In a Lonely Place by Dorothy B. Hughes (1947)

An angry, misogynist veteran back from the war battles his emotions.

Mystery Review: In a Lonely Place is often close to poetry, even as it plumbs the mind of an aggrieved and resentful man back from the war, living on the edge and bordering on violence: "an outcast in a strange, cold world." That's a creepy place to be, and Dickson Steele is unpredictable yet credible, perhaps a sociopath but that's not the focus of the discussion. Less attention is paid to motivations (except subtly) than what is. At greater length it's a battle between the reader and an unreliable narrator: although in third person the voice stays within Steele's head. As an angry, misogynist (is that redundant?) he's never as smart as he thinks he is nor is his view of the world as accurate. There's a hole inside him and though he's found someone who can fill that void, his own self-destructive elements and paranoia repeatedly interfere. Dorothy Belle Hughes (1904-93) is too much forgotten and underrated and should have her place as one of the very best writers in the hard-boiled/noir genre. David Goodis is another writer I think of in that category, but I think Hughes is better. Posing as a mystery writer, in a bit of an in-joke, the protagonist name-checks Chandler and Hammett, as well as Ellery Queen, John Dickson (hmm?) Carr and Erle Stanley Gardner. At times In a Lonely Place feels as if Bret Easton Ellis rewrote a Jim Thompson novel and Patricia Highsmith dropped in to give it a good edit. But actually it's just Dorothy B. Hughes writing brilliantly as she does and dragging us along with her. For the discriminating, in a virtuoso performance all the violence takes place off-stage. You may still want to take a shower after reading it. In a Lonely Place is the kind of book that gets deep into your head well after you've stopped reading. Similar to, but quite different than the 1950 black and white, movie version with Gloria Grahame and Humphrey Bogart. Both are classics.  [5★]

The High Window by Raymond Chandler (1942)

A wealthy woman's daughter-in-law and a rare gold coin have gone missing, then the homicides begin. 

Mystery Review: The High Window involves some of the tropes we've seen in the two previous Philip Marlowe outings. Menacing goons, the old and rich, hapless dweebs who come to harm, gangster club owners, gorgeous dames, not-too-corrupt cops, the effete wealthy, the down and out doing their best. Chandler makes it all seem effortless, with enough surprises to keep it compelling. Marlowe saves a damsel in distress even as he seems to be slipping into mild depression ("The white moonlight was cold and clear, like the justice we dream of but don't find"). There's sufficient snappy patter but few memorable characters. No Moose Malloy or any member of the Sternwood family. The most notable plot point is that The High Window is the one with the Brasher Doubloon (which is a real thing). Still highly readable and entertaining, there's little action and Marlowe does little detecting. He mostly just bumps into things until the bodies pile up. Although alcoholism always lurks around the edges, the story line doesn't have the extreme seediness of the previous books. Yet Marlowe is charming and interesting enough that I wish I'd been riding a bus on a rainy night in 1942 having picked up a copy of The High Window at the station. At one point he and a guard outside a gated community discuss the conflict between wealth and democracy, how the "trouble with revolutions ... is that they get in the hands of the wrong people." As seems to be the case with American novels in the Forties, this can only be enjoyed despite the casual ethnic slurs. It was made into a movie in 1942 as Time to Kill (with different characters) and in 1947 as The Brasher Doubloon.  A good, solid read. It's all I need in a mystery, but just a little less brilliant than what came before.  [4★]

The Autumn of the Patriarch by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (1975)

The fever dream life of a disfigured and brutal dictator who ruled his Caribbean nation longer than memory.

Classics Review: The Autumn of the Patriarch is a tour de force, an event, an experience that demands much from its reader. But worth it. An epic poem, a vast history of post-colonial America, an insight of depravity made whole. This is not a book with plot and story, order and logic. It's a bombardment and derangement of the senses where all times occur at the same time, where one's memories of several lifetimes exist at once, where one experiences past, present, and future indistinguishably. All of which is related in a rhythmic, unrelenting, torrent of words, so many words, too many words, words in sentences that go on for pages, paragraphs that last for days, where yet another half-caught evocative phrase spins by, barely registering before the next is spun right at your face. Not all readers will be strong enough for everything here. A single mind can't hold all this, the whole history of a people, the collective conscious and unconscious of a continent. There's no way to keep it all in mind, to take hold of one page before being lost in the next. Until the reader is overwhelmed by this deluge of image and must step back, step away, step off. The Autumn of the Patriarch is like a thousand mile journey through mountains. Each mile one sees majestic peaks, breathtaking views, unique and awe-inspiring sights, for mile and after mile, and after awhile it is yet another amazing peak, view, and sight -- a thousand times. Who can keep all that in mind, remember every mile, gather all that has been seen. That is this novel. What García Márquez is creating is not a story but an accretion of the masks and impressions of a myth, a myth that no two people remember the same way, of memories that have faded and shifted till no one is certain what was real and what was imagined. The Autumn of the Patriarch is the myth of a post-colonial world, for that's what we're left with. "They turned our artists into fairies, they brought the Bible and syphilis, they made people believe that life was easy ... that everything is gotten with money, that blacks carry contagion." A continent where everything that was old, original, that grew up through the feet, that was built on language and lore, was abruptly destroyed, replaced by a different people who made this country into a fun-house, distorted-mirror version of their own. All built on cruelty, arrogance, and indifference. Then they left (or were driven out) with no single real thing left behind. A few centuries of chaos: unfinished structure, half-built tradition, borrowed heritage, imposed memories, false history, a mixed people. A language sewn onto tongues. The very same language that García Márquez uses so well to create this phantasm of the past that lives in the present and contorts the future. The Autumn of the Patriarch is written like the nightmare of a drunken sleepwalker because there is no other way to tell the story.  [5★]

Cherry by Mary Karr (2000)

The second memoir by the American poet.

Memoir Review: Cherry followed closely after Mary Karr's third book of poetry, Viper Rum (1998), and five years after her wildly successful and revolutionary first memoir, The Liars' Club (1995). That book mostly addressed certain moments in her childhood and her relationship with her unconventional parents. At times it ventured into freak show territory that few of us have experienced. Now in Cherry Karr examines those awkward years and moments of girl into woman before adulthood in 1960s and '70s America. There is more here that will resonate with more people. Despite very different backgrounds, we're all people reacting to the world around us and at some point we were all teenagers doing the best we could. Somehow we lived through those years, though not all of us. Although The Liars' Club (this a sort of sequel) may be a better book, here Karr was trying new techniques, new approaches, mixing things up. This story of female adolescence and young love gave her more room to cut loose. The second half of the book presents the dark and troubled side of drug use, which may have enabled her to drift through her East Texas ennui, but didn't do much good for a lot of her friends. Sowing wild oats can be tricky. Cherry lets Karr as an adult look back on her time as a child, with greater wisdom, knowledge, and rue. As a child she was prescient, having planned "to write ½ poetry and ½ autobiography." She (eventually) succeeded in doing both, and as a poet Karr captures emotion well, making it easy to relate to her youthful explorations of the world and the social structures built around her. What Bonjour Tristesse presented as fiction, Cherry gives us as fact. A friend notes the distinction between "a world created rather than a world described," and Karr's poetry is heavily autobiographical also. At one point she cites the poet Bill Knott, one of my own favorites. Mary Karr is the exception to my irrational aversion to memoir, perhaps because as a poet become memoirist she manages to blur the lines between the two.  [4★]

Because It Is by Kenneth Patchen (1960)

A collection of poems by the multimedia writer and dedicated pacifist, Kenneth Patchen (1911-1972).

Poetry Review: Because It Is is not the best place to start with Kenneth Patchen. It's not his best work, it's not really representative of his style, it's an odd collection even for him. The content is more like prose poems broken into lines, and more like an intoxicated Edward Lear spouting random gibberish in an amusing but nonsensical way. Others may think of James Joyce or Lewis Carroll. Puns, portmanteau words, silly juxtapositions. Absurdist. Dada. A lobster on a leash. And each poem is accompanied by one of Patchen's drawings, illustrating less or more some aspect of the piece, none like the Thurberesque dog portrayed on the cover. Each poem begins with "Because ..." and concludes with a more profound statement than anything that came before. For example, a poem might begin "Because she felt bashful with palm trees," or "Because a door in the hill opened," or "Because going nowhere takes a long time." A poem might include a line such as "pasting vile tasting labels on cans," or "Oh, flaming pig in a frockcoat," or "a supply of used burro stoppers." And a poem might conclude "There are days nobody gets break," or "Keeping her damn snapping turtles in my back-pocket," or "Our lives are watching us  -- but not from earth." No one can tell which beginning ended with which conclusion. The poems in Because It Is are fun and mildly if briefly entertaining, mostly for their sheer oddness. And occasionally there's a line that, all by itself, makes the reader stop and think, such as: "the several/Systems for preventing rain from falling upward," or "When we love,/God thinks in us," or "trying to dry water on a cold fire." Overall I most enjoyed the drawings. Although I like to believe that I'm a free thinker and know that poems can be most anything, in my heart of hearts I would call most of the poems here doggerel and amusements and not so much poetry. This sort of thing was not characteristic of Patchen's work, which could be infinitely touching and meaningful. I think he agrees with me because no poems from Because It Is were included in his Selected Poems (1957) or Collected Poems (1968); the latter was an awesome labor of love by all concerned. Although not his best or most representative work, it does abound in silliness and Because It Is is still another volume that sits on a shelf in the limitless archive of wrongly forgotten American poets.  [3½★]

Laura by Vera Caspary (1942)

A police detective investigating a murder falls in love with the victim.

Mystery Review: Laura is a well constructed murder mystery that has layers of cleverness, but everything rests on the characterization. Vera Caspary (1899-87) takes us inside the minds of the main characters and gives us vivid pictures of the others. The police detective is enough of a tough guy to serve as our hard-boiled detective, making this into a sort of noir. A 14-month stay in the hospital after being shot by a hood, however, has turned him into a reader and an autodidact. Our intrepid detective first describes the murdered woman as a "two-timing dame." But as he learns more about her he begins to be infatuated with the image of the dead woman, who soon becomes "not the sort of woman you call a dame." Caspary uses the waspish tongue of Waldo Lydecker, the newspaper crime columnist, as a source of both humor and spice for the book. He describes murder mysteries as "a barbaric need for violence and revenge in that timid horde known as the reading public." Lydecker was Laura's mentor and best friend. The murdered woman, Laura, is a successful advertising director. A career woman or a working girl as they may have been called then: "She had a man's job and a man's worries. Knitting wasn't one of her talents." Caspary paints a detailed portrait of the "modern" woman, strong, independent, and wanting an equal in her life. It's an important distinction that explains her character and relationships and lets Caspary share her opinions on working women in society at the time. An insecure, pretty boy gigolo, an acerbic aunt, and a too-loyal housekeeper, among others, fill out the well-rounded cast. Some significant foreshadowing that later becomes less subtly a clue is thrown in for good measure. Of minor interest was this character descriptions: "You could tell he was proud of displaying technical knowledge, like when he could explain to people about the rules of fencing or backgammon." Mansplaining anyone? Laura is a first class crime novel, with a little bit of everything for anyone. A must-read for any fan of the genre. Also a classic 1944 black and white film starring Gene Tierney. Although there are minor differences, either the film or the book will spoil the other for you.  [4½★]

No Room at the Morgue by Jean-Patrick Manchette (1973)

Private detective Eugène Tarpon is ready to give it up and go home to maman when all hell breaks loose.

Mystery Review: No Room at the Morgue is a wonderful title for this example of French noir looking back at its roots in Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade (who gets name-checked). It's a roller coaster ride with a side of blue movies, Sixties politics, and booze. Our hero, ex-cop Eugène Tarpon is tough when he needs to be, though he doesn't enjoy it, but not quite tough enough for some of his unpleasant encounters. He has a steady sense of humor that only begins to fray as the body count becomes overwhelming. There's a femme fatale, a naive client, lots of guns, and a tough but not unsympathetic cop. Excellent characterization throughout. Jean-Patrick Manchette manages to balance fun, noir, and sensitivity in No Room at the Morgue. The tough guy patter can be sharp: "It fit him like a glove fits a foot," or he "seemed about as nervous as a quart of milk." Other times it tries too hard (or the translation got off track): "I felt like I had egg on my face spying on him," or "Cut it out! Look at the results of your screwups!" No Room at the Morgue is as deeply set in Paris and environs as Raymond Chandler's novels were set in L.A. For those (like me) unfamiliar with France: the "milice" was a Vichy paramilitary group that fought against the French resistance during WWII; "pastis" is an anise flavored spirit, usually cut with water or ice (more often called Pernod in the States); and "cassoulet" is a stew. A "tarpon" is a large ocean fish. Although not quite up to his magnificent The Mad and the Bad or his powerful Nada, Manchette knows how to write a thrill ride; it's a quick read and always entertaining with all the requisite stereotypes for a down-at-the-heels private eye. He wrote one more novel with private detective Tarpon, which apparently hasn't yet been translated into English. Waiting.  [3½★]

Unnatural Death by Dorothy L. Sayers (1927)

Lord Peter stumbles into a mystery surrounding the suspicious death of an elderly woman on her death bed.

Mystery Review: Unnatural Death is the third installment in the Lord Peter Wimsey franchise and the best of the first five books. Less of the melodramatic and more of the clever mystery, evil villain, and perfectly satisfying conclusion. In the midst of creating a thrilling conundrum, Sayers has time to lament the limited opportunities for women and extol the wasted talents of mature women: "I should have liked a good education, but my dear father didn't believe in it for women." In Unnatural Death she also indicts British racism of the era, though the novel can be of its time despite all Sayers' best intentions. Enlightened views on women's sexuality are also included. Here Lord Peter's twitishness (there's a direct link to Bertie Wooster) has declined and is mostly employed to disarm the unwary. He still hasn't won me over but his employment of an older woman to act as his proxy and ferret out the relevant gossip in a small town is brilliant. Sayers' writing is always enjoyable and the social critic lurks steadily between the lines. Unnatural Death is a well-plotted, wide-ranging novel presented with a gentle tongue in cheek that's always on point. My edition included a "Biographical Note" of the Lord written by Peter's uncle at Ms. Sayers' request and an Afterword that ably serves as an appreciation of the author's fascinating life and career. Both contain spoilers but are informative and entertaining.  [5★]

Gone Fishin' by Walter Mosley (1997)

In 1939, Easy Rawlins and "Mouse" Alexander go on a road trip and we learn how the twig was bent. 

Mystery Review: Gone Fishin', apostrophe and all, is an oddity. Six books into the carefully chronological progression of the Easy Rawlins mystery series, Walter Mosley decided to write a prequel, a flashback. This is the origin story of Easy Rawlins and his best friend, stone cold killer Raymond "Mouse" Alexander at 19 years old. There's little mystery here. Mosley is setting a background for the rest of the Easy Rawlins novels while telling an uncommon and peculiar story of boys coming of age. "I've been counting my steps from that day to this one. From Louisiana to Texas; from childhood to being a man." Easy and Mouse form an abnormal bond over a trip to a Southern backwoods of voodoo, sex, and death. Some references in the previous five novels are explained, some of the details of Easy and Mouse's relationship are revealed. Although it can stand alone, I don't see this as interesting to many readers other than those following the series. Gone Fishin' is fine as far as it goes, interesting enough, but I had trouble hearing Easy's voice in this younger incarnation, eight years before the setting of the first book. I'm also unsure whether it was necessary; a little mystery can be a good thing.

Having read several novels by both Chester Himes and Walter Mosley, I've been tempted to compare them. It's easy to picture Himes as the forerunner of Mosley, but I don't think that's the case. Chester Himes (1909-84) had a successful series of eight novels featuring police detectives Coffin Ed and Gravedigger Jones from 1957 to 1969 (a ninth novel Plan B, popped up in 1993). Three were made into films. Originally written for the French noir market, Himes' stories, set in New York City, are much more plot and action oriented. We learn little about his detectives. They can disappear for large chunks of the books. Walter Mosley (b. 1952 -- still writing with a new novel arriving in 2021) puts Easy Rawlins in L.A. (and the South) and he's omnipresent in the novels, often battling the police and himself. The reader is constantly learning more about his thoughts, his history, his life, his place in society. Beyond being black mystery writers focusing on black characters, the two have little in common.

Perhaps not indispensable, but Gone Fishin' has enough substance to entertain. At the time Easy is illiterate: "I thought that if I could read I wouldn't have to hang around people ... to tell me stories. I could just read stories myself. And if I didn't like the stories I read then I could just change them." Mouse is the most conspicuous character in the Easy Rawlins series, dominating any page on which he appears. Here we get to see what he was before he became what he is.  [3★]

Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut (1973)

Science fiction writer Kilgore Trout goes to the Midland City Arts Festival and meets his creator.

Book Review: Breakfast of Champions shows us the author seeming to feel a thousand years old as he tries to explain the world to himself as much as to the reader. In this, his seventh novel, Kurt Vonnegut (1922-2007) seems to have surrendered, overwhelmed by a country intent on destroying everything of value. He may've been clinically depressed. It was 1973. Vonnegut puts himself in the book as a character and is sometimes surprised by what occurs: "I had come to the Arts Festival incognito. I was there to watch a confrontation between two human beings I had created ... I was not eager to be recognized." At times he writes the book as we read it. All very postmodern and meta. Vonnegut also includes pieces of his own life, such as a fear of insanity (his mother committed suicide). But what seems like the pinball plot we've come to expect from Vonnegut and resembles his typical satire, is actually a discussion of philosophy. He draws upon philosophies expressed in prior books such as Slaughterhouse Five (1969), Cat's Cradle (1963), and The Sirens of Titan (1959). In the examples provided by the tragicomic lives of the characters presented here, we see that there are no answers, no truth or beauty to be found. We want someone to "teach us to sing and dance and laugh and cry" while we exist "on money and sex and envy and real estate and football and basketball and automobiles and television and alcohol." But it's useless to look for reason in an unreasonable universe. The only way to exist is to accept that there are no magical answers, no miracles, no deus ex machina. But we're not machines without free will and we're not the playthings of some cosmic joker. This is the epiphany. This is the apple of knowledge that character Vonnegut gives to his character Kilgore Trout at the end of the book. The knowledge that our minds are free and that is all we have. Author Vonnegut has a character describe it as "the awareness of every animal ... the immaterial core ... the 'I am' ... it is all that is alive in any of us ... unwavering and pure ... one vertical, unwavering band of light ... our awareness is all that is alive and maybe sacred in any of us." Our self-awareness is free will, but to employ it requires giving up the illusions of childhood, taking off the blinders to reach an awareness of the deep flaws of society, the world, our lives. In Breakfast of Champions Vonnegut is reduced to laying out the evidence supporting this view as simply as possible, as in a child's primer on the ruin of society and the world. The story is helpfully self-illustrated to show us many things we think we already know. One drawing is of a rattlesnake. He then meticulously describes it and says: "Sometimes I wonder about the Creator of the Universe." Life has too many rattlesnakes. Vonnegut attempts to reintroduce us to our own lives (as of 1973) with blunt honesty. The reader may think this is the Vonnegut of the six previous novels, but he's made a turn here. Pretending this is just another Vonnegut novel, he presents what appear to be the usual humorous bits, but when considered they're pitiful, not funny. The book is drenched in sadness as he's trying to show us the hollow things we've become and the disaster we've arrived at (2020 would've killed him). As how he treats race and sex in Breakfast of Champions. Sex is made a matter of numbers and measurements. Creepy. At one point he sadly acknowledges his difficulty in writing female characters. Regarding race, he tries to depict honestly how race fits in American society and how bigoted Americans think. But by bluntly showing how race functions in society the book becomes ugly, harsh, and hard to stomach. Too real. Even today. "The Midland City Police Department ... [was] composed mainly of white men. They had racks and rack of sub-machine guns and twelve-gauge automatic shotguns for an open season on reindeer, which was bound to come." "Reindeer" being their code word for black people. It's easy to think of Breakfast of Champions as a pessimistic book. It is. The product of a specific person at a specific time in his life at a specific time in history. But there is also the glimmer of hope left in Pandora's box. In the Preface Vonnegut mentions the liberation of being "impolite ... about American history and famous heroes, about the distribution of wealth ... about everything." That message still resonates. He wants people to use their awareness for good. Vonnegut himself often goes back to the "lesson" he learned in Dresden, his moment of awareness from the fires that presented him with the truth as he knows it; a literal fire of truth. He writes: "At the core of each person who reads this book is a band of unwavering light." This is one of Vonnegut's important books although the read is deceptively quick and easy.  [4½★]

Farewell, My Lovely by Raymond Chandler (1940)

Marlowe searches for a missing showgirl and it's off to the races.

Mystery Review: Farewell, My Lovely begins with a large, meaty fist and gets rougher from there. Marlowe is back after a chance meeting with the memorable and aptly named Moose Malloy, who is "not more than six feet five inches tall and not wider than a beer truck" and looking for his girlfriend. The husky Malloy doesn't get enough page time, but when he does appear the story jumps. Along the way Marlowe is beaten, drugged, and generally gets pummeled on a regular basis. A man he's protecting is killed, he loses his client's $8,000, and ends up locked in in an asylum. He's no superman, soon bordering on a nervous breakdown. But his failure makes him determined to do right by his dead client. We have pot, a psychic, gangsters, stolen jade, and more police corruption that you can shake a stick at (much of the story is set in corrupt and crime-ridden "Bay City," a thinly disguised Santa Monica). Through dogged (often foolhardy) persistence Marlowe figures it out. Have to admit, I should've seen the solution sooner, but I really didn't. Farewell, My Lovely doesn't have the (obvious) linear perfection of his first case, The Big Sleep, but is equally enjoyable as we get to know Marlowe better (he even understands the subjunctive tense). His snappy patter is sharper ("a blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window") and the observation is hard-boiled ("She gave me a smile I could feel in my hip pocket"). Marlowe nicknames a cop "Hemingway" because he "keeps saying the same thing over and over until you begin to believe it must me good." Meow! Have to mention that political correctness is not a thing here and the story shares the casual racism and bigotry of the day (especially as this was shortly before the Second World War). A side note: by 1940 the word "okay" hadn't achieved a standardized spelling, as here it's spelled "okey." Must've still been quite slangy. "Moral Rearmament" is also alluded to, a concept popular at the time but unknown to me. Farewell, My Lovely fulfills the promise of the first book and hints at more good things to come. Also filmed in 1944 as Murder, My Sweet with Dick Powell (the original title sounding too much like a romance).  [5★]

The Talented Mr. Ripley by Patricia Highsmith (1955)

A young American travels to Italy to persuade an acquaintance to return to his family; he fails.

Mystery Review: The Talented Mr.  Ripley is the work of an expert of the grotesque, dropping us deep into the mind of a sociopath and suggesting that it's not all that different from the existentialist nightmare. It's an uncomfortable place to be, and can become exhausting for the reader as the "protagonist" repeatedly and narrowly evades the forces pursuing him. I couldn't keep track of what lies he had told to whom and when. Began to be overwhelming as the reader waits for Ripley to slip up. The reader understands Ripley's sexual confusion better than he does, but Patricia Highsmith (1921-95) doesn't overtly conflate it with his sociopathy. Rather, she creates a profound character unable to accept himself, trying to change his "dreary role" of "being nobody ... looked down on ... incompetent and incapable." To escape his boring identity by becoming another person: "If you wanted to be cheerful, or melancholic, or wistful, or thoughtful, or courteous, you simply had to act those things with every gesture." At one point he even forgets the sound of his own voice. Ripley is happiest when acting a role, becoming another, the person he feels he was meant to be. The one limitation of The Talented Mr. Ripley is that it becomes a one-trick-pony. The bulk of the book is watching as Ripley frets, panics, schemes, and puzzles about what will happen. The reader wonders how long Highsmith can play that one note, but she does it so well! The author here sees the moral construct through a divergent lens: she's determined that the one outside the law is the hero, that wrong will win over right. Ripley is a classic and interesting character. "Something always turned up. That was Tom's philosophy." The Talented Mr. Ripley is the first in a five-book series about Ripley (the "Ripliad"). Although this was an effective and affecting experience, I'll take my time in reading the others.  [4★]

Dread Journey by Dorothy B. Hughes (1945)

A Hollywood actress believes she'll be killed during a train trip across the country.

Mystery Review:  Dread Journey is as much a thriller as a mystery and so suspenseful I had to keep putting the book down when I got too nervous. A group of eight women and men, most with Hollywood ties, one who may be a murderer, travel across America by train as their lives grow entangled. Eight flawed characters become three-dimensional human beings who the reader cares for despite their flaws. Dread Journey is told from multiple viewpoints, multiple minds with all their thoughts, doubts, fears, and torments. Natures and motivations come into multiple conflicts. Maybe my emotions were overstimulated and I read too much into it, but the story raised questions in my mind about the kind of war America had just fought, the validity of the death penalty, and just how wrong and evil is murder. Most mysteries don't make that point. The victim's often a stranger the reader hasn't engaged with much, who after all is reading about murder for entertainment. Dorothy Hughes (1904-93) also makes overt and perceptive statements about race and class in America: "a man's pigmentation did not make him a mean creature. That all men were human and as such differed one from another; and as such were the same, one to another." All in a well-written ("But a whisper could be as perilous as a scream"), hard-boiled slice of someone else's life. As an aside, did Hughes write about Harvey Weinstein in 1945? Unlikely, he wasn't born yet. Which shows that he isn't a just a person but a label for a breed of predator that has existed for a long time. Which may be why this profound but cinematic mystery was never made into a movie. Hollywood comes off poorly. Dread Journey was impressive, much better than any mystery published in 1945 has any right to be. Powerful, intense, and indelible.  [5★]

Strong Poison by Dorothy L. Sayers (1930)

Mystery writer Harriet Vane is accused of poisoning her "fiancé"; can Lord Peter save her from the noose?

Mystery Review: Strong Poison is the fifth Lord Peter Wimsey novel, but more importantly it's the book that launched the author's alter ego, Harriet Vane. Female mystery authors with male detectives find a certain freedom when they turn to a female lead, e.g., P. D. James when she introduced Cordelia Gray in An Unsuitable Job for a Woman (1972), after having first established Chief Superintendent Adam Dalgliesh as her detective. Here Dorothy Sayers (1893-1957) does the same in my favorite and the best of the first six LPW books. This had a little bit of everything all rolled into one. A solid mystery that I accidentally solved early but only because of latter day stories. At the time I think it would've been brilliant. Lord Peter is still a little too silly for me, but at least there were moments when the facade cracked. The rest of the characters, headed by Bunter, were irresistible. Wimsey's version of the Baker Street Irregulars is a business he supports that provides employment for redundant, discarded, and unplaced women. Two of the team get major page time in Strong Poison, with Miss Murchison learning to pick locks from an ex-safecracker (who's since found religion) and Miss Climpson conducting a rigged séance. What's more fun than that? Their efforts actually accomplish most of the crime-solving. Sayers' creativity entertains and educates. Finally, there's a burgeoning romance and I'm always a sucker for the right love story. There's little more romantic than falling in love with someone accused of murder (poisoning no less -- "what's for dinner darling?") and an awkwardly premature but sincere marriage proposal in a prison. Admittedly, Harriet Vane doesn't get many pages here, but what there is gives solidity to the book and augurs well for the future. Beyond the mystery, Sayers gives the reader a hefty dose of the life and times, English society in the Twenties. Between discussions of free love, Bohemian parties, and the exposé of women's actual place on the social and business ladder this book must've been well ahead of the curve. Sayers worked in an advertising agency and knew whereof she wrote. At this point I plan to read the other three novels in which Harriet Vane features, and perhaps follow up on the three remaining LPW books at another time. Strong Poison is a quick, enjoyable, and challenging read; everything I want in a mystery.  [5★]

God Help the Child by Toni Morrison (2015)

An unusual young woman finds her way back through childhood. 

Book Review: God Help the Child is the final novel by the last U.S. novelist to earn the Nobel Prize, Toni Morrison (1931-2019). What an amazing journey Morrison takes us on. Over 45 years, eleven novels, a thousand magic moments. From eleven-year-old Pecola Breedlove in The Bluest Eye (1970) to corporate exec Lula Ann Bridewell here, full circle, stories of childhood and color. As with her recent novels, Morrison no longer beats us over the head with her brilliance, demanding that we, everyone, recognize her genius. Now she works more through suggestion, subtlety, half the story is between the lines. And yet in God Help the Child, as with her previous work Home (2012), she still imbues these smaller, quieter novels with instances of horror. Perhaps some academic will, or has, written about the use of terrorizing events in the work of Toni Morrison.

Her novels divide into three eras. The first five (from The Bluest Eye to Beloved (1987) are brilliant, dazzling, shattering, the kind of work a Nobel Prize is built on. In the middle we Find Jazz (1992), one of my favorites, which began her move to simpler, more straightforward work, but not yet as plain and unadorned as she was to achieve. Paradise (1997), despite rubbing shoulders with Faulkner and García Márquez, is my least favorite of her books, one I just never got on with. I'd suggest it was an experiment in a direction that she chose for whatever reason (it was her first novel published after receiving the Nobel) not to revisit. Then the last four (Love (2003), A Mercy (2008), Home, and this) are achingly simple, honest, direct, told straight, but with all the genius of the earlier books. Readers shouldn't overlook this quartet because they're quieter, subtler, "smaller." Morrison had learned to put across what she had to say without the blazing display of the early books. She had nothing left to prove and could write for herself, short and sharp, without the flash. She'd moved past her magnificent technique (she knew how to write a novel) to rely more on voice. They suggest and evoke more than tell -- the reader needs to go deeper. The last novels are just as strong even without the luminous gifts she used to shower over the pages (it seemed) so easily. She'd dropped the electric guitar to pick up an acoustic, and her song was all the clearer for that.

In God Help the Child every child has been damaged by adults. All the characters (except Booker who seems almost magically perfect) are, as all humans are, flawed and imperfect. None are completely likable. In a way this seems like Morrison's version of authors such as Marian Keyes or Jennifer Weiner, stories involving a young woman striving for love and success. At the same time she slipped loose of Márquez and Faulkner to be purely herself. She has one character investigate history and conclude that "most of the real answers concerning slavery, lynching, forced labor, sharecropping, racism ... were all about money. Money withheld, money stolen, money as power, as war." The same character reads some of what I guess are Morrison's chosen books: Eco, Remembering Slavery, Twain, Douglass, Melville, Dickens, Benjamin. She mentions a number of authors within. That said, much of the book was uneven: moments didn't ring true, seemed awkward, stretched, trying too hard. But at the end she won me over. She's Toni Morrison after all. A heart as big as all outdoors. This was her first contemporary novel. A little magical realism, a little of today, a little like nobody else. God Help the Child could have been titled Love, A Mercy, or Home, as in all four books she addresses the fundamental elements of humanity.  [3★]

Home by Toni Morrison (2011)

A Korean War vet travels across 1950s America to reach his sister in need.

Book Review: Home is Toni Morrison's penultimate novel, the story of an Odyssey across the breadth of the United States. Soldier Frank Money leaves behind a war in Korea, but carries with him the damage he suffered there. After serving he returns to his own country to travel through a different kind of war. He receives word that his beloved younger sister needs help and the journey home is long and difficult. A struggle through obstacles and obstructions built of segregation, bigotry, and hate. Along the way there are good and bad people, those that help and those that hurt. Writing in the restrained, but powerful voice she adopted in Love (2003), Morrison tells a story of pain, horror, of hell as here and home. But from the litany of torment, the heart of Home encompasses Morrison's message that we're in this together. As she argued in Paradise (1997), perfection can't be reached by exclusion. We're all trying to make a home so it must be a home for all. We need to share equally in the community, we're all more alike than we are different. If anyone should be excluded, it's haters, bigots, and those so full of anger they can't live with others. Or more Biblically, those who can't love their neighbor, all their neighbors. As Morrison once said, "None of us is alone; each of us is dependent on others." Even if we really want to, we can't go it alone. In Home, Toni Morrison's simple and softer writing makes this theme even more powerful, There's no distracting from her message with gaudy writing. A smaller book on the outside, less famous and uncommon, but her themes and meaning are as large as ever.  [4★]

Nada by Jean-Patrick Manchette (1972)

A motley crew of political revolutionaries in Paris decide to kidnap the American ambassador.

Mystery Review: Nada is told at times almost like a police report. A stripped down, hard-boiled means of description that may at times evolve into something like familiar novelistic exposition, and only periodically touch the level of human emotions. More caper story or thriller than mystery. Although the conspirators are Marxists, anarchists, nihilists, communists, or just lost or confused alcoholics, this isn't primarily a political novel. Instead it addresses the aftermath of the rage of the Sixties when society hit a dead end, burned out, without direction. When it wasn't clear that politics meant anything any more. In the midst of the cold description, the hopeless eyes, the dead dreams, the moments of humanity that Jean-Patrick Manchette (1942-95) gives us become all that more precious. Rather than politics, he shares moments of philosophy, psychology, sociology. In Nada Manchette was trying to write a modern, maybe peculiarly French version of noir. His characters are uniquely his own. A moll brags: "My cool and chic exterior hides the wild flames of a burning hatred for ... techno-bureaucratic-capitalism," but she believes in "universal harmony." Each of the conspirators have their own origin story, and together they're emblematic of the debris of society: "Modern history created us, which only shows that civilization is on the eve of destruction." Manchette, or at least his characters, seems to think society was in the midst of an upheaval rivaling that which existed after the First World War. The government, the media, and desperation drive the story. Evil is on both sides. Nada isn't short on violence or gore, but is a thoughtful thrill ride that can be pure entertainment, or give the reader pause to reflect on the humanity around us.  [4★]

A Little Yellow Dog by Walter Mosley (1996)

Easy Rawlins has a steady job with the school district, but it won't stay quiet long.

Mystery Review: A Little Yellow Dog is the fifth installment in the always reliable Easy Rawlins franchise, and reveals some big changes in his life. It's 1963, he has a straight job as a school custodian, has started dressing better ("I'd had enough years of shabby jeans and work shirts"), is on the wagon, and is living with his motherless children in West Los Angeles. The story starts racy, gets serious, and the tangles begin. A complicated plot is enriched by complex characters and Easy causes half of his problems himself. Beyond always being readable and handy on the bus, at the beach, or to fill a few hours, this series of mystery novels is enriched by its socially redeeming value. In each of the Easy Rawlins novels Walter Mosley explicitly and bluntly details the fraught relationship between African Americans and the police, clearly showing that citizens have reason to be worried in such interactions. In A Little Yellow Dog Mosley notes that "innocence was a term for white people." This is just one part of the larger picture presented in the series. Beginning in 1948, the novels are the story of a black man living in L.A., but in a sense they're also a history of race in post-War America. African Americans are always aware that they're black, in the same sense that white people don't always have to think about being white. Mosley gives us an array of characters showing what daily life was like for African Americans in those times. As when a trumpet player's music is "cheered ... for remembering the pain of police sticks and low pay and no face in the mirror of the times." The events of the time, presidential assassinations, play in the background. Easy Rawlins fits neatly into the lineage of L.A. detectives begun by Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe and followed by Ross MacDonald's Lew Archer. That's excellent company and with A Little Yellow Dog Walter Mosley pulls it off again.  [3½★]

The Bamboo Blonde by Dorothy B. Hughes (1941)

While on her honeymoon, a recently remarried (to her first husband) Hollywood costume designer gets mixed up with spies.

Mystery Review: The Bamboo Blonde is one of the many books that would be twice as good if it was half as long. A sort of sequel to The So Blue Marble, but where that was good, old fashioned entertainment, this was too slow and quiet to be anything better than average. Too much detail, conversation, and fretful ruminating drains tension and suspense from a novel that counts on such qualities. Each periodic murder somehow seems anti-climactic instead of astonishing. A lengthy expository (and patriotic) wrap-up doesn't help. Dorothy B. Hughes (1904-93) has retained the hard-boiled gestalt and the "always braver than she thinks she is" lead character, but a spy story should keep the reader on the edge of her seat, not plodding along mildly amused. I enjoyed the return of our protagonist, Griselda Satterlee. All her efforts to begin her honeymoon are for nothing: "It isn't fair that the delusions of grandeur of one small Austrian should have spoiled the whole world for us." I appreciate how Griselda plans her outfits like she's going into battle and her constant inner voice had its moments (especially the Saharan sense of humor: in Hollywood "A costume designer isn't much more important than a writer"). But The Bamboo Blonde isn't as good as its title. There's occasional historical interest here as the story is set in the year before Pearl Harbor and it's intriguing to see the attitudes of Americans not knowing that WWII was imminent. The East "no longer of cherry blossoms and delicate things, land of drawn sabers and crashing bombs." A minor note, apparently the word "okay" hadn't yet achieved a standardized form in 1941, as it's spelled "oke" here. Even though The Bamboo Blonde seems to have slipped through a much-needed editing process unscathed, Hughes can write. In 1930 she won the prestigious Yale Series of Younger Poets Prize for a first book of poetry. This isn't the book that realized that promise, however. Unless you're a Hughes completist (like me), The Bamboo Blonde is one you can skip without developing a guilt complex. Not so bad, just not overly good. She has better that you can look for such as Ride the Pink Horse (1946) and In a Lonely Place (1947), both of which were made into films.  [3★]

Death in Her Hands by Ottessa Moshfegh (2020)

An elderly woman finds a mysterious note in the woods, causing her mind to spiral wildly.

Book Review: Death in Her Hands was my most eagerly anticipated novel of the last two years and the biggest disappointment. I thought her new book would demonstrate that Ottessa Moshfegh was the writer of our time, but it didn't and it isn't a new book. Death in Her Hands was written in 2015 as therapy for the grief she felt ("it was almost like someone had died") when she finished her excellent story collection, Homesick for Another World. So she wrote a thousand words a day until she'd "reached the conclusion of something." She put it away in a drawer, rediscovering it years later. I was hoping for a great leap forward from her first four brilliant books: McGlue (2014) was an unlikely historical sea chantey of a tale and a bizarre tour de force of a novella; Eileen (2015) was an amazing first novel and character study (a Holden Caulfield for our time) that promised Moshfegh would own the world as soon as she got her overabundant skills in order; Homesick for Another World (2017) contained all the experimentation, detours, and pinball bursts of twisted, odd ideas that a short story collection is supposed to embody; and My Year of Rest and Relaxation (2018) was just short of perfect, every page luminous. I believed she was the next great writer of our time. Really. Maybe not a Toni Morrison, but a Pynchon or a Wallace. Let's take Death in Her Hands for what it is. It's a quick read that pulls you along for an expected payoff that may not be all it would or could or should be (I seem to remember feeling somewhat the same at the end of Eileen). It seems so much not of our times, pointless, mostly a self-indulgent writing experiment. An adventure by Moshfegh into "pantsing," her own form of automatic writing. Moshfegh says that she wrote "without a plan" and never revised or looked back till finished. But as one does when writing without a plan, one creates page after page wandering around looking for a plan. A book in search of a story, which the reader dutifully follows along like a ... dog (one of the main characters here is a dog. At one point the protagonist makes the dog "Eat the lentils or go to bed hungry." I related.). Another book about an isolated, unsettled woman. Moshfegh calls it a "meta-murder-mystery" and yes it sort of is as we get to see Vesta, the narrator, construct her own story much as an author might write a book. Yes, Moshfegh has her character imagine the story that Moshfegh is writing: "The note could have been the beginning of a story tossed out as a false start, a bad opening." Very meta. The main character is an older woman, but she doesn't ring true: "I was a little old lady." And there is no mystery. There has to be something there. Reminded me of The Little Friend by Donna Tartt, which was incredibly well-written, promised so much, and delivered so little. Moshfegh has a history of always being her own person: "All the work I do is a performance." The libraries being closed, she has my money and I have this. As she says, "I wrote it for myself." I'll wait for the next one.  [2½★]

The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler (1939)

Private detective Philip Marlowe begins his day fixing a case of blackmail and ends up wading through the dangers created by his dying client's troublesome daughters.

Mystery Review: The Big Sleep is not only the first Philip Marlowe novel, but opens with my favorite first paragraph in all of fiction: "I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn't care who knew it."  Raymond Chandler (1888-1959) writes with breezy confidence and a quick wit, color and detail are presented in sharp relief. We meet L.A. private detective Philip Marlowe who's 33 years old, cynical, honest, a chess player, probably alcoholic, "went to college once," and is just tough enough to deal with most of whatever comes along. It's possible he sees himself as "a knight in dark armor rescuing a lady." The classic, hard-boiled detective, even if Dashiell Hammett led the way (he'd published all five of his novels by the time The Big Sleep was written). Marlowe meets the wealthy Sternwood family and the plot moves at break-neck speed, unpredictable and complicated. One murder is never solved. Much of the plot is advanced through conversation, in which Marlowe meets corrupt cops, honest crooks, and everyone in between. He encounters pornography, drugs, gambling, and two murders committed by vengeful lovers. Surrounded by corruption he can't be bought. "To hell with the rich. They made me sick." There's constant suspense and sharp dialogue. Whenever the story drags, a man comes through a door with a gun. But the plot is secondary to well-drawn characters, moody cityscapes, and vivid descriptions. This is the book when the detective became more important than the story. This is an L.A. story and Marlowe knows the city like the back of his hand. Chandler didn't know it but he was writing mysteries for those who enjoy literary fiction. I'll just note that there are a few moments of homophobia, which the reader may expect from the times. The Big Sleep is enjoyable all the way through, although at times it was hard to separate it from the classic black and white film with Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart.  [5★]

Nightwood by Djuna Barnes (1936)

Love among American ex-pats in Paris during the Twenties.

Classics Review: Nightwood is a long lament for a lost love. A love triangle leads to suffering (as they do) for all concerned. Nora was in love with Robin who left her for (that cow) Jenny and now they've gone off to America: "Robin was an amputation that Nora could not renounce." Commentary on everyone and everything is provided in lengthy Joycean monologues by Dr. Matthew-Mighty-grain-of-salt-Dante-O'Connor, who is not a doctor but is both man and woman. Although the story is set in Paris in the Twenties, everyone is miserable, grotesque, and hopeless, at least as seen through this cry of anguish from the grieving, in denial, and so very sad Nora (which was also Joyce's wife's name): "In death Robin would belong to her." This tragedy, however, is cloaked in the guise of a sometimes impenetrable, modernist tour de force worthy of Woolf or Joyce. It's not plot or logic driven; the plot could be condensed to about 45 pages or so. Mostly Nightwood is a book to dive into and try to stay afloat. Let it operate on a less conscious or rational level. Fortunately it's a short book which makes this possible. I'm not sure it would be a feasible reading experience if this book went on for 500 pages. The novel generally and the monologues of the Doctor particularly contain ornate, rococo-meets-Gothic language that reminded me of the enameled prose of Anaïs Nin. Also that of Joyce, Woolf, Beckett, and Tom Stoppard in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. Notable company. Fans of Nightwood include William Burroughs, Dylan Thomas, and of course T.S. Eliot (who wrote the Introduction for this edition). Although hailed as an early masterpiece of lesbian literature, it makes the life of lesbians sound miserable and desperate, although no characters in the book have a good time of it. In Barnes' view human existence is suffering. Or perhaps her experience was none too happy; in later years she adamantly refused to be labeled a lesbian. The story centers on Robin, of whom we learn little (we never get her point of view), the lover of a number of  women and men. The reader never learns why she is so irresistible, only that she seems a blank slate on which various characters project themselves. "She always lets her pets die. She is so fond of them, and then she neglects them, the way that animals neglect themselves." On the other hand, there's the peripheral character of the Doctor who serves as the Greek chorus and of whom we know too much. Periodically he gives out with both humor and wisdom: "The only people who really know anything about medical science are the nurses, and they never tell; they'd get slapped if they did." The reader is inundated with his point of view which gives Barnes the opportunity to spread her Joycean wings. An odd, one of a kind novel, a tragedy of obsession, and really the whole of her reputation. At one point Barnes, in the voice of the Doctor states what is at the center of Nightwood: "You are always writing to Robin. Nothing will curb it. You've made her a legend." Later the Doctor says, "So love, when it has gone, taking time with it, leaves a memory of its weight." Nora replies, "She is myself. What am I to do?"  [4★]

Djuna: The Life and Work of Djuna Barnes by Philip Herring (1995)

A biography of the eccentric author of Nightwood.

Nonfiction Review: Djuna: The Life and Work of Djuna Barnes is disjointed and inconsistent, as is its subject. A decidedly unconventional and unenviable childhood led to an equally eccentric life. Djuna Barnes (1892-1982) could've given Tara Westover a run for her money and written the Educated of her day. Her life reads like, and became, a novel. Although prolific for a short period, today she's really known for one book, Nightwood, her novel about love in Paris during the Twenties. Despite a prickly personality she had many famous friends including James Joyce, T.S. Eliot, Peggy Guggenheim, and Dag Hammarskjöld. Joyce gave Barnes the proof sheets of Ulysses, specially bound. Later she had famous fans such as Carson McCullers, Anäis Nin, Malcolm Lowry. She was an integral member of the American ex-pats in Paris, and from a single novel she created a lasting if cultish reputation. Djuna provided me a wealth of valuable information about the writer, her most famous work, and her acquaintances. I learned of a difficult childhood, an idiosyncratic personality, and the immensely autobiographical nature of Nightwood. Although that book is considered a landmark of gay literature, Barnes adamantly denied that she was a lesbian. I gained many insights, but at the end I was left with the feeling that this biography didn't really do her justice. There seemed to be gaps, the chronology was wonky, and there was just too much extraneous information. There are two primary pitfalls which biographers may encounter. One is the idea that the biographer is as important as the subject and so end up writing as much about themselves as who they're writing about. That's memoir, not biography. Get over your self-centered self. The biographer should be invisible except in the most necessary instances. The second is that after having done massive research for the book some biographers feel obligated to put all that hard work on the page, every bit of it, no matter how irrelevant, inconsequential, or insipid. Philip Herring misses the first trap, but falls resoundingly into the latter. There's too much pointless detail that adds nothing to the life of Djuna Barnes and simply distracts from the story we want to read. Too many pages devoted to events which and people who had only the most tangential connection to Barnes. Why detract from a life that stands on its own. Djuna could've been short, focused, and powerful, and would've been all the better for that. This is a good introduction, but somehow I suspect we're still waiting for the definitive biography of Djuna Barnes.  [3★]

Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier (1938)

A young woman meets a wealthy older man with a magnificent home and a mysterious past.

Classics Review: Rebecca is a modern fairy tale, a variation of the story of an orphaned farm girl ("poor nameless wife"), a dashing prince, and a ghost. Daphne du Maurier (1907-89) wrote many novels but this is the one that made her name and for which she's remembered. Foreshadowed in the famous first line, the great house Manderley is the center of the story, as if poor nameless wife was venturing into a labyrinth, into the Beast's castle, into darkness. As in the best fairy tales, the story mixes romance, mystery, and self discovery. Beautifully told, Rebecca is perfect in tone and construction in the same way as The Remains of the Day. One can quibble about plot points and characters, but it's perfect in the telling. Captured, the reader is drawn into and becomes part of the story. One may grow impatient with poor nameless wife's insecurity, but that flaw is understood and recognized. We identify with her naive and unworldly vision at twenty-one. Trapped by her virtual wicked stepmother, we learn she has a "lovely and unusual name" and then is magically swept off by a man twice her age to become a de Winter, "of winter." As we live in her mind we see through her eyes, her jealousy, and her wild, untamable imagination (a latter-day Catherine Morland). Her transformation is told in language that's at times archaic, but is also rich, descriptive, vivid: "There were petals at my feet too, brown and sodden, bearing their scent upon them still, and a richer, older scent as well, the smell of deep moss and bitter earth, the stems of bracken, and the twisted roots of trees." Also a 1940 black and white film with Joan Fontaine, Laurence Olivier, and directed by Alfred Hitchcock, which crept into my mind while reading. A Gothic novel, a relative of Jane Eyre (1847), Rebecca is as much experience and atmosphere as story. I never want to be too cynical to enjoy this book.  [5★]