Talking About Detective Fiction by P.D. James

Settings, particularly landscapes, are often most effectively described when the writer uses a place with which he is intimately familiar. If we want to know what it is like to be a detective in twenty-first-century Edinburgh we can learn more from Ian Rankin's Rebus novels than we can from any official guidebook, as we move with Rebus down the roads and alleyways of the city and into its pubs and its public and private buildings. Ruth Rendell has used East Anglia and London, both places with which she is familiar, for some of her most admired novels written under the pseudonym Barbara Vine. East Anglia has a particular attraction for detective novelists: the remoteness of the east coast, the dangerous encroaching North Sea, the bird-loud marshes, the emptiness, the great skies, the magnificent churches and the sense of being in a place alien, mysterious and slightly sinister, where it is possible to stand under friable cliffs eaten away by the tides of centuries and imagine that we hear the bells of ancient churches buried under the sea.

-Talking About Detective Fiction

When I was a teenager I read a fair amount of Agatha Christie, starting with the twisty, clever And Then There Were None. At one point, I thought maybe I could write a detective story too. I looked over all of the books of Christie's that I owned in an attempt develop a sort of formula for writing mysteries. I remember being particularly concerned with how many suspects I would need. Nothing came of it, of course, except me dreaming up character names (always amusing), but it's certainly illustrative of why I would pick up a book like Talking About Detective Fiction.

P.D. James, grande dame of modern mysteries, is (unsurprisingly) a big fan of detective novels. In Talking About Detective Fiction, she traces the history of the genre (hello, Wilkie Collins!), delves into some points of to consider while writing (such as setting, above), then takes a moment to consider detective fiction today. It's a quick read, and a great overview of what is possibly my favorite genre of fiction.

I especially enjoyed reading James's thoughts on mystery authors over the years, many of whom I was familar with (Arthur Conan Doyle, Christie; also Rendell and Rankin, to a lesser extent). I am eager to try out some of the authors I've never read before, like Dorothy L. Sayers and some of the other Golden Age novelists. She also mentions Reginald Hill's Dalziel and Pascoe series, which I've wanted to try for some time now solely because I think the name Dalziel is so wonderful.

One other point that James makes that I thought was interesting is on the modern convention of the flawed detective. Although Sherlock Holmes would fit in well with some of the more psychologically complex detectives today — indeed, James notes that his seeming modernity is probably part of why that series has remained so popular — many detectives from years gone by had much more stable lives.

But are we in danger of reducing the fictional police officer to a stereotype - solitary, divorced, hard-drinking, psychologically flawed and disillusioned? Real-life senior detectives are not stereotypes. Would anyone, I wonder, create a fictional detective who enjoys his work, gets on well with his colleagues, is happily married, has a couple of attractive, well-behaved children who cause him no trouble, reads the lesson in his parish church and spends his few free hours playing the cello in his amateur string quartet? I doubt whether readers would find him wholly credible, but he would certainly be an original.*

I have to confess that I wonder how interesting this detective would be. Perhaps that's unfair. I'd probably give it a try if the premise seemed engaging, but I do enjoy those damaged detectives.

Up next: Surprisingly, not a mystery, although that would have been a nice segue. I've started The Magicians by Lev Grossman, and I'm really enjoying it so far. Fingers crossed.

*Yes, this excerpt is from the same page on which she discusses Kurt Wallander, who ticks all of the boxes pretty nicely, although he's not particularly hard-drinking — compared with a Harry Hole or a McNulty, at least — and generally seems to go for junk food more than alcohol.

PS - My 100th post, just one day shy of the one-year anniversary of this blog. Neat.

Moab Is My Washpot by Stephen Fry

Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry play chess - Cambridge, 1980

The story of a sensitive young weed struggling to grow up in the robust thicket of an English public school is not likely to arouse sympathy in the breasts of every reader. It was a subject done to death in the earlier part of this century in novels, memoirs, and autobiographies. I am a cliché and I know it. I was not kidnapped by slave traders, forced to shine shoes at the age of three in Rio or sent up chimneys by a sadistic sweep. I grew up neither in circumstances of abject poverty, nor in surroundings of fantastic wealth. I was not abused, neglected or exploited. Middle-class at a middle-class school in middle England, well nourished, well taught and well cared for, I have nothing of which to complain and my story, such as it is, is as much one of good fortune as of anything else. But it is my story and worth no more and no less than yours or anyone else's. It is, in my reading at least, a kind of pathetic love story. I would prefer to call it pathétique or even appassionata, but pathetic will do, in all its senses.

-Moab Is My Washpot

When I wrote about Jude Law's Hamlet, I mentioned that I had first come to notice him when I rented Wilde as a teenager. Wilde was also where I first came across Stephen Fry. I find it funny in retrospect that I have known of him for so long, whereas I only discovered his comedy partner Hugh Laurie, now much more famous here in America, about five years ago. * I assume, after House, it's much more common now to discover them the other way round.

Anyway, I've long liked Fry. If he'd done nothing but Jeeves and Wooster, he'd be in my good books, but that's only one of his many accomplishments. He's immensely, almost unbelievably clever, in a way that makes one despair about one's own education. To read Moab Is My Washpot, Fry's account of his youth and coming of age, is to delight in the company of someone who loves language and plays ever so nicely with it. The man can wield a word. It's actually quite difficult to carry on about well he writes without noticing that my own writing looks so lumpish and ungainly put next to his. Oh, difficulties.

Fry, in addition to being a clever-clogs - he wrote an epic poem in his teenage years in which he rhymed "Hitleresquely bad" with "picturesquely had" - is also disarmingly frank. His life story doesn't play entirely as one might expect. Oh, some of it does, yes - the public school**, the house in the countryside he takes care to describe as not too "Bridesheady." And even his schoolboy penchant for nicking pence from the pockets of his classmates might not seem too out of the ordinary. It starts to become evident, though, as time goes on, that things are starting to go awry - and this is long before he tries swiping credit cards, though it does come to that.

Clearly I have no idea how honest Fry is being in his account, but it certainly feels quite heartfelt. The shame he recalls at some points just radiates off the page - as does the love he feels for one of his classmates, the beautiful Matthew Osborne. Fry's love for Osborne (a pseudonym) was the all-consuming passion of his teenage years - and, in his recollection, possibly fuel for his increasingly reckless behavior.*** In any case, it's hard for a reader to stay indifferent in the face of any of it - even if you were otherwise totally unfamiliar with Fry, I don't see how you could come away unsympathetic.

I met Fry once, at a book signing last year - a little different from meeting him at a cocktail party, of course, but still exciting for me. As with every author signing I've been to, I found it a rather intimidating experience. He was very kind, though, and all the fans I saw walked away from meeting him with their signed books clutched tightly to their chests and smiles on their faces. Just another reminder of how lucky we are to have him around.

Up next: P.D. James's Talking About Detective Fiction, which I suspect I will breeze through quite quickly.


*Heck, I even knew about their fellow Cambridge Footlights member Tony Slattery, little known here, before I'd ever heard the name Hugh Laurie; I was a huge devotee of Whose Line Is It Anyway? (UK) during my senior year of high school. Tony Slattery in any Party Quirks sketch was always the best - especially the one where Rory Bremner plays Tony Slattery.

**It's amazing to me how much of Harry Potter is really true, minus the magic - just swap in double Maths for double Potions and rugby for Quidditch.

***Although his late-in-book spending spree, for instance, is classic manic behavior, and Fry has been diagnosed with manic depression. (He actually made a documentary about manic depression that I should seek out, as it sounded interesting. Quite interesting, even.)

In Defense of Food by Michael Pollan

That eating should be foremost about bodily health is a relatively new and, I think, destructive idea - destructive not just of the pleasure of eating, which would be bad enough, but paradoxically of our health as well. Indeed, no people on earth worry more about the health consequences of their food choices than we Americans do - and no people suffer from as many diet-related health problems. We are becoming a nation of orthorexics: people with an unhealthy obesession with healthy eating.

The scientists haven't tested the hypothesis yet, but I'm willing to bet that when they do they'll find an inverse correlation between the amount of time people spend worrying about nutrition and their overall health and happiness. This is, after all, the implicit lesson of the French paradox, so-called not by the French (Quel paradoxe?) but by American nutritionists, who can't fathom how a people who enjoy their food as much as the French do, and blithely eat so many nutrients deemed toxic by nutritionists, could have substantially lower rates of heart disease than we do on our elaborately engineered low-fat diets. Maybe it's time we confronted the American paradox: a notably unhealthy population preoccupied with nutrition and diet and the idea of eating healthily.

-In Defense of Food

It's possible that, in lieu of a review, I could just post seven words: "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants."

That's Michael Pollan's oft-quoted mantra, the heart of his argument in In Defense of Food. Anyone who's been paying attention to food news in the last few years may also be familiar with some other pieces of Pollan's work: the idea that you shouldn't eat anything your great-grandmother wouldn't recognize, for example, or anything with more than five ingredients in it. Still, even if they're not new to you, these are easy-to-remember points that could really stick in people's minds and affect how they eat. Pollan elaborates quite a bit, and provides a lot of useful information about how our relationship with food has changed over time, how it's hurting us now, and what we need to change. It's a matter of spreading awareness and education, and helping people believe that they are capable of achieving better health.

It's not quite so easy, of course. Pollan admits that good food - actual food, that is, as opposed to processed food products - is likely to be more expensive and, in some areas, less available than the junk. Still, it's a matter of people who do have the luxury of making these choices doing so. Individual choices add up, and can gradually change the culture.

It's really easy to be snookered by food. I spent years eating veggie burgers, thinking that they were both tasty and healthy. In retrospect: the soy. The hexane (recently in the news). The ingredient list that runs way longer than five. More and more, I'm reevaluating everything. And continuing to read books like In Defense of Food only reinforces the aversion that I'm developing toward processed foods.*

I'm biased, for sure. I think everyone should read In Defense of Food and Fast Food Nation, and watch Food, Inc. and Super Size Me. Or just pick one - In Defense of Food would be an excellent place to start.

As for me, I'm going to be leafing through back issues of Gourmet, looking for something I could cook this weekend. One of the great side effects of avoiding processed food is that I'm becoming a more adventurous cook. More work? Sure. But it's awfully nice to really know what went into you're eating - and that there was no soy lecithin or high fructose corn syrup required to turn it into "food."

Up next: Stephen Fry's autobiography, Moab is My Washpot.

*Replacing my aversion to blueberries, which I am in the process of dismantling, hooray.

The Likeness by Tana French

He froze the frame on Lexie, head turned over her shoulder to say something, eyes bright and mouth half open in a smile. I looked at her, soft-edged and flickering like she might fly off the screen at any second, and I thought: I used to be like that. Sure-footed and invulnerable , up for anything that came along. Just a few months ago, I used to be like that.

"Cassie," Frank said softly. "Your call."

For what seemed like a long time, I thought about saying no. Back to DV: the standard Monday crop of the weekend's aftermath, too many bruises and high-necked sweaters and sunglasses indoors, the regulars filing charges on their boyfriends and withdrawing them by Tuesday night, Maher sitting beside me like a big pink ham in a sweater and sniggering predictably every time we pulled a case with foreign names.

If I went back there the next morning I would never leave. I knew it as solid as a fist in my stomach. This girl was like a dare, flung hard and deadly accurate straight at me: a once-off chance, and catch it if you can [...]

"Tell me this woman smoked," I said.

-The Likeness

The Likeness picks up six months after the events of In The Woods (see the previous post), and I'm going to do my best to tell you about the former without revealing too much about the latter. A bit tricky for a sequel, but here goes.

The Likeness, by Tana French, is not a particularly conventional sequel, anyway. In The Woods covered a Murder investigation led by detectives Rob Ryan and Cassie Maddox, told from Rob's point of view. Cassie tells the story of The Likeness, leaving Rob mostly out of the picture. Still recovering from the outcome of her last case in Murder, Cassie has arranged for a transfer to Domestic Violence. One day she gets called to a crime scene by Murder detective Sam O'Neill. There's a body she needs to see.

The dead girl bears an uncanny resemblance to Cassie, and they share more than that. Her college ID shows that she went by the name of Lexie Madison - the same name Cassie used when she was working undercover years earlier. Cassie's boss from undercover, Frank Mackey, is at the scene as well, and he has a crazy idea: What if the detectives pretended that Lexie had pulled through, and stuck Cassie back into her life to suss out the killer? "We've got the chance to investigate a murder from the inside," Frank says with a grin.

Cassie's resistant at first, but Frank gradually wears her down, and after feverishly studying everything from local geography to subtle body language (luckily Lexie left a cache of videos on her phone), Cassie's walking up to Whitethorn House, her new home - and possibly the home of Lexie's killer.

Lexie lived with a tightly knit group of doctoral students - Daniel, serious and aloof; skittish Justin; beautiful Rafe, with the quick temper; and warm, motherly Abby. They were each other's family. Cassie's job is to live with them for a few weeks and pick up as much as she can about who Lexie Madison really was and who might have had it in for her.

It's an unusual premise for a mystery, and though I missed Rob a bit*, I quickly became just as absorbed in The Likeness as I was with In The Woods. Like Cassie, the reader is drawn in to Lexie's weirdly close group of friends (a little Googling reveals I am not the first to see a comparison to The Secret History) and wants to know what secrets they are keeping. The undercover angle ratchets up the suspense, and the more we learn, the more dangerous the situation seems. It ends more neatly than In the Woods did, but certainly leaves the door open for further adventures with the Dublin crew. Maybe Sam will get a story? That just occurred to me, and I love the idea. Fingers crossed.

Up next: At long last, In Defense of Food by Michael Pollan. Very much looking forward to it.

*Okay, a lot - I'm very curious about what he's up to.

In the Woods by Tana French

I wish I could show you how an interrogation can have its own beauty, shining and cruel as that of a bullfight; how in defiance of the crudest topic or most moronic suspect it keeps inviolate its own taut, honed grace, its own irresistible and blood-stirring rhythms; how the great pairs of detectives knew each other's every thought as surely as ballet partners in a pas de deux. I never knew and never will know whether either Cassie or I was a great detective, though I suspect not, but I know this: we made a team worthy of bard-songs and history books. This was our last and greatest dance together, danced in a tiny interview room with darkness outside and rain falling soft and relentless on the roof, for no audience but the doomed and the dead.

-In the Woods

Readers of In the Woods will soon discover that Detective Rob Ryan never should have taken the Katy Devlin case. Katy, an aspiring ballerina from the town of Knocknaree in Ireland, is found dead at a local archeological dig. She was murdered, and rookie Murder detective Rob and his partner Cassie Maddox are the only ones around when the call comes in. There's a brief window of time when Rob could have taken his supervisor aside, explained the unusual circumstances, and passed the case on to someone else. He didn't.

And as much as we realize the potential fallout of this decision, it's easy to understand why Rob felt he had to take the case. For Detective Ryan, now working in Dublin, grew up in Knocknaree - and he didn't always go by Rob. Twenty years earlier, long before he ever could have imagined becoming a detective, he was called Adam. He spent many a happy day in Knocknaree, roaming the countryside with his two best mates, Jamie and Peter. And then one day, the merry trio went into the woods and didn't come back in time for tea. Their parents waited, and worried, and finally they called the police. Adam was eventually found, catatonic, with no memory of his time in the woods - and little memory of anything before it, for that matter. His shoes were filled with blood that didn't match his blood type. Jamie and Peter were never found. Adam was quickly sent to boarding school, where he acquired a posh new English accent and began to go by his middle name. He left Knocknaree behind and became a detective, working his way up to the Murder squad. "I have serious trouble with murdered children," he confesses, to no one's surprise.

"I'm fine with [the case]," Rob tells Cassie - "Just kick me if I get too moody." Of course, it's not quite so simple as that. After all, as more than one person reasons, what are the odds of two child killers haunting the tiny Knocknaree? I don't think I'm spoiling things if I note that Rob doesn't handle it nearly as well as he had hoped, and he has more and more trouble with his detective work. Cassie is left to worry and persevere with the third detective assigned to the case, the dogged yet seemingly naive Sam O'Neill.

I initially had little interest in reading In the Woods because - like Rob - I don't like cases in which children are killed. However, my aunt sent me the sequel, and it looked good enough that I felt I should go back and read the first book. I'm so glad I did. I found myself completely spellbound - it took a lot of effort to pull myself off the train each morning and not just ride to the end of the line and back again until I finished. I actually finished it Wednesday afternoon and would have written a lot sooner had I not gotten caught up in Hamlet.

So what made it so captivating? I think part of it, certainly, was the idea of the cold case being connected to the new one, which often makes for a good premise. And, of course, it always ups the ante when the detective has a personal stake in a case - especially when you become invested in that detective's well-being, as I was with the increasingly tortured Rob. Combine that with Tana French's excellent writing - occasionally a little too cutesy for me, but in general I found it quite good - and you can begin to see how I couldn't put it down.

French doesn't tie things up too neatly - which, while it can be frustrating, I appreciate for its realism. It is helpful that she appears to be envisioning Rob and Cassie's stories as a series - sequel The Likeness focuses on Cassie, but I've read that French has said she's not done with Rob. It's great news, as I feel there's a lot more of his story to tell. I've skimmed some reviews and found that quite a few find Rob unlikeable. I would be a bit kinder and add him to the list of damaged detectives. I don't mind a hero who makes mistakes - even big mistakes - if they make sense for the character. In this instance, at least, it certainly makes for a thoroughly engrossing story.

Up next: Reading The Likeness, of course!

Adaptation: The RSC's Hamlet

I have of late - but wherefore

I know not lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of
exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my
disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to
me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy,
the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament,
this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why,
it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent
congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is a man!
How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties,
in form and moving how express and admirable,
in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like
a god! The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!
And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man
delights not me - no, nor woman neither, though by
your smiling you seem to say so.

-Hamlet, Act II, scene ii

Have there even been any more beautiful lines written on melancholy? And look at that poor, melancholy face above - that melancholy face and that awesome t-shirt*. Alas, poor Hamlet.

I've been finding it difficult to gather my thoughts on last night's Hamlet. By yesterday evening I had wound myself into quite a state of anticipation, which was coupled with my exhaustion at the end of an overlong day. As a result, when I remembered Hamlet today, I almost felt as though I had dreamt it. It would have been an excellent dream, as it was a most excellent adaptation.

I've actually been surprised to not see more press coverage. Most of what I've seen has focused on the nerdtastic casting element - David Tennant, formerly of Doctor Who, as Hamlet, and Patrick Stewart, aka Captain Jean-Luc Picard of Star Trek, as the dastardly Claudius. Which is, admittedly, cool. But I guess I tend to overestimate Tennant's celebrity on this side of the pond, because I expected a bit more. The only recent mention of Tennant in The New York Times was a story on the new series of Doctor Who, wherein his former uniform of a suit and Chuck Taylors was described as "profoundly irritating." And here I was finding it dashing and quirky all this time.

Anyway, while watching this adaptation, I couldn't help but spend a fair amount of my time comparing it with the version I saw on Broadway last fall. I think the biggest difference - and this is almost too obvious to note, but I felt it significantly - was the lack of immediacy in watching on television versus in the theater. I loved Tennant's take on Hamlet. His craziness seemed more put-on than Law's, and yet he seemed more understated as well. While Law was all kinetic energy, Tennant - although absolutely dynamic, don't get me wrong - excelled in his quieter moments. This is a man who in his most iconic role was perhaps most consistently described as "manic,"** but he can also do a lot when doing very little . Indeed, I'd say I was taken by how often Hamlet was found lounging:

Words, words, words.

Tennant, tall and lanky, turns out to do amazing work sprawled across the floor. Also, barefoot. I know that probably sounds like rubbish, but I'm still overtired and these moments of repose - again, not without energy (witness the photo above) - have stood out in my mind. Make of that what you will, I suppose. I wasn't sure how I'd feel about a modern dress Hamlet***, incidentally, but I don't see how you can argue against that shirt, blue jeans, and bare feet. I mean, you could, but why be such a spoilsport?

Although it was really Tennant's show - and Hamlet is really why I love Hamlet, truly - he had an excellent supporting cast. Actually, I hesitate to even call Stewart supporting, as he has such a presence. He played an interesting dual role as both the Ghost and Claudius, and he was fearsome in both parts. One clearly got the sense that Hamlet not only felt he had to seek revenge because of the injustice of his father's murder, but also because he was terrified of what the Ghost would do if his nerve failed him. It made me really think about what Hamlet's relationship was like with his parents prior to his father's death.

I enjoyed the rest of the cast as well, though, as I've noticed in other adaptations, I found it difficult to connect to Ophelia and thought Polonius got to steal quite a few scenes - and I picked the moment when he said "tragical-comical-historical-pastoral" as the exact moment where I figured it was fine for Hamlet to kill him. Oh yes, I am quite cruel.

In short, I enjoyed seeing this performance, no doubt. I'm still left wishing, though, that I could have seen it in the theater, where I think it would have been tremendous. On the other hand, one benefit of seeing Hamlet on television is that one can be so much closer to the performers, in a sense - the "To be or not to be" soliloquy was shot almost entirely in closeup. And Tennant has a marvelously expressive face - Stewart, too. You still lack that certain charge that comes with being in the room, though.

The Guardian called Tennant "the greatest Hamlet of his generation." I would find it difficult to think of another actor - an actor known to me, at least - whom I could think of to rival him. Law I loved, absolutely, but I think Tennant has him beat, if I had to choose. Well played.

Also, if you missed last night's presentation, you're in luck: it's streaming now at pbs.org. If your computer is as resistant to long videos as mine is, you can also check your local listings. Hamlet is being rebroadcast in the NYC area on Sunday at 12:30 on Channel 13.

All images from the amazingly comprehensive david-tennant.com.

*As Entertainment Weekly noted, " Hamlet is literally wearing a costume of masculine strength. Amazing!"

** A Google search of "David Tennant" and "manic" turns up over 80,000 results. I'm just saying.

***Technically the Broadway Hamlet was modern dress as well, I suppose, but it seemed less obviously so.

Coming Up: David Tennant in Hamlet

It seems like only yesterday that I saw Hamlet on Broadway. I was so excited to see what I viewed as a very accomplished production, yet I knew there was another worthy adaptation waiting in the wings, one that I might like even more. And finally, the long-awaited day is here! David Tennant's Hamlet airs tomorrow night on PBS at 8 o'clock as part of their Great Performances series. I am beyond psyched. I mean, Tennant. Hamlet. I consider it basically an early birthday present from the universe.*

I recommend watching the clip below if you have an interest whatsoever. I've viewed it a dozen times, easy. (I told you, beyond psyched.)

PBS.org: Hamlet preview

*Now, if I were to be greedy, I would ask that someone think to film John Simm's Hamlet as well....

The Private Patient by P.D. James

On November the twenty-first, the day of her forty-seventh birthday, and three weeks and two days before she was murdered, Rhoda Gradwyn went to Harley Street to keep a first appointment with her plastic surgeon, and there in a consulting room designed, so it appeared, to inspire confidence and allay apprehension, made the decision which would lead inexorably to her death.

-The Private Patient

That's one helluva opening line, don't you think? If you're a mystery fan, I can't imagine how you could read a line like that and not want to delve in.

Of course, it's the first line of a P.D. James novel, so one is inclined to assume a certain level of whodunit excellence from the start. The Private Patient is James's 14th novel featuring Adam Dalgliesh - her first was published in 1962, this most recent one in 2008, when James was 88. That is hardcore.

Dalgliesh goes into this case knowing it may be his last before the dissolution of his unit. It's a doozy. Rhoda Gradwyn checks into a private country clinic to have surgery on a facial scar, the remnant of a traumatic childhood injury. The surgery goes well, but she's found dead the next morning - strangled, and it looks like an inside job. Gradwyn was an investigative journalist, and her stories had made a fair amount of people unhappy over the years. Dalgliesh and his team must uncover who Gradwyn could have angered so strongly as to provoke her murder. They discover that the workers at the clinic have a number of secrets, naturally. And then another body shows up...

I've lost track of how many Dalgliesh novels I've read over the years. I do know I've read them out of sequence, which doesn't affect one's understanding of the mystery in the slightest, but probably left me less invested in the personal lives of Dalgliesh and his team than readers more committed to this series would be. I do find Dalgliesh to be an interesting detective, mostly because he seems to be so together. Kurt Wallander has his sleepless nights, Harry Hole his lost weekends. Dalgliesh, on the other hand, is engaged to a professor and is a published poet. It makes Dalgliesh distinctive in the world of literary detectives, and I wonder if it actually makes him slightly less relatable. I can understand why a detective in a murder inquiry, after spending a day soaking up the worst humanity has to offer, might need to come home to a beer or six. To be able to channel that into poetry is, I would imagine, an unusual gift among detectives, and it's not particularly easy to relate to. I think James is an excellent writer, and Dalgliesh certainly an admirable detective, but I definitely read James's stories more for the plot than for my investment in the character.

Up next: Another mystery, In the Woods by Tana French. Hopefully I like it, because I already have the sequel sitting on my shelf.

Poem: "Digging"

Pavilion Garden VI at the University of Virginia

"Digging" by Seamus Heaney is one of my favorite poems. I read Heaney's Poems, 1965-1975 right before I graduated from college and, as soon as I finished, I started again from the beginning. "Digging" reminds me of a spring day, sitting in the most beautiful of the university gardens, looking up now and again at the 15th century spire nearby*. Oh, happy days; oh happy, happy days, to paraphrase Keats.

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.

My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

*The photo above is my own, and I'm glad I had the forethought to take it, as photos of the gardens are surprisingly scarce online. The spire was a gift from Oxford, incidentally, originally part of a chapel there.

Poem: "La Belle Dame Sans Merci"

La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John William Waterhouse

April is National Poetry Month and, aside from reading the Keats bio, I think I've been rather remiss in not celebrating it. So, a bit belatedly, I thought I'd try to post a few poems over the rest of the month. First up: hope you're not sick of Keats. (I'm not. Obviously.) I just love the rhythm of this poem - the fourth line hits you every time.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci*

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love thee true'.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake
And no birds sing.

And because listening to poetry is so lovely, also this: Ben Whishaw reading "La Belle Dame Sans Merci." (YouTube)

*There are two versions - I prefer this one, written in 1819, when Keats was 24. Amazing.