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lekakis's review against another edition
3.0
Such a slog. The book reads mostly like non-fiction with a wrapper of very uninteresting characters, even though they are well described, and a boring story
about the Jaimie and his dad along with the characters they meet along the way.
The part of the book that describes the trail to California and the toils of the gold rush is interesting and informative. The writing was relatively slow but with sudden turns that caught me off guard a couple of times. Mostly because of their brutality and abruptness.
The story of the dr and his son is just a poor man’s Huckleberry Finn with characters stupidly idiotic and full of cliches.
about the Jaimie and his dad along with the characters they meet along the way.
The part of the book that describes the trail to California and the toils of the gold rush is interesting and informative. The writing was relatively slow but with sudden turns that caught me off guard a couple of times. Mostly because of their brutality and abruptness.
The story of the dr and his son is just a poor man’s Huckleberry Finn with characters stupidly idiotic and full of cliches.
carlylottsofbookz's review against another edition
4.0
I try to make clear which Pulitzer winners I think are worth reading.
This is one.
All about the gold rush, but also the family ties that hold is together.
Very good!
This is one.
All about the gold rush, but also the family ties that hold is together.
Very good!
drewmoody321's review against another edition
5.0
Read my full review here: http://thepulitzerblog.wordpress.com/2011/01/19/entry-27-the-travels-of-jaimie-mcpheeters-by-robert-lewis-taylor-1958/
mrbadger63's review against another edition
4.0
Probably the best adventure book I've read in 5 years or more
bjr2022's review against another edition
4.0
What I Read Matters.
I mean this title sentence every which way you can read it.
I’m guessing most people will receive it with a glib, “Of course, what you read matters; it influences what you believe.”
But I mean this sentence much more expansively: What I read, the physical form of it, really matters. As does reading it (as opposed to listening to somebody else read a text). I care who may have owned or touched the book before me, and any history I may know attached to the book affects my reading experience.
I spent this week reading a 75-cent, paperback of The Travels of Jaimie McPheeters, Robert Lewis Taylor’s Pulitzer Prize-winning 1959 novel about a 14-year-old relentlessly smart-alecky (and sometimes very funny) boy’s picaresque adventures during 1849, following his pipe-dreaming gambling doctor father across the country to find gold in California.
If I were reading Jaimie McPheeters as an ebook, I might have abandoned it at the first mention of “darkies” because I just don’t have the stomach for this in 2021. If I were reading a shiny new edition paperback, same thing. Yes, the writing is good, I might have reasoned, but why subject myself to casual racism and so many words? The book is of a bygone era and style.
But I’m reading the cracked brown pages turned and read by my father on his suburban commute to and from his job in New York City in 1960. I know this because I found his train ticket stub, used as a book mark, on the last page, and I know he loved this book because he once told me he did. Probably that’s why I grabbed it from my mother’s last house several years after my father’s own pipe dreams and addictions imploded and he stuck a gun in his mouth. And it’s why the book has stayed on the top shelf in my apartment since 1973.
I’d been eying it for months while I did my aerobic workouts. The spine drew me. I even got up on a ladder a few months ago to see what it was and when I saw, I remembered Dad’s smile and joy when he said it was a really good book. I’ll read that, I thought.
And it took until this week, months after the first beckoning, for me to pull it down and wipe off the dust bunnies.
When I lie on my couch and read this book, I know I’m touching something my father thought was good. I know that when he read this he was the sane, loving man who loved to read and loved the fact that I loved reading too, even though we had almost nothing else in common.
As I carefully turn the cracked pages, I feel stretched across time, from this moment in 2021 to 1960 to 1849, and I feel all of the eras viscerally which expands me into an ocean-size tolerant witness—more curious than judging. And the transformations over time are astonishing. And just that gives me hope for a future I cannot see. My nausea at casual racism doesn’t clear, but a glimmer of light penetrates it, whispering, “Don’t give up. Things can change.” And gradually I see that the violence and racism in this book were not at all casual. Rather they were brutal and intentional. Taylor was showing the sadism and cruelty in all its horror by so glibly conveying it as a fact of life. And a fact of life that has not changed is that as powerful as is our will to survive, we humans have an equal capacity for violence, superior judgements, and self-destruction either directly or indirectly (by destroying whomever we categorize as “other”).
I’m not a terribly tolerant person. I avoid people who complain incessantly and usually am more interested in solutions than listening to spiraling tales of misery. But reading the packed small type in this 500+-page Giant Cardinal Pocket Book edition that “includes every word contained in the original, higher-priced edition” that is “printed from brand-new plates made from completely reset, clear easy-to-read type,” rather than being annoyed, I find myself marveling that my 42-year-old father read this without glasses and so did lots of other people in 1960. I admire his vision! Isn’t that silly? But it’s what I feel.
As I read Jaimie’s father, Dr. Sardius McPheeters, M.D., exaggerate his possibilities of good fortune, accounting assiduously for how he squanders money in letters to his wife back in Louisville, and eventually be done in by his flaws, I realize my father, who did virtually the same things in 1968, must on some level have known himself and even had a sense of humor about it at one time. And I’m amazed at how fast and dramatic was his fall from self-knowledge into paranoia, financial desperation, and who knows what else. And knowing he loved this story, I cannot unknow that he had goodness and humor in him. And I feel glad. And sad. And so, 53 years after his death, I know him a little better. And that makes me glad and sad too.
Some things may never change, but if we can see them, perhaps we can choose to mitigate them. I’d not have seen what’s really in Robert Lewis Taylor’s book if I hadn’t given myself time to move out of my knee-jerk reaction to words. And it is only because my father liked this book that I gave myself time to see this.
And all this insight from a cracking 61-year-old 75-cent paperback.
I mean this title sentence every which way you can read it.
I’m guessing most people will receive it with a glib, “Of course, what you read matters; it influences what you believe.”
But I mean this sentence much more expansively: What I read, the physical form of it, really matters. As does reading it (as opposed to listening to somebody else read a text). I care who may have owned or touched the book before me, and any history I may know attached to the book affects my reading experience.
I spent this week reading a 75-cent, paperback of The Travels of Jaimie McPheeters, Robert Lewis Taylor’s Pulitzer Prize-winning 1959 novel about a 14-year-old relentlessly smart-alecky (and sometimes very funny) boy’s picaresque adventures during 1849, following his pipe-dreaming gambling doctor father across the country to find gold in California.
If I were reading Jaimie McPheeters as an ebook, I might have abandoned it at the first mention of “darkies” because I just don’t have the stomach for this in 2021. If I were reading a shiny new edition paperback, same thing. Yes, the writing is good, I might have reasoned, but why subject myself to casual racism and so many words? The book is of a bygone era and style.
But I’m reading the cracked brown pages turned and read by my father on his suburban commute to and from his job in New York City in 1960. I know this because I found his train ticket stub, used as a book mark, on the last page, and I know he loved this book because he once told me he did. Probably that’s why I grabbed it from my mother’s last house several years after my father’s own pipe dreams and addictions imploded and he stuck a gun in his mouth. And it’s why the book has stayed on the top shelf in my apartment since 1973.
I’d been eying it for months while I did my aerobic workouts. The spine drew me. I even got up on a ladder a few months ago to see what it was and when I saw, I remembered Dad’s smile and joy when he said it was a really good book. I’ll read that, I thought.
And it took until this week, months after the first beckoning, for me to pull it down and wipe off the dust bunnies.
When I lie on my couch and read this book, I know I’m touching something my father thought was good. I know that when he read this he was the sane, loving man who loved to read and loved the fact that I loved reading too, even though we had almost nothing else in common.
As I carefully turn the cracked pages, I feel stretched across time, from this moment in 2021 to 1960 to 1849, and I feel all of the eras viscerally which expands me into an ocean-size tolerant witness—more curious than judging. And the transformations over time are astonishing. And just that gives me hope for a future I cannot see. My nausea at casual racism doesn’t clear, but a glimmer of light penetrates it, whispering, “Don’t give up. Things can change.” And gradually I see that the violence and racism in this book were not at all casual. Rather they were brutal and intentional. Taylor was showing the sadism and cruelty in all its horror by so glibly conveying it as a fact of life. And a fact of life that has not changed is that as powerful as is our will to survive, we humans have an equal capacity for violence, superior judgements, and self-destruction either directly or indirectly (by destroying whomever we categorize as “other”).
I’m not a terribly tolerant person. I avoid people who complain incessantly and usually am more interested in solutions than listening to spiraling tales of misery. But reading the packed small type in this 500+-page Giant Cardinal Pocket Book edition that “includes every word contained in the original, higher-priced edition” that is “printed from brand-new plates made from completely reset, clear easy-to-read type,” rather than being annoyed, I find myself marveling that my 42-year-old father read this without glasses and so did lots of other people in 1960. I admire his vision! Isn’t that silly? But it’s what I feel.
As I read Jaimie’s father, Dr. Sardius McPheeters, M.D., exaggerate his possibilities of good fortune, accounting assiduously for how he squanders money in letters to his wife back in Louisville, and eventually be done in by his flaws, I realize my father, who did virtually the same things in 1968, must on some level have known himself and even had a sense of humor about it at one time. And I’m amazed at how fast and dramatic was his fall from self-knowledge into paranoia, financial desperation, and who knows what else. And knowing he loved this story, I cannot unknow that he had goodness and humor in him. And I feel glad. And sad. And so, 53 years after his death, I know him a little better. And that makes me glad and sad too.
Matlock stripped, and we led the way up the knoll, the children running behind, screaming, “Fight! Fight!” dogs barking, the women taking a stand at a distance where they could not be accused of unseemly curiosity, but able to see a little, too, and over all the air of serious, hurried portentousness that such physical encounters always breed. It’s infectious; it stirs up the blood; one finds oneself on the point of bristling out of sympathy, and even looking around for somebody giving offense. (203-204)After the fight is over, the losers—the people who had initiated the fight—were gradually idealized:
Before the ruckus, there wasn’t hardly a soul could stand those clodhoppers, or their womenfolks either, but now you would have thought they were a collection of missionaries. It was disgusting.
My father said it wasn’t worth worrying about; it was just part of the general cussedness of humans. He said they’d go baaa-ing off in another direction as soon as something occurred to them.
“I’ve seen this sort of perverseness in elections. A man will be in office, doing fine, honest, upright, hardworking, even noble, as far as you can find that quality in a politician, and the opposition will put up a known scoundrel that hasn’t a thing to recommend him except noise. But if he brays long enough and loud enough he’ll bray himself right in. People are prepared to believe anything about a person as long as it’s bad.” (207)
Some things may never change, but if we can see them, perhaps we can choose to mitigate them. I’d not have seen what’s really in Robert Lewis Taylor’s book if I hadn’t given myself time to move out of my knee-jerk reaction to words. And it is only because my father liked this book that I gave myself time to see this.
And all this insight from a cracking 61-year-old 75-cent paperback.
“. . . A man ort to hold judgment till he’s sure.”
That seemed to be the sentiment all around. There wasn’t any harm in these people; they were only average. Most of their bad thoughts came out of fear, and to tell the truth, that’s what causes most of the troubles in the world. (246)
wathohuc's review against another edition
3.0
This was an entertaining read. I enjoyed it and thought the writing was pretty good. The subtle sarcastic humor was well-done and cleverly written. The characters were suitably well-developed. I didn’t think it had a really profound message. In fact, its value is almost exclusively as entertainment. I found it to be a bit unbelievable and the coincidences of characters re-emerging halfway across the country to be actually too coincidental. But it made for good storytelling. Worthy of the Pulitzer? Perhaps. I’ve read worse winners. But it’s certainly not in the top tier.
lynitab's review against another edition
5.0
I picked up this book because its title was the same as a televison show from my childhood. What a surprise! What a good book. This book won the Pulitzer Prize in 1956 and it's still a quality read today. If you like Mark Twain or Larry McMurtry sagas, this is a book for you. The author's use of a first person narrative by an adolescent boy was inspired. A writing teacher who wants to give her students examples of how a character reveals himself would be smart to look at this book. Because of this book, I am going back and looking for other prize winners that never made it to the required reading lists.
muggsyspaniel's review against another edition
3.0
Where are those damned half stars when you need them?
This is most definitely a three and a half stars book rather than three. It's an enjoyable, eminently readable page turner in the vein of Mark Twain.
It's not a major book but I'm beginning to realise that Pulitzer Prizes don't always mean a book is important.
It's the story of Jaimie McPheeters a 13 years old Louisville resident lumbered with a Father, Sardius, who dreams of opportunity and riches. Sardius is a wonderful character, a drinker and dreamer who can only keep himself on the straight and narrow when he is on a quest for said opportunity. Indeed the journey is what keeps him going rather than the end.
When Sardius is hounded by creditors he talks his wife in to letting him take Jaimie and head to California in search of gold.
Along the way they form a tight group of friends and have adventures of varying interest. There are meetings with the Mormons and Brigham Young, encounters with Pawnee and Sioux and Jim Bridger among others.
What strikes particularly is the casual violence. How this was a time when the west was still wild and violent death is merely a way of life.
Jaimie is our narrator and his dry humour is partly, though not entirely, down to his innocence.
Some will find the treatment of the native Americans a little bit offensive but I don't think there is anything here that isn't a reflection of the period in which it is set.
It's occasionally touching and there was one part near the end that genuinely dampened my eye.
This is most definitely a three and a half stars book rather than three. It's an enjoyable, eminently readable page turner in the vein of Mark Twain.
It's not a major book but I'm beginning to realise that Pulitzer Prizes don't always mean a book is important.
It's the story of Jaimie McPheeters a 13 years old Louisville resident lumbered with a Father, Sardius, who dreams of opportunity and riches. Sardius is a wonderful character, a drinker and dreamer who can only keep himself on the straight and narrow when he is on a quest for said opportunity. Indeed the journey is what keeps him going rather than the end.
When Sardius is hounded by creditors he talks his wife in to letting him take Jaimie and head to California in search of gold.
Along the way they form a tight group of friends and have adventures of varying interest. There are meetings with the Mormons and Brigham Young, encounters with Pawnee and Sioux and Jim Bridger among others.
What strikes particularly is the casual violence. How this was a time when the west was still wild and violent death is merely a way of life.
Jaimie is our narrator and his dry humour is partly, though not entirely, down to his innocence.
Some will find the treatment of the native Americans a little bit offensive but I don't think there is anything here that isn't a reflection of the period in which it is set.
It's occasionally touching and there was one part near the end that genuinely dampened my eye.