I have read two interesting books recently, neither of which has anything to do with religion. But both give a curious reflection of the culture. “Alone across the Sea” by Peter Nichols, tells of the author’s sailing single-handed across the Atlantic, from England to Maine, to sell his sailboat after a divorce. “Catch Me If You Can” is the story of Frank Abagnale, an enormously successful con man.

Both Nichols and Abagnale seem to be fairly reflective sorts, who evaluate their motives and failings pretty regularly. But peculiarly, neither one seems to be especially concerned by what they find. Nichols describes an incident from his twenties where he planned to smuggle several tons of hashish into the US, but only seems to regret the part where he chickened out, not the part where he was PLANNING TO SMUGGLE DRUGS. Abagnale stole millions of dollars, dozens of cars and was a common fornicator, but is curiously unapologetic. He even seems proud of his “code of ethics” which prevented him from fleecing individuals directly (though how his escapade with a number of college girls as faux flight attendants squares with that I do not know).

To be fair to Abagnale, I should say that I have about a dozen pages left in his book, so maybe he saved it all up for the end. But there is a prideful arrogance about him that both explains why he was so successful as a con man and grates on the reader. He mentions many times that he “is a Catholic” but one wonders exactly how he defines that term. Ordinarily, a Catholic criminal who has (to all appearances) “gone straight” would be expected to present at least a measure of regret.

To be fair to Nichols, I should add that he seems to have some awareness of how his personal failings contributed to the failure of his marriage, and he does seem to regret it. But he too is strangely unaware of the incongruity of his actions and his attitudes towards them, existing in a kind of amoral vacuum from which only the glorious “I” can escape.

Having criticized the content of both books, let me conclude by saying that both are entertaining and well-conceived books. Nichols uses journals abandoned by his ex as a backdrop for his Atlantic crossing to great effect, and his account of the last days afloat are vivid. Abagnale possesses a kind of charm, in spite of his arrogance, that keeps the reader engaged. And a handful of his felonies (though fewer than he himself would probably tally) really do seem to target people one cannot help but root against. It is as disappointing to admit as to discover a tendency towards schadenfreude in oneself.