A Murder of Quality

The final book I will finish in 2020 is John Le Carré's second novel, A Murder of Quality, which is not a spy story but falls into the detective fiction genre. It is valuable for its clever mystery but more importantly for providing insights into the mind of George Smiley, who will prominently reappear in Le Carré's novels. Most pointedly, there is his observation that "we just don't know what people are like, we can never tell; there isn't any truth about human beings, no formula that meets each one of us." 

Call for the Dead

A writer's death is sometimes a spur to delve into the works. In this case the death in December of John le Carré at age 89 prompted me to seek out his first novel, Call for the Dead, published in 1961. I have seen several of the film adaptations but had never read any of the books until now. It is an excellent work, full of sharp characterizations, especially of the legendary figure of George Smiley, with a riddle neatly solved. Usually with a young writer you see a style develop over years, for good or ill, generally becoming more polished. It would be a shame if le Carré changed much in the later novels, which I hope to get to, because this one is just about perfect.

Rabbit Redux

The second Rabbit novel by John Updike finds the hero in the midst of late 60s' turmoil, the flight to suburbia and disintegrating cities. As his wife, Janice, says of Harry Angstrom: "He put his life into rules he feels melting away now." It is an astute snapshot of time, seasoned with a preoccupation with sex that seems nostalgic today. Updike's sex scenes are good even when they're bad, because they demonstrate a writer willing to take bold steps into the intersection between the physical and the psychological.

The Maurizius Case

A book more admirable than likable, The Maurizius Case by Jacob Wassermann, first published in Germany in 1928, was a tough slog both stylistically and for its length. It falls within the interwar milieu that includes writers like Thomas Mann, and I found similarities here, for example, with Buddenbrooks. But Wasserman's endless excavation of every action and thought for its psychological and ethical content is wearying. The story itself has effective cinematic elements and a moral dilemma worth chewing over.

Félicie

Maigret is thrown off balance by the headstrong and somewhat arrogant young woman of the title, who was housekeeper to the murder victim, a man nicknamed Pegleg. While the solving of the crime is satisfying, it is the love-hate relationship between Maigret and Félicie that wins the day here.

Cécile is Dead

This Maigret, the 22nd in the series of new translations published by Penguin, has some elements that add depth to the Paris detective. Firstly, he suffers from guilt when a woman who comes repeatedly to see him about suspected intruders in her apartment is murdered. Maigret didn't take her seriously enough, and that weighs on him. Second, an American criminologist appears about two-thirds into the book and gets a lesson in French food, drink and crime-fighting. There is also a scene in which the famous detective goes to the cinema and lets his mind roam aimlessly in an attempt to generate useful paths to a solution. All of this is capped off by an elegant solution and Maigret distributing justice, and help, in his own way. 

The Ivory Grin

It is a testament to Ross Macdonald's skill that this novel, the fourth in the Lew Archer series, does not seem dated despite being published nearly 70 years ago. The tangled web, the sharp patter, and Archer's credo are all here. Interestingly, the latter is spelled out directly when the detective is talking to a black woman whose son is in danger of being railroaded for a murder. "You are on our side, Mr. Archer?" she asks. His reply: "The side of justice when I can find it. When I can't find it, I'm for the underdog." But nothing is black and white with Archer, which is what makes him so appealing. After explaining how he may be able to help the woman, she says: "I believe that you are a righteous man, Mr. Archer." Macdonald's next sentence is gold: I let her believe it.

Three Men in New Suits

This J.B. Priestley postwar novel follows three recently demobilized soldiers on their return home: one a member of the gentry, one a son of a successful farmer, and the third a quarry worker. Priestley maps out a structure of three alternating chapters on each of the men, bookended by an introduction and conclusion in which the three are together. It is a straightforward polemic, without much plot or characterization to speak of, in which the author lays out the confusions of postwar Britain and suggests an answer in a society that is less selfish. 

The Magicians

J.B. Priestley's mid-1950s novel makes a plea for living a deeper, more fulfilling life, but it resorts to some hocus-pocus to make the point. The magicians of the title are normal-looking men but turn out to be vaguely supernatural. Their instruction to the protagonist, a middle-aged man who is successful but not happy, revolves around the concept of "tick tock" versus "time alive." The former is how most of us live, from moment to moment, with the past relegated to unimportance. "Time alive" is a richer experience in which a person's past and present form a continuous spiral, or loop — in any case, it's not linear. The main character experiences this "time alive" through a kind of reverse hypnosis, meaning he's not being put under but awakened to the wholeness of experience. If it all seems a bit flaky, Priestley is able to carry it off believably. The novel also includes some sharp social criticism of mass media and entertainment, as well as the perils of dulling the mind with antidepressants, that remain relevant to this day.

A Death in the Family

James Agee's novel is a good example of how art can be produced when the artist strives for maximum sincerity. The temptation to break ground in form and content can lead writers astray, but Agee finds his subject in the most commonplace and universal event, a death in the family. Particularly effective is the scene in which the child listens at a closed door to his mother, his great aunt, and a priest discussing the death of the boy's father. Although he cannot make out the words through the door, he is able to evaluate what is happening by their tones. This passage, which combines realism and insightfulness, is one of many effective scenes in this fine novel.

The Disenchanted

The main attraction of Budd Schulberg's The Disenchanted is the potboiler-type slow-motion train wreck that is the main character's life. Modeled on Scott Fitzgerald, Manley Halliday is pretty much doomed from the first sip of champagne on an airplane trip from Los Angeles to New York. But the gradual disintegration is handled skillfully, producing in the reader a mounting sense of dread. If it did nothing else, the novel would be worthwhile for that, but Schulberg also interweaves flashback sections that show the writer at the height of his fame in the Twenties. The sad story is made even sadder by the fact that an incomplete manuscript left behind shows not only that Halliday had not lost his touch, but that he was onto something better than ever.

The Zebra-Striped Hearse

I knew there would be great dialogue when I started this Ross Macdonald novel, but having not read any of the Lew Archer books in many years I was not prepared for the great descriptive and allusive writing as well. For example: "The striped hearse was standing empty among other cars off the highway above Zuma. I parked behind it and went down to the beach to search for its owner. Bonfires were scattered along the shore, like the bivouacs of nomad tribes or nuclear war survivors. The tide was high and the breakers loomed up marbled black and fell white out of oceanic darkness." The case is a tangled one unpacked with Archer's famous doggedness and care.

The Judge's House

For reasons not explained, Maigret has been exiled to the provinces, giving Simenon the chance to explore the social dynamics of a small fishing village where a murder has occurred. As usual, the author reveals the motivations and shortcomings of the human animal with unerring skill.

Christine Falls

The central mystery in this novel by Benjamin Black (John Banville) was not too hard to figure out. I am not usually good at these kinds of things, but here I knew the ending on page 62 (of 340), although there were more surprises in store that I did not foresee. The page cite is no spoiler. There is no "clue" there; it just became instantly clear to me then what was going on. The story is a good one, although a bit long-winded.

But what struck me more than anything in this book was the use of the verb "frown." As in: frown, frowned, frowning, frowningly (an adverb no less!). I wish I had a way to search the text for instances of "frown" and its variants; if there are fewer than 50 I would be shocked. I've noticed the overuse of this word in other writers from England and Ireland, for example William Nicholson (whom I admire). The problem is, "frown" is a lousy, vague verb, and using it repeatedly is lazy and ineffective and annoying to the reader. What is a frown? The first thing that comes to mind is a smile turned upside down, maybe with the lower lip pushed out. Surely the characters aren't making that exaggerated gesture. A subtle frown might be a clenching of the jaw, tightening of the mouth, or pursing of the lips; why not say that? A good writer should be able to find multiple ways of describing a character's discomfort. Instead, we have in Christine Falls a parade of frowns. It's just bad writing. One or two frowns in a book, sure; but dozens and dozens? It reminds me of Richard Price's Lush Life, to my mind a bad novel, in which he uses the formulation "he tilted his chin at (someone)" four times in the first 130 pages. (And besides, I don't even have a picture of what "tilting his chin" looks like; it's something made up parading as an idiom.)

I'll move on to book two of the Quirke series, but I hope it doesn't leave me frowning.

A Long Silence

A Long Silence is not technically the last Van der Valk mystery by Nicolas Freeling — there was one more, published in 1989, that resuscitated a detective that some readers were clamoring for — but it is the one in which Van der Valk is killed. That is no spoiler, at least for readers of my 1975 Penguin edition, which contains a memorial blurb on the back cover. Besides, there's the title. Freeling went on to create a French detective that some critics prefer to Van der Valk, and while I haven't read any of those, they would need to go a long way to match the humanity of the Dutch character. A Long Silence, like many in the series, isn't really a mystery as such; it is more an examination of human behavior. Like most good literary detectives, Van der Valk has seen a good deal, and like most good detective stories, including this one, justice is always provisional. Here, however, things are wrapped up with a tighter bow than some of the others, and that is a fitting sendoff for the commissaris.

Snow

I am not a fast reader, so John Banville's Snow falls onto the very short list of books that I have devoured in either a single sitting or in a day or two. It is hard to top the two adjectives used on a cover blurb to describe Banville's prose style: immaculate and penetrating. The similes strike home, the ear for dialogue is excellent, and the whole has a flowing simplicity that makes it very difficult to stop reading. Add to this a murdered priest in a Protestant country house in 1950s Ireland, and you have a winner.

The Royal Game

I first read Stefan Zweig's The Royal Game, along with Amok and Letter From an Unknown Woman, which are included in my Viking Press edition, probably 20 years ago. On re-reading, they remain impressive and perceptive psychological studies. The chess story of the title explores the brain's coping response to isolation; Amok is about flawed and obsessive behavior; and Letter might be the best thing I've read about unrequited love. Through all of the stories, Zweig is able to hook the reader and pull him along, seemingly effortlessly, to a richly satisfying conclusion.

Unquiet

There are parts of Linn Ullmann's fictional account of her adolescence and parents, Ingmar Bergman and Liv Ullmann, that are effective in showing how two peculiar and talented people went about the task of  parenthood. Bergman was mostly absent, but by this account was no less a loving father, if sometimes cold. The sections about the father's decline and death are affecting and revealing. There is, however, in Unquiet a good deal of material written from the point of view of a girl that amounts to a retelling of ordinary childhood events with no real payoff. As in her previous novel, then, a certain flabbiness is unfortunately evident.

Our Malady

Subtitled "Lessons in Liberty From a Hospital Diary," Timothy Snyder's short book about nearly being killed by the commercial medicine system in the United States should be shocking. Unfortunately, for anyone who has had extensive contact with this system and its designed flaws that make a few rich and many sick, it will not be. Snyder's account of the differences between his first child being born (in Austria) and his second (in the United States) is particularly telling. In Austria his wife was kept in the maternity ward for 96 hours after delivery and provided with constant care and training. In America an algorithm demanded labor be induced and a Caesarean be performed despite the fact that the mother and unborn child were both in excellent health. Of course the fact that other countries have figured out how to provide a decent standard of care for all of their citizens will cut no ice in a nation whose policies are oriented almost exclusively toward enriching the wealthy, so despite the fact that Snyder ends his book with a call for change and a measure of hope I won't hold my breath.

Dreiser Looks at Russia

Theodore Dreiser went to the Soviet Union in the winter of 1927-28 on the condition that he could go where he wished and write about it afterward without restriction. His observations on Russian society, industry, art, food, and Communism are never less than interesting and reveal Dreiser to be, in the main, a skeptic of the Soviet experiment. This is mainly because the author believed that, as much as inequality and individual achievement might be artificially leveled, man as a species could not be permanently bent by a doctrine alien to his nature. That didn't stop Dreiser from hailing the generally improved working conditions and standard of living over czarist times, or from admiring the all-for-one spirit and lack of materialism he says he witnessed.

Cleanliness was a fixation with Dreiser, who was appalled by the smell and clothing of many of the Soviets he came across. He also had a hard time finding a decent hotel room with a proper toilet and working bath.

Dreiser kept a diary during his trip, which was edited and published by the University of Pennsylvania Press in 1996. Based on a small excerpt I read, it is a much richer account and includes many of his misgivings about the Soviet experiment. As the editors of the diary point out, Dreiser Looks at Russia didn't make much use of the diaries and often shows the author expounding on subjects about which he had little knowledge. Nevertheless, this is a fascinating account of a time, before the show trials and purges, when a disinterested observer could hope that something worthy might come out of Russia.

1933 Was a Bad Year

Having not heard the name John Fante before he was mentioned by a comedian on Instagram, I ordered this book on the strength of its title. Depression era fiction — Ironweed comes to mind — appeals to me because it heightens the stakes for the characters. Fante's short novel is about a 17-year-old Italian-American living in Colorado in the shadows of the Rocky Mountains whose plans for glory center on his left pitching arm, or the Arm as he calls it. The family is poor, with a bricklayer father who is out of work and hustles pool to get by, a worn-out devout Catholic mother, a manaical grandmother, and some siblings. What Fante does so well, using a sharp but not showoffy style, is take these absolutely ordinary people and infuse them with a spark of the universal.  

Lives Other Than My Own

Emmanuel Carrere's memoir might have been called "Deaths Other Than My Own" but for the life-affirming outlook that makes his chosen title so apposite. Carrere, dividing the text into sections dealing with the 2004 Asian tsunami and the death of his sister-in-law, digs into the lives of those lost and those who remain. Grief, the search for meaning, and the will to go on are explored frankly and with clear eyes. 

The Friends of Eddie Coyle

The source of a Peter Yates film that I have grown to admire more with each viewing, The Friends of Eddie Coyle by George V. Higgins is a marvel of language and grit. Breaking new ground in the genre, as far as I know, the novel is about 90 percent dialogue. Higgins had a great ear, and there are little morality tales threaded all through the text.

The Muses Are Heard

"When the cannons are silent, the muses are heard." This was a favorite saying of a Soviet minder to visiting Americans who brought a production of Porgy and Bess to Leningrad and Moscow in 1955-6. Truman Capote's account of the trip, through the premiere performance, is rich in detail and characterizations. Mrs. Ira Gershwin hunts for caviar; Capote gets sozzled in a workingman's bar with female bouncers; and the Russian audience, at least at the outset, sits on its hands in confused silence during the opening performance. The book pulses with Capote's sharp eye and sly humor.

Lost Face

The stories in this Jack London collection, published in 1910, are full of brutality, humor, and terror. "To Build a Fire" is the best example I've read of a story that builds with mounting dread to a conclusion that is both inevitable and affecting. What comes through in all of Lost Face is London's keen understanding of his setting and of human nature.

Castaway

The two poles of a reader's reaction to James Gould Cozzens's Castaway might be to 1) throw the book against a wall, or 2) plunge deep into thought (ideally with the help of a fellow reader) about its meaning. I fall somewhere in between. The story is simple enough, about a lone man in a multistory department store after an unnamed catastrophic event outside. He gathers material to make a fort, looks for food and weapons, and then there is an event and a "trick" ending. What struck me before the ending was the pointlessness of the man's labors: all of those efforts, to what end? Does he believe he will be able to live out his days in the empty store? It's the survival instinct on display, and it is, ironically, not wholly rational. Cozzens's prose is thorny but usually worth the effort to untangle. I ordered this book after learning that Sam Peckinpah had a lifelong wish to turn the story into a movie. Reading it with that in mind, and seeing in my mind's eye what he might have done with it, added to the pleasure of reading. 

S.S. San Pedro

James Gould Cozzens's short novel is an excellent depiction of a slow-motion disaster. The ship is listing slightly as it leaves port, something that everyone notices, but there is no urgency to address the issue and some of the characters engage in the kind of happy talk that assumes that problems will fix themselves. By the time disaster is imminent, passengers are still being told that everything will be fine. Faith in technology (engines, pumps, radio) and in authority (a deathly ill captain) combine in a fatal cocktail. Cozzens's prose is a little too purple for my taste, and his use of the semicolon exceeds everyone I've ever read, but this remains a startling little tale. 

Prometheus: The Life of Balzac

It is depressing, in a couple of ways, to read Andre Maurois's biography of the great French writer Honore de Balzac. First, and more prosaically, the book's heavy reliance on correspondence to and from Balzac reminds me of the decline of letter-writing and the rich detail that will be unavailable to future biographers of great figures. The digital trail, so easily erased, is no substitute for an analog archive. Second, and more significantly, this biography reminds me that our era appears to be one of artistic stagnation. Balzac's ideas and work were revolutionary; the same could be said of Faulkner and Dos Passos. Thomas Bernhard died 30 years ago. But we get the culture, and the leaders, we deserve.

John Paul Jones

Subtitled "A Sailor's Biography," this work by Samuel Eliot Morison paints the father of the US Navy as a complex, proud, enormously skilled tactician whose bravery and determination helped to secure the survival of the emerging American republic. (This despite the fact that the embryonic Navy had little role in the Revolution.) Born in Scotland and drawn to the sea at an early age, Jones led audacious attacks against the British coast, defeated a superior and faster ship in the Battle of Flamborough Head, and ended up working for Catherine II in the Black Sea fighting against the Turks. Morison's naval background skews the tale at times into the minutiae of sailing mechanics, but he also has plenty to say about Jones's love affairs, his relations with Ben Franklin (a friend) and assorted enemies, and his somewhat poignant end. Reading about an actual hero, warts and all, becomes an act of self-preservation in times of national collapse. And remember Jones's cry: I have not yet begun to fight!

Bloody Sam

Marshall Fine's biography of Sam Peckinpah is loaded — perhaps overstuffed is a better description — with anecdotes about the filmmaker's battles with producers, his alcoholism and drug abuse, and his several marriages. The author's interviews with people close to Peckinpah create a vivid picture of the man, but the book has less to say about the director's technical and storytelling talents.