Bone Mountain by Eliot Pattison: A review

Bone Mountain is the third in Eliot Pattison's interesting series of thrillers/mysteries revolving about the central character of Shan, a former police inspector in Beijing who spent years in a Chinese prison because he refused to turn a blind eye to corruption in high places. Finding himself exiled to a work camp in Tibet which was otherwise peopled by Tibetan monks and lamas, he learned much from his fellow inmates and, when a Chinese official arranged for his unofficial release from prison, he made his way to those monks and lamas on the outside and cast his lot with them.

In the first two books in this series, I felt rather lost in the narrative. It was only with this entry that I began to feel that I could follow what the writer was trying to do, as I began to understand a bit more of the Tibetan Buddhist philosophy.

At one point in the narrative, Lokesh, Shan's Tibetan lama friend and traveling companion, says that Tibetans like to walk for it keeps them connected to the earth and gives them time to contemplate. I am a gardener so I understand about connection to the earth and contemplation. Perhaps I have more in common with the Tibetan Buddhists than I realized.

The central story here is of Shan's guarding of a sacred relic which had been stolen from a village and has now been recovered and is being returned. He travels with a salt caravan which has secreted the relic and is carrying it back to its village. But then, on the journey, the relic mysteriously disappears and Shan must solve the mystery of that disappearance and recover the relic once again.

As with all of these stories, Shan's journey in search of the relic becomes a journey in search of enlightenment as he seeks his inner deity, even when he doesn't realize that is what he is seeking. Along the way, he picks up a mixed group of companions ranging from patriotic Tibetans trying to save their culture from the Chinese to an American diplomat seeking the body of a young geologist who has allegedly fallen to her death in the mountains.

Readers with a stubbornly Western logical bent of mind will find it helpful to suspend their disbelief as they travel through the rugged Tibetan hills and valleys to finally reach Bone Mountain and the centuries-old cave of the "medicine lamas." Along the way, we find that several of the characters are in need of redemption, even if they don't realize it at first, and, in the end, most of them find it, even a cold and cruel Chinese colonel who seems the least likely to be touched by the Tibetan philosophy.

This is a complex story that meanders along at a very slow pace. An unnecessarily slow pace, I think. The plotting is really incremental and repetitive. I know the Tibetan way of life is spiritual and contemplative, but I don't think the telling of it has to be quite so turgid.

Moreover, Pattison has his favorite adverbs that he uses over and over and over again. The person who said that the road to hell is paved with adverbs had a point. For example, things always seem to happen "suddenly" in Pattison's telling. People and animals appear suddenly. A character understands things suddenly. Mountains break apart and rivers appear suddenly. Little things like that just drive me mad!

This is a promising series about a fascinating culture. This book, however, was too long and too repetitive. I think it could have been made a lot better by a more ruthless editor.

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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