Going At It Bald Headed

Writers are a rum bunch.

I was a great fan of Cynthis Ozick for years
and then forgot all about her.

Recently, having taken to retracing my reading steps
thanks to Google Books, I find that her obsession
with Henry James was mega.
In fact, it rocked.
It even rocked her confidence in her own voice,
if some of the reviews are to be believed.

However, she somehow survived the mesmerising
magic woven by "The Old Pretender" and if you
have nothing better to do, seek out her description
of the making of a
Golem
in an urban setting.

Such imagination is to be revered...

My Own, Little, Personal Zeitgeist

Emerald Noir continues to exercise the nation.
Today, overwhelmed at last by a genre that fits uneasily
with my giddy temperament, I published a series of
reflections on the character of Gina Rafferty,
energetic heroine of Alan Glynn's
"Winterland".


"My theory is that people who don't like mystery stories are anarchists."
Rex Stout once declaimed.

Got it in one, m'dear. It's not that I don't like a good mystery...
it's just that I cannot unravel the genre from that of the thriller
and once the detective and ganster threads get woven in
I find myself totally bamboozled.

After a mis-spent youth reading every writer from
Poe to Greene under the desk at school I became
besotted with Henry James and Joseph Conrad
and never looked back.
During my first visit to Rome recently, the image of
"Daisy Miller"
flitted across my mind as hordes of tourists
queued to view the Coliseum.
Once acquired, a taste for comedy of manners
leaves little room for any other genre.

I have to admit that I did, just once, read a thriller.
Presented with a new husband and the lively library
of books which accompanied his arrival, I set about
studying my new position with almost scientific zeal.
I read a Dick Francis. Heaven only knows what it was
about and I found the shenanigans in the racing yard
puzzling to the point of being very stressful indeed.

I am delighted to report that I have read
"Winterland" several times in the past few weeks.
I find it crystal clear and highly entertaining.

Just goes to show what a little study will do...

Pavings and street furnishings always catch the eye...

Back Talking to Myself...

For the second time, a comment posted on Crimealwayspays
has evaporated.
This time the obvious answer is to simply post comments here and hope they might link in the outer layers of the blogosphere.

Who cares if a comment is not read?

Well, if somebody takes time to comment here, I certainly
take it seriously.
Time, after all, is time...

Here is the missing post. One tip... always make copies of even comment posts, so a record of all one's good ideas will be available in years to come.

On the subject of crime writers and the possibility of them joining forces in order to influence today's publishing trends:

The current upheavels in the World economy seem to be affecting the publishing world in particular.
Nervousness about conflicting media is debated daily.

Writing is a solitary activity... publishing a very public industry.

Until July, 2009 I did not know that half the population of our jolly little island was writing crime novels and thrillers.

Perhaps letting that other sleepy half of the population, the readers, know more about why this genre is so popular might get us reading more?

Local radio is an obvious forum as well as Vimeo and Youtube.

Reading of excerpts from published work would be an enjoyable way of connecting with the voracious reading public.

My dear Lady Distain...

My dear Lady Distain...


It seems that gender lingers on...

The issues that so bedevilled feminists when I was an adolescent
are still discussed today, but in veiled, mysterious ways.

Gender and the Femme Fatale seem set to stay.


I have to admit I remain at a loss.
I do not have a rhetorical language that allows for
extensive investigation into the subject.
For me, Noir remains a somewhat quaint genre,
full of shadows and echoes of the past.
The films that flitted across the somewhat uncontrasted TV screen
in our sitting room fifty years ago
reeked of smoke, hard liquor and even to my
childish eyes seemed a tad over the top.

The Maltese Falcon was incomprehensible to a person reared in
the best modern way. Taking other people's property
was simply beyond the pale...
crowding into a tight room to discuss the matter with
knuckle-dusters was, while marginally entertaining,
not in the slightest bit realistic.
Nobody in Meath in the 1950's behaved like that.

Ladies in Noir were forever getting snarled up in their
stockings. This image was engagingly mocked in
The Graduate
, years later.


Death by lingerie was not uncommon...

There's much more to come on this subject.
For the moment, the jury is out...