Lamb

Lamb by Christopher Moore.

Irreverent, yet, with a hint of some really excellent scholarship contained therein. I’ve got a friend who’s a devout follower of both Eastern and Western traditions, \\i.e.\\, he’s devout in his Judeo-Christian faith, and yet he’s well-read in both traditional Western Philosophy as well as able to quote chapter and verse of certain Zen/Buddhist &etc. tracts.

I’m thinking about this guy, in particular, because the book goes to him, next.

I like the bulk of Christopher Moore’s catalog, it’s light, airy, yet the story lines usually have some meat in them. As a big bonus, as far as I’m concerned, his work with the supernatural and the “magical realism” stuff is quite good.

It’s hard line to find, the thin mark between taunting ridicule while dealing with a scared topic with appropriate reverence. I think Lamb does just fine.

It’s a slightly fictional look at the life of Jesus, except, the tale is told from the point of view of his childhood friend, Biff. Biff is resurrected, then given the task of writing down the story of Joshua of Nazareth, and the tale covers the missing years, from age 12 to 30, in particular. Biff is a hound dog, or, in the terms of one of my friend’s daughter, a “Slut Puppy.”

It’s nice to know, in the author’s words, that angels are clueless, daytime TV fascinates them, and that the messiah, when he drank too much, suffered a hangover like the rest of us.

There was one echo from Practical Demon Keeping, though. Since I’ve long since passed my copy of that book on, I couldn’t tell if it was my broken memory, or if this was a name used more than once. With most authors, sooner or later, the old formula crops back up.

But that’s such a small complaint about one scene in a book that tries – and succeeds – rather well.

I was finishing this book up over the Easter weekend – only seemed appropriate. I can also tell, from my captive audience, that I’m not doing proper justice to the novel’s narrative as my Monday walking buddy, the Red headed Capricorn, she didn’t get any of it.

About the author: Born and raised in a small town in East Texas, Kramer Wetzel spent years honing his craft in a trailer park in South Austin. He hates writing about himself in third person. More at KramerWetzel.com.

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