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.