This past Sunday, Ron Charles of the Washington Post enumerated the books he’s looking forward to reading in the coming year. The column was squeezed into a tiny space. I almost missed it, and in case you actually did miss it, click here.
Ron Charles, Michael Dirda, and Jonathan Yardley, all of the Washington Post, are the most wonderful and perceptive book reviewers. Together these three have continually promoted and celebrated the reading life on behalf of those of us who live in the greater Washington area. Just last month, Jonathan Yardley announced his impending retirement. Oh, no! One hopes that he’ll still grace the pages of Book World from time to time and share his literary knowledge and boundless enthusiasm with us.
As a gift to us on the occasion of his farewell, Mr. Yardley composed a list of titles that have become, over the years, his personal favorites. Like a little kid who does well on a test, I was delighted to find that out of the fifteen fiction titles on his list, I’d read eleven!
From 2003 to 2010, Jonathan Yardley wrote a column called Second Reading, which he describes as “an occasional series in which the Post’s book critic reconsiders notable and/or neglected books from the past.” One of my favorites from among these essays is entitled “Six Gifted Englishwomen.”
Mr. Yardley’s Second Reading pieces have been collected in a book by the same name.
I was waiting for something – anything! – to fire me up again, in service to Books to the Ceiling. This did it:
In the waning years of World War Two, a group of children discover a series of tunnels near their neighborhood. Originally intended as part of a new housing development, they lay abandoned in the earth when the onset of war delayed the projected buildings.
The children find these subterranean passages to be ideal places to play. Far from the prying eyes of adults, they construct their own world there. One of the girls rather mysteriously dubs the tunnels ‘qanats.’ A term of Middle Eastern origin denoting “a series of well-like vertical shafts, connected by gently sloping tunnels,” qanats is a lovely word, one that effortlessly breaks the ironclad rule that decrees that the letter q must always be followed by a u.
Eventually the children are chased out of the tunnels and banished from playing there by John Winwood the father of one their number, Michael. In those days, one of them later reflected, children did as they were told by the adults in their world. None of them ever went back.
The years passed and they grew up, and away from one other. Decades pass. Then, from deep inside their old hiding place, an ugly secret is disgorged, and they are once again thrown together. It proves to be highly combustible reunion.
The Girl Next Door contains a love story mesmerizing in its intensity, and also the most affecting description of a cruel and loveless childhood that I’ve encountered outside of Charles Dickens. (And yes, I am putting Ruth Rendell in that rarefied company.)
More than anything, this novel is about old age and its inevitable mixture of dread and hope, fragility and strength, anger and passivity, the frustration of feeling outdated and irrelevant at war with an equally defiant determination not to care, sadness, resignation, acceptance – and the strange and unexpected apparition of what I would call a kind of grace.
I was gripped by the whole scenario, from beginning to end.
Here is the meditation of one character who is forced, by circumstances beyond her control, into a profound and essential change:
Now Alan’s gone, said Rosemary to herself, I don’t much care. I did at first but now I don’t. That’s how it is with me. Calm, at peace, thinking ahead to all the clothes she would be able to make uninterruptedly, she began to pin the velvet pieces together. Tomorrow she would go to the shop which had reopened when knitting became fashionable again two or three years ago and buy enough wool to make herself a twinset. Something for the new baby too? I don’t think so. Freya wouldn’t appreciate it, so why bother?
Why do anything at all I don’t enjoy? I won’t. That’s how it is for me now.
One caveat: the cast of characters is rather large, and you may initially have trouble separating out the various strands of the narrative. Don’t worry; they’ll fall into place fairly quickly.
In an article in the London Evening Standard, Mark Sanderson declares The Girl Next Door to be equal in greatness to Stanley and the Women by Kingsley Amis and Memento Mori by Muriel Spark: “Rendell’s novels, for all their aberrations, establish a sense of order that is deeply satisfying.” How true. I cherish those ‘aberrations’ as much as I appreciate – deeply – the underlying sense of order. Well put, Mr. Sanderson.
As i began reading this novel, I was reminded of this author’s A Fatal Inversion, which she wrote under the pseudonym Barbara Vine. My first thought was – oh, surely, this won’t be that good. Ah, but it was.
Well done – very well done indeed, Baroness Rendell of Babergh.
Please note: the following are my favorite reading experiences of the year and are not necessarily books published in 2014. Simenon’s Night at the Crossroads came out in 1931. They Were Counted, the first volume in the Transylvanian trilogy of Miklos Banffy, also appeared in the 1930’s, although it was not translated into English until the late 199o’s. Originally published in 1965, John Williams’s Stoner went largely unnoticed. And yet it has had its champions down through the years, and now, in our era, its greatnesss has finally been acknowledged.
I’d like to say thanks to the various book groups that I attend (often but not faithfully). Several of their discussion selections are on this list. I might not have read these books otherwise. (I’ve designated them with an asterisk.)
For a printable text only version of this list, click here.
This is a bifurcated list, as you can see. It just came together that way, as I was working on it.
Enjoyable and worthwhile:
Bernard Berenson: A Life in the Picture Trade by Rachel Cohen
The Mad Sculptor: The Maniac, the Model, and the Murder that Shook the Nation by Harold Schechter
Little Demon in the City of Light: A True Story of Murder and Mesmerism in Belle Epoque Paris by Steven Levingston
Three Can Keep a Secret and Proof Positive by Archer Mayor
Dark Waters by Robin Blake. Although this second series entry did not have quite the same impact as A Dark Anatomy, I still enjoyed it. I look forward to number three, The Hidden Man, due out in March of the coming year.
No Man’s Nightingale by Ruth Rendell. A Wexford, and as excellent as its predecessors.
*China Trade by S.J. Rozan
*Cocaine Blues by Kerry Greenwood. A pleasant surprise. I expected a negligible bit of frippery and got a great deal more. And these are the novels that have given rise to the delightful series, Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries.
The Devil’s Cave and The Resistance Man by Martin Walker
The Snowman by Jo Nesbo
Only the Dead by Vidar Sundstol. This second installment in Sundstol’s Minnesota Trilogy was not what I expected. For one thing, it is probably the most static crime novel I’ve ever read. The writing is lush to the point of gorgeousness, but there are several very disturbing scenarios as well. And so I recommend this (deceptively short) book with a certain amount of caution, and I would definitely read Land of Dreams first. (See below)
The Ravens, the third and final novel in this trilogy, is due out in April of next year. Vidar Sundstol writes these novels in Norwegian, his native tongue. He is most fortunate in his gifted translator, Tiina Nunnally.
By Its Cover by Donna Leon
Night at the Crossroads by Georges Simenon. Penguin is in the process of reissuing all the Maigret novels in new translations. The project began in January with Pietr the Latvian. Currently the schedule for publication runs through February of the coming year. So far I’ve read The Late Monsieur Gallet, The Yellow Dog, and Night at the Crossroads. The third was definitely the best. I believe that the writing and plotting gain strength as the series goes forward.
From the first, Simenon delighted in the study of the females of the species and their effect on their male counterparts:
For a woman can be lovely without being alluring, while other, less classically beautiful women unfailingly inspire desire or sentimental feelings
Else aroused both: she was at once woman and a child, creating her own aura of voluptuous attraction. And yet, whoever looked into her eyes was astonished to find her gaze as limpid as a little girl’s.
This from a man who, in his dotage, claimed to have slept with some ten thousand women! (See “Would You Believe It” by Mark Dawson in The Guardian.)
The Weight of Water by Anita Shreve
Clever Girl by Tessa Hadley
*The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry by Gabrielle Zevin
Outstanding – Best of the best
Blood Royal: A True Tale of Crime and Detection in Medieval Paris by Eric Jager. An absolutely riveting read.
A Spy Among Friends: Kim Philby and the Great Betrayal by Ben Macintyre
*The Good Nurse: A True Story of Medicine, Madness, and Murder by Charles Graeber
True Crime: An American Anthology, edited by Harold Schecter
The Family Romanov: Murder, Rebellion, and the Fall of Imperial Russia by Candace Fleming
Land of Dreams by Vidar Sunstol
*An Officer and a Spy by Robert Harris
Black Lies, Red Blood by Kjell Eriksson
After I’m Gone by Laura Lippman
The Stone Wife by Peter Lovesey
The Late Scholar by Jill Paton Walsh, based on characters created by Dorothy L. Sayers
The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon by Alexander McCall Smith. Mma Ramotswe yet again, displaying her unerring intuition and just as importantly, her signature warmth, kindness, and compassion.
A Famine of Horses by P.F. Chisholm. Written twenty years ago, this is the first in a series of mysteries featuring Sir Robert Carey and set during the reign of Queen Elizabeth the First. I’ve been hearing about this book for years and always meant to give it a try when I was next in the mood for historical fiction. Lately I’ve been in that mood a lot. It was brought to my attention not long ago that A Famine of Horses was available for Kindle download at a most attractive price. (It still is.) I acted accordingly.
I was so completely enchanted by Patricia Finney’s gem of a novel that I segued immediately into its sequel, A Season of Knives. (This is something I almost never do.)
The Robert Carey novels are currently available from Poisoned Pen Press, which does so much good work on behalf of quality crime writing. In her entry in They Died in Vain: Overlooked, Underappreciated and Forgotten Mystery Novels, Barbara Peters, venerable founder of the Poisoned Pen Bookstore and editor-in-chief of the eponymous publishing house, observes the following:
This series has everything one could want: carefully crafted, clever, challenging plots, a great setting in the border country between England and Scotland, and characters drawn from (Elizabethan) life or wholly from Finney’s imagination….
So well transported are we that any interruption becomes unwelcome and we must follow the twists and turns of the plots to the end.
In her introduction to A Plague of Angels (fourth in the series), Diana Gabaldon puts it this way:
…Chisholm’s Sir Robert Carey novels are the sort of books that cause one to rush out of the house and leave the supper burning for fear of finishing one after the bookstore has closed and the others are out of reach. And the main reason for this addictive readability is the way in which complete matter-of-factness meets historical picturesqueness, thus resulting in a thoroughly convincing illusion of reality.
Here’s an exchange between Carey and his chief Lieutenant Dodd, on the subject of Queen Elizabeth, whose court Carey has lately vacated for the post of Deputy Warden in the borderlands:
Dodd struggled for a moment, then gave in. “What’s she like, the Queen?”
Carey raised an eyebrow. “Well,” he said consideringly, “a scurvy Scotsman might say she is a wild old bat who knows more of governorship and statecraft than the Privy Councils of both realms put together, but I say she is like Aurora in her beauty, her hair puts the sun in splendour to shame, her face holds the heavens within its compass and her glance is like the falling dew.”
“You say that do you, sir?”
“Certainly I do, frequently, and she laughs at me, tells me that I am her Robin Redbreast and I’m a naughty boy and too plainspoken for the Court.”
“And then I kiss her hand and she bids me rise and tells me that my brother is being tedious again and my father should get up to Berwick and birch him well, and that poor fool of a boy Thomas Scrope apparently wants me for a deputy in the West March, which shows he has at least enough sense to cover his little fingernail, which surprised her, and what would I say to wasting my life on the windswept Borders chasing cattle-thieves.”
“What did you say, sir?” Dodd asked, fascinated.
Carey’s eyes danced. “I groaned , covered my face, fell to my knees and besought her not to send me so far from her glorious countenance, although if it were not for the sorrow of leaving her august presence, I would rejoice in wind, borders and cattle-thieves, and if she be so hard of heart as to drive me away from the fountain of her delight, then I shall go and serve her with all my heart and soul and try and keep Scrope out of trouble.
Despite himself, Dodd cracked a laugh. “Is that how they speak at the Court?”
“If they want to keep out of the Tower, they do. I’m good at it and she likes my looks, so we get on well enough. And here I am, thank God.”
I cannot tell a lie: I am seriously at risk of falling in love with the dashing, amorous yet always courtly Sir Robert Carey!
(where, among other worthies, two of my favorite authors once again outdo themselves)
They Were Counted by Miklos Banffy
Stoner by John Williams
American Romantic by Ward Just
*Sparta by Roxana Robinson
The Unknown Bridesmaid by Margaret Forster
The Children Act by Ian McEwan.
Some Luck by Jane Smiley
*The Invention of Wings by Sue Monk Kidd
The first Adam Dalgliesh novel I read was A Taste for Death, published in 1986. I remember little of the actual plot except for the crime described early on in the book. The author’s depiction is both shockingly out of place and totally bewildering. I was later to learn that James makes frequent use of this kind of scenario, to wit:
I think it was W.H. Auden who said that there is the potential for more horror in that one single body on the drawing room floor than there is in a dozen bullet-riddled bodies down Raymond Chandler’s mean streets. That one body is out of place: It’s shocking because it’s in the wrong place. We don’t associate murder with the vicarage drawing room. I use that quite a lot, that contrast between the awfulness of the deed and perhaps the beauty of what’s surrounding it. We get it with the murder in Cambridge in high summer, in “An Unsuitable Job for a Woman.” We get the bodies in the church in “A Taste for Death,” brutally murdered in what is, after all, a holy place.
(from a 1998 Salon Magazine interview )
Here is the actual quote from W.H. Auden’s 1948 essay, “The Guilty Vicarage:”
In the detective story, as in its mirror image, the Quest for the Grail, maps (the ritual of space) and timetables (the ritual of time) are desirable. Nature should reflect its human inhabitants, i.e., it should be the Great Good Place; for the more Eden-like it is, the greater the contradiction of murder. The country is preferable to the town, a well-to-do neighborhood (but not too well-to-do-or there will be a suspicion of ill-gotten gains) better than a slum. The corpse must shock not only because it is a corpse but also because, even for a corpse, it is shockingly out of place, as when a dog makes a mess on a drawing room carpet.
In a 2012 interview with The Guardian, mention is made of the possibility of W. H. Auden writing some verse especially for James to insert into one of her novels, attributing it to her poet/detective Adam Dalgliesh. The idea never bore fruit, though James notes with justifiable pride that “Auden loved detective stories – he always read my books.”
The other thing I remember from that reading of A Taste for Death is more subtle. I’d describe it as the sense of something more elemental at work in the pages of the novel, a deeper quest into the very essence of human nature. In other words, the mystery was eventually solved, but not the Mystery. (I encountered similar elements in The Pale Horse by Agatha Christie. In Agatha Christie’s Secret Notebooks, Christie scholar John Curran says of this novel that it evokes “……a genuine feeling of menace over and above the usual whodunit element.”)
At any rate, we who love crime fiction owe a debt of gratitude to P.D. James, a writer whose elegant style, masterful storytelling, and singular characters have for decades kept us engrossed, entertained, and edified. It was a life well lived, and a body of work that will stand the test of time.
A mist lay over the valley, so that the rounded hilltops looked like islands in a pale-silver sea. It had been a clear and cold night. The grass on the narrow stretch of lawn under her windows was pale and stiffened by frost, but already the misty sun was beginning to green and soften it. On the high twigs of a leaf-denuded oak three rooks were perched, unusually silent and motionless, like carefully placed black portents. Below stretched a lime avenue which led to a stone wall, and beyond it a small circle of stones. At first only the tops of the stones were visible, but as she watched, the mist rose and the circle became complete. At this distance, and with the ring partly obscured by the wall, she could see only that the stones were of different sizes, crude misshapen lumps around a central, taller stone.
(from The Private Patient)
Among my favorites:
Ave atque vale, Baroness James . You will be sorely missed.
Having recently attended two very enjoyable book discussions, I’ve decided to voice a few more thoughts on this subject. Two of the book groups I attend (with some regularity) make their choices by means of a general shout-out. This occurs every few months – both of these groups meet every two months. Gradually the titles are winnowed down to those few that seem to have the most general appeal. (Nevertheless, there may be at least one person in the room thinking, Oh good grief, I do NOT want to read that! I’ve read bad reviews / it’s too long/ that author is overrated/I’ve already tried reading it and couldn’t get past page five, etc. etc. I freely confess that I have been that person, more than once.)
The third book group – The Usual Suspects, frequently referenced in this space, employs a different procedure for the selection of titles. Just before Christmas, each person chooses a month in the coming year when they’ll be responsible for leading the discussion. That same individual chooses the book to be discussed at that session. Whether or not others approve is immaterial, at least at this stage of the proceedings. We read the book, show up at the appointed time and place – and let fly! (Actually, we’re very civil.)
Of these two methods of choosing, I favor the one practiced by the Usual Suspects. It guards against haggling and impulsive decisions, possibly regretted at a later time. Oh, and one other suggestion: If it’s your selection that’s so to speak under the microscope, don’t start by asking people if liked the book. Instead, dive right in with the particulars. Sometimes a reader who’s formed a not especially favorable opinion of a book finds that same opinion being modified as the discussion goes forward. (This, too, has happened to me.)
Below is a list of books I’ve read in recent months that I enjoyed a great deal and that, in my view, would be good book group choices (or in my case already have been, as indicated by an asterisk):
The Unknown Bridesmaid – Margaret Forster
Stoner – John Williams
*Sparta – Roxana Robinson
*The Invention of Wings – Sue Monk Kidd
The Children Act – Ian McEwan
The Weight of Water – Anita Shreve
American Romantic – Ward Just
Some Luck – Jane Smiley
Clever Girl – Tessa Hadley
CRIME AND SUSPENSE
*An Officer and a Spy – Robert Harris
Sandrine’s Case – Thomas H. Cook
After I’m Gone – Laura Lippman
– Candace Fleming
A Spy Among Friends: Kim Philby and the Great Betrayal – Ben Macintyre
*The Good Nurse: A True Story of Medicine, Madness, and Murder – Charles Graeber
It’s been a while since I read anything by Jane Smiley. I had a feeling I would like her latest. “Like” is too weak a word. I thought it was terrific. Some Luck is the first in a projected three volume saga of the Langdon family. It begins on a farm in Iowa in 1920. The rural life there is described with such loving care that I wished things could stay the same forever. But of course they can’t – and they don’t.
There was nothing extraordinary about these characters except that they spring from the fervent imagination of a master craftsman. I care so much about what happens to them! I look forward eagerly to the next installment.
The Unknown Bridesmaid seems, indeed, to be all but unknown. I sought it out on the basis of a review in The New York Times. The reviewer, Michelle Wildgen, calls it “a mesmerizing, unsettling novel.” Forster tells the story of Julia, beginning with her girlhood, as she becomes increasingly at odds with her loving yet strangely uncommunicative family. I can’t describe the hypnotic effect this story had on me any better than Wildgen does, so I’ll let her do it:
One isn’t always certain what, exactly, there is to fear in the middle-class environs in which Julia grows up, but no matter how mundane the event, the atmosphere is electric with significance.
(Click here for the full text of the review.)
I’d love to lead a discussion of this novel. This would give me a perfect reason to reread it, which I want to do anyway.
Sue Monk Kidd’s luminous novel opens with this sentence:
There was a time in Africa the people could fly.
And how, in the early 1800s, the blacks of South Carolina wished they could take wing and escape their imprisonment in that cruelest of conditions, chattel slavery. This “peculiar institution” – what an absurd euphemism! – is justly loathed for its forced labor, debased living conditions, and a host of other terrible impositions on the human spirit.
This novel is based on the true story of Sarah and Angelina Grimké, two sisters from antebellum South Carolina. Raised in opulent surroundings, they rebelled against a way of life that depended for its very existence on the work of slaves. Eventually they broke with their family and headed north, seeking shelter and making common cause with Quakers and other staunch abolitionists.
But this novel is equally the story of the daily lives of the slaves themselves. Hetty – also known as Handful, because she is one – is Sarah’s counterpart in the world of bondage. This is a spirited young woman, whose spirit is tested daily by the oppression which she has no choice but to endure. There are many reasons to be outraged by the living conditions imposed by slavery, but what The Invention of Wings also makes painfully clear is how circumscribed the life of a slave was, how devoid of meaningful occupation, how constricted the horizon. Enforced illiteracy was the capstone on this cruel edifice.
Not surprisingly, our discussion of this novel was impassioned. Some in the group had, in the past, lived in the Carolinas; their observations were illuminating, even surprising. Related reading was suggested; Jean’s mention of Song Yet Sung by James McBride sparked an interest in almost all who were present. Just before coming to the meeting, I’d found a program on the Abolitionists that can be viewed on the PBS site. The film opens with the (briefly told) story of Angelina Grimké.
This novel left me sadder and wiser; in addition, reading it was also an enraging experience. I’m at a loss to understand how a purportedly civilized people could ever have convinced themselves that it was acceptable to live this way.
Slavery tainted and debased all who were confined within its strictures. During a fraught interaction with Handful, Sarah experiences this unwelcome flash of self-knowledge:
I saw then what I hadn’t seen before, that I was very good at despising slavery in the abstract, in the removed and anonymous masses, but in the concrete, intimate flesh of the girl beside me, I’d lost the ability to be repulsed by it. I’d grown comfortable with the particulars of evil. There’s a frightful muteness that dwells at the center of all unspeakable things, and I had found my way into it.
This is what she and her sister had to battle against, both in the world around them and in their own hearts. And as for Handful, she had her own battles to fight. When she sees herself and fellow slaves listed as possessions – with dollar amounts beside their names! – in the record books of her “Masters,” she reflects:
Goods and chattel. The words from the leather book came into my head.We were like the gold leaf mirror and the horse saddle. Not full-fledge people. I didn’t believe this, never had believed it a day in my life, but if you listen to white folks long enough, some sad, beaten-down part of you starts to wonder. All that pride about what we were worth left me then. For the first time, I felt the hurt and shame of just bring who I was.
Thanks are due to the AAUW Readers for a lively and stimulating afternoon. As for The Invention of Wings, it’s great book for discussion. A great book, period.
The Judge Dee character is based on the historical figure Di Renjie (c. 630–c. 700), magistrate and statesman of the Tang court. During the Ming Dynasty (1368–1644) in China, a “folk novel” was written set in former times, but filled with anachronisms. Van Gulik found in the 18th century Di Gong An (Chinese:狄公案 Pinyin: dí gōng àn, lit. “Cases of Judge Dee”) an original tale dealing with three cases simultaneously, and, which was unusual among Chinese mystery tales, a plot that for the most part lacked an overbearing supernatural element which could alienate Western readers. He translated it into English and had it published in 1949 under the title Celebrated Cases of Judge Dee.
The subsequent (and original) Judge Dee tales took their impetus from van Gulik’s initial act of translation.
Anne M., our discussion leader, provided us with this fascinating background material and much else besides. To begin with, Robert Hans van Gulik was an extremely gifted and accomplished individual. Born in the Netherlands in 1910, he spent his early years in the Dutch East Indies, where his father served in the army as a physician. In 1923, his family returned to the Netherlands, where he completed high school, went on to university and eventually obtained a doctorate. His areas of specialization were all located in East Asia. His professional life was spent in the foreign service. In fact, he had come to love all things Chinese, mastering the language and learning to play the guqin, described as “a zither-type stringed instrument dating back to remote antiquity.” (See R.H. van Gulik and the Qin for more on this.) In 1943, he married Shui Shifang, a college educated typist at the Dutch legation in China and the daughter of an imperial Mandarin. (More information about the life and work of Robert van Gulik can be found at Judge-Dee.info.)
As The Haunted Monastery opens, Judge Dee and his entourage are traveling through the mountainous region of Han-yuan. Soon they are overtaken by a violent storm and the axle of their coach vehicle is broken. Judge Dee sees no recourse but to seek shelter in a nearby religious community. This is Morning Cloud Cloud Monastery, a Taoist establishment. The Judge’s First Lady Wife – there are three of them – opines that it will be interesting to see the interior of the monastic complex. Her husband replies dismissively: “There isn’t much to see….It’s just an old monastery.” Needless to say, events prove otherwise.
When the party present themselves at the entrance, albeit unannounced, the Judge and his party are courteously received by the Prior. They are provided with nourishment and rooms in which to stay the night. And almost at once, mysteries begin to unfold, beginning with a bizarre scene inadvertently witnessed by Judge Dee:
The window in the wall of the building opposite stood open; across the dividing space of six feet or so he looked into a dimly-lit room. He saw the broad back of a man wearing a close-fitting iron helmet who was trying to embrace a naked woman. She covered her face with her right arm, where the left should have been there was only a ragged stump. The man let go of her and she stumbled back against the wall. Then the wind tore the hooks of the shutters from Judge Dee’s hands, and they slammed shut in his face.With an oath he pushed them open again, but now he saw nothing but a dark curtain if rain.
The Haunted Monastery, with its plethora of dramatis personae, its tangled plot – or should I say, plots – and the complex yet claustrophobic setting, was a challenging read. For our edification, Anne provided us with a comprehensive list of characters; in addition, she had formulated wise and provocative discussion questions. She seemed to have an almost effortless command of every twist and turn in the story.
Our discussion ranged far and wide, in some cases raising questions that could only be answered by further research. We were particularly interested in Taoism and Confucianism, both of which play an important part in the narrative. The monastery is Taoist; the Judge is Confucian. Here are his ruminations on the Taoist faith:
“The question is, Tao Gan, whether we are meant to discover the mystery of life, and whether that discovery would make us happier. Taoism has many elevated thoughts; it teaches us to requite good with good, and bad also with good. But the instruction to requite bad with good belongs to a better age than we are living in now, Tao Gan! It’s a dream of the future, a beautiful dream — yet only a dream. I prefer to keep to the practical wisdom of our Master Confucius, who teaches us our simple, everyday duties to our fellow-men and to our society. And to requite good with good, and bad with justice!”
I liked Frank’s comment to the effect that while reading The Haunted Monastery, he had the feeling that the prose style was in some way distinctively Chinese. A reviewer on Goodreads makes a similar observation with regard to The Celebrated Cases of Judge Dee:
One aspect of books and reading that I don’t often consider is the extent to which storytelling is a cultural form, often arising out of long-standing tradition. Modern American writing has such an emphasis on telling a good story as well as innovation in characterization and world-building that I forget about traditional forms. The manuscript of Celebrated Cases of Judge Dee is the product of an extensive tradition in Chinese detective storytelling.
In his Translator’s Preface to The Celebrated Cases of Judge Dee, Robert van Gulik enumerates the characteristics of that tradition. I’ve not been able to find this Preface online, but I did find a helpful summary of van Gulik’s main points on Wikipedia:
- the detective is the local magistrate who is usually involved in several unrelated cases simultaneously;
- the criminal is introduced at the very start of the story and his crime and reasons are carefully explained, thus constituting an inverted detective story rather than a “puzzle”;
- the stories have a supernatural element with ghosts telling people about their death and even accusing the criminal;
- the stories are filled with digressions into philosophy, the complete texts of official documents, and much more, making for very long books;
- the novels tend to have a huge cast of characters, typically in the hundreds, all described as to their relation to the various main actors in the story.
Very few of these tales have been translated into Western languages. It was Robert van Gulik’s wish to remedy this situation to some small degree by his own efforts. Wanting very much to bring the character of Judge Dee to life for readers in the West, he then set about writing original stories that would achieve this goal. In the process he brings to life a time and place so remote as to seem like the stuff of dreams. And yet these people, with their dreams, desires, and disappointments, seem to some extent not so very different from us. (In The Haunted Monastery, one must make an exception, of course, for the last character on Anne’s list: “A Bear.”)
I highly recommend the spoken word version of the Judge Dee mysteries as performed by
Frank Muller. I listened to them quite some time ago on audiotape, and I don’t know if they’ve ever been made available on a more current format. If not, tant pis; they are quite wonderful. (I own The Phantom in the Temple and would be happy to loan it out. Remember, though: you’ll need a cassette player!)
**Thanks once again to Anne for her lucid and meticulous presentation. It was masterful.**
Robert van Gulik illustrated the Judge Dee novels with his own line drawings. These two appear in The Haunted Monastery:
Oh, to be in Oxford….The Late Scholar by Jill Paton Walsh, based on the characters created by Dorothy L Sayers
Visible from the cupola is a southerly vista of extraordinary beauty. Fist the little Gothis lancets on the roof of the Bodleian; then the large rounded mass of the dome on the Radcliffe Camera, which convinces the eye at once that every city should have a dome; then the airy Gothic spire of the university church, St. Mary the Virgin, the square tower of Merton. And Tom Tower off to one side and beyond it all in every direction soft and gently rising vistas of green hills.
This view of Oxford, seen from the cupola of the Sheldonian Theatre, is at that moment being taken in by by Harriet Vane and her son Paul. Harriet Vane, that is, aka the Duchess of Denver. Paul is one of two sons she has had with her husband Lord Peter Wimsey.
Peter has been called to St. Severin’s, a (fictional) college at Oxford, to mediate a dispute that has arisen among the fellows of the college. When he arrives upon the scene. one of his earliest discoveries is that the Warden of the college has gone missing. In fact, he has been missing for weeks, and there’s been almost no action taken to ascertain his whereabouts. Ergo, there’s already a mystery brewing. The fellows themselves are evasive; the signs are troubling. In classic detective fiction fashion, things get far more dire before any kind of resolution presents itself.
If you’re thinking that I’m being deliberately vague about this novel’s plot, I plead guilty. I finished several weeks ago, and I would be hard pressed to provide any details concerning the crimes and the subsequent investigation. What has stayed with me, however, is the pleasure I derived from being in the company of Lord Peter and his beloved Harriet. In addition, I enjoyed tracking down the classical and poetical allusions that flowed freely in this novel – even one this poignant:
VEN such is time, that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
VEN such is time, that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Who, in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days:
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.
Peter was far from immune to this bitterly intense nostalgia; he too had lain in a punt with his friends on more than one dewy morning, and heard the song, and adjourned to eat breakfast cooked on a campfire in the meadow below the bridge. Thinking of punts he remembered sleeping in one, overcome with weariness, while Harriet watched him, and when he awoke something unspoken and irrevocable had happened between them.——————————————————-
The flat setting and fine scroll-work of the ear, and the height of the skull above it. The glitter of the close-cropped hair where the neck-muscles lifted to meet the head. A minute sickle-shaped scar on the left temple. The faint laughter-lines at the corner of the eye and the droop of the lid at its outer end. The gleam of gold down on the cheekbone. The wide spring of the nostril….
Shrewsbury was the stand-in for Somerville College in Gaudy Night. (Dorothy L Sayers earned her degree from Somerville.) Early in the novel, as Harriet Vane is arriving at her alma mater, she reflects on the terrible ordeal of having being tried for murder some years earlier (as described in Strong Poison). Her graduation from Shrewsbury is an immense source of comfort, pride, and strength:
They can’t take this away, at any rate. Whatever I may have done since, this remains. Scholar; Master of Arts; Domina; Senior Member of this University (statutem est quod Juniores Senioribus debitam et congruam reverentiam tum in privato tum in publico exhibeant); a place achieved, inalienable, worthy of reverence.
Jill Paton Walsh has thus far written four novels that serve as a continuation of the story of Harriet Vane and Peter Wimsey:
Of these, I’ve only read the first and the most recent. You can probably gather from what I’ve written that I thoroughly enjoyed The Late Scholar, and I recommend it, especially to those who, like me, relish crime fiction that hearkens back to a more genteel era.
I seem to recall Jill Paton Walsh stating that after reading Gaudy Night, she was fired with a desire to attend one of the Oxford Colleges. (She graduated with honors from St. Anne’s College in 1959.) She’s also the author of mysteries featuring Imogen Quy, a nurse at St. Agatha’s College, Cambridge. There are only four entries in this series, the last, The Bad Quarto, having been published here in 2007. I wish she’d write more; I really enjoyed them.
Having very much enjoyed Waters’s The Little Stranger, I was looking forward to this, her latest work. You probably know what’s coming, and yes, I was to a fair degree frustrated with this novel. Clocking in at 564 pages, it was too long. Now for me, that is not a hard and fast rule. Wolf Hall was almost exactly the same length, and I’d hoped it would never end.
The Paying Guests begins with a description of the lives of Frances Wray and her mother. They are living in extremely straitened circumstances. The year is 1923 and Britain is still reeling from the terrible losses sustained in the First World War. The Wrays themselves sacrificed two young men, brothers and sons, to that conflict.
Now they are simply trying to keep their heads above water. They have let their servants go and have made whatever other economies they can. Frances is doing all of the housework herself. It is grueling work, but offers a certain grim satisfaction:
She worked briskly and efficiently, taking her brush and pan from the drawing room to the top of the stairs and making her way back down, a step at a time; after that she filled a bucket with water, fetched her kneeling mat, and began to wash the hall floor. Vinegar was all she used. Soap left streaks on the black tiles. The first, wet rub was important for loosening the dirt, but it was the second bit that really counted, passing the wrung cloth over the floor in one supple, unbroken movement…There! How pleasing each glossy tiles was. The gloss would fade in about five minutes as the surface dried; but everything faded. The vital thing was to make the most of the moments of brightness. There was no point in dwelling on the scuffs.
And so it goes, day after day, until Frances and her mother decide to take in boarders. They could use the money. And so, enter Leonard and Lilian Barber, a young couple in need of affordable lodgings. They are the eponymous Paying Guests. At first, the arrangement seems suitable for all. But in actuality, the appearance of the Barbers on the scene presages a whole host of problems – problems that culminate in catastrophe.
In the main, The Paying Guests is a passionate love story, and one of my chief problems with the narrative was that the raptures of the lovers were dwelt upon at such length that I wanted to cry out, “Okay! I get it! They’re crazy about each other!” I don’t want to say any more for fear of giving away too much. I readily concede that Sarah Waters is an excellent writer; she vividly evokes the privations and losses suffered by many of the English in the wake of the Great War.. It’s just that in my view, some judicious editing would have done this novel a world of good.
“She had come alive for him, a recognizable human being from seven centuries ago.” – The Stone Wife, by Peter Lovesey
I finished this a while ago, but the pleasure of Peter Lovesey’s ingenious plotting and witty dialog has stayed with me. As is frequently the case with books in this series, the opening scene delivers a palpable shock, with sudden violence erupting in an ultra civilized venue.
The novel is enriched with the lore and legend of Geoffrey Chaucer. The eponymous stone wife is, in fact, a sculpted figure purportedly of the Wife of Bath, one of the more memorable, one could say more colorful, of the pilgrims who inhabit The Canterbury Tales. As Peter Diamond’s investigation progresses, one of the more important witnesses to emerge is the murder victim’s ex-wife. She proves to be a multiply married woman who, as she approaches late middle age, is yet possessed of a healthy libido. She is, in other words, something of a modern day Wife of Bath.
For me, one of the special pleasures of this book was the fact that although most of it takes place in Bath, excursions are made to Bristol. At least one scene takes place at he Clifton Suspension Bridge. I was privileged to see this engineering marvel for myself in 2011. The day was windy, so I declined the guide’s invitation to walk across, but my game husband and several others in our group made the trek.
With every new entry, this series just gets better and better. Skeleton Hill, Stagestruck, Cop To Corpse, The Tooth Tattoo – all were excellent. With The Stone Wife, Peter Lovesey has once again surpassed himself. As if you hadn’t guessed by now – highly recommended!
So says Harold Schechter, editor of True Crime: An American Anthology. Schechter informs us of this startling fact concerning Hawthorne’s reading preference in the course of his introduction to the essay “Jesse Strang.” Strang, it seems, murdered one John Whipple, husband of his lover Elsie Whipple. Jesse was besotted with Elsie, and she made use of that fact to goad him into eliminating her inconvenient and unwanted spouse. It’s a scenario redolent of associations with Ruth Snyder and Judd Gray, though it predates that sensational case by many decades.
Nathaniel Hawthorne himself is represented in the Schechter anthology by a brief excerpt from his notebooks in which he describes a display of wax figures representing a variety of notorious murderers and their victims.
Nathaniel Hawthorne, true crime buff! As my grandmother (of blessed memory) would’ve said, “Who knew?”
In his fiction, Hawthorne returns time and again to the theme of sin, its corrosive and irreversible affect on the human spirit, and the often vain hope of redemption. This preoccupation is usually said to have its roots in his ancestry – actually in one ancestor in particular. John Hathorne was one of the examining magistrates in the Salem witch trails of 1692. Unlike other judges who also took part, Hathorne was not known ever to express remorse over the role he played in those notorious proceedings.
I love the stories of Nathaniel Hawthorne, in part because they capture the mixture of unease and longing that dwelt in the hearts of the early settlers. Among my favorites are “Young Goodman Brown,” “The Birthmark,” and “The Gray Champion.” I especially love “Rappaccini’s Daughter” for its strange inversion of good and evil, and “The Minister’s Black Veil’ for its aura of impenetrable mystery. Nothing is explained; the reader is left to wonder and speculate.
As a youth, Hawthorne was an introvert. He almost never went out into society. Having graduated from Bowdoin College in 1825, he declined to take up a profession. Instead, he returned to his mother’s house in Salem to live in solitude and to write. His mother, being of a similar temperament, left him to it.
After he had passed some years in this manner, Hawthorne became restless. On a visit to the Peabody family, ostensibly to see Elizabeth Peabody, he encountered her sister Sophia. They fell in love, and she and Hawthorne were married in 1842.
The full story of this late blooming love is an appealing one, especially as told in Miriam Levine’s lambent prose:
On a visit to the Peabody family in Salem, [Hawthorne] met Sophia Peabody. They had much in common. Both felt shadowy, unnreal, cut off from affection and vital life. Sophia, who, like Hawthorne, was born in Salem, had lived as a recluse since she was nine. sensitive, prone to excruciating headaches, she was dosed with drugs and encouraged in her invalidism as if it would be her lifes’ work. She told Hawthorne that she had lived in a seclusion as deep as his own.
Their marriage brought the Hawthornes into vivid immediate contact with the physical world. They felt alive, newly created by love. The world was real. They could feel it. They called themselves the new Adam and Eve. Everything they wrote during their stay at the Old Manse – in letters and diaries – conveys the pleasure of well-matched lovers who luckily, and against all odds, find sex delightful from the beginning. Sophia rejoiced that she was completely his. Her headaches stopped.
from A Guide to Writers’ Homes in New England
It has been my privilege and pleasure to visit Concord, Massachusetts on several occasions. Each time I go, I am moved by the rich literary and historical sites and associations encountered there. Visiting the Old Manse, where the Hawthornes spent the first three years of their married life, is a special experience.
I always seek out the window pane which bears the inscriptions made by Hawthorne and Sophia. (They used Sophia’s diamond ring as their writing tool.):
Man’s accidents are God’s purposes.
Sophia A. Hawthorne, 1843.
This is his study.
The smallest twig
leans clear against the sky.
Composed by my wife,
and written with her dia-
Inscribed by my
husband at sunset,
April 3, 1843
On the gold light. S. A. H.
How one longs to touch the words! But they are protected by an additional pane of glass (or at least, they were when I was last there.)
Should you find yourself in this lovely town one day, I highly recommend Jane Langton’s delightful mystery, God in Concord. . (Thanks to the Mysterious Press, novels in Langton’s series featuring Homer and Mary Kelly are now available on Kindle.)