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Picks of the Week

  • David Denby: Snark

    David Denby: Snark
    This slim volume doesn't always succeed with its argument against the virtues of snark, but I definitely see where Denby is coming from. He wants a world where people think before they speak, where insults hit their target with wit, a sense of context and forethought. I know I thought more about how to temper my own snarky tendencies after reading this long essay, and at the very least, Denby's tome should spark necessary - and maybe even snark-free - discussion.

  • Hallie Ephron: Never Tell a Lie: A Novel of Suspense

    Hallie Ephron: Never Tell a Lie: A Novel of Suspense
    Ephron's first solo fiction outing finds suspense in seemingly unlikely territory, but the suburban town where heavily pregnant Ivy and her husband David live proves to be most dangerous after a chance run-in with Melinda, an old high school acquaintance - and pregnant as well. Then she goes missing. And then the book becomes awfully hard to stop reading because Ephron is a page-turning expert who has plenty to say about the joys and pain of impending motherhood.

  • Ilana Stanger-Ross: Sima's Undergarments for Women

    Ilana Stanger-Ross: Sima's Undergarments for Women
    How could I not adore this? It's a debut novel set in Boro Park and features a mature woman who owns an undergarment shop that caters to those of all ages and ethnicities, but really shines an inward light upon her secret shame and empty marriage when a young Israeli girl, brimming with life, arrives to turn everything upside down. The conflicts are meted out in fine detail, and Sima - the aforementioned propreitor - is all too believable in what she holds back, how she feels and what she does, no matter how wrong-headed those actions might be. This book is a rare little bird that should have a chance to spread its wings widely and at great distance.

  • Maj Sjowall & Per Wahloo: Roseanna (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard)

    Maj Sjowall & Per Wahloo: Roseanna (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard)
    The first of Sjowall/Wahloo's legendary series featuring Swedish police detective Martin Beck was recently reissued, giving me good reason to finally read what I'd meant to for years. It's astounding and a classic, as is the follow up THE MAN WHO WENT UP IN SMOKE, because the authors do not waste a single word. Economy and subtlety, not to mention a methodical approach to detection and clear opinions on the state of Swedish society, is on fine display. I'd read the other eight books now but I'm trying to pace myself.

  • Tanguy Viel: Beyond Suspicion: A Novel

    Tanguy Viel: Beyond Suspicion: A Novel
    This is a hard-bitten, unnerving piece of work, largely and unjustly overlooked by me until I stumbled across it in a bookstore and, thinking I'd read a few pages, finished most of it standing up and the rest in a nearby chair. There are two couples, a brother and a sister with respective partners. There are weddings and love affairs, secret schemes and violent twists. And there is betrayal, oh so much betrayal. Viel's writing is so crisp it practically singes with blackness, and his outlook is arch and bleak. I do like discovering new authors, don't you?

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January 05, 2009

Goodbye, Murder One

The Bookseller reports even more sad news. Murder One, the independent mystery bookstore that has occupied several locations along Charing Cross Road for the last two decades, will shut its doors at the end of January, and seven staff at the shop will lose their jobs. Co-owner Maxim Jakubowski told the trade publication the shop would be going into voluntary liquidation, and that all bills to publishers would be paid. "Over the last few years our sales have deteriorated," he said to Benedictine Page. "I was planning to retire this year, but this is earlier than expected. For the benefit of staff, publishers and suppliers, I would rather close the shop now and go out voluntarily with my head held high and no debts."

An understandable and perhaps inevitable rationale, but this is still a huge loss to the mystery community. Murder One was a regular haunt of mine during the summer of 2003, when I was a graduate student working on my thesis research at King's College London. And so it makes me more than a little sad that Charing Cross Road will lose yet another shop - and that the indie bookstore world's light shines a little less brightly.

UPDATE: More from the Telegraph, Wholly Disordered and Lee Goldberg.

Karen Spengler Loses Her Battle with Cancer

Karen Spengler, proprietor of the independent bookstore I Love a Mystery in Mission, Kansas, died at her home in Kansas City on January 1 after a long battle with cancer. She was 56. Spengler was originally been diagnosed with the disease in 1996 and far outpaced original expectations, but in the end there was only so long to fight. Spengler, who founded ILAM back in 2000, is survived by her mother Jean Spengler; two goddaughters, Sarah and Kaitlyn West; as well as numerous friends and family. As per the obituary published in the Kansas City Star yesterday, in lieu of flowers, memorial contributions may be made to Turning Point Cancer Support Center, PO Box 10486, Kansas City, MO 64171. Messages of condolences can be left here.

January 01, 2009

Donald Westlake, R.I.P.

22-Donald-Westlake

Donald E. Westlake, the incomparable writer of a great many fine crime novels - including the Dortmunder series under his own name and the Parker novels as Richard Stark - is dead. He was 75 and passed away from an apparent heart attack in San Tancho, Mexico as he headed out to a New Year's Eve dinner. The New York Times has a quick obituary and there will be much, much more to come. 

I was stunned when I heard the news. I imagine many more will be as well. Who else will chronicle the world's foibles and miseries, comic highs and cruel lows, the margins and the in-betweens in the way Westlake did? Who else could have the kind of publishing career Westlake did, the kind that was de rigeur decades ago but is now almost completely obsolete now? This is a loss I've dreaded and tried not to think about since Evan Hunter died three and a half years ago. And now here it is. And it's as incalculable as I feared.

Suffice to say this is NOT the way to ring in 2009. So through the end of the week, the tributes will be collected and the floor's yours to pay tribute to someone truly beyond measure in the mystery genre.

(photo credit: Laurie Roberts)

UPDATE: Some choice Westlake links:

UPDATE 2: Tributes roll in from:

UPDATE 3: Charles Ardai's tribute at the Guardian Books Blog is a stunner. Here's an excerpt:

I feel lucky to have worked with Don over the past five years, to bring out new editions of some of his oldest and rarest novels. We have one coming at the end of February that he was particularly excited to see ("chuffed", he said he was) – it's that first novel of his, The Mercenaries, only it's finally going to appear, for the first time ever, under the title he originally meant for it to have: The Cutie. Before that we did 361, Somebody Owes Me Money, and his Richard Stark novel Lemons Never Lie. They are among our bestselling titles. People love his books and can't get enough of them. I am one of those people. It breaks my heart that after one more book coming this summer I'll never get to read a new Donald Westlake novel. I'd settle for a new short story. Hell, I'd settle for an email. Don wrote great emails.

But my shelves are heavy with his work and it's a body of work I treasure. No petits fours here, but plenty of Grade A Prime just the way I like it, bloody and rare.

UPDATE 4: For some reason the NYT obit - which, of course, has been picked up everywhere thanks to the AP - reported that Westlake's final Dortmunder novel, GET REAL, would be published in April. That is incorrect. I've confirmed with Westlake's publicist at Grand Central, Susan Richman, that the book will be published on July 17, which is what the GC catalog and Amazon said.

UPDATE 5: My appreciation of Westlake's work appears in the Los Angeles Times. Here's how it opens:

Donald E. Westlake is dead. This simple sentence can't even begin to encapsulate the enormity of this event. Because it also means Richard Stark has passed on too, as has Tucker Coe and Samuel Holt, Timothy J. Culver and J. Morgan Cunningham and a slew of other pen names best left to gather dust. The sum of these pseudonymous parts is a writing career well over 100 novels strong, running the gamut from overt comedy to biting satire, subtle existentialism to social commentary, and downright impossible to emulate in today's publishing climate. Westlake's death at age 75, of an apparent heart attack on New Year's Eve, comes ever closer to bringing down the curtain on a bygone era.

Lest one confuse prolific output with mediocrity, think again. Westlake came of age during the heyday of the paperback revolution, when quantity was rewarded at a penny a word by houses looking for lurid tales worthy of the racy cover art. With families to feed and deadlines to meet, there wasn't time to fuss over the right turn of phrase or elongated story lines -- or to thumb a nose at a particular genre. During his six-decade career, Westlake wrote sleazy novels and children's books, penned Oscar-nominated film scripts like "The Grifters" and epic television flops like "Supertrain," dabbled in science fiction and even cooked up a biography of Elizabeth Taylor. But his best home was always crime fiction, as seen through the fun-house mirror of works written under his real name and by his darker alter ego, Stark.

UPDATE 6: Ethan Iverson's amazing tribute is now up at The Bad Plus's blog Do The Math. How amazing? He quotes from correspondence between himself and Westlake dating back to 2003 and presents an annotated bibliography of almost all the Westlake "canon" with comments from the man. And the close is particulary appropriate:

Don, thanks for a memorable chapter in my life;  I'll never forget meeting and getting to know a literary hero.

But really, thanks for all the goddamn great books.  In way, I can't even be that sad you have passed on:  you did here exactly what you were supposed to do.

UPDATE 7, 1/8/08: Scott Timberg writes in the LAT about why Westlake's work proved troublesome for making good movies:

One of the enigmas in the long and rich career of Donald E. Westlake was that this author of more than 100 novels, many of them popular, accessible and plot-driven works of crime fiction, both grim and comic, received such a spotty handling by Hollywood.

Roughly two dozen films emerged from Westlake's novels or involved screenplay work by the man himself. But only two -- 1967's "Point Blank," based on the first novel he wrote under the pseudonym Richard Stark, and Westlake's adaptation of Jim Thompson's "The Grifters" (1990) -- are clear standouts. Both films, oddly, were done by British directors (John Boorman and Stephen Frears, respectively) well out of the Hollywood mainstream....

...The issue of Westlake's Hollywood legacy is worth pondering now, after the novelist's death, at age 75, of a heart attack on New Year's Eve. Next week, the first-ever film adaptation of Westlake's work, "Made in USA," opens at the Nuart Theatre in West Los Angeles, more than four decades after it was made. And that movie highlights another irony: The film, well regarded by the few who have seen it, was directed by Jean-Luc Godard, who is, of course, a Frenchman.

It makes you wonder, Why was it so hard for Hollywood to get Westlake right?

Happy New Year!

Hope your 2009 has gotten off to a great start. I certainly feel ready to get back to things (especially after 2008's last inauspicious moment) and get the year off on the right footing.

The first day of the year also brings some new pieces and the like. My review of Carol O'Connell's new standalone novel BONE BY BONE runs today at the Barnes & Noble Review, which also attempts to explain why I think she's sui generis in the genre:

[O'Connell's] authorial voice has little patience with conventions or formula or linearity. If crime novels are the equivalent of sonata form, adhering to the tight constraints of exposition, development and recapitulation, O'Connell adheres to serialism, reshuffling convention according to larger whims and broader canvases. Reading one of her books is like squinting at a Seurat painting up close, each page a step backward until the pattern emerges, shockingly whole, at the end -- with more than enough loose ends to make us wonder if there's a whole other pointillist work of art embedded within the original frame.


Also up, courtesy The Bat Segundo Show, is the full interview with Patricia Cornwell that is the basis for my LA Times profile of her from last month. Interviews are best left up to the listener to judge without editorializing, but I am mighty curious what people think...

December 28, 2008

Speak, Institutional Memory

Hillary Waugh died earlier this month and I'm embarrassed to admit that I've never heard of him. That's entirely my fault, but considering he wrote LAST SEEN WEARING (1952), which is considered to be one of the earliest examples of the modern police procedural, and kept up a prolific pace from the late 1940s until the late 1980s, I'm at a loss as to how he wasn't on my reading radar. It's like when Julius Fast, who won the very first Edgar Award for Best First Novel, passed away: I had some dim awareness but it was completely out of proportion to the significance of Fast's work in the mystery realm.

The irony is that these reading gaps emerge as I'm on something of a classic mystery kick. I'm going back to THE MALTESE FALCON and a couple of other more recent, but still vintage-ish, books for a piece I'll be working on after the New Year. I've finally hunkered down and started reading the works of Eric Ambler in a serious fashion. I recently finished reading ROSEANNA and THE MAN WHO WENT UP IN SMOKE, the first two entries in Maj Sjowall & Per Wahloo's series of procedurals. As expected, they are brilliant (and I'm confident the next eight books will be just as brilliant) but now I understand exactly why the books are so phenomenal and why they hold up so well: the authors made every single word (or translated word, to be fair to the late, great translator Joan Tate) count, every single clue resonate and were as interested in capturing the change in Swedish society in the 1960s as they were the crumbling family edifice of their main character, Martin Beck. And I can also see, for example, what subsequent writers have been emulating or worse, failing to emulate in their own attempts at police thrillers.

And I wonder, with the publishing industry's current turmoil (not to mention larger concerns looming globally) if my current gravitation towards older books owes to some attempt at finding a larger context for the books published today that, more and more, I find wanting. There's so much preoccupation with technology, the latest gadget, and moving forward, forward, forward that there's a substantial loss of institutional memory. I don't mean to sound a "those were the good old days" alarm; those days weren't so good and nostalgia is a dangerous exercise. But it troubles me when writers like Waugh or Fast or Helen MacInnes - whose suspense work is supposed to be up there with the likes of Ambler and Dorothy B. Hughes, but her once-entrenched place on the bestseller list has dissipated so much she's completely out of print now - just disappear. The same thing has happened with Ed McBain just three years after his death. An effort to bring back Ross Thomas's works into print stalled out. And when a brand-new author is published with the blurb of being "the next Hammett or Chandler", to cite an oft-quoted example, it says less about the author and more about how those with the money to acquire books do so with an utter lack of context.

I recognize not every deserving author can be brought back into print, and what once sold years ago wouldn't move many copies today. And generally speaking, the world moves so fast now it's hard to keep up with what happened last week, let alone decades ago. But as I move into a supposedly monumental age bracket, having read a number of books slated for publication in the calendar year to come, I find myself asking how many of these new books are truly necessary - and if there was a greater attention to context, a greater recognition of why certain books are destined to endure and others will fall flat, all of us - as readers, writers, and people in the business - be better off.

December 21, 2008

Weekend Smatterings, with Different Skin

With the new year approaching I felt like going with a different color scheme for Confessions, so voila. And so full Weekend Updates will not resume until '09, but content yourself with this list 'o links:

Susanna Yager, the Sunday Telegraph's crime fiction critic, has passed away. Ali Karim reprints Natasha Cooper's fine obituary of one of the UK's more discerning and intelligent critics in the genre.

Julius Fast, who was the very first debut novel winner of the Edgar Awards back in 1946, has also passed on. He was 89.

Oline Cogdill presents her top mysteries of the year, headed up by Colin Harrison's THE FINDER. She explains how she made her choices at the Off the Page blog.

The Tribune's Paul Goat Allen looks at recent releases by Evan Kilgore, Max Allan Collins, Zoe Sharp and Tony Spinosa.

Tom & Enid Schantz review new crime fiction by Donna Andrews, David Stuart Davies and Chris Ewan for the Denver Post.

John's Grill, best known for being mentioned in THE MALTESE FALCON, celebrates an important anniversary.

Charles Taylor delves into Derek Raymond's Factory novels at the Nation.

Michael Dirda highlights the small presses making an impact on contemporary horror fiction and ghost stories.

This is your life, David Wroblewski.

Stuart Neville may be on his way to a Wroblewski-like life, too.

Kate Summerscale looks at a new edition of the 1940s board game Cluedo.

Kate Figes presents the UK books published that didn't live up to expectations and got away from desired publishers.

Ex-Harcourt chief Andre Bernard comments on the publishing year that was 2008.

Some entertaining "alternate prizes" for the UK publishing industry. (via)

Chris Goldberg thinks "dudes don't read" but I think he's looking in the wrong places.

David Ulin revisits REVOLUTIONARY ROAD, the classic novel, as the wretched movie hits screens in a few days.

Lionel Shriver considers the career path not taken.

Canongate and Jamie Byng get the star treatment from the Scotsman.

And finally, the mystery author of "The Empty Chair" is revealed to be....Graham Greene!

December 19, 2008

New Dark Passages Column: Exploring Asian Crime Fiction

My newest LA Times column travels back in time to the 1920s, when Earl Derr Biggers started writing a sextet of novels starring Hawaii-based Chinese-American detective Charlie Chan. Then it jumps forward to more contemporary (and enlightened) views of Asians and Asian-Americans, such as Simon Lewis's debut thriller BAD TRAFFIC:

"Bad Traffic" is a rabbit-hole that a reader is willingly sucked into, its fast pace and staccato style a preliminary enticement to deeper insights into the changing nature of Chinese mores. When thinking of his educated daughter, Jian wonders, "Was there ever such a gilded generation as the urban Chinese born in the Eighties? Their whole lives they had surfed the edge of a glorious wave of progress. . . . For them, the world could be trusted to just keep on delivering the goods. They had known nothing but bounty, so there was something green about them. They were as alien as foreigners." This sense of entitlement was built on the backs of those surviving the wreckage of the Cultural Revolution, where those in power like Inspector Jian humiliated intellectuals in the name of Mao.

But when ideology disappears, all that's left to believe in is "love and money, and you'd better have one or the other." But Jian's nihilism may manifest itself in steeling himself up to kill regardless of consequence, but it is exactly those consequences -- the fate of his daughter -- that allows for personification. The scarred contemporary landscape of China created his veneer, but having to function in the greater existential nightmare of a Western world is what restores Jian's humanity, little by little.


Read on for the rest.

December 14, 2008

Can You Identify this Mysterious Writer?

Over the weekend the Times of London engaged in something of a parlor game, printing an excerpt by an "undisputed great of British literature" without revealing who that great is. Editor Erica Wagner uses the anonymous author of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight as inspiration, but let's get on with the show, shall we? Here's how the excerpt of "The Empty Chair" opens:

Alice Lady Perriham had overloaded her piece of toast. She had done so in pure abundance of spirit, because the winter sun streamed in a crisp yellow glow across the breakfast table, and because everyone around her was happy. She liked everyone to be happy. Her favourite quotation was “Laugh and the world laughs with you” and she was never tired of being photographed in hospital wards surrounded by very obviously happy patients. So now in her own home, with a fine day, a house full of people, no husband, and exquisitely conscious of looking no more than 35, she piled the marmalade upon her thin toast in reckless bravado. And the toast, first rebel of the promising day, broke half way to her mouth.

Then three people of all literary stripes - John Sutherland, Barry Forshaw and Margaret Reynolds - take their guesses:

Sutherland: "There's a forced quality to the prose that makes me suspect it is someone writing entirely out of character. I'll cover my bets by saying I'm stumped."

Forshaw: "Difficult to identify? Not at all. This is the first chapter of a fascinating, untitled experiment produced (in one alcohol-fuelled week) by two great American pulp writers, Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, as a tribute to Agatha Christie."

Reynolds: "It is definitely not Ruth Rendell. It's not quite fairytale enough for Antonia Fraser, and not quite wry enough for Lynne Truss. So I'll go with the evidence of the two Shakespearean references and plump for Susan Hill."

Considering Christie's archives were recently unearthed (along with previously undiscovered tapes) I could take the easy way out and guess it's her, but I kind of agree with Sutherland - the piece feels like someone's trying to write in a style they never would ordinarily. But hey, this can't be a game without throwing it open to everyone, right? At least until the answer is revealed next weekend...

December 09, 2008

Patricia Cornwell Profile in the LA Times

The Calendar section of the LA Times runs my piece on the bestselling thriller writer, which is as much about the runup to her new novel SCARPETTA as it is a wonkish look at her contributions to institutions of a forensic science nature. Here's the opener:

Patricia Cornwell's name comes with more than a whiff of myth and expectation. Almost every woman writing thrillers with extreme violence gets compared to Cornwell's bestselling work featuring forensic pathologist Kay Scarpetta. Interviews focus less on the books and more on Cornwell's Armani suits, personal security concerns or her obsession with solving the Jack the Ripper murders. And the publishing industry's current grim fortunes lend an air of urgency to last week's publication of "Scarpetta."

The Cornwell I meet in her Midtown Manhattan penthouse is candid but firmly in control of the conversation. She is less about myth and more about reflection -- on the economy, her 2005 marriage to Staci Gruber, a Harvard neuroscientist, jettisoning artifice in favor of honesty and her career arc. Twenty years ago, Cornwell, now 52, wrote the final words on what would become "Postmortem" (1990). The novel was published by Scribner with a modest first printing and advance (6,000 copies and $6,000, respectively) that came just when Cornwell was about to give up on writing fiction.

Rereading "Postmortem" and immediate sequels reminded me why Cornwell was showered with virtually every major mystery award at the time: Scarpetta's first-person viewpoint lends an intimacy to the serial killing horrors she observes as Virginia's chief medical examiner (in real life, Cornwell once worked as a technical writer and computer analyst in that office), a profession rarely at the forefront of crime fiction at the time. "It was unlike anything we'd ever read before," remembers Richard Goldman, who, with Mary Alice Gorman, owns the Mystery Lovers Bookshop in Oakmont, Pa., and who was an early champion of Cornwell's work. "There had been autopsies in detective fiction and police procedurals, but they were just one of the elements, a sideshow. It was fresh and exciting to see the medical examiner at the center of the story."

As often happens, a lot of good material got left on the cutting room floor, including a follow-up question to what's part of the Cornwell origin story: if Sara Ann Freed, the late and legendary editor with Mysterious Press, was so instrumental in convincing Cornwell to change the protagonist from a cop named Joe Constable to a medical examiner named Kay Scarpetta, why didn't she buy POSTMORTEM?  "I was surprised Mysterious Press rejected it," Cornwell answered. "This is probably apocryphal but I was later told that when "Postmortem" crossed her desk, [Freed] thought it was a rewrite of one of my earlier books. She hadn't realized it was a new one." That left the door open for another legendary mystery editor, Susanne Kirk, to buy it, and now we know the rest of the story...

UPDATE, 12/12: Turns out those ellipses were a good call, because as with any story, there are several sides of it. Margaret Maron, who worked with Freed for a number of years, writes in with her recollection of Freed's version of tale "told more than once":

[Sara Ann] was working at Mysterious Press back when it was owned by Otto Penzler.  Her path had crossed with Cornwell’s and she agreed to read Cornwell’s first manuscript.  It was unpublishable, but she thought that C. had talent and made the sort of suggestions any good editor does to encourage a beginner to forge on.  When C. sent her the next ms., Sara Ann liked it, but thought that cops had been done to death. On the other hand, there lurking in the background with other minor characters was this female ME.  She suggested that C. bring that fresh new kind of investigator to the forefront and yes, keep her a woman.  (This was when a whole new crop of female characters were exploding onto the scene and women protagonists were suddenly hot.)

Knowing good advice when she read it, that’s exactly what Cornwell did.  POSTMORTEM was the result and when Sara Ann read it, she loved it and was wild to buy it.

Unfortunately, Otto Penzler refused to let her.  His reason?   And here I quote Sara Ann directly, “He liked boy books and said he wasn’t going to buy any first novel from any woman writer.  So he made me reject it.”

One of Sara Ann’s endearing traits was loyalty to her employers whoever they were, so she would not have told Cornwell the real reason there was no room on Mysterious Press’s list for that book, but I’m pretty sure she suggested that Cornwell try Susanne Kirk and probably put a word in with Kirk as well.  She felt vindicated by the book's success and always regretted that she wasn't allowed to shepherd it through to publication herself.

And now you do have the rest of the story.

December 05, 2008

Favorite Books at the LA Times

This weekend the Los Angeles Times runs its annual Favorite Books issue with the following categories represented:

My list stretches the concept just a bit, since I include Lewis Shiner's BLACK & WHITE, Stewart O'Nan's SONGS FOR THE MISSING and a non-fiction title, Leonard Cassuto's HARDBOILED SENTIMENTALITY among the bunch.