A Darker Domain by Val McDermid

"We're cold cases, Dave. We don't process fresh inquiries." Karen rolled her eyes at Phil, smirking at her obvious frustration.

"It's not exactly fresh, Inspector. This guy went missing twenty-two years ago."

Karen straightened up in her chair. "Twenty-two years ago? And they've only just got round to reporting it?"

"That's right. So does that make it cold, or what?"

Technically, Karen knew Cruickshank should refer the woman to CID. But she'd always been a sucker for anything that made people shake their heads in bemused disbelief. Long shots were what got her juices flowing. Following that instinct had brought her two promotions in three years, leap-frogging peers and making colleagues uneasy. "Send her up, Dave. I'll have a word with her."

-A Darker Domain 

Karen Pirie is a detective in the cold cases department in Fife, Scotland, and in A Darker Domain, she takes charge of two unusual cases. One, illustrated in the passage above--a missing persons case, twenty-two years later--is too intriguing to pass up, and she takes it on without her boss's knowledge. The second is the reopening of a high-profile case from around the same time--the murder of heiress Catriona Maclennan Grant and the disappearance of her son, Adam. Catriona's father, Brodie Grant, still blames the police for botching the case so many years before, and Karen has her work cut out for her, juggling that investigation with the one that's off the books.

I'd never read a Val McDermid book before, but I understand that she's a respected mystery writer, and I can see why. I quickly became pretty absorbed in the two cases, both of which were trickily well plotted. McDermid did a nice job of giving the reader just enough to puzzle over without telegraphing things too much or withholding too much vital information. The ending was realistic, I suppose, but quite cynical and a little abrupt. I wished it could have been a little happier.

I would definitely be interested in reading more by McDermid. I just watched the first episode of Wire in the Blood recently, based on her series of books, and it was quite good. I have more than a few unread mysteries to go, though, so it might be a while.

Up next: Needed a change of pace from all the mayhem--the perfect time for Mindy Kaling's Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?

The Complaints by Ian Rankin

He had wound his window down. He could smell and hear the sea. There wasn't another soul about. He wondered: did it bother him that the world wasn't entirely fair? That justice was seldom sufficient? There would always be people ready to pocket a wad of banknotes in exchange for a favor. There would always be people who played the system and wrung out every penny. Some people--lots of people--would keep getting away with it.

"But you're not one of them," he told himself.

-The Complaints 

If you'd given me the passage above out of context, I would have sworn up and down that it sounded like the musings of one Kurt Wallander. Malcolm Fox, the protagonist of The Complaints, is not quite the iconic detective Wallander is, but you can see why he's interesting company for the length of a book.

Fox is a cop working for (wait for it) the Complaints, the department that checks up on cases of possible corruption within the police force. It's not a terribly well-liked branch, as you might imagine. Fox's latest case is a troubling one: he's assigned to look in on a rising star in the force who's suspected of an interest in child pornography. Things get more complicated when that same detective, Jamie Breck, begins investigating the apparent murder of Fox's sister's no-good boyfriend. But in case that wasn't complicated enough, the whole thing spirals into a massive case of corruption that has apparently swept up Fox and Breck in its wake, and the two of them must team up to try and get to the bottom of things.

I must admit, I'm not wild about police corruption as a driving plot line. It's not terribly compelling to me, and I often find it hard to follow, as I did here. I had painful flashbacks to trying to decipher Red Riding Trilogy, which combined police corruption with jumps in time and unintelligible Yorkshire accents. Fox, as I mentioned, is a pretty good detective, but not really charismatic enough that I'd need to follow any further adventures, were Rankin to begin writing them. I enjoyed the Edinburgh setting, but I can't say it was a real page turner. I don't want to undersell the story--Rankin is clearly a talented writer--but a week after having finished The Complaints, not that much has stuck with me.

Up next: Tried starting the latest Blue Bloods book, but I'm having a hard time getting sucked in. So for now I've put that down in favor of Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children.

The Minotaur by Barbara Vine

She seemed to be considering whether to say more, then impulsively said, "There's madness in the family." The expression was old-fashioned then if not yet politically incorrect, but she repeated it. "Yes, madness in the family." When people say this, phrasing it in various ways, they always sound pleased about this particular genetic inheritance. Cancer or arthritis "in the family" is spoken of quite differently.

-The Minotaur

The Minotaur by Barbara Vine--pseudonym for acclaimed crime writer Ruth Rendell--is not a murder mystery, per se. There's a fair amount of mystery and a bit of murder, but it's more in the style of Gothic literature: lots of semi-deranged characters haunting their decaying manor home and one poor interloper struggling to make sense of it all.

The interloper is Kerstin Kvist, hired by the eccentric Cosway family to care for John, the middle-aged son who has been diagnosed with schizophrenia. When Kerstin arrives, she's somewhat perplexed by what she needs to do: John is so sedated by the strong medication that he takes that he is easily managed by his mother and sisters. As she gets to know the family, she begins to realize that their relationship with John is a complicated one and, alarmingly, he doesn't seem to need the sedatives his family insists that he takes. In fact, although John does seem to have his issues, Kerstin doubts that he's schizophrenic at all--but why treat him as if he is? Kerstin tries to protect John while she figures that out, but in the meantime finds herself drawn into another family tragedy.

The story is set in the 1960s, but told from older Kerstin's perspective as she looks back decades later. The word for John's true condition, for instance--Asperger's syndrome--was something she didn't hear until long after her time as his aide ended. Structuring a novel in this way can be a useful device for an author, although in this case I felt that Vine relied a little too heavily on it--rather too many hints about how certain objects/people/events would influence the course of the mysterious tragedy for my taste.

The strongest parts of the book were those that involved John and the protective love that Kerstin develops for him. The rest of the Cosway family is not terribly likable--matriarch Julia is pretty easy to loathe, actually--so I found myself less involved in the parts of the story that were more about them. John, though remote by nature, is still much easier to warm to--more human than anyone around him, Kerstin excepted. Although The Minotaur is a fictional account, it's sad to think that so many people like John really have been misunderstood and in some cases mistreated, especially before people became aware of autism. I imagine that aspect of the book, if nothing else, will stick with me.

Up next: It's finally happening! A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin

Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens

"If Miss Amy Dorrit will direct her own attention to, and will accept of my poor assistance in, the formation of a surface, Mr. Dorrit will have no further cause of anxiety. May I take this opportunity of remarking, as an instance in point, that it is scarcely delicate to look at vagrants with the attention which I have seen bestowed upon them, by a very dear young friend of mine? They should not be looked at. Nothing disagreeable should ever be looked at. Apart from such a habit standing in the way of that graceful equanimity of surface which is so expressive of good breeding, it hardly seems compatible with refinement of mind. A truly refined mind will seem to be ignorant of the existence of anything that is not perfectly proper, placid, and pleasant."

-Little Dorrit 

Well, this has been a long time coming. Little Dorrit--which clocks in at over 800 pages--is no quick read, that's for sure. And while I'd hoped to become absorbed in the world Dickens created, much as I was with Bleak House, I found Little Dorrit to be mostly a slog.

The titular character in Little Dorrit is a timid seamstress, christened Amy, who has grown up in Marshalsea Prison. Her father is incarcerated as a debtor, and she's spent little time outside of the prison that she considers a home. She does leave Marshalsea to do her sewing work, primarily at the residence of the cold and businesslike Mrs. Clennam. Her simple, sheltered life changes when Mrs. Clennam's son, Arthur, returns home to London after an extended stay in Japan. Arthur takes an interest in her affairs, primarily because he worries that his own family's business might have been one that Mr. Dorrit owed money to so many years ago. This sense of responsibility motivates Arthur to help Amy, though he cannot foresee, of course, just how great the ramifications of his aid will be.

I've mentioned only four characters, but since it's Dickens you can rest assured there are easily fifty--few of them, sadly, are terribly compelling. Arthur is sympathetic, though it's hard to find his patronizing relationship with Amy as romantic as I suspect we are intended to. He calls her Little Dorrit, for one, which I have a hard time getting past--she is a grown woman, after all, even if he's twice her age. Amy herself, unfortunately, is a bit of a drip. She's kind, sure, but she possesses none of the spark that made Esther Summerson, a similarly good-hearted character, much more likable in Bleak House. In short, you know something's wrong with the characters when I didn't even find the (random) French murderer interesting.

That being said, Dickens threw in a couple of good reversals of fortune, so the second half of the book moves along more quickly than the first. Normally I'm not one to gripe about this when it comes to Dickens, but I think the problem is really one of length. Cut down the first half by 200 pages, remove a subplot or five--I think there is an interesting story in there, he just didn't quite tell it. It's why I still plan to see the miniseries at some point--I think that, with some editing, I might like this story a good deal better. Certainly no rush to see it at the moment, though.

Up next: Already finished the third Blue Bloods book, Revelations.

Started Early, Took My Dog by Kate Atkinson

"Boys will be boys," he heard Kitty Winfield murmur as the two women walked away.

Men didn't deserve women.

"We don't deserve them," he said to Ian Winfield as they rolled their way to the bar.

"Oh God no," he said. "They're far superior to us. Wouldn't want to be one, though."

-Started Early, Took My Dog 

So, first off, the big news is this:

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Jackson Brodie, as portrayed by Jason Isaacs in the new BBC adaptation of Case Histories. I must say, my imagination has done me a great disservice in never conjuring up Jason Isaacs as Jackson prior to now, because it's pretty brilliant casting. Here's the trailer, in case you might need to watch it a million times before the show airs on PBS (starting October 16th!).  (The Johnny Cash is a great detail. Jackson would approve).

So I read Started Early, Took My Dog with that casting in mind, which was just the cherry on top of another wonderful book by Kate Atkinson. In this latest installment, Jackson has left Edinburgh for his old stomping ground of Yorkshire. He's attempting to trace the origins of a client in New Zealand whose birth and subsequent adoption, some thirty-odd years earlier, were accompanied by a telling lack of legitimate documentation. Atkinson also weaves in the story of Tracy Waterhouse, a retired police superintendent who makes a very rash decision in a mall parking lot and whose experience as a rookie in a murder case in 1975 may tie her to Jackson's client. Atkinson jumps back and forth and time to tell these stories as well as to explore the 1975 case and the corruption in the Yorkshire police department at that time that caused so much unnecessary heartache.

Atkinson is brilliant. I really don't know what else to say. I can't imagine having the talent to bring these stories together; it seems like magic to me. When I was looking over my review of When Will There Be Good News?, I noted that at that point I considered it to be my favorite in the series, but its position may have just been usurped. I think I'd like to go back and read from the beginning again, actually, because at this point I've lost track of some things about Jackson (forgot he was from Yorkshire, for one) and just because it is an excellent set of stories. I loved Tracy, and I relished contemplating the moral quandary that came of her actions--always nice when a book makes you think, isn't it? I did miss Louise, though, and I am hoping she'll be back in a future book.Whatever turn Jackson's life takes next, I'm looking forward to reading about it.

Up next: Back to Little Dorrit, which finally seems to be picking up the pace a bit.

The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield

A letter. For me. That was something of an event. The crisp-cornered envelope, puffed up with its thickly folded contents, was addressed in a hand that must have given the postman a certain amount of trouble. Although the style of the writing was old-fashioned, with its heavily embellished capitals and curly flourishes, my first impression was that it had been written by a child. The letters seemed untrained. Their uneven strokes either faded into nothing or were heavily etched into the paper. There was no sense of flow in the letters that spelled out my name. Each had been undertaken separately--M A R G A R E T L E A--as a new and daunting enterprise. But I knew no children. That is when I thought, It is the hand of an invalid.

It gave me a queer feeling. Yesterday or the day before, while I had been going about my business, quietly and in private, some unknown person--some stranger--had gone to the trouble of marking my name onto this envelope. Who was it who had had his mind's eye on me while I hadn't suspected a thing?

-The Thirteenth Tale 

Margaret Lea, the heroine of The Thirteenth Tale, receives a mysterious letter. The sender, to Margaret's surprise, is one of England's most beloved authors: the reclusive Vida Winter. Vida has long prided herself on obfuscating her past in interviews, using her gifts as a novelist to invent her own history, each version more colorful than the last. Finally she is ready to tell her true story, and she's plucked Margaret from obscurity to be her biographer.

Margaret is reluctant at first. She's never even read a book by Vida Winter, for a start--she's not one for contemporary fiction. And while she has written some biographical accounts, they weren't about living people. She doesn't have much use for living people in general, really. She spends her days in her father's antiquarian bookshop, happily surrounded by books. But she overcomes her reservations and makes the trip to Yorkshire, then sets to sharpening her pencils. Vida's story awaits her.

Everyone has a story, Vida says, and hers is a doozy.  It's every bit as Gothic as the 19th century novels Margaret holds so dear--there's incest, and illegitimate children, and plenty of intrigue. Oh, and murder--of course there's murder. Margaret finds herself more and more pulled into the story, especially when it becomes apparent that even in Vida's most honest retelling, there's much that's being left unsaid.

The Thirteenth Tale is a great, absorbing read. I read the bulk of it traveling to and from Chicago recently, and I couldn't have asked for a better book to pass the time. In fact, I finished slightly before the end of the flight, so I lingered over the Reader's Guide, which I often pass over. I quite enjoyed the interview with Diane Setterfield, whom I identified with--especially when she talked about the panicky sensation one can get if one needs a book and doesn't have it at the ready. A terrible problem, to be sure, though one I'm unlikely to have in the near future, given the number of unread books currently piling up in my apartment.

Up next: What's better in the summertime than a nice, fat Dickens novel? I'm about 80 pages into Little Dorrit--that is to say, a little less than a tenth of the way through. Excellent.

Young Romantics by Daisy Hay

Meanwhile, the goings-on at Diodati were a fertile topic for gossip and speculation. The local hotelier did a brisk trade in sailing trips on the lake during which shocked English visitors could inspect the washing drying outside Byron's villa for evidence of female inhabitants--telescopes were thoughtfully included in the ticket price.

-Young Romantics

I'd fully intended to read Young Romantics some time ago--in April, even, for National Poetry Month. I checked it out of the library after reading of Age of Wonder and realizing that, despite my love of Keats, my knowledge of poetry from that era was still pretty lacking. But then I discovered Inspector Lynley, and I wanted to read Blue Latitudes while Age of Wonder was still fresh in my mind...and well, here we are. Better late than never.

I picked out Young Romantics because I thought it would give me a nice overview of Shelley, Byron, and Keats and further my understanding of the relationships they had with one another and with others in their circle. I discovered as I began to read, though, that Daisy Hay's focus was clearly on Shelley and Leigh Hunt, the poet and critic.* If I'd read the book jacket a bit more carefully, I would have already known this, but it turned out to be fine. I missed Keats, who was absent for long sections of the book, but I did already read a comprehensive account of his life. Byron figured somewhat more prominently. He also came off like a big ole jerk.

I had kind of a sketchy idea of Byron as a ladies' (and gents', to be fair) man; someone talented and charismatic and a bit of a rogue. I did not, however, know that he spent some time fumbling toward ecstasy with his own half-sister. Nor was I aware of his cruel streak--the way he treated Claire Clairmont (Mary Shelley's stepsister), the mother of his illegitimate child, was pretty terrible. 

And while Shelley comes off better than Byron, he still could be remarkably callous, especially in his treatment of women. I did enjoy getting to learn more about his relationship with Mary, which had more scandalous origins than I had realized, and I liked Mary quite a lot in general. It was because of that, I think, that I still found the account of Shelley's death quite moving, even though I hadn't particularly warmed to him. It was just so sudden, and so senseless, and he was just so young.

It can be difficult to learn about artists--once you've discovered something negative about someone, be it merely unpleasant or truly awful, it can be hard to divorce that from your appreciation of an artist's work. Perhaps I'm judging Byron unfairly, even.For the moment, I will say that Young Romantics has definitely influenced my opinion of him as a person, but I can't deny that he wrote beautifully.  As for Shelley, I now know more of his life than I do of his works, so I shall have to remedy that at some point in the future. Neither seems likely to replace Keats as my favorite Romantic poet--and not just because Keats seems by far the pleasantest of the bunch (though it doesn't hurt).

I feel as though I'm giving short shrift to the women in the book, which is unfortunate. The treatment of Mary Shelley and Claire Claremont, in particular, is a great credit to Daisy Hay. I feel as though I got a true sense of the place of these women in the literary circle of their day--they often weren't considered equals of the poets whose company they kept, but they certainly had their smarts and a fair degree of influence on the men. I don't know that I ever would have thought to explore the further works of Mary Shelley before, but I have to say I'm now intrigued. Much like Age of Wonder, I have a feeling Young Romantics will be leading me to more books before long.

Up next: Already finished Coraline, so I just need to come back to write it up.

*Hay mentions in passing that Hunt was the basis for the character of Harold Skimpole in Bleak House. It makes so much sense--oh, that elderly child.

Poem: "Stanzas Written In Passing The Ambracian Gulf"

Cleopatra (Lyndsey Marshal) and Antony (James Purefoy) on HBO's Rome*

 It's April once again (I note belatedly), which means that it's also National Poetry Month. Last year at this time I was on a Keats kick and, after having read The Age of Wonder, I thought it would be good to revisit the Romantics. This time I selected Byron. 

I've long been familiar with Byron's libertine reputation, but I don't think I'd ever read any of his poetry until recently. I was pleasantly surprised with how readable it was, and how witty. I was charmed from the first poem I read, which I've decided to highlight in this post.  

Stanzas Written In Passing The Ambracian Gulf

Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen,

Full beams the moon on Actium's coast:

And on these waves for Egypt's queen

The ancient world was won and lost.

And now upon the scene I look,

The azure grave of many a Roman;

Where stern Ambition once forsook

His wavering crown to follow woman.

Florence! whom I will love as well

As ever yet was said or sung

(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell),

Whilst thou art fair and I am young;

Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times,

When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes:

Had bards as many realms as rhymes,

Thy charms might rise new Antonies.

Though Fate forbids such things to be,

Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd!

I cannot lose a world for thee,

But I would not lose thee for a world.

That last couplet, am I right? Also, I'm a sucker for Roman history: he had me at Actium.

*I suppose I could have used any number of pictures to illustrate this post, but James Purefoy's performance as Antony is brilliant. Love him; love the crazy, twisted soap opera that was Rome.

The Age of Wonder by Richard Holmes

At all events, Coleridge treasured the memory of his father's eager demonstration of the stars and planets overhead, and the possibility of other worlds: 'I remember, that at eight years old I walked with him one evening from a farmer's house, a mile from Ottery -- & he told me the names of the stars -- and how Jupiter was a thousand times larger than our world -- and that the other twinkling stars were Suns that had world rolling round them -- & when I came home, he showed me how they rolled round. I heard him with profound delight & admiration; but without the least mixture of Wonder or incredulity. For from my early reading of Faery Tales, & Genii etc etc -- my mind had been habituated to the Vast.'

-The Age of Wonder 

I find it pretty remarkable to think that Samuel Taylor Coleridge, some 200 years ago, thought his mind "habituated to the Vast." What hope, then, do we in the 21st century have to experience wonder, when so much more of the world has been discovered and analyzed and explained? Luckily for us, we also have books like The Age of Wonder to help us to consider the world around us in a new light.

If I were to try to sum up The Age of Wonder in one sentence, I might say something like, "It's about the monumental discoveries that were made in every scientific discipline in the late 18th and early 19th centuries." Even with that "monumental" in there, though, I suspect that that sounds rather dry. (Also, passive voice. Badly done.) Imagine this instead: A Scotsman exploring an area of Africa that cartographers have left blank. A German immigrant building the largest telescope in England...and promptly discovering a new planet. A wealthy young English botanist going native in Tahiti. A 20-year-old who spent considerable time experimenting with the effects of nitrous oxide, to which he became addicted, before going on to discover elements like calcium. The Age of Wonder covers all of these stories and many more. If you've guessed that it's ambitious in scope, you would be correct.

It's amazing how much we know of science dates from this time-- even the word scientist itself didn't come into usage until the 1820s. Richard Holmes has quite a lot of territory to cover. He juggles his stories in a way that makes it look quite easy, but I can't imagine how much time must have gone into researching this book. His voice is clear and he sometimes manages to work in some very clever asides--I would definitely be interested in looking into other books of his. (He seems to have primarily written about the Romantic poets, who flit in and out of The Age of Wonder.)

It did take me a little while to get into the book, but before long I was utterly absorbed in the Tahitian adventures of Joseph Banks. On the whole, it's a very interesting book. I particularly loved the parts about astronomy (because if anything can inspire wonder, I really think it's the stars) and the dramatic tale of the adventurer Mungo Park, the first European to find the Niger River. I was less enchanted with the story of Humphry Davy, but that may have been in part because he just didn't come across as a particularly likable fellow. Overall, I feel much better informed about this era than I did prior to reading this book, and I wouldn't hesitate to recommend it.

Up next: Using Joseph Banks as a jumping off point, I'm on to Tony Horwitz's Blue Latitudes, in which he retraces the travels of Captain Cook. I loved the other two Horwitz books I read, so I have high hopes. 

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.)

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: "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.

The Club of Queer Trades by G.K. Chesterton

That I should have come at last upon so singular a body [as the Club of Queer Trades] was, I may say without vanity, not altogether singular, for I have a mania for belonging to as many societies as possible: I may be said to collect clubs, and I have accumulated a vast and fantastic variety of specimens ever since, in my audacious youth, I collected the Athenaeum. At some future day, perhaps, I may tell tales of some of the other bodies to which I have belonged. I will recount the doings of the Dead Man's Shoes Society (that superficially immoral, but darkly justifiable communion); I will explain the curious origin of the Cat and Christian, the name of which has been so shamefully misinterpreted; and the world shall know at last why the Institute of Typewriters coalesced with the Red Tulip League. Of the Ten Teacups, of course I dare not say a word.

-The Club of Queer Trades

The Club of Queer Trades is an excellent name for a book, is it not? It's a collection of linked short stories by G.K. Chesterton, all featuring the anti-deductive detective work of mystic ex-judge Basil Grant. Basil quit the court after a public incident generally regarded as a total meltdown. He now spends most of his time up in his garret, philosophizing. In the course of these stories, Basil's brought in on various cases involving the curious titular club at the behest of his brother Rupert - an actual detective, though one far more prone to leaping to erroneous conclusions. The brothers are accompanied on their adventures by the book's narrator, the society-loving Swinbourne. These are no Sherlock Holmes stories: Basil has no interest in the evidence that drives Doyle's famous detective. He's far more interested in the morality of the people he meets, and what they're capable of.

I'd never read any Chesterton before, although I've seen him named as one of England's best writers, as well as one of the funniest - mentioned in the same breath as Wodehouse, whom I love. Certainly the Drones Club might come to mind when one is reading the passage above. Although The Club of Queer Trades is cleverly written, I didn't find it to be as overtly funny as I had hoped. However, a little research informs me that it's not considered to be the peak of Chesterton's fiction writing and, as he was almost frighteningly prolific, I'm sure I'll try something else in the future. It was certainly an enjoyable read - one must admire the creativity it would require to construct both the mysteries and the trades themselves. I also must say that it was quite short (less than 150 pages in my edition*). After the behemoth that was Keats, that was a welcome change. However, the length also leaves me feeling as though I don't have much to comment on, particularly given that much of the joy in reading these stories comes from uncovering the quirky cases along with the characters. Thus, saying less is probably good policy anyway.

Up next: The Private Patient by P.D. James, one of my favorite mystery writers. Hooray!

*I couldn't find a decent picture of the cover, which is why I provided the picture of Mr. Chesterton, looking thoughtful.

Keats by Andrew Motion

'The fire is at its last click,' [Keats writes], '- I am sitting with my back to it with one foot rather askew upon the rug and the other with the heel a little elevated from the carpet.' He then adds, 'Could I see the same thing done of any great Man long since dead it would be a great delight: as to know in what position Shakespeare sat when he began "To be or not to be" - such thing[s] become interesting from a distance of time or place.'

-Keats

As I mentioned in my review of Bright Star, I'm no lifelong fan of John Keats. Prior to this year, I think I could have only summoned up two pieces of information about him: 1) British 2) Odes. Far from exhaustive, I'm sure you'll agree.

Bright Star left me curious, though, and so I've spent over a month (off and on) in Keats's company, thanks to Andrew Motion's comprehensive biography. I'm now stuffed to the gills with Keats knowledge. I know the names of his family members and friends and I know the titles of his works - and snippets of some of them*. I know about his love of Shakespeare and his love of claret. I could give you a rough but pretty accurate account of his life and death. Most of this information will fade from my memory in due time, of course, but right now I'm enjoying my temporary expertise.

I feel confident that I should have been a rebel Angel had the opportunity been mine.

Motion does an excellent job of presenting a huge amount of information and analysis in a pretty clear manner**, but unsurprisingly it's Keats's words that really stick with the reader. As I read, I jotted down page numbers on my bookmark, keeping track of particularly lively or interesting passages. We are fortunate that Keats wrote reams of letters, and Motion is skilled in using them to give a real sense of Keats as a person: passionate, flawed, and gifted. Motion mentions a story in which Keats "had recently come across a butcher's boy tormenting a kitten in the street, and had fought and beaten him." Not how I would have imagined him, and I like him the more for it.

Ask yourself my love whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in a Letter you must write immediately and do all you can to console me in it - make it as rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me - write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been.

Bright Star focused on the relationship between Keats and Fanny Brawne, but since he only knew her in the last few years of his life, Fanny doesn't make a proper appearance until several hundred pages into Keats. Their tragic love story was one of the things that most motivated me to read this biography (in addition to my desire to end my appalling ignorance about Keats in general), so I did find some of the earlier chapters to be a bit drier. Keats more than makes up for it once he's met Fanny. He fights tooth and nail against being sucked up in love, having so often mocked the swooning couples around him. Look at the passage above again for a pretty good example of his feelings - loving her, yet resentful at the power love had over him. He'd struggle with it for the rest of his life.

'Where is Keats now?' Shelley asked. 'I am anxiously expecting him in Italy where I shall take care to bestow every possible attention on him. I consider his a most valuable life & am deeply interested in his safety. I intend to be the physician both to his body & his soul, to keep the one warm & to teach the other Greek and Spanish. I am aware indeed in part that I am nourishing a rival who will far surpass me and this is an additional motive & will be an added pleasure.'

The problem with a biography, of course, is that by the time you've reached the end of the book you've often grown quite attached to its subject. Even knowing that Keats's death was inevitable - that even if he had lived a long and happy life, he still would have been long dead - I found the account of his final months in Rome to be so bleak. He was lucky to have a devoted friend - Joseph Severn, who was eventually buried beside him - but he was in agony for so long, and he was so far from all he knew and the one he loved best.

I was on the train the other day carrying Keats, and a woman remarked upon it. We had a brief conversation as she disembarked. "What a tragedy," she said. And it was. There's nothing to be done for it now, of course. We can't go back and buy his books so that he wouldn't be penniless, to alert him to the money he was entitled to that was tied up in Chancery, to tell his doctors that bleeding him is only counterproductive. We can only read his work, and love it, and perhaps be inspired by it. He thought his name would quickly fade from history. Perhaps we can take some small consolation in knowing that he would have been proud to learn that his poetry has endured over the course of so many years.

Up next: Something lighter was called for, clearly. I'm trying out G.K. Chesterton, The Club of Queer Trades.

*One of my new favorites is "La Belle Dame Sans Merci." I thought, of course, of The Beldam from Neil Gaiman's Coraline (the film, at least, as I still need to read the book). It's always exciting to make connections, thus I particularly liked the stanza that reads:

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!'

There was so much history in that story that I wasn't at all aware of - Gaiman's pale ghost children didn't come out of nowhere.

**There are a heckuva lot of people to keep track of, though. There's also a certain amount of assumed knowledge - I wouldn't have known of Thomas Chatterton if I hadn't looked him up after reading his name in Underground London. Chatterton comes up a lot in Keats, and he's never given an introduction. I suppose people who read dense biographies of poets generally have more background knowledge in poetry than I do.

My Booky Wook by Russell Brand

I'm incredibly sentimental about animals. It's the only opportunity I get to occupy the moral high ground: when I got clean, after chatting with some Krishna conscious devotees, I gave up fish as well. They said if you put death into your body you will emit death, but I'm mostly in it for the high ground. "You're vegetarian?" comes the inquiry. "Yes." Then the inevitable, "Do you eat fish?" This is where they catch a lot of people out: the inquisitor is already at this stage anticipating a "Yes" and loading up with, "Ah, well, you're not a proper vegetarian then are you because fish are incredibly sensitive and some of them write haikus." That's why I have to stifle a smug grin when I reply, "No. No, I don't eat fish because it's cruel to them, the lovely little things." And on particularly smarmy days, "If you put death into your body you emit death." Even as a junkie I stayed true - "I shall have heroin, but I shan't have a hamburger." What a sexy little paradox.

-My Booky Wook

Russell Brand is an excellent subway companion - too good, almost. There was more than one day last week that I was loath to get off at my stop because I didn't want my time with Brand to come to an end.

Of course, I only had him in book format, but that was pretty good as far as those things go. (If I'd traveled with the real Brand, I think we can all assume there's no way I would have made it to work without some kind of rannygazoo* ensuing.) My Booky Wook is an eye-poppingly candid account of Brand's rocky childhood in Essex, his ascent into the world of show business, and his simultaneous descent into full-blown heroin addiction. He also deals with his slightly too, ah, spirited pursuit of ladies, which results in a stint in a New Jersey sex rehab. You can see how one might regret having to close the book every morning.

Russell Brand is one of those people I just knew that I'd like - I mean, just look at that hair. How can you not love him a bit?** He stole the show in the (mediocre, in my opinion) Forgetting Sarah Marshall, but I didn't really feel compelled to read his memoirs until I watched The Big Fat Quiz of the Year (search for 2006, 2007, and 2009 on YouTube if you need a laugh - and have a fair amount of time at your disposal). He's just so clever, so cheeky, and especially such a delightful teammate to Noel "King of the Mods" Fielding. (The Goth Detectives. I rest my case.)

"You just give us 48 hours and we'll get the job done - if we weren't so bloody miserable."

I don't think I have much of anything in common with him - but it doesn't matter, because the man can really tell a story, and My Booky Wook captures his distinctive voice perfectly. It's an affecting memoir, really. He tries to make light of things often, but at a certain point you can't help but go, wait, his father's taking him to a strip club in Southeast Asia? He's cutting himself while someone is calling 911 (well, 999)? Clearly things were not ship shape. He's told at one point, right before choosing to go to rehab, that in six months he will be in jail, a mental institution, or dead. It does not seem like an exaggeration. He did some things that I found horrible (or horrifying), but it is a testament to his charm that I still can't help but like him. He's really a singular man, in the end.

Up next: Working on Keats, as I indicated in the previous post. I imagine it will be slow going, and I may take a break as I'm traveling next week, and I can't bear to lug this 600-page behemoth on a plane.

*A Brand word if I ever heard one. Well, a Wodehouse word really, but Brand really has a flair for language. It means nonsense, incidentally.

**I'm sure tons of people have jerky things to say about his hair - I know not everyone shares the love. Tough for them, I suppose.

In Medias Res: Keats

So, I've finished My Booky Wook, but I'm not focused enough right now to gather my thoughts. Instead, I thought I'd offer this passage from Andrew Motion's biography of Keats, which I've just started.

It was a world fraught with violence. In the factories and the fields, where the conditions of everyday life were routinely shaped by appalling levels of suffering, the danger of rioting was a constant threat. There was a distinctly 'Sturm und Drang quality' about political life too. 'Think of the Earl of Chatham,' one recent historian has urged, 'collapsing in the House of Lords as he made his last manic and incoherent speech against war with America in 1778, or of Edmund Burke flinging a dagger into the floor of the House of Commons in December 1792 as a symbol of his departure from the Foxite Whigs, and of Charles James Fox bursting into tears as a result.' Think too of the Prime Minister Perceval, assassinated in the House of Commons in 1811, or of the startling statistic that nineteen Members of Parliament committed suicide between 1790 and 1820, and that a further twenty lapsed into insanity, as did their king.

Some people think history is dull. I can't imagine they've read the preceding paragraph.

Underground London by Stephen Smith

There were rivers, streams, creeks, buried wharves, conduits, culverts, cellars, shelters, basements, eaves, lower ground floors, walk-downs, disappearing staircases, grottoes, dungeons, graves, tombs, crypts, a disused morgue at the foot of Tower Bridge, catafalques, sepulchres, catacombs, brick arches at Waterloo station where cabbies sat and chatted in each other's taxis, tunnels, subways, lost terraces, warrens, mazes, kitchens, lock-ups where supermarkets stored their goods, shunting yards and railway turntables, wrecks, ruins, dregs, the Elephant Man's hat in the archives of the Royal London Hospital, precious relics, forgotten booty, buried treasure. I wanted to know more about this subterranean landscape. It was going to be an escape from the city above, but an escape in another sense, too, an adventure to make me forget my inner-city blues.

-Underground London

I will fully admit that Underground London is one of the more peculiar reading choices I have made since having started this blog. As much of an Anglophile as I am, I really don't know that much about above-ground London. Starting underground seems to be a bit of a backwards way of going at it.

Of course, London and what lies beneath it are inextricably intertwined, so in learning about one, one can't help but find out a bit more about the other. It turns out to be quite a vast subject. Stephen Smith approaches the underground from a variety of angles. He explores the sewers, the Tube, and the system governing the Thames. He looks at parts of London that date from the Roman era all the way up to Cold War bunkers. One cannot fault his thoroughness, but it is rather disappointing to discover that not all of these places or eras are equally fascinating.

I was quite interested in his exploration of the Tube - dead stations are particularly compelling, though I can't quite explain why. Perhaps because they're left just as they were, and give the impression of being frozen in the moment of time when they were closed. (City Hall station in New York is a beautiful example.) Or perhaps I just watched Ghostbusters II too often as a child.

I also enjoyed the oldest areas Smith explored, such as the section of Roman wall he found in a carpark, or the remaining bits of one of Henry VIII's tennis courts. With the exception of the Tube, I found the more modern sections to be considerably drier. I guess I am just not terribly interested in how one keeps the Thames from flooding London. If that sounds like it's up your alley, well, you should find the last chapter to be spellbinding. Otherwise, like me, you'll find that the book ends on a rather dull note.

Nonetheless, I do feel as though I learned a lot. In fact, Smith used enough particularly British vocabulary and references that I took to jotting notes on my bookmark so that I could look things up at my convenience. And this is how I learned that a reference to the noise of rhubarb coming from Parliament had nothing to do with the plant. Fun fact!

Up next: Planning on taking a bit of a two-pronged approach. I checked a book out of the library a couple of weeks back on the differences between British and American English. I've read the beginning, but I have a sense that I may skim it more than read it, particularly when it hits lists of terms that I don't find terribly exciting. So, I plan to do bits and pieces of that along with the 5th Sookie Stackhouse for more of a proper read.