Charles Portis' True Grit

After reading Charles Portis' "True Grit," I think the film adaptations got it wrong.

The films, both the 1969 John Wayne and 2010 Coen Brothers versions, did it as traditional Westerns that just happen to be funny.

But the novel is a comedy that just happens to be a Western.

It's one of the funniest books I've ever read, an American classic. I enjoyed it more than any book I've ever read by Cormac McCarthy and believe it belongs in the same pantheon as "Huckleberry Finn."

The novel's driving force is its unforgettable narration, the first-person perspective of a plainspoken spinster describing a quest she embarked on as a 14-year-old girl to avenge her father's murder. Mattie Ross is one of the quirkiest, most unique voices I've come across in fiction -- earnest, blunt, and very much not PC. She is a bold, fearless woman who lives life on her own terms.

The humor is mostly the result of Mattie's naivety -- her dry, deadpan, matter-of-fact descriptions of absurd people and events. You can't help but cheer for Mattie, for she has such an ironclad ethical compass amid the moral ambiguity all around her. Many Westerns embrace the moral ambiguity of the frontier; this novel cuts straight through it.

The irony of the story -- and a point the film versions somewhat disregarded -- is that the John Wayne character, Rooster Cogburn, is not the one with true grit. He is mostly a drunken loser, despite moments of great courage. The one with true grit is Mattie.

The best paragraph(s):

• p. 25:

"I will inform them myself," said I. "Who is the best marshal they have?"

The sheriff thought on it for a minute. He said, "I would have to weigh that proposition. There is near about two hundred of them. I reckon William Waters is the best tracker. He is half-breed Comanche and it is something to see, watching him cut for a sign. The meanest one is Rooster Cogburn. He is a pitiless man, double-tough, and fear don't enter into his thinking. He loves to pull a cork. Now L. T. Quinn, he brings prisoners in alive. He may let one get by now and then but he believes even the worst of men is entitled to a fair shake. Also the court does not pay any fees for dead men. Quinn is a good peace officer and a lay preacher to boot. He will not plant evidence or abuse a prisoner. He is straight as a string. Yes, I will say Quinn is about the best they have."

I said, "Where can I find this Rooster?"

• p. 203:

Now the prisoner has an advantage over his keeper in this respect, that he is always thinking of escape and watching for opportunities, while the keeper does not constantly think of keeping him. Once his man is subdued, so the guard believes, little else is needed but the presence and threat of superior force. He thinks of happy things and allows his mind to wander. It is only natural. Were it otherwise, the keeper would be a prisoner of the prisoner.

John Le Carré's Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

John Le Carré's "Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy" is mostly a slog, punctuated occasionally by insightful passages about a work-addicted man's quest for meaning in retirement.

I read the book because I enjoyed the 2011 movie adaptation and because I'm a huge fan of Le Carré's brilliant first novel, "The Spy Who Came In From the Cold."

But "Tinker Tailor" is, for the most part, a disappointment.

The story is hard to follow, largely told through conversations -- long stretches of dialog that reference characters and events with little context. I don't mind novels that require focus, but this one just doesn't have enough payoff to make it worth the trouble.

What I do like about the novel is that it sometimes ventures into the realm of parody, bringing an almost "Office Space" approach to Cold War spycraft. This is a world where men agonize over their positioning on organizational charts, where the most mundane social interactions can have enormous geo-political implications.

The best paragraph (p. 27):

He would sell his London house: He had decided. Back there under the awning, crouching beside the cigarette machine, waiting for the cloudburst to end, he had taken this grave decision. Property values in London had risen out of proportion; he had heard it from every side. Good. He would sell and with a part of the proceeds buy a cottage in the Cotswolds. Burford? Too much traffic. Steeple Aston -- that was a place. He would set up as a mild eccentric, discursive, withdrawn, but possessing one or two lovable habits such as muttering to himself as he bumbled along pavements. Out of date, perhaps, but who wasn't these days? Out of date, but loyal to his own time. At a certain moment, after all, every man chooses: will he go forward, will he go back? There was nothing dishonourable in not being blown about by every little modern wind. Better to have worth, to entrench, to be an oak of one's own generation. And if Ann wanted to return -- well, he would show her the door.