A bombastic but vigorous and often persuasive case against drinking.



Alcohol poses a greater threat to America’s well-being than al-Qaida, argues this temperance manifesto.

Graybill (Bravo! The Case for Italian Musical Mastery, 2014, etc.), a retired history teacher, presents a wide-ranging and vehement indictment of alcoholic beverages and their destruction of the body, mind, and social fabric. He reviews statistics on alcohol’s death toll—88,000 per year in the United States—carcinogenic properties, and dire effects on the liver, brain, and developing fetuses. He revisits infamous alcoholic incidents, from the Bible story of Lot’s drunken seduction by his daughters to Edward Kennedy’s car crash at Chappaquiddick; toasts hatchet-wielding temperance crusader Carrie Nation; and mourns talents blighted by drink, from Hemingway to Lindsay Lohan. He surveys and deplores the cultural promotion and glamorization of alcohol, from winery tours to comped casino drinks, frat house hazings, and lovable comic-strip drunks like Andy Capp. At the book’s heart is a lurid litany of news reports about drunks and their disastrous antics: the pilot pulled out of the cockpit just before takeoff and the passenger who tried to open the cabin door in midflight; the woman who snuck into a zoo to pet a tiger; many men who tried to kill their girlfriends; and numerous drivers who left trails of mangled victims in their wakes. (The author includes a moving personal recollection of a family he knew that was profoundly damaged by the father’s alcoholic violence.) Graybill writes with an old-school moral outrage, decrying “the terrorist, alcohol” and thundering that “the tyrant, alcohol, had crushed our second great American Revolution” when Prohibition was repealed. He embellishes the text with anti-alcohol memes (“Sober Slogan #2: The horsefly is brainier than the barfly”), poems, and satirical songs (“Please, deceive me. Make me think / That I’m charming when I drink”). He proposes a battery of anti-drinking initiatives, some of them feasible, such as banning liquor industry ads and sponsorships, others impossibly utopian. (“There should never be a single drunkard employed within the vast and influential offices of the American media.”) The author’s partisanship and dudgeon will put off some readers, but he ably marshals his facts to craft a hard-hitting jeremiad.

A bombastic but vigorous and often persuasive case against drinking.

Pub Date: Nov. 8, 2018

ISBN: 978-1-62006-087-2

Page Count: 260

Publisher: Brown Posey Press

Review Posted Online: Oct. 11, 2019

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Nov. 15, 2019

Did you like this book?

No Comments Yet


Possibly inspired by the letters Cleary has received as a children's author, this begins with second-grader Leigh Botts' misspelled fan letter to Mr. Henshaw, whose fictitious book itself derives from the old take-off title Forty Ways W. Amuse a Dog. Soon Leigh is in sixth grade and bombarding his still-favorite author with a list of questions to be answered and returned by "next Friday," the day his author report is due. Leigh is disgruntled when Mr. Henshaw's answer comes late, and accompanied by a set of questions for Leigh to answer. He threatens not to, but as "Mom keeps nagging me about your dumb old questions" he finally gets the job done—and through his answers Mr. Henshaw and readers learn that Leigh considers himself "the mediumest boy in school," that his parents have split up, and that he dreams of his truck-driver dad driving him to school "hauling a forty-foot reefer, which would make his outfit add up to eighteen wheels altogether. . . . I guess I wouldn't seem so medium then." Soon Mr. Henshaw recommends keeping a diary (at least partly to get Leigh off his own back) and so the real letters to Mr. Henshaw taper off, with "pretend," unmailed letters (the diary) taking over. . . until Leigh can write "I don't have to pretend to write to Mr. Henshaw anymore. I have learned to say what I think on a piece of paper." Meanwhile Mr. Henshaw offers writing tips, and Leigh, struggling with a story for a school contest, concludes "I think you're right. Maybe I am not ready to write a story." Instead he writes a "true story" about a truck haul with his father in Leigh's real past, and this wins praise from "a real live author" Leigh meets through the school program. Mr. Henshaw has also advised that "a character in a story should solve a problem or change in some way," a standard juvenile-fiction dictum which Cleary herself applies modestly by having Leigh solve his disappearing lunch problem with a burglar-alarmed lunch box—and, more seriously, come to recognize and accept that his father can't be counted on. All of this, in Leigh's simple words, is capably and unobtrusively structured as well as valid and realistic. From the writing tips to the divorced-kid blues, however, it tends to substitute prevailing wisdom for the little jolts of recognition that made the Ramona books so rewarding.

Pub Date: Aug. 22, 1983

ISBN: 143511096X

Page Count: 133

Publisher: Morrow/HarperCollins

Review Posted Online: Oct. 16, 2011

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Aug. 1, 1983

Did you like this book?

No Comments Yet

Necessarily swift and adumbrative as well as inclusive, focused, and graceful.


A light-speed tour of (mostly) Western poetry, from the 4,000-year-old Gilgamesh to the work of Australian poet Les Murray, who died in 2019.

In the latest entry in the publisher’s Little Histories series, Carey, an emeritus professor at Oxford whose books include What Good Are the Arts? and The Unexpected Professor: An Oxford Life in Books, offers a quick definition of poetry—“relates to language as music relates to noise. It is language made special”—before diving in to poetry’s vast history. In most chapters, the author deals with only a few writers, but as the narrative progresses, he finds himself forced to deal with far more than a handful. In his chapter on 20th-century political poets, for example, he talks about 14 writers in seven pages. Carey displays a determination to inform us about who the best poets were—and what their best poems were. The word “greatest” appears continually; Chaucer was “the greatest medieval English poet,” and Langston Hughes was “the greatest male poet” of the Harlem Renaissance. For readers who need a refresher—or suggestions for the nightstand—Carey provides the best-known names and the most celebrated poems, including Paradise Lost (about which the author has written extensively), “Kubla Khan,” “Ozymandias,” “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” Wordsworth and Coleridge’s Lyrical Ballads, which “changed the course of English poetry.” Carey explains some poetic technique (Hopkins’ “sprung rhythm”) and pauses occasionally to provide autobiographical tidbits—e.g., John Masefield, who wrote the famous “Sea Fever,” “hated the sea.” We learn, as well, about the sexuality of some poets (Auden was bisexual), and, especially later on, Carey discusses the demons that drove some of them, Robert Lowell and Sylvia Plath among them. Refreshingly, he includes many women in the volume—all the way back to Sappho—and has especially kind words for Marianne Moore and Elizabeth Bishop, who share a chapter.

Necessarily swift and adumbrative as well as inclusive, focused, and graceful.

Pub Date: April 21, 2020

ISBN: 978-0-300-23222-6

Page Count: 304

Publisher: Yale Univ.

Review Posted Online: Feb. 9, 2020

Kirkus Reviews Issue: March 1, 2020

Did you like this book?