Jim O’Donnell’s ‘spiritual memoir’ turns its unique corner in 1984, the year he met
Arthur.
Jim did not much like himself in 1984 and, by all accounts, with good reason. He liked other people even less.
Arthur was gentle and kind and honest. Very, very honest. He also seemed to know God, whatever that was supposed to mean to a high-flying investment banker like Jim O’Donnell, not a very nice man, but a better man that anyone else he knew.
Everything changed then, because Arthur asked and Jim said, ‘Well, OK, then. I guess.’ Or something like that.
The rest is history. Or future. It depends on your point of view.
This book is a page-turner for anyone not too cynical to wonder how guys like Old Jim become guys like, well, Jim now.
Sometimes there is an Arthur. Arthurs are as surprised as anybody that stuff like this happens.
Read on.
Because of the highly politicized swirl around ‘what happened in Benghazi’, I expected that a good portion of Mitchell Zuckoff’s narrative would be rooted in Washington.
moments (precolonial and incipient colonial), set in an African village, scrupulously avoids moralistic evaluation. Instead, the strong but flawed gait of a too proud man carries the reader along though the ambiguities of tribal life and the arrival of a Western-led Christian church.
I held this little puppy in my hand after about five pencil sharpenings, and I says to myself, ‘Self, this is simple, effective, strong, and European-modern. I bet it speaks German.’