. It is the simple folk outside the city, exemplified by the peasant of the Cantacuzène estate, Bouromka, about whom the stories center. In addition to the pictures of Bouromka before and after the ‘red’ outbreaks, there are chapters dealing with the efforts in various parts of the old empire to reestablish a stable government. Crimea, where the Cantacuzène villa is situated, was one such center. ‘Daughters of Russia’ is the title of the final chapter, these ranging from Catherine the Great to Catherine Breshkovsky and Maria Botshkarova.” Springf’d Republican
“The author knows the peasants and tenantry outside of the large cities and writes of them intimately and interestingly. Her account of
the revolution and of political affairs is, however, second hand and lacks clarifying detail.”
Booklist 17:64 N ’20
“They present readable and accurate impressions of events on which full information is still hard to get.”
Ind 103:440 D 25 ’20 130w
“It would be a mistake to regard her story as seriously contributing to our understanding of the revolution, if for no other reason than that her materials are obtained at secondhand and to a great extent from rumor. Painting in simple black-and-white is not her only limitation.”
Nation 110:860 Je 26 ’20 340w
“Princess Cantacuzène’s book is certainly a striking case of a good opportunity missed. If only she had stuck more to what she saw herself during those days when her adopted country was going to pieces before her eyes!”
20–6061
The author, born in Havana, Cuba, in 1888, began to play chess at the age of five. At eleven he was matched against the Cuban champion, J. Corzo. In his introductory chapter he says: “The object of this little book is to give to the reader some idea of the many stages through which I have passed before reaching my present strength.... As I go along narrating my chess career, I will stop at those points which I consider most important, giving examples of my games with my own notes written at the time the games were played, or when not, expressing the ideas I had while the game was in progress. ” This plan is followed thruout the book, beginning with the match with Corzo and continuing to the Hastings victory congress in 1919. The conclusion gives points for beginners.
“There is not a trace of boastfulness in the book. Capablanca’s passion is for exact scientific truth. The general spirit is one of detached and critical self-observation. Altogether, a book of great psychological interest.” R. O. M.
Ath p237 F 20 ’20 650w
Booklist 17:103 D ’20
“This refreshing little book probably contains more real information on the science of chess than a dozen of the more weighty tomes put together. Capablanca’s comments on his own and his adversary’s play throughout the book are of a most original and illuminating sort.” Moreby Adlom
