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What I've Finished Reading

The Dead Man's Knock was perfectly satisfying, and just as pulpy as its cover promised. Dr. Gideon Fell is a good old-fashioned eccentric amateur - an enormous, rumpled, and billowing English expert on something or other who walks with (and/or brandishes) two canes, likes baffling his American hosts with cryptic jokes and seemingly trivial unsolicited opinions, and intones every other sentence. He's been invited to this small American college to look at some letters of Wilkie Collins, but his true area of study is MURDER. There's plenty of probably spurious mid-twentieth-century psychology, distributed generously among characters who are not always as distinct from one another as Dr. Fell is from them, and everyone is always driving three blocks in a giant car, because it's America and 1958.

The best thing about The Keeper of Lost Causes by far is its title - or maybe I should say my favorite thing; it's not a bad book of its kind, I think, but it's not exactly what I want to read. Psycho killers, lots of meticulously planned torture, violent action-suspense ending with unhappy and ambiguous denouement - not deal-breakers by any means, but not worth wading through awkwardly translated prose for the sake of. Add some random jeremiads about obesity and the laziness of the Danish people, and you've got a fool-proof recipe for my indifference. As a dark thriller with strong detective elements, it wasn't badly made. Carl Mørck eventually gets around to doing his job, there's plenty of suspense, and if you like reading about people in extreme situations trying to keep their heads together, this is an example of that.

What I'm Reading Now

The next book in my mystery bundle is The Mystery of Crooknose!

The Mystery of Crooknose isn't anything remarkable so far: there's a young, perky, slightly mean couple who run into a lot of murders apparently (Gin is the corpse magnet; Red is just the dashing boyfriend) and this conference for writers is no exception. It's fun to see Gin being so blasé about her inability to go anywhere without someone fetching up dead in mysterious circumstances. It's also fun to see a semi-satirical picture of the writing-conference scene from 1963. Crooknose is an enormous and venerable conference in New Hampshire, very obviously based on the real-life Bread Loaf. The mystery itself is nothing to write home about (so far), and neither are Gin and Red, apart from their breezy no-nonsense attitude toward death by foul play. It's just ok!

Last Ditch begins with Ricky Alleyn, Alleyn's ambiguously-aged son! I guess he's supposed to have just left university, and he's spending time on some island off the coast of Normandy to try to be a writer. It's probably fitting that Ricky is a little dull, just as Alleyn is a little dull before you get used to him. He meets a thin-skinned painter from New Zealand who wants to be introduced to Troy. There is something about sponsorship offers from a tube paint company, and Ricky's new friend offers him some drugs and is rebuffed, naturally, because all Alleyns are upright and clean, even amid the temptations of the Groovy Now. Meanwhile, back in Stasis House, Troy and Alleyn are reading Ricky's letters and acting paternal at one another. What I'm really curious about, of course, is whether Ricky will inherit his parents' persistent agelessness, and if so, whether it will kick in after he turns forty, like his father, or strand him in his twenties to avoid the awkward possibility of all the Alleyns being the same age at the same time. There probably aren't enough books left in the series for me to find out.

What I Plan to Read Next

. . .is not the only mystery, but a mystery nonetheless.
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This post is archived from Livejournal and contains images I haven't been able to figure out how to post here yet. I'll come back and put them in one of these days.

What I Bought on My Trip

I am very excited about this item:

Every day is a mystery )

For those of you unable to view images, or in case I am bad at taking pictures, this is a bundle of books in brown paper, with the label "Six Mystery Paperback Novels, No Duplicates, $2.00" I couldn't resist the opportunity to be surprised, for only two dollars; it's a major victory of willpower that I only bought one of these.

Here's the beautiful first book in the stack:

[a beautiful image you can't yet see]

I love this cover! Who is this gigantic man walking away from the corpse chair? I hope it's our detective. So far, no one has died; we've just had a bitter Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf-esque conversation between a young prematurely estranged married couple at one of those deceptively bucolic little colleges with rotten swarming hearts. Well, academia will do that to you, if it doesn't just stab you in the neck straight off. Stay safe!

What I Didn't Buy But Am Reading Anyway

I can't exactly say that I like The Keeper of Lost Causes, but I'm still reading it, so make of that what you will. The grisly details of the fictional politician's bizarre torture and captivity are not really my favorite form of entertainment, and Carl Mørck, Allegedly Great Detective, is never going to get on my good side if he can't be bothered to read the report of the case he's supposed to be working on. I'm terribly sad that you have PTSD and your wife is a bitch, Mørck! My eyes are brimming with tears of sympathy! But if you aren't going to do your job, you should probably find a different one, maybe something low-key with no murders and no kidnapped women who are depending on your task force to get them un-kidnapped somehow.

The translation, or possibly the original prose, continues to be clumsy, but the chapters are short and go by quickly, and there's enough suspense to keep me turning pages. Probably that means it's at least ok? I won't know until I've finished it. I am enjoying all the Danish place names, which are obviously being made to carry a lot of meaning and imagery in the text but for which I have no context at all.

Also: FEET OF CLAY by Terry Pratchett.

Is it possible for me to love Watch Commander "Sir" Samuel Vimes any more? Probably the answer is always, because I have thought the same thing in every book in which he appears, and yet the bar keeps on getting raised. In today's episode: Vimes hates toffs, but circumstances have conspired to weight each of his victories generously with embarrassment, and now for some reason he is one. That is, he's exactly the same as he always was, but people keep trying to shave him, or assassinate him, and his life is pitted all over with awkward parties and moral nausea. Will he ever be able to play cards in peace again? (Has he ever been able to do anything in peace?)

This book has golems! I love golems! I hope they don't get mixed up in one of Ankh-Morpork's perennial attempts to restore the monarchy, but the back cover strongly suggests that they will. Carrot is still writing letters home, and his partnership with Angua has gotten even more adorable. In keeping with plans to establish a department of Looking at Clues and Things (official name pending), they've hired a dwarf alchemist named Cheery Littlebottom - I like Vimes' attempts to be culturally sensitive (or maybe just to throw Cheery off by not laughing at his name) and Littlebottom's feat of Sherlockian cigar detection:

"I want someone who can look at an ashtray and tell me what kind of cigars I smoke."

"Pantweed's Slim Panatellas," said Littlebottom automatically.

"Good gods!"

"You've left the packet on the table, sir."

Also, will Sybil ever be as magnificent again as she was in Guards! Guards!, or has she been permanently demoted to occasional plot device? I guess I'll find out!

What I Plan to Read Next

I don't know what's next in my mystery bundle, but I know I'm going to read it! Plus the next Ngaio Marsh, whatever we're up to now.
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Archived from Livejournal

It's been a low-murder couple of weeks here. I started reading The Keeper of Lost Causes by Jussi Adler-Olsen, based on a rec from one of my customers. So far it hasn't made much of an impression, except that the prose is painfully “translated,” – that is, a little too generic and just slightly off-idiom. It's hard to tell how much of the problem is with the translation and how much is part of the original text. The introductory conversations establishing the character of Carl Mørk and the political situation of the police department are so straightforward and no-frills that the straightforwardness is entertaining in its own right, a strong but flavorless distillation of police-fiction clichés:

“. . .[T]his is a hell of a time for Carl Mørk to rejoin the team and monopolize four of our very best detectives. People are complaining about him, and who do you think they're complaining to?” He jabbed at his chest, as if he were the only one who had to listen to people's shit.

“He shows up hours late,” he went on. “Rides his staff hard, rummages around with the cases, and refuses to return phone calls. His office is utter chaos, and you won't believe this, but they called from the forensics lab to bitch about a phone conversation with him. The boys from forensics – can you believe it? It takes a lot to aggravate those guys. We need to do something about Carl, Marcus, regardless of what he's been through. . . He's not suited to working here; we're too dependent on each other. Carl was hopeless as a colleague from day one. Why did you ever bring him downtown from Bellahøj?”

Markus fixed his eyes on Bjørn. “He was and is an outstanding detective, Lars. That's why.”

I never can decide whether I'm on the outs with the “genius detective is also most annoying man in four counties” trope or if I love it, and I think the only true answer is “it depends.” On what? It just depends. This one could be really great, despite some awkwardness in the prose, or it could be so generic it's nonexistent, but it's too soon to tell.

Question for the better-informed: Are there genius detectives who are also the most annoying woman in four counties? Or any geographical range? There was creepy, cackling Mrs. Bradley in Speedy Death (and a bunch of other books I haven't read yet) – who else is difficult to work with, but the best at what they do?

In other news, I stopped by the library book sale and bought a stack of books – most of them for the store, but a few for me to read first. Some Ngaio Marsh and Josephine Tey, because I like to keep the shelves stocked with my old-school murder faves even if no one else is interested (there is one Ngaio Marsh fan who comes in occasionally; for all I know we're just buying and selling each others books in an endless loop) – also an earlyish P. D. James and a Ruth Rendell, and Plain Murder by C. S. Forester, author of the Hornblower books.

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