The naughty pleasures of Patrick O'Brian 10 January 2000 For a long time, reading Patrick O'Brian was a guilty, secret pleasure. It's not that his novels are pornographic. Far from it; O'Brian's books about the 1800s include little enough romance, much less sex. They are mainly boy stories -- tales of ships and battles and the life of honor. Duels are fought over insults; captains commit carnage by broadside and then salute one another over claret. Friends stick together, for life. And it was that boyish quality that made them seem a little suspect in our modern, sophisticated world. As compulsively readable as the Hardy Boys, as predictably satisfying as an old pair of jeans -- could these be literature as well? Yes, it turns out, they could. After decades of modest sales and an intense, almost cult-like following, O'Brian emerged 10 years ago as a modern literary phenomenon. Introduced to the wider world in an admiring essay in the New York Times Book Review, his tales of Capt. Jack Aubrey and naval surgeon (and spy) Stephen Maturin have become international bestsellers. In the process, they have even been confirmed as Literature, with a capital L. Some critics, indeed, have vaulted O'Brian to the same rank as his own favorite writer, Jane Austen. Chances are you know somebody who's addicted to these stories; probably it's a person you wouldn't usually expect to find with a nose buried in the latest installment of a 20-volume series exploring the military exploits of the British navy during 1800-1820. These books bring reliable satisfactions partly because they are so faithful to their formula: a predictable cast of characters, operating within a constant context, engaged in the activities we have come to expect. We know O'Brian will treat us to leisurely story development, detailed descriptions and learned discourses on everything from naval tactics to African ornithology. Yet the only thing predictable about the writing is the consistent high quality: This is literary craftsmanship of the highest order, marching long, detailed sentences across page after page with orderly and beautiful precision. Concerned about whether you can learn to love sea stories? Don't be; this isn't the latest James Bond film, to be measured chase-for-chase, gadget-to-gadget and girl-to-girl against the last one. You come to know before turning the first page of a new volume that Jack and Stephen will be tested by adversity and enthralled in their adventures, ultimately to emerge with honor and reputations (if not always their fortunes) intact. It is not so much what they do that intrigues us as it is the insights that are revealed along the way. The ships, O'Brian once explained, are really just "wooden boxes" that conveniently hold the men and frame the actions that are the raw material of this creation. These are, at the deepest level, stories about values and relationships, not ships and battles. We delight in the tender affection with which manly naval hero Aubrey helps his lubberly chum Maturin up through the ship's rigging. We rejoice when Maturin's subtle, intellectual touch guides Jack once more through a political thicket. We agonize with each over Jack's love life; we celebrate victories and prizes with the whole crew. O'Brian was a complicated person, but a straightforward storyteller. As an adult, he apparently reinvented his own life, abandoning an early family, changing his name from Russ to O'Brian and allowing people to believe him Irish. (His father was German, his mother English, we are now told.) No matter. It is the world he invented for Jack, Stephen and readers that comes to matter most. If you haven't begun the Aubrey-Maturin series, I recommend starting at the beginning: "Master and Commander," "Post Captain" and "HMS Surprise" are the first three titles. Once into the series it won't matter so much whether you skip around -- though you are likely to find, like so many of us, that you read straight through and wait breathlessly for the next volume. Now, alas, we know where the series will end. Patrick O'Brian died last week in Dublin, age 85. News of his death was delayed, apparently at his request, and only became public information Friday. He had been at work on volume 21.