A View of the Harbour by Elizabeth Taylor (1947)

A seaside town recedes into the past as the residents try to find their way through the emotional debris to construct their lives.

Book Review: A View of the Harbour is a book of which the reader may say: nothing happens, there's no plot, there's simply description. I've dismissed such books as over my head, too elusive, just not for me. But I sat back and read A View of the Harbour as if viewing an impressionist painting, just to appreciate the descriptions and absorb the emotions. The story is bits and pieces put together, in a way that's not quite clear, not sharply delineated, but consists of a few events, the feelings of the characters, the shaded emotions, small moments created, so the reader can let the scenes accumulate, accrete, gather together to form a blurred whole. It's quiet, subtle, thoughtful. There is little plot. The movement, the action, occurs in the thoughts, worries, emotions of the characters. Their feelings carry and propel the story, always musing, reflecting, considering. There's a whole lot of fretting going on. In the discussion of "likable" and "unlikable" characters, Taylor's are always both. Each character contains something appealing and something disagreeable or objectionable, just like most people. My favorite character was a precocious and incisive small girl, Stevie, who was also an enormous brat. In A View of the Harbour the Second World War is over and life is worse than before. Now there are all the lonely women, with the men distant, apparently okay, more easily satisfied. But the women are yearning, seeking, desperate. The story reminded me of Patrick Hamilton's The Slaves of Solitude published the same year, also in the aftermath of the War. I took awhile getting into the novel, to get a fix on the many characters, get a sense of all that was going on, but when I did suddenly everything became richer and rewarding. Elizabeth Taylor (1912-75) sees the sharp edges of human observation and interaction, how we all skirt around the edges of other people, and how we pass judgment on each other. She can write gorgeous sentences forever, as when she writes of "the pigeon-coloured evening." Aging characters are "not in any safe harbour, but thrust out to sea with none of the brave equipment of youth to buoy them up." Taylor jumps deep inside people's heads to capture the tragedy and comedy of life, while content to let the plot run behind trying to catch up.  [4★]

Trent's Last Case by E.C. Bentley (1913)

A financial mogul is murdered and artist-reporter Trent is on his first case.

Mystery Review: Trent's Last Case is actually the first case for Philip Trent, famous artist, journalist, and amateur solver of crime problems. For those who felt Sherlock Holmes was too affected, arrogant, or simply annoying, Trent was an antidote. More human and fallible, someone who enjoys a good meal and a glass of wine even as he brilliantly proposes the wrong solution and falls madly in love with the chief suspect -- he's certainly no Holmes. Trent relies on fingerprints, footprints, and examines crime scenes with a painter's gimlet eye. The story and tone veer wildly, however, as if Bentley was trying to figure out what kind of story he wanted to write even as he was writing it. Trent's Last Case has a healthy dose of romance, interesting comparisons of Britons and Americans, and piles twist on twist in a messy ending. The original title was The Woman in Black (suggesting an entirely different focus) for the first edition, but has been Trent's Last Case ever since. Even though titled the "last case" it was followed by two more outings for Trent decades later in another novel and a short story collection. Intended by its author as "not so much a detective story as an exposure of detective stories." Perhaps it was a mild satire, but has been accepted as a classic in the genre, and a precursor of the Golden Age of mystery novels, offering an alternative to the more Holmesian (and more or less obnoxious) detectives that sprang up later like Poirot (1920), Wimsey (1923), Vance (1926), and Queen (1929). In intending to gently mock the genre in Trent's Last Case, Bentley in fact modernized and liberated the style with his more human detective. The novel is a little of its time in terminology, unfortunately.  [3½★]

The Wintringham Mystery by Anthony Berkeley (1927)

A guest disappears at a weekend country house party; what the ... ?

Mystery Review: The Wintringham Mystery centers on the disappearance of a guest at a country house party. Our amateur sleuth moves careers quickly from former soldier of independent means to footman to weekend guest of rich but exceedingly kind old lady (acting as fairy godmother) who happens to have known said sleuth's mother -- whenever obstacles arise the deus ex machina quickly descends. Handy coincidences abound in addition to priest holes and secret passages in this English country house, closed-circle mystery reminiscent of Agatha Christie (including some thinly veiled anti-Semitism, also à la Agatha). The story isn't stunning but The Wintringham Mystery is determinedly entertaining with some interesting "time machine" moments from 1927: a beautiful young woman proposes to the sleuth, shocking given the time -- those Roaring Twenties! In most novels of earlier times the servants aren't even granted a name, but here the reader gets a front row seat to the burdens and working conditions of the servant class when our penniless hero needs a job and becomes a footman (had no idea what that was till I read this). The Wintringham Mystery is a delightful mix of mystery and romance, almost a cozy. The one death occurs off stage. A compelling page turner until the end, which is somewhat anti-climactic and probably unguessable. I did get bits and pieces and the sleuth (wrongly) proposed my theory at one point, so it was obviously a red herring. Entertaining nonetheless and I look forward to tracking down more of the underappreciated Berkeley's mysteries. Originally titled Cicely Disappears under the pseudonym A. Monmouth Platts.  [4★]

"The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas" by Ursula K. Le Guin (1973)

A parable of society today, asking whether we're content to let many people suffer so we can enjoy our modern lives. 

Short Story Review: "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas" has become a celebrated short story and ethics 101 exercise, even appearing in The Penguin Book of the Modern American Short Story (2021). At once both one of the most misunderstood and least subtle stories ever written, as we learn that no one walks away from Omelas despite our best intentions. The story echoes sentiments from Dostoyevsky and Henry James and is similar in theme to the Friedrich Dürrenmatt play, Der Besuch der alten Dame (1956). Very much and deliberately an allegory, seemingly a repositioning of Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery" (1948). But where that piece drew the reader into depths of literary and intellectual ambiguity, "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas" aims aslant, satisfied to be as obvious and pointed as a high school newspaper. Most simply, the piece is an inquiry into whether it's acceptable for the many to benefit from the suffering of the few, or even the one. In our time that question has been definitively resolved with a resounding: "Yes, it is." The story is easily extrapolated to address income and social inequality, that the wealth of the few depends on the exploitation of the masses. More broadly, that the greed of many is paid for by many more -- here presented as the population of Omelas benefiting from the suffering of one. The secret is we're all living in Omelas and we're not the one. "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas" is a product of its time. Le Guin wrote the story amidst the counterculture and hippies, Woodstock and communes, when some people tried to drop out and live outside the prevailing norms. We still see pale reflections of that today, perhaps the Occupy movement, or when people live within the dominant culture, but attempt to mitigate their footprint through fair trade, recycling, carbon free, electric vehicles, solar panels, products that benefit former prisoners. But Le Guin was thinking of something more extreme. Those walking away would not have a cell phone or wear fast fashion. They would make their own clothes and live outside the dominant paradigm. Musician Richard Thompson recently wrote of his friends in the late Sixties who were "more about escaping society than confronting it head-on ... dropped out ... sought alternative lifestyles, lived in hippie communes ... carved out a life selling food or leather goods ... and broadly rejected the path of normality." In this story Le Guin wouldn't have us accept the compromises that we make to live with our consciences. Obviously this is a political story, but can we balance the message and the medium. Does the quality of a work of literature addressing an important issue rest more on the art or the issue. With Fahrenheit 451, which I think clunkily written, I leaned more toward the importance of the message. With "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas," which I also consider clunkily written, I lean more toward the lack of art presented here, especially as the author is capable of creating whole civilizations with numerous layers of social nuance. Here she leaves much unexamined with "I don't know" and "I can't explain." Just an observation of the times. On the other hand, the story has the power to raise valuable questions and create meaningful discussion. But Le Guin didn't intend readers to get a cheap and easy "feel good" moment accompanied by dramatic virtue signaling when they brag: "I would walk away." Because we're all continuing to live here in Omelas, consuming the products of slave and exploited labor, and none of us are walking away. She knew we all make that child suffer.  [4★]

The Poisoned Chocolates Case by Anthony Berkeley (1929)

Six amateur detectives attempt to solve a notorious recent murder case that has Scotland Yard at a dead end.

Mystery Review: The Poisoned Chocolates Case once again demonstrates that Anthony Berkeley (1893-1971) is a too little known and appreciated member of the Golden Age of mystery writing. Each of his books is  uniquely interesting and determinedly different, and all are written with a light touch of humor. The Poisoned Chocolates Case is the epitome of a "puzzle" mystery story, intricately and persuasively worked out and presented. Here Berkeley introduces the six members of the "Crimes Circle" group, each of whom try to solve a notorious contemporary murder involving the poisoning of a wealthy women that has stumped Scotland Yard. The Crimes Circle was paralleled in real life by "The Detection Club" with Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers as well as Berkeley. Adding to the puzzle are the six "detectives" testing their theories, each with a different focus, solved in a different way, each identifying a different suspect. The Poisoned Chocolates Case features two of Berkeley's series detectives, polar opposites Ambrose Chitterwick and Roger Sheringham. The novel is reminiscent of The Benson Murder Case (1923), a tour de force in which Philo Vance solves a murder six different ways, once for each of the six suspects. There might also be a hint of Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot short story "The Chocolate Box," first published in 1923. For puzzle mystery fans this is a must-read.  [4 ★]

Murder in the Basement by Anthony Berkeley (1932)

Sometimes it's just as difficult to identify the victim as the murderer.

Mystery Review: Murder in the Basement again demonstrates that Anthony Berkeley (also known as Francis Iles) was one of the more clever and creative writers of Golden Age mysteries, although unknown today. In Part I a body is found and must be identified with no clues. In Part II the reader is presented with the draft of an unfinished mystery novel containing a lengthy description of various teachers at a private school and must discern how it relates (as far as victim and murderer) to what was learned in the first part. Part III brings everything together after first enduring the requisite twists. The three sections of Murder in the Basement are essentially presented out of order, including a story within a story (which wasn't necessary!), making it all that much more of a challenge for the happy reader. The eighth Roger Sheringham mystery. Sheringham is a novelist who often strays into murders, usually with friend Inspector Moresby of Scotland Yard. Murder in the Basement was addictive and the perfect distraction from waiting rooms and other annoyances. As is so often the case, the ending is a matter of taste.  [4★]

"Recitatif" by Toni Morrison (1983)

Two girls of different races meet in an orphans' shelter and meet again four more times as their lives evolve.

Story Review: "Recitatif" is Toni Morrison's only short story. She said that she wrote it "as a lark" and yet Zadie Smith wrote an introduction to the book longer than the story itself and readers bend themselves into pretzels trying to deal with it. There's that much to it: an examination of our internal prejudices, a projection of a post-racial world where race is still all-important. As an experiment or exercise designed to encourage thought and debate it reminds of "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas" (1973) by Ursula K. Le Guin, and as a short story that can provoke endless discussion, Zadie Smith rightly adds "Bartleby the Scrivener" (1853) and "The Lottery" (1948). Both stories can drive people crazy with their open-ended misty murk. "Recitatif," too. Morrison intended to use class codes but not racial codes, meaning to provoke and enlighten. But in America class codes are read as racial codes, race as caste. She wrote about the characters Twyla, Roberta, and Maggie in a much more complicated way by not relying on racial identity, and made them persons. There are racial codes and signposts in society -- but which way they point is harder to say. As in the story, either a black or white parent is more likely to say that the other race smells funny, or won't shake hands, or wears large religious symbols, or will bring food to their child. And there are individuals within the races. One might say a black mother might bring food, but an Italian-American mother might be equally likely to do so, and some would think a WASPy mom might not. Once the reader realizes that Morrison has deliberately mixed the racial markers between Twyla and Roberta and there's no way to racially identify either, the reader can then accept them both as people and observe what they make of the situation, racially or otherwise. It doesn't matter which is which, they're equal in feeling racially aggrieved whatever has happened in their lives. All that disguises the central issue, which is Maggie. Maggie is their shared past and their shared victim of prejudice, who is the true "other," with a disability and of indeterminate race, immensely vulnerable and subject to torment by everyone, black and white. Even without racial markers, race still intrudes. Interesting to note there are no significant male characters, as if Morrison wanted to keep a narrow focus on race. Some might question the reduction to two races. In the eastern U.S. people often see only two races, but in the western U.S. there's more recognition of a diversity of colors, ethnicities, and national origins called "races." Having worked in a field where awareness of racial differences was a job requirement this short story hit a lot of buttons for me. That work required we turn off racial expectations (at least aloud) and see only through the eyes of those involved. Not always easy, but I think something like what Morrison is talking about. By the way, I looked it up: a "recitatif" is a musical term identifying a free vocal style imitating the natural inflections of  speech and used for dialogue in performance. In "Recitatif" Morrison wanted to alter the language, to free it, not repress or confine but to open it up. By opening up the language she unlocks our minds and allows discussion to unfold.  [4★]

The Notting Hill Mystery by Charles Felix (1862)

An insurance investigator fears that the mysterious Baron R. is a modern day (1855) Bluebeard.

Mystery Review: The Notting Hill Mystery (1862) is called "the first detective novel" and so of historical interest, even if we're unsure who wrote it. Charles Felix was a pseudonym, probably of Charles Warren Adams. It's uncertain. "Felix" also wrote Velvet Lawn (1864) and The Little House by the Railway Arch (unclear if ever published). Other candidates for the "first" are R.D. Blackmore's Clara Vaughan (1864); The Dead Letter (1866) by Seeley Regester (aka Metta Victoria Fuller); Émile Gaboriau's  L'Affaire Lerouge (1866) (The Widow Lerouge or The Lerouge Affair) featuring detective Monsieur Lecoq (based on real-life thief turned detective Eugène François Vidocq); and The Moonstone (1868) by Wilkie Collins. Curious that so many contenders showed up around the same time and only a couple of decades prior to A Study in Scarlet (1887). The "detective" here is an insurance investigator named Ralph Henderson (credited on the book's title page as R. Henderson, Esq.). Our author, Charles Felix, has built this record from the sum total of Mr. Henderson's extensive investigations, which is told in letters, interview statements, diary entries, lab results, etc. The Notting Hill Mystery is ahead of its time as a sort of widely-documented epistolary-esque novel. The ending is also modern in that it's open-ended and allows the possibility that the

criminal gets away with heinous crimes: "Are crimes thus committed susceptible of proof, or even if proved, are they of a kind for which the criminal can be brought to punishment?" My copy is a digital facsimile of the original from the British Library (with the utilitarian cover pictured, circa 2011), and as such includes 32 pages of advertisements of other 1865 publications by the publisher Saunders, Otley, and Co., which are fascinating in their own right. In 2012 another digital facsimile (sans the advertisements) was published by the British Library but with the original, distinctive illustrations by George Du Maurier (Daphne's grandfather), an invaluable, investigatory Introduction by Mike Ashley, and a much more winning vintage distressed cover in brown and gold, crediting the author as Charles Warren Adams. The Notting Hill Mystery was also republished in 2015 as part of the British Library Crime Classics series by The British Library Publishing Division and Poisoned Pen Press. This all just scrapes the surface. The story is too longwinded for modern tastes, incorporating supernatural beliefs, mesmerism, psychic twin connections, and historic prejudices (a child is kidnapped by "gipsies"). The pacing is slow and deliberate, each point well nailed down and established in a sort of "belt and suspenders" approach that one might expect from an insurance agent. For those caught up in the time machine of this contemporaneous historical novel none of that will matter, and The Notting Hill Mystery will be a beguiling journey into the archaeology of the detective story.  [4★]

The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells (1897)

Space aliens arrive!

SF Review:  The War of the Worlds revealed a weakness of mine. While reading I'm willing to give up science, logic, and rational thought. I enjoy the images of old SF stories (probably from Edgar Rice Burroughs) in which Mars was a rough, cold, and rocky planet of stern warriors and Venus a steamy, impenetrable jungle of silver-green beings, all mostly humanoid. Wells created some of these images, his ideas often being the foundation for later writings. Including, perhaps, the idea that any alien visitors ("extra-terrestrial" as Wells says) would be violent and bloodthirsty. The logic I'm so quick to ignore in my reading, however, suggests that any species that found our little planet would be so far beyond our science that hostility (and our defenses) would be irrelevant to them. The War of the Worlds is a classic, part of our shared cultural vocabulary as were other novels in his early run of significant works such as The Time Machine (1895) and The Invisible Man (1897). This novel contains an embarrassment of riches, by which I mean ideas. Wells touches on the barbarity of imperialism, the commonality of humankind, the destruction of the precious planet we've been given only to mock and destroy that gift, and the hubris with which we view the universe when we can't even lift ourselves much beyond our own neighborhood. At least The War of the Worlds doesn't express the arrogance of so much early American SF, actually demanded by John Campbell from his authors, that humanity stride fearlessly across the universe, when in fact any visitors could squash us like bugs. Accordingly, the title is something of a misnomer. Here humanity can offer so little resistance to the invaders that it was hardly a war, any more than the indigenous Tasmanians (as Wells notes) could offer the British. Among the technology Wells imagines here are poison gas, lasers, tanks, and flying machines. Survivalist attitudes rapidly spring up as in The Day of the Triffids (1951) and a host of today's post-apocalyptic dystopias. The geographical range of the "war" in Greater London and the Home Counties is described in native detail, which no doubt is immensely enjoyable for English readers, but anyone unfamiliar with London will be rapidly lost (my sense was that the hardy band was moving west when in fact they were moving east to embark for France). The black Penguin Classics edition of The War of the Worlds contains a couple of invaluable maps. This is at times a thoughtful work, embodying the futile hope that future humanity will stand together instead of being at each others throats. Unusually, it's written at an adult level. Although he writes fantasy, Wells always brings the story down to the level of the village and street, making it all seem (at least initially) genuine. He heightens the realism by emphasizing  the ordinary, much as Spielberg likes to do. The reader is left with the image of shell-shocked survivors reeling from overwhelming loss and helplessness, only to awaken to a vanished threat through no action of their own, still scarred and damaged and too aware of what might've been. The hollow victory reflects no glory on humanity. At the same time Wells can get too caught up in the big picture. The protagonist expresses sorrow at the loss of his wife, but how much more real and credible his longing would be if he'd thought to mention her name. Wells also comments cuttingly on religion. When a curate panics at the destruction, a man asks: "What good is religion if it collapses under calamity?" Another comments: "Did you think God had exempted Weybridge? He is not an insurance agent." Although effective, Wells' writing can be pedestrian and commonplace, more useful than awe-inspiring. But that's okay, in The War of the Worlds his ideas are more interesting than the transcription.  [5★]

"Popeau Intervenes" by Marie Belloc Lowndes (1926/29)

Retired cop Popeau has taken a liking to, and is concerned about, the fragile looking, "charming, over-refined" Lady Waverton who is staying in the same hotel.

Mystery Review:  In which French (not Belgian) former chief of police Hercules (not Hercule) Popeau prevents a crime. Probably written in 1926 or 1929, the short story "Popeau Intervenes" presents one of the possible antecedents of the far more famous homonymic detective. Popeau is an ex-Chief of Police in Paris and an ex-secret agent, who worked for the Criminal Investigations Branch. I have to emphasize that he's nothing like that other detective, who is a retired Belgian policeman. In this case Popeau has it easy as everything is overheard or falls into his lap; no legwork needed. There's a gentle humanity to the story that is endearing. Christie's Poirot also had a notable case in which he prevented a crime, recorded as the short story "Wasps' Nest" (1928). "Popeau Intervenes" was originally titled "The Dark Lady."  [3½★]

After the Funeral by Agatha Christie (1953)

The family that slays together stays together, or not.

Mystery Review: After the Funeral presents Poirot called to an English country manor, Enderby Hall, "a vast Victorian house built in the Gothic style," after the fratriarch of a nouveau riche family has died. After a chance remark by the dead man's sister, the family solicitor fears that murder might've been involved. Siblings, nieces, and nephews of the clan (a family tree is helpfully included) gather after the funeral, all greedy and needy, and soon another death occurs. Aided only by the family lawyer Entwhistle (he later played bass in a rock group in the 60s) and private investigator Mr. Goby, Poirot visits the manor under an assumed name, interviews the family members all of whom are suspects, and gradually accumulates numerous tiny clues. But even as he begins to see the light, more attacks occur. The resolution is a bit tricky but I won't say After the Funeral is unfair, hints were made. Also known as Funerals are Fatal. [4★]

Death in the Clouds by Agatha Christie (1935)

Murder follows Poirot, even in an airplane above the English Channel.

Mystery Review: Death in the Clouds finds Poirot asleep on a flight from Paris to London when a French money-lender is found dead in her seat. Poirot, aghast at being one of the eleven suspects, is quickly on the case. Aided by French and English police inspectors and a young woman on the flight (Poirot you dog!) Poirot examines the clues, including a dead wasp, a poison dart, and a one-foot-long blowgun (in Mrs. McGinty's Dead (1952) Ariadne Oliver acknowledges the error). Poirot flies back to France to test his theories on the plane but soon another death occurs: the maid of one of the suspects, perhaps suicide. Poirot doesn't fall for the red herrings left by the perp, and neither will the reader. Based largely on an inventory of the contents of the plane's luggage Poirot solves the two murders, though the reader won't. The explanation for the Death in the Clouds requires quite a bit of off-stage machinations. Entertaining nonetheless and extra points for a blowgun (even truncated) on a plane. Once again the talented Ms. Christie manages to find a murder plot from her everyday life. She's also still oblivious as ever, coyly describing a couple on a first date and what they had in common: "They disliked loud voices, noisy restaurants and negroes." Argh. Also known as Death in the Air.  [3½★]

Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie (1934)

Poirot travels by train through the Balkans, murder travels also.

Mystery Review: Murder on the Orient Express finds Poirot traveling by train through Yugoslavia on his way to London, until the train becomes stuck in a blizzard. That night in the compartment next door to Poirot, an American businessman is murdered. To help his friend, the director of the train company, Poirot takes on the case. He combines what he heard and saw during the night with clues from the murder scene and begins interviewing the passengers, since the murderer must still be on the train. After a healthy communion with his little gray cells Poirot gathers the passengers and proposes two solutions, one simple but improbable, one complex but painful. The director of the train company makes the choice and the matter is resolved, or at least closed. Some consider the solution impossible but it's only improbable, and Christie (just barely) makes it seem plausible, which is the real test. She worked hard on this one. Murder on the Orient Express is one of Christie's best known works and probably many people who haven't read the book still know the solution, especially as two well-known, star-studded films were made in 1974 and 2017. Also known as Murder in the Calais Coach, to avoid confusion with similarly titled novel.  [4★]

The Return of the Continental Op by Dashiell Hammett (1945)

Collection of five stories published in the pulps between 1924 and 1930 featuring Dashiell Hammett's nameless company detective.

Mystery Review: The Return of the Continental Op is an easy if arbitrary introduction to Dashiell Hammett's early creation. The Continental Op, an agent or operative for the Continental Detective Agency (modeled on Pinkerton's where Hammett had worked), is the nameless protagonist of many of Hammett's early stories and novels. In these stories we learn that the Op served in the Great War, is about 40 years old, is short and weighs 180 pounds. The five stories herein are: "The Whosis Kid" (1925) - On a whim the Op decides to tail a known gunman he sees on the street, which soon leads him straight into the midst of a battle between backstabbing (literally) international jewel thieves; "The Gutting of Couffignal" (1925) - While on duty guarding the presents at a rich folks' wedding reception the Op finds himself fighting a one-man battle against a mysterious military-style invasion turned crime spree, machine guns and all, and has to steal a crutch from a cripple; "Death and Company" (1930) - A kidnapped wife leads to two murders and no one the richer; "One Hour" (1924) - The Op solves the case of a fatal hit and run in an hour, and then goes to the hospital; "The Tenth Clew" (1924) - After a rich man in murdered there are too many clues and the Op almost drowns. The Return of the Continental Op was part of the broad release of the first collections of Hammett's short stories in book form. The Op stories are almost devoid of characterization except that necessary to describe an able detective, which is carefully detailed and explained. We get little background, no friends, family, or history, not even a name. The reader is given a premise, a bit of violence, and a solution. A complete collection of the Op oeuvre is available for those who like their stories cut and dried, basic, and to the point.  [3½★]

The Butterfly by James M. Cain (1946)

A farmer meets his long lost daughter and all hell breaks loose.

Mystery Review: The Butterfly is a rare and unique example of hillbilly noir, as written by the master of hardboiled fiction. A story of moonshining, coal mining, birthmarks, and incest. Set in the mountains of West Virginia with a convoluted plot and a cast of characters worthy of any soap opera. There are several twists and turns, and though not all are credible Cain is writing what he writes best: obsession, lust, and bad choices. Once again (see Serenade (1937)) he goes over the top, as if he had to outdo his earlier works and shocking readers was the only way to do it (even if it's really shock-lite). Cain incorporates an outré male fantasy of a daughter seducing her father and makes it the center of The Butterfly. The novel was popular when published in 1946 (!), but has since receded in notoriety nowadays as part of the Cain bibliography. The book also includes an intriguing 12-page self-justifying preface that's a must-read. Unfilmable when it was published, The Butterfly was made into a 1982 film with Pia Zadora and Stacy Keach. Random note: Cain's next book, published the following year, was entitled The Moth.  [3★]

The Day of the Triffids by John Wyndham (1951)

England tries to cope after two disasters strike Earth, a mass blindness followed by an invasion of murderous plants.

SF Review: The Day of the Triffids was the first book of the second act in the writing life of John Wyndham (1903-69). He had two careers, the first from about 1927 to 1946 when no one knew who he was, and the second beginning with this book, the first published under this name, from 1951 to his death. This doubly post-apocalyptic work presents a unique dystopia. Dystopian stories fall into two categories, those with too much order (think 1984) and those with not enough; this falls into the second category. The Day of the Triffids is credible and suspenseful, with highly organized characters (perhaps a remnant of the not long before World War). Writers often expect post-apocalyptic humanity to quickly devolve and lose the veneer of civilization, with a major factor being the projected role of women. This is no exception: "The men must work--the women must have babies. Unless you can agree to that, there can be no place for you in our community." For those living in the U.K. the novel should be great fun as the characters scamper widely across the country. Wyndham's works paved the way for the global disaster novels of J.G. Ballard (1930-2009) beginning with The Wind from Nowhere (1961). The Day of the Triffids is mostly different from the 1962 film with Howard Keel, and has been presented as two different television series.  [4★]

Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis (1985)

Returning home from his first semester at college in the East a young man revisits old friends and familiar L.A. haunts.

Book Review: Less than Zero was famously published when the author was 21 and still a student, and is a striking first book. Given the amount of background violence this Gothic novel contains the seeds of American Psycho (1991), but the darkness is obscured by a general boredom and ennui. Nobody gets offended or upset or bothered, at most there's a vague resentment. I kept waiting for any character to hit another, but no one cares enough. Wealthy, the characters have all their wants met but not their needs (though they can't express those needs). There's no commitment, no need to strive. They can't work up the energy to engage, to communicate, be involved. It's all too much too soon, no limits, innocence is long lost. It becomes unsettling just how apathetic they all are, with the only reason to make an effort being to maintain their drug supply. This malaise results in a lazy amorality, uncaring, heedless of the horrors they see and talk about. Any genuine feeling is only a faint faded image in the novel, a palimpsest of real emotions distantly felt, until it becomes unclear whether the characters are feeling emotion or the reader's intuiting them. Mostly plotless, the characters are simply waiting for something to happen and even when it does and even if gruesome it doesn't fully register because they don't react except in a childishly ghoulish manner. The novel has its own gestalt: MTV seems to be mentioned on every page, bands and the occasional (bad) movie are referenced, gender is fluid (38 years ago). Cocaine is as rampant as in Bright Lights, Big City, released the previous year. Both novels are Great Gatsby short, both grabbing for attention and unafraid to shock while staying safely in the literary tradition. At times Less Than Zero reminded me of Nathanael West, Catcher in the Rye (1951), The Graduate (1963), and the immortal Joan Didion essay "Waiting for Morrison" (1968). A good thesis could be written comparing Less Than Zero with another great first novel about partying, The Sun Also Rises (1926). This is an important and necessary novel both of its time and of ours.  [5★]

Five Little Pigs by Agatha Christie (1942)

The daughter of a woman convicted of murder 16 years before asks M. Poirot to reexamine the case. 

Mystery Review: Five Little Pigs is Agatha Christie does Rashomon (which didn't hit the screen till eight years later, though its source story was published in 1922). I've got to give Christie credit: she's always trying something different, willing to mix it up, do the less expected. Here she has Poirot solve a 16-year-old crime, interviewing and getting written accounts from all the main actors (five in number ... ) in the case. Although this was above average Poirot, I thought I'd figured it out (though doubting myself as I'm never sure with Ms. Agatha) and was right. The red herring was just too obvious (though that was my first guess, of course). The Five Little Pigs moniker is kind of tacked on unnecessarily and unusually I preferred the American title, Murder in Retrospect. Usually American publishers butcher her titles, for no apparent reason. Here no Hastings, no love story, no bodies piling up. Instead several accounts of the murder each with variations for the reader to dissect. Although this is more of puzzle mystery, we still get to see through Poirot's eyes and play along as he sifts the evidence. Five Little Pigs was Christie knowing how to build a lifelike mystery on a sturdy puzzle frame.  [4★]

The World Inside by Robert Silverberg (1971)

In the year 2381 the world population has multiplied to 75 billion souls, at what cost? 

SF Review: The World Inside is Malthus versus the "be fruitful and multiply" crowd (those who believe that any hindrance to pregnancy is illegal, immoral, and harmful to men), so still relevant. Robert Silverberg has taken elements from the best of Orwell, Huxley, and Bradbury to create his own dystopian future, this time the overregulated kind (as opposed to the post-apocalyptic chaos dystopias -- too little regulation). Though not in their class, this is a nice little counterpoint to or extension of those books. In this particular future humanity has decided to build vertically rather than horizontally, up rather than spreading out. To leave more space for growing food, everyone lives in towers 1,000 stories tall, three kilometers in height, in single room apartments, which they rarely or never leave as going outside the buildings is virtually forbidden. With so many people living so close together dissension and disruption are punishable by death, thus ensuring maximum conformity. Various methods including drugs are used for calming excitable folks. Everyone is fervently religious, promoting unstoppable breeding "bless god." Women are simply baby-making devices with no jobs or decision-making responsibilities to hinder the baby production. Which is, of course, "a woman's proper destiny," presaging The Handmaid's Tale (1985). Is the book sexist. The society portrayed is, but as Silverberg takes a step back from women's greater involvement in society as was occurring in 1970, it's a conscious decision and plot device: representation not endorsement. Women in The World Inside do have some freedoms and are not wholly excluded from male privileges (y'know, other than running society) as they can prowl at night and demand sex also. Apparently inspired by the freedom trumpeted by the New Wave science fiction spearheaded by Michael Moorcock and Harlan Ellison, Silverberg incudes numerous descriptions of sexual encounters, which will not be for everybody. Although the sex is right out front where everyone can see it, I wouldn't call this erotica as it's rarely even close to titillating. It does seem like incel wish fulfillment, however. Sex on demand for all without hesitation is the cultural norm. Incest (at least between siblings, further parameters aren't delineated) is acceptable. Certain other aspects are left unexplained: why marriage, as it's not a religious necessity and little parenting occurs. What about divorce, or perhaps that's solved with drugs. Children leave home and begin their careers at puberty. The central character is 14 years-old, yet he's a major player in a building administration that oversees 800,000 people (a city larger than San Francisco). How does someone that age get the training and experience to handle that responsibility. Each of the seven chapters focuses on a different resident of the building, but there's just not enough plot, nothing seems significant, the story doesn't build, most of the book is exposition, describing and establishing this world of the future, leaving not enough time for explosive human reaction (as portrayed in classic dystopian works ). Each chapter has a dissatisfied person who has some difficulty with society, but this is little different than society today: no one is completely happy with the way things are. Their problems seem almost trivial -- important to them, society couldn't care less. There isn't enough friction in a society designed to minimize discord, which should be fodder for discussion, but Silverberg doesn't take the storyline to its logical conclusions. He forged an interesting set of circumstances, but didn't develop sufficient plot and resolution to go with it. Good, but incomplete. Could've been great. Silverberg leaves the obvious value judgments to the reader, but didn't have the courage to establish the conflicts that would've made The World Inside unforgettable.  [3½★]

A Hell of a Woman by Jim Thompson (1954)

A salesman finds that you can't always get what you want, because you don't always want it when you get it.

Mystery Review: A Hell of a Woman seems tossed off quickly and effortlessly, but is no less effective for that. Jim Thompson (1906-77) was a master of building nerve-wracking suspense, even if the protagonist was a creep that was hard to care about. Here, Frank Dillon is the usual Thompson "hero," a "hard luck" guy who hates his job if he has one, but whenever he tries to get ahead just digs himself a deeper hole. In desperation or without thinking he does things he wouldn't normally do (he has an extreme form of situational ethics), and there's usually a woman involved. Yet he doesn't trust anyone, especially women, so the reader too is unsure of people's motives, who to trust, and soon the paranoia starts setting in. Still, he thinks he's the smartest person in the room, but isn't, and pays for it when his perfect plans come apart. He drinks heavily and is capable of lying to anyone, including himself, so the reader has to separate Dillon's truth from his lies as his own narrative undermines him. Although he despises all women, he thinks if he can just find the right woman he'll be able to put it all together. But he's unable to fully form an attachment and all the women he's married (he's lost count) were tramps anyhow, not realizing that he's the common denominator in all those relationships. Somehow, unbelievably, the reader still cares about this guy, scummy as he is -- that's Thompson's genius in A Hell of a Woman. Even though you wouldn't want to have a beer with the guy the reader still wants him to get out of his mess, move on, and somehow be the better person he might be if only, if only, if only ... . But with Thompson it's always bad breaks, hard luck, and worse mistakes. Simultaneously perp and victim, here Dillon's being exploited by a company whose business is designed to exploit the poor -- and any job trying to extort money from the poor is damaging to the human psyche. Thompson adds a substrate of psychology to address the tortured psyches of his characters. Dillon thinks he's going to save Mona, the title character, a damsel in distress, but he's really hoping that Mona will save him. At one point Dillon says, "Take the most hard luck guy in the world, and he's bound to get a break once in a while." Don't count on it.  Although in Thompson's work life, humanity, and the whole crappy world are the antagonist, he often throws in a specific torturer, here the character Staples, much like Shrike from Miss Lonelyhearts (1933), and much like that novel Dillon's troubled conscience exacerbates until his mind deteriorates. A Hell of a Woman is Thompson at the top of his game.  [4★]

An Unsuitable Attachment by Barbara Pym (1982)

Love, life, and other events affecting the congregants of St Basil's church in London.

Book Review: An Unsuitable Attachment was my introduction to Barbara Pym (1913-80); I hadn't realized it was posthumous -- apparently written in 1963. My read felt like a light mix of Spark, Waugh, and the overlooked Sarah Caudwell. Pym's work didn't really resemble Jane Austen, as had been suggested. For me Austen's novels have an underlying sense of desperation that if things don't work out characters will end up dispossessed and poverty-stricken. Not so here. In Pym's world if a woman doesn't find a man she might be better off as the men are mostly dweebs and duds. If Ianthe doesn't find love she'll be quite happy in her lovely little house with the perfect furniture in her community of well-upholstered minds. Many of the characters are prickly, judgmental, controlling, critical, manipulative. When they're not, they're oblivious and lacking self-awareness. Even our heroine constantly criticizes her best friend for not acting as a vicar's wife should (as if that's a negative). There's much emphasis on being a "gentlewoman," whatever that is. I did enjoy An Unsuitable Attachment despite my carping. Entertaining, humorous (very arch), with interesting situations and I'd read more by Pym, especially since I have a couple of her books still sitting on my shelf. Her characters, including one of the better cat ladies around, can carry the day. The core of the story is the conflict with being bound by custom or the judgment of the group. As with Austen the correct choice is to choose love. The "unsuitable attachment" is first presented as choosing a partner of whom others don't approve, but the real unsuitable attachment is that of clinging to the past, an attachment to the conventions of culture, the unwritten rules of society, or being guided by the opinions of others, those others often long dead. This isn't exactly curing cancer or dying for one's country, but that's not this book. In An Unsuitable Attachment emotions aren't too deep or too strong, though there are the occasional tears. This is a mild and gentle story, nothing too extreme, comfortably cozy.  [3★]

Maigret and the Lazy Burglar by Georges Simenon (1961)

A burglar long known to Maigret is found dead while a well-organized gang robs jewelry stores in Paris.

Mystery Review: Maigret and the Lazy Burglar contrasts the old and the new, revealing complexities and dilemmas for the Paris police. Maigret is assigned to apprehend a successful band of jewelry store robbers. But he's more interested in a case that's not his where he has to operate behind the scenes, that of a burglar found dead. A man that Maigret unexpectedly respected and considered almost a friend. At the same time, Maigret and the Lazy Burglar describes changes that are brewing in the police department with onerous prosecutorial oversight disrupting official investigations. The police are losing their freedom to effectively solve crimes, or to solve them in their own way. Maigret's life-long skills are no longer appreciated, but he recognizes his own talents and ability to get results with the old methods. He also sees the burglar's old-school methods and talents, unlike the more violent modern robbers. Maigret solves the crimes but faces ethical and political issues in that one crime will go unpunished because of wealthy connections, the irony being that Maigret appreciates that the burglar was honorable in his way. The evocation of the life of a petty criminal lifts this above the usual. Although the title in French translates as "lazy" burglar or thief, a better title would be the "quiet" or "careful" burglar as he doesn't seem lazy at all. Maigret and the Lazy Burglar is number 57 in the series, also known as Maigret and the Idle Burglar.  [4★]

The Carter of 'La Providence' by Georges Simenon (1931)

A stylish woman is murdered along a canal in France; a second death soon follows.

Mystery Review: The Carter of La Providence is the fourth (or the second ...) Maigret novel and has had a few different titles: Lock 14, The Crime at Lock 14, Maigret Meets a Milord, and The Carter of the Providence. The last is closest to Simenon's choice in French. There's a reason for the different monikers. Here we hardly get to know Maigret, who seems phlegmatic and reserved, and does little detecting that we can see though he does engage in a marathon bicycle ride -- young and spry as he was. He gathers a few bits and bobs that don't seem to tie together and there's little about how Maigret solves the crimes except for some telegrams he sends seeking information about various names. Which may be for the best as the scenario is almost wholly implausible except in the Gothic world of early 20th Century mystery stories. Mostly Simenon uses The Carter of La Providence to create a mood: dark, melancholy, rainy, and that he does very well. The mystery is secondary to the feeling, the scenery, the descriptions of the life of those who work and live on and along the canals. We get a generous description of those on the boats, the workers, the odd or sad characters that people this little corner of northern France. The Carter of La Providence almost seems like a new kind of mystery, one that gives the feel of the setting, the reactions of the various folk who encounter the crimes, the desultory actions of the police, and then after generating a spell-binding mood resolves it all as if by a magician's wand in a burst of sentiment. More a "feel-dunnit" than a whodunnit.  [3½★]

Maigret's Failure by Georges Simenon (1956)

Maigret investigates separate cases involving a murdered meat mogul and an English lady lost in Paris.

Mystery Review: Maigret's Failure is an example of a detective novel in which nothing much happens. Assigned to investigate death threats received by a wealthy meat merchant, the detective shows little interest. Later, although he may have bungled the case, Maigret isn't sure that he wants to resolve the crime, doesn't care if the murderer is caught. Not the best attitude for a detective. In the other case, it's uncertain whether a law was even broken, and the incident goes cold. Maigret doesn't solve either of the unrelated cases (see title) despite no amazing machinations by the individuals involved. Time and happenstance resolve both cases in the end, with no help from our hero. In the end the newspapers may scream, but Maigret doesn't mind his failures. More interesting is that in Maigret's Failure we learn more about his early life, how he was bullied by the murder victim as a child, how he grew up, his father's job. Despite being short and a quick read, Simenon's talent is to make the book seem like it's more than twice the length, both in terms of story and depth. On the other hand, none of the Maigret novels I've read so far stand out as exceptional or much above the norm. Maigret's Failure is number 49 (of 75) in the canon.  [3★]

Maigret and the Old People by Georges Simenon (1960)

An elderly aristocrat is found dead in his study.

Mystery Review: Maigret and the Old People contains the story of an intense life-long platonic but requited love affair, reminding the reader just a bit of García Márquez's Love in the Time of Cholera (1985). Maigret finds himself baffled and out of his depth in the rarefied air of the sheltered and discrete world of aristocrats, counts and princesses. For Maigret the realm of the monied, upper classes is a foreign land. The title refers to old people, and perhaps it has some of the meaning of the old order as the characters seem of a bygone and outdated time, too effete to live. Although France seems democratic from afar (Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, after all) apparently the aristocracy still matters, or did in 1960. Maigret and the Old People is the first Maigret mystery that made me warm up to the great detective, revealing him as more of a person. Simenon makes you come to Maigret, unlike the more dynamic Poirot or Holmes. Maigret is stolid, reserved, phlegmatic, he doesn't play up to the reader. He's a cat not a dog, though he really seems like an old bear. The reader may readily figure out half the solution of the murder, as it seems to be the only answer, but the other half is a little trickier. Perhaps I should say, the reader may quickly figure out the "who," but not quite solve the "why," though it's simple if not obvious. I can be vaguer. Maigret and the Old People is number 56 in the series, also known as Maigret in Society.  [4★]

Hercule Poirot's Casebook by Agatha Christie (1984)

A broad collection of most of the Hercule Poirot short stories.

Mystery Review: Hercule Poirot's Casebook is a reference to Sherlock Holmes, only appropriate as Poirot is arguably the character most deserving of being that icon's successor. Here there are ever so many stories in many different guises, showing that the staid Mrs. Christie was more varied and adventurous than she's generally given credit for. Quite the perfect gift for those who know a Poirot fan (as I do) who may have read the novels or watched the David Suchet series, but haven't yet tracked down the Poirot story collections. This tome (883 pages) contains 50 stories from seven books. Four books were solely collections of Poirot stories: Poirot Investigates (1924), Murder in the Mews (1937), The Labors of Hercules (1947), The Under Dog and Other Stories (1951). Hercule Poirot's Casebook also excerpts Poirot stories that were included in three other mixed Christie story collections: The Regatta Mystery (1939), Three Blind Mice (1950), and Double Sin (1961). These are not quite all the Poirot stories. Not included are original stories that were expanded into longer works (e.g., "The Submarine Plans" isn't here because it was expanded into "The Incredible Theft"). Also "The Regatta Mystery" isn't included, which was originally a Poirot story but was later refashioned for another detective, Parker Pyne. Not my intention today, but Poirot archivists and fanatics can undoubtedly delineate all the Poirot stories that aren't here. I'm unsure if there's a complete collection of stories anywhere. But no matter, this is an impressive collection and many of the stories not included are available elsewhere. All in all, Hercule Poirot's Casebook is a varied and potentially essential collection.  [5★]

The Horse's Mouth by Joyce Cary (1944)

An itinerant painter challenges a society that he never made and was not made for him.

Book Review: The Horse's Mouth is an English Don Quixote, a picaresque story portraying an artist errant, a delusional painter tilting at the world of art, caste, and blank walls. As if the Man of La Mancha was a Dylan Thomas who painted instead of wrote, a man who never quite grew up ("as he's got older, he's got younger"), self-destructive and choosing the worst thing for himself when better options are available. A man at war with a world that is not at war with him. He's not lovable, but understandable, a man who has given up everything for his art, his craft, his dream, and does so without scruples or (much) regret. Just as addicts will do anything to feed their habit, so 67-year-old Gulley Jimson will do anything to feed his addiction to art, do anything to buy brushes and paints and (since he's a muralist at heart) find an empty wall. Jimson is not a nice person, not someone you'd want in your home, and the novel wants the reader to see that but forgive him because he does it all for art. Jimson can't fully see people as people, as real, because he sees all the world as a work of art, as the subject of one of his pictures, as though he himself created all the world as a painting. The irony being that for all Jimson is in his own mind and the minds of many around him a great artist, the novel implies that he painted only one truly great picture, that of his wife in the bath. The Horse's Mouth is the third book in a trilogy (the "First Trilogy") by Joyce Cary (1888-1957), after Herself Surprised (1941) focusing on and told by the character Sara Monday, and To Be a Pilgrim (1942) centered on Tom Wilcher, both of whom appear in this volume. Neither of which I've yet read so will end up reading them out of order. The Horse's Mouth is a close cousin to The Ginger Man by J.P. Donleavy, and both being ancestors of Richard Fariña's Been Down So Long it Looks Like Up to Me, the three books being published in '44, '55, and '66 respectively. Most of all this is a book to be read slowly, savored, reflected upon, to be read without (my) impatience. It's a book that would be worthwhile to take a month to read. Sure, it's picaresque, episodic, not much happens, but much is contemplated and observed. Cary employs stream of consciousness, meditations, digressions, memories, discussions, and pronouncements amidst the intricate embroidery of the descriptions of the world around Jimson, descriptions as if of a painting, the whole world as simply a painting, two dimensional. Thoughtful and ruminative on philosophy, art, religion, economics, dense with meaning, at times almost Joycean (James not Cary) in its narration and observations. "Art and religion and drink. All of them ruin to a poor lad." Most of all Joyce Cary looks at humanity. Just as Gulley Jimson wants to paint what's real and revealing, so Cary wants to write real people, homely women and weak men, defeated and desperate, fearing what the world has on offer. Many pages are spent contrasting the sensitivities of a world of haves and have-nots. "It is a sensation something between that of an angel let out of his cage into a new sky and a drunkard turned loose in a royal cellar." The story simultaneously glories in the life of the artist and despairs at the cost. My one caveat, and I accept all blame (I'm an impatient reader and certainly it's just me), is that at about two-thirds through the book it just seemed too long, that the wandering, picaresque tale had gotten lost, the new episodes were no longer adding to the story. Closer to the end, however, The Horse's Mouth most definitely got back on track and fully regained the coursing flow and power of the great book it is.  [4½★]

The Hollow by Agatha Christie (1946)

A doctor is murdered at a country estate, but which of the nobs could have done him in.

Mystery Review: The Hollow starts out like a literary novel about couples and affairs where unforgivable things will soon be screamed in drawing rooms. The characters are more complex and interesting (though not all particularly likable) than usual for Christie. Seems as if she started wanting to write a typical domestic novel, but after a hundred pages the story inevitably turns to murder and Hercule Poirot finally arrives on the scene. The resolution is clever and unexpected, though not especially new, and is an interesting comment on how the upper classes stick together even in the face of homicide. In fact, the forces conspiring against Poirot and the police is the more unusual aspect of The Hollow. At the same time for mystery readers there's the question of when do we stop trying to outwit Poirot and go meta by trying to outwit Christie, herself. She enjoys dropping little meta clues and comments in her books, such as mentioning that in detective novels it's always the most unlikely person who's the culprit. But then, which is the unexpected person: the most mild, the one with the best alibi, the least obtrusive? There's the usual casual bigotry ("the raucous voice of the vitriolic little Jewess ...") in The Hollow, actually a little worse than usual, which is surprising in 1946 after the War. There's also the unpleasant implication that decent Christian Britons shouldn't have to work for such undesirables. Lucky that there was no social media back then or Christie's career might never have got off the ground. But as disconcerting and disruptive as her racist and anti-Semitic comments can be, I can't say that I want them removed or altered. I wish she hadn't written them in the first place, but better to remember and face the world as it was (and is).  [4★]

Murder on "B" Deck by Vincent Starrett (1929)

A countess is murdered on a trans-Atlantic cruise but amateur detective Walter Ghost is on board.

Mystery Review: Murder on "B" Deck is perfect for mystery fans who enjoy fallible detectives who don't make clever observations or brilliant deductions, and prefer crimes to be solved by accident. This is a very average mystery, solved by happenstance based on an implausible object and a telegram with the name of someone who just happens to be aboard ship. In fairness, after receiving the telegram Mr. Ghost does induce a Perry Masonesque confession. The story contains a slight, awkward romance that leads to subjecting the murdered woman to heavy and unfair victim blaming "Oh, she was to blame, all right." (American women apparently are just too nice to live.) Why the unknown amateur detective is given so much leeway to handle the case by the ship's captain is never quite made clear. Although the mystery is thin, Murder on "B" Deck still seems padded with many repetitions of the known facts, the narration of a chapter from a mystery story written by one of the characters (very meta), and the description of a short silent film (the implausible object). There might also have been a touch of Christie-like bigotry. While the story was mildly entertaining, most of the enjoyment came from a glimpse of life on a cruise in the Roaring Twenties. The mystery itself and the solving thereof were minor and nothing special. This was the first of three Walter Ghost mysteries and as I have the second I'll still read that. Vincent Starrett (1886-1974) was better known for his Holmes research and his well-received The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1933), which I'd like to read. Murder on "B" Deck had nothing of Holmes about it and can be left for readers who have nothing else to read or an insatiable curiosity about cruise life a century ago.  [3★]

Taken at the Flood by Agatha Christie (1948)

A possible case of bigamy leads to blackmail and murder.

Mystery Review: Taken at the Flood presents a once-wealthy family struggling with tightened belts because of a post-war economy in which taxes are up, rationing still reigns, shortages are everywhere, there are rules and regulations for everything, and the world has most definitely changed, not for the better. To this Christie adds an awkward romance featuring a bad-boy love triangle ("there's something that I'm afraid of -- but there's something that draws me, too"), which would be tolerable if they weren't such uninteresting characters. This was the first Poirot novel (of 27) that I didn't enjoy and had little interest in continuing. But I persevered. The second half was somewhat better after Poirot appears and murderous events start to put a shape to the mystery. Poirot notes that there are three deaths: an accident, a suicide, and a murder, which creates interest and suspense. Purely as a whodunnit Taken at the Flood is potentially above average, but the poorly constructed and inconsistent characters detracted from the overall effect. I had an inkling of the final twist, but was off the mark. In addition to the unexpected resolution and the implausibly charitable conclusion (manslaughter is still a crime), there's also a hearty dose of virtually unpublishable (nowadays) masochistic victim porn ("When you caught hold of me by the throat -- I knew then that I was your woman!"). Taken at the Flood was a let down for me that I hope won't be a trend. Also titled There is a Tide ... for the U.S. market.  [2½★]

The Island of Doctor Moreau by H.G. Wells (1896)

A man lands on an island inhabited by a scientist who believes that there more things in heaven and earth.

SF Review: The Island of Doctor Moreau can be labeled horror, mad scientist and all, as much as SF. Similar to The Time Machine, it's once again a rollicking adventure story that simultaneously traffics in ideas (Borges liked it). Call it The Tempest (1610) meets Frankenstein (1818) meets On the Origin of Species (1859) with meditations on religion, ethics, and other tangents. I found it most interesting as an allegory with a god-like creator who instills his creations with a set of rules for a religion and then wholly abandons them (the author has acknowledged his debt to Mary Shelley). While verging on blasphemy, Wells shows just how close we are to our animal nature and that we're religious backsliders at heart; notably there are only three humans on the island, but a widely diverse host of beast folk. As with The Time Machine, the story is told in such a pragmatic and straight-forward way as to make it seem credible. The Island of Doctor Moreau was published just a year after The Time Machine, as Wells turned out a book a year for several years. The Penguin version includes helpful annotations for those unfamiliar with 1890 England. Also adapted as an intense 1977 film with Burt Lancaster, Barbara Carrera, and Michael York -- haven't seen the Brando version. Stunning how easily Wells' works have been translated to other media, showing just how prescient his ideas were. The Island of Doctor Moreau is another stellar outing from Wells.  [4½★]

The Time Machine by H.G. Wells (1895)

A man invents a time machine and travels to the future.

SF Review: The Time Machine is still today a worthy classic, combining an exciting action-hero adventure story with a basketful of ideas deserving of a couple pots of coffee or bottles of wine (depending on your bent). This was Wells' debut novel, more a novella, in which he invented the term "time machine," predating the TARDIS by 70 years. The writing reminded of Arthur Conan Doyle, similarly somewhat stiffly presented but still a quick and easy read for the Indiana Jones moments (our hero armed only with a box of matches). Even more intriguing in The Time Machine is the battle of ideas Wells presents through our adventurer, who is fallible and very human as he explores a world in which humanity may be no more. As with much of the best SF Wells adds a philosophical substrate to his fantasy, one such level being that he finds the battle between capital and labor still on-going and taken to an imaginative extreme, a warning for our future. Footage of the classic (if cheesy) 1960 movie with Yvette Mimieux and Rod Taylor kept playing in my mind while reading, both being entertaining and enjoyable. The Penguin book version is nicely annotated and helpful since I'm not a turn of the century Briton and didn't know what "plough you for the Little-go" or "eke out his modest income with a crossing" meant. The Time Machine is concise, to the point, and rewarding in every way.  [5★]

Savage Night by Jim Thompson (1953)

A hit man watches his plan and his life fall apart.

Mystery Review: Savage Night presents a typical Jim Thompson protagonist: he takes foolish risks, has little forethought but an evil temper, has little concern for others, and kills easily. Our anti-hero is a tubercular homunculus, and willing to kill a friend faster than a rational person would ghost them. This may be heresy, but Thompson's characters can get repetitive. They're diseased, twisted, stunted, soiled losers who fully bring retribution upon themselves. They get what they deserve despite all their constant self justification and self deception. They're not the classic noir character, an innocent who gives in to sudden and often minor temptation that then leads down a path of growing danger and desperation. But Thompson's genius is in getting readers to buy into his characters, to somehow root for them, and hope that they get out of their mess -- often with the idea that they'll give up their life of evil. But, as in Savage Night, no matter what a Thompson character tries: "It didn't make much difference. I couldn't win." Of course he doesn't deserve "to win" either. Thompson's books aren't for the suicidal, easily depressed, or those prone to serious anxiety. Bound to be exacerbated. So what's the attraction of this genre of books, noir and noir adjacent, about the seamy side of life, the sordid underbelly of society extolled by such writers as Nelson Algren, John Fante, Hubert Selby, Henry Miller, Charles Bukowski, Denis Johnson, even Françoise Villon and Jean Genet. Tales of the lives of petty criminals, hookers, junkies, and alcoholics, often with an emphasis on twisted sex and violence. There must be a certain sorry voyeurism in watching the lives of those who are often unfortunate, unfulfilled, and ultimately unhappy. Shouldn't readers prefer to focus on something more positive. Perhaps the genre is considered somehow more real, daring, gritty. A slice of life many of us never get to see. Maybe there's something such writers can teach us, but beyond a few hours of uneasy entertainment, I'm unsure what Savage Night taught me.  [3½★]

The Paris Review Interviews, vol. I by the Paris Review (2006)

Sixteen interviews about writing with some of the notable authors of our time.

Nonfiction Review: The Paris Review Interviews is a treasure to the curious reader and a handbook for the aspiring writer. This phenomenal collection of interviews focusing on the art and craft of writing covers a 50 year period stretching from 1956 to 2006 with something for almost everyone who reads or writes. The company including some of the biggest names in writing such as Hemingway, T.S. Eliot, or Jorge Luis Borges, to personal favorites such as Dorothy Parker, Kurt Vonnegut, and James M. Cain, to writers I'd never heard of such as Rebecca West and Robert Stone. The book focuses on fiction writers and poets but also includes book and magazine editor Robert Gottlieb (unknown to me), legendary film director and screenwriter Billy Wilder, and essayist Joan Didion. Some interviews are more expansive or interesting than others, but all include valuable information, autobiographical or gossipy or insightful, about themselves and other writers (fascinating) and influences. The centerpiece of The Paris Review Interviews is the one with editor Robert Gottlieb, which is structured as a dialogue with some of the authors whose books he edited over the years, including Toni Morrison, Joseph Heller, Doris Lessing, John Le Carre, Cynthia Ozick. But all the interviews are valuable, each with a small helping of ego and a clear personality: Vonnegut's interview seems just like one of his books, Dorothy Parker is generous to others and immensely self-deprecating, Hemingway demands boundaries, Borges is more approachable than I expected, Elizabeth Bishop is shy and retiring, Richard Price talks about addiction and writing. Poet Jack Gilbert actually lived the life that Jack Kerouac wanted. The great film director Billy Wilder tells more war stories about Hollywood than secrets about writing. Just by the numbers, four of the 16 interviews are of female authors, and one, perhaps, is of a person of color. After reading the interviews it's clear that there are no rules for writing, or at least the rules are different for each writer. The Paris Review Interviews is a joy to read, a treasure on many levels. All these people are aware, intelligent, with an informed and individual perspective on life, books, and writing. And there are three more volumes in the series.  [5★]