Prettying Up Murder: "The Lady in the Lake"

Book: The Lady in the Lake
Author: Raymond Chandler
Pages: 266
Copy: Vintage Crime paperback I've had for years
Read: November 13-16 (I read this for my Noir mystery reading group)
Spoilers: I won't give away who murders who, if that's what you mean

I think there are two kinds of people in this world: people who think Raymond Chandler is a great Noir mystery writer and people who don't. I'm one of the latter. Now, let me explain.

I think two things go into whether or not you like Chandler. The most important factor is who you read first, Dashiell Hammett or Chandler. If you read Hammett first (and enjoy him), then Chandler is an upstart copycat who has no idea what he's writing about. If you read Chandler first, then Hammett is an insane violence junkie.

The second factor is how snobbish you are about genre fiction. Chandler tries hard to make his writing read like literary fiction--using overblown figurative language, obvious allusions, and complex murders that require bizarre coincidences that are only barely plausible, laboring under the impression that complexity equals literary. If you think genre fiction is pointless money-grubbing (read this thoughtful if still painfully elitist piece on the debate between genre and literary fiction--it'll at least give you ammunition, even if it doesn't change your mind), then you can read Chandler happily because he's trying so hard to escape the genre. That being said, he seems to genuinely love Noir mystery, so his desire to escape could really be an attempt to elevate the genre. Unfortunately, to my mind, he reinforces the so-called problems of genre fiction rather than transcending them. Hammett, on the other hand, never tried to escape his genre. He more or less created the genre and then broke the mold. No one--granted I haven't read everything but that's why I'm leading a Noir mystery reading group--no one does Noir better than Hammett. I think that kills Chandler. He wants to be the literary version of Hammett, but that's impossible. Hammett existed happily enough within the confines of genre. Chandler can't stand genre.

The Lady in the Lake is a page turner, I'll give it that. The timescale is off-the-charts unrealistic (almost The Da Vinci Code bad, minus the airplanes), but it's easy to ignore that detail. The case starts out as a simple missing persons, but the body count builds rapidly (interestingly, only one person is shot to death--the rest are killed in a more hands-on way) and the mystery deepens. That the solution requires...well, I don't want to give everything away. But the solution is divisive. Some (probably those pesky Hammett fans) will find the solution absolutely ridiculous. Others (probably those staunch Chandler fans) will find the solution ingenious. I doubt anyone will find it boring.

The violence is mostly off-stage. Sure Marlowe gets beat up a couple times, but all the deaths happen before Marlowe arrives or while he's unconscious. That being said, the first murdered body is described in rather gruesome detail. Eat your lunch after you've read the first 60 pages. But other than that first body, the violence and death is pretty understated. Think Greek tragedy, not Stephen King.

The novel is written in the first person, which is always a difficult move for a writer of mysteries. The author can't give too much away, which means the detective can't think too much. This runs the risk of making the detective seem like a bumbling idiot. Unfortunately, this novel suffers a little from that. It's difficult to tell whether or not Marlowe actually knows what he's doing. He just seems to sort of wander around, getting beat up and finding dead bodies. Then the big pay-off scene comes around and he suddenly knows everything. (For the record, Hammett also uses the first person occasionally, but his detective doesn't seem quite so bumbling to me. Chalk it up to bias, I suppose.)

Two final notes. The diction is awkward. Marlowe tends to use fairly sophisticated diction, which is jarringly out of place in a Noir mystery. He's also a bit of a snob, commenting on the quality of his food and drink, a move that makes him a little dandified.  And then there's the figurative language.

"The minutes went by on tiptoe, with their fingers to their lips."

"One drop of that in the hollow of your throat and the matched pink pearls started falling on you like summer rain." 

The first is the way Marlowe describes the time he spends waiting outside the office of his soon-to-be client, the second describes a perfume. Both sentences occur within the first six pages. Did you wince a little? I winced. That kind of language shows how hard Chandler is trying and how completely he is failing. (Okay, okay--he fails to me. Not everyone agrees.) I can't really see a hard-boiled detective thinking like that. The figurative language reinforces the sense that Marlowe has either slipped down a few pegs socially, or that he has no idea what he's doing--that he's just playing at detective.

Alright, who should read this? I think young people (say 16 or 17+) will love Chandler. He's a little gross and a little violent, just enough to titillate a young reader who hasn't read many mysteries yet. People from LA are likely to love Chandler, just because he celebrates the area. Established mystery readers are going to either be Chandler fans or not, so be careful. Ultimately, the Noir mystery genre is a little more of a man's genre--the women are pretty stock, often deeply sexualized, and often either evil or dumb. Some women won't care--they'll just like the mystery--other women will be offended. That's a deeply personal opinion, so I'd never try to really influence anyone one way or the other. Just keep it in mind.

--Benvolia

Is Marriage Really Worth It?: "Middlemarch"

Book: Middlemarch
Author: George Eliot (or Mary Anne Evans, if you prefer)
Pages: 802, including endnotes
Copy: a Barns and Noble Classics I bought years ago (it's pretty ugly and it has tons of typos--find a better copy to read)
Read: I read this for book group, so I started it the middle of October and finished it November 11th
Spoilers: exceedingly minor ones--don't worry, I don't give away specifics

This book came with such high praise, I should have known I wouldn't love it. Almost without fail, whenever a book comes with recommendations, I dislike it. That being said, I didn't hate this book. I can see myself reading this book again in 20 or 30 years and having it make a huge impact on me. That's not to say that this book is meant for 40 or 50 year-olds. I think it has a lot to say to young people, especially young people who are in a relationship for the wrong reasons.

One of the reasons I didn't overwhelming enjoy this book is because I just ended a relationship I was in for the wrong reasons. This meant I read most of the book cringing and yelling at the various characters who marry exactly the wrong person for exactly the wrong reasons. That being said, I think this book has one of the most important quotes any young person could read:

She was not in the least teaching Mr. Casaubon to ask if he were good enough for her, but merely asking herself anxiously how she could be good enough for Mr. Casaubon. (Chapter V)

 That is the sort of advice everyone should get quite early in their lives, especially women. I think women spend much of their lives changing themselves to fit whatever they think their men want, and never pause to wonder why their men aren't trying to do the same. That's why I think this quote is so important to many young person, not just women. I don't think many men realize just how much women feel the pressure to change. (I'm sorry to hold up society's emphasis on heterosexual relationships--if anyone wants to chime in about how this dynamic works in relationships I haven't experienced, please do. I'd love to hear if it's different, the same, more complex, less complex...however it works.)

Now to the plot. This is a book about marriage. Unlike Jane Austen, who traces the courtship of her characters but ends the novel at the marriage, George Eliot explores the actual marriage. Courtship is basically skipped, but the marriage part is meticulously detailed. This is both tedious and endlessly fascinating. There are two marriages that are explored in great detail, and one was a great deal more interesting to me than the other, but I think the two different marriages need to be contrasted against one another. No matter how annoying I find Dr. Lydgate and his foul wife, his marriage contrasts sharply with Dorothea's marriage to Mr. Casaubon. If one or the other were missing, the novel would fall apart.

Eliot does have a few side issues she wants to explore, though, which means that several chunks of this novel discuss marriage only indirectly. One of these side issues is medicine in the 1820s and 1830s, a topic that is about as exciting as it sounds. A great deal of medical reform began around this time, but even Eliot can't make it that interesting. Instead, it boils down to petty bickering between the old guard and modern interlopers. Perhaps to those interested in medical history these sections will be funny or more interesting than the marriages, but to me they distracted from the main plot and slowed the novel down. There is also a blackmail plot, which is marginally more interesting than the medical history. However, the bad past doesn't seem that bad and the victim suffers what I thought was an unrealistic punishment. However, I think my reaction may be a modern one; it certainly seems plausible that people of the 1800s would have been horrified. Finally, there is the issue of the Reform Act, a historical event that seems fascinating but Eliot treats the subject unevenly. In several sections, the Act comes to center stage, but Eliot never really looks at the subject in depth. Perhaps the original audience of the novel would have known all the circumstances surrounding the Act, but I think Eliot could have fleshed out the debate more and made it more central. It certainly seems more interesting than the medical subplot.

I noticed a few interesting things about this novel. Eliot seems to have some sort of economic or capitalist critique going on, but it's hard to tease out. It's hard to say if she's actually critiquing industrialism and the other trappings of capitalism, or just noticing their effect on the lives of people. I think it would take a great deal of research to figure out just what she's saying (research that I don't want to engage in, primarily because I find this novel just tedious enough that actually spending that sort of time with it would probably make me want to stop reading altogether). Also interesting is the way Eliot uses babies as a way to characterize marriage. This is so unrealistic that it's endlessly fascinating. One marriage is childless, but the rest of the marriages result in at least two children. Somehow Eliot uses children to reflect on the strength of a marriage, while also using children to reflect on the parents. I don't want to give too much away, but if you read this book, pay attention to the babies. They seem loaded with symbolic importance, the sort of symbolic importance that is absolutely impossible in real life. In an otherwise realistic novel, this symbol is striking.

Eliot's real power lays in her asides and in the voice she gives her narrator. She has some of the finest insults in 19th century literature and some of the strongest observations in literature. The narrator of Middlemarch comes and goes unpredictably, but whenever the narrator is present, you're privy to some of the funniest observations (or drolly accurate summaries) I've ever read. That being said, this book is going to appeal to very specific people. People who like classics could attempt this book, but I'd recommend reading it in a group. Otherwise you might not have the strength to force yourself through it. Because this novel looks particularly at marriage, I'd recommend it to classics readers who are marriage or are in a committed relationship (not because I want to cause problems, but because I think it's always good to think about your relationships and what you're sacrificing). This is also a classic in feminist literature (if it isn't, it should be). Eliot looks directly at the limited choices women have (marry or don't marry, and even if you do marry your choices are incredibly limited) and how those limited choices destroy women. Finally, to any young people who feel ambitious, I'd suggest you read this book. Suffer through some of the dull parts and you'll learn all you need to know about adult relationships--their pitfalls and their joys.

--Benvolia

What Comes Next?: “After”

Book: After: Nineteen Stories of Apocalypse and Dystopia

Editors: Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling

Pages: 359

Copy: advanced reader copy

Read: finished September 2

Spoilers: minor details, but nothing that ruins anything

Upon first seeing this book, I had my usual, aggravated reaction to anyone who lumps apocalyptic and dystopian literature together.  Luckily, the editors anticipated me.  Windling and Datlow admit that “blistering arguments about what should and shouldn’t be labeled dystopian fiction” (which they rather annoyingly refer to as dyslit from throughout the rest of the introduction) “have consumed whole Internet forums, convention panels, and book review columns…As for us…we’ve chosen to take a broader road in the creation of this anthology, including both dystopian and post-disaster tales…”  Fair enough.  While I cling to the classic definition of dystopia, I appreciate anyone who takes a moment to explain the difference and admit they what exactly they are doing.

The collection opens with an interesting, if rather short, story by Genevieve Valentine.  While Valentine’s position isn’t precisely a new one (this story bears some resemblance to Stephen King’s The Running Man, in that both stories deal with reality TV—Valentine’s version is much more YA friendly, though, lacking the goriness of King’s novel), she does a good job introducing teen readers to this subgenre of dystopian literature.  (On second thought, anyone who’s read The Hunger Games will already know the reality TV-dystopia.  Still, Valentine’s story comes from enough of a different angle to be interesting, if slightly derivative.)

The next story, “After the Cure” by Carrie Ryan, is one of the best in the collection.  Having read Ryan’s YA book (The Forest of Hands and Teeth), I find this short story infinitely superior and far from the melodrama that deeply marred her novel.  “After the Cure” is psychologically complex and asks important questions about survivors.  Ryan’s contribution to the collection is one of the few I’ve thought about since, so interesting are the questions it asks and the answers it suggests.

Other standout stories include Matthew Kressel’s “The Great Game at the End of the World,” another deeply complex story with heavy questions; “Reunion” by Susan Beth Pfeffer, which kept me guessing with its complex post-rebellion moodiness; Jeffrey Ford’s painfully relevant “Blood Drive,” which may be a little difficult to read given current events; Steven Gould’s “Rust with Wings;” “Faint Heart” by Sarah Rees Brennan, which does joyful battle with clichéd gender roles; and Nalo Hopkinson’s “The Easthound,” which has as surprising an ending as can be expected.  That there are seven excellent stories in a collection of this sort is nothing short of miraculous.

I found three stories to be absolute failures.  Katharine Langrish’s “Visiting Nelson” has the seed of an excellent story, given that it is a melting pot of A Clockwork Orange, 1984, and other dystopias based in London, but she doesn’t accomplish enough.  She might have better luck if she extends her story, though only if she does so carefully.  Her writing isn’t so engaging that I would put up with it for long.  Gregory Maguire (whom, I will admit, I’ve never really enjoyed) offers a nearly unreadable story (“How Th’irth Wint Rong By Hapless Joey @ Homeskool.guv).  His narrators are nearly illiterate survivors, but they aren’t engaging and his story goes nowhere.  I’ll admit I was disappointed, but not particularly surprised given my track record with this author.  Jane Yolen’s boring, half-hearted contribution (“Gray”), though, is by far the greatest disappointment.  Perhaps because it is the only poem in the collection (and by far the shortest entry), it sticks out the most and fails to satisfy utterly.

Some who have read Garth Nix’s dark Shade’s Children may be interested in his story, “You Won’t Feel a Thing.”  I, though, was left a little cold.  Partly, it’s been a long time since I read Shade’s Children, but perhaps more important is the story’s uselessness to the wider story hinted at in Shade’s Children.  This short story didn’t change anything in Shade’s Children, or even deepen my understanding of that novel.  (It is perhaps a disappointment because he has accomplished what he failed to do in this story elsewhere.  “Over the Wall” explores some of the complexity of the world created in his Abhorsen Trilogy, adding something new and changing the characters just the right amount.)

This collection will be especially good for anyone searching for literature after The Hunger Games.  (Especially helpful is the “About the Contributors” at the back of the book, which makes it easy to find what else an author has written.)  This collection may not be very well-received by adult readers—the stories lack the moral complexity of truly classic dystopia.  That being said, this is a good introduction to the vastness of the genre and is an excellent book for anyone who collects dystopian books (guilty!).  This is also a useful collection for anyone interested in looking academically at the explosion of YA dystopia, because it collects many of the important themes of modern teen dystopias and lacks the annoying romantic melodrama of YA novels.

--Benvolia