The Quincunx

I feel a sense of accomplishment, having finally read this book. It languished on my shelves for about 30 years. That’s a long time. One wonders why I even bought it since it appears I had no desire to read it. But I did. Indeed, there are still a fair number of titles on my shelves that have waited my attention for as long as it had. They do come down, on occasion. And I do have plans to read each and every one of them, too.

So, why did this book by Charles Pallister, first published in 1989, wait as long as it did for my attention. Its weight and girth, I imagine. It is a weighty tome. It clocks in at nearly 800 pages; but in fact, given its font size and narrow line spacing, it is far lengthier than that. Compared with most hardcovers (my copy is not a hardcover, although its paperback dimensions are the same), its wordcount would appear twice that length. (I’ve not counted, or even crunched a rough estimate, so my assumption is more feel than fact.) It did not wait as long as that (1989), however – I was likely only peripherally aware of its existence before my purchase, since I was not reading books of that genera at the time. When, then, did I become aware of it? That, in itself, is a story.

I was on vacation. In the Philippines. Scuba diving. Three of our number were sitting around our usual table, after the sun sank below the horizon, drinking wine, discussing travels, film, books, as we were wont to do. It was then that one of the two women with me asked me if I’d ever read The Quincunx? I admitted to being unaware of it, and asked her what it was about. She said it was difficult to describe; but was convinced, given my obvious love of literature, that I should read it. That was not what I would call a convincing recommendation. Honestly, I wondered if she had, herself, given that I believe it is easily described, if only in its broadest strokes; or whether she purposely chose not describe it, knowing that I might not bother to, if she had. I suspect the last.

Long story already long, I did buy the book – let’s say in 1997, within the year of returning home. And I did dive into it. I got about 250 pages in. I set it aside. It was not what I was accustomed to then. But it was familiar. I’d read some Dickens (A Tale of Two Cities, in high school; and David Copperfield, the year prior). It was perhaps that I’d read Dickens recently that she recommended it. I did not, however, tell her that I found Copperfield long and hard-going, at the time. What can I say? I was still a relatively young man and was trying to impress an attractive woman. Long story still long, I set The Quincunx aside, not sure if I was defeated by it, or merely bored, not sure that I would ever tackle it again. In my mind’s eye, I suspect I knew that I would; when I was ready. And there it sat until this year, its pages yellowing, the glued binding growing brittle, its exterior protective plastic film crinkling.

I finally pulled it down this year, thinking I was going to finally defeat Goliath. I would, I vowed, consume 10 or 20 pages a day, and get through this behemoth, even if it took me a year or so.

I kept that promise to myself. And more. As I plumbed deeper its depth, I found myself ever more intrigued by its complexity. It is that, complex. And downright Dickensian. Indeed, it is so Dickensian that it would appear to be all of Dickens’ works in one. It begins innocently enough, a small boy leading an altogether idyllic life in a quaint, sleepy Georgian Era village, about the time that Jane Austen’s works are summing up. Before too many pages unfold, we understand there is a greater mystery afoot, that Johnny’s mother is frightened, perhaps in hiding, unwilling to answer her son’s questions concerning her life, his origins, why his father is absent. A break-in of their cottage occurs. A letter case if stolen. His mother is very much disturbed by this burglary, more than one would imagine possible. Indeed, he discovers his mother is terrified of the local lord, too.

Thus begins, The Quincunx. What follows is an ever-tightening web of plots and conspiracies and their eventual destitution. What begins as David Copperfield, very soon becomes Great Expectations, Nicholas Nickleby, and Oliver Twist, and finally Bleak House. The more I read of Charles Dickens, the more his works appear to influence this sweeping tale spanning a decade or so.

I must say that it reads easier than Dickens, if you are concerned that you would not enjoy this book by its parallels to its muse. Its prose is mostly modern, with a few antiquated spellings here and there. In fact, it’s a page turner. It races along faster and faster as Johnny ages, as one might expect, small boys being wholly dependant on their guardians, oblivious to the events that revolve around them, only becoming more aware and independent as their means warrants, until they have, potentially, more agency than those sworn to protect them.

It's an extraordinary novel. If it had been written in the 19^th Century it would be a classic today, and never out of print – or so I believe. I suppose it only graces the shelves of the largest book chain franchises these days, what with the dizzying speed of publishing now. Chains stock only what sells (or what publishers choose to promote); and most titles likely only reside on their shelves for a few months before being remaindered. Truth be told, I rarely see classics on the shelves of my smallish chain bookstore. And when I do, it is rare to see their complete oeuvre. Even modern classics rarely appear: Forster, Proust, Hemingway, and Fitzgerald were once always in appearance. So too Shakespeare. Not so anymore. These days, Mark Danielewski’s House of Leaves, or Donna Tart’s The Secret History almost never grace its shelves. Stephen King and James Patterson, however, abound. Even such sellers as John Grisham and Tom Clancy have faded from the pre-eminence they once held. What hope then would Charles Palliser’s The Quincunx.

Dickens December

 

“I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul.”
― Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

Long before I began “participating” in Jane Austen July, I began reading Charles Dickens in December. I began this practice when I read A Christmas Carol over the one holiday season (honestly, is there a better time to read A Christmas Carol?) after I’d received a number of Dickens volumes as a gift from my sister the year prior (the best gift I’d received in years, if not decades). I thought that having those hardcover volumes was as good an excuse as any to dive into Dickens when I did. I’ll admit to not having read Dickens in years. Indeed, at that time I had truly only read two of his books, A Tale of Two Cities (in high school), and David Copperfield (about a decade prior – and, both those times, those readings felt like a titanic undertaking, considering their word count) – despite the belief that I loved Dickens.

But did I? I said I did. But if I were honest, I’d have to admit that I loved the idea of Dickens. I’d watched Scrooge on TV for decades, in numerous adaptations; and versions of Oliver Twist, musical and otherwise; but I had only the above experience of reading him.

Which brings me back to where I began: I endeavoured to finally read Dickens. I was pleasantly surprised. Hitherto, I found reading Dickens a chore. In high school, I found his prose antiquated, and thus difficult. When I read David Copperfield in my early 30’s I was not in the habit of reading the classics; so, I read it in fits and starts. This time however, I found Dickens a both profound and funny. I learned something of life in the mid-1800s reading A Christmas Carol. I actually laughed out loud. Most importantly, I completed it with ease. I expect that it was short helped. That experience led to The Cricket on the Hearth the next year. And then The Chimes the year after that. Was I hooked? Not yet. But his Christmas tales paved the way to my deciding to read the rest of those gifted Dickens volumes.

I suppose, regardless my having read the Christmas tales as mentioned, I began my journey and eventual love affair with Dickens the very next year when I read Great Expectations. I’d watched a few videos that suggested it as probably the best entry to Charles Dickens; and I must say that I wholeheartedly agree with their opinion, now that I’ve read it. Once again, it helps that it is not very long (on the Dickensian scale, anyway).

Great Expectations led to The Pickwick Papers, then to Oliver Twist, then The Mystery of Edwin Drood, and then most recently to Nicholas Nickleby.

Shall I expound on each? Perhaps a word or two. GE is a phenomenal novel, certainly the best I’ve read by Dickens in these recent readings, thus far. PP was enlightening, showcasing Dickens’ earliest “novel” – in parenthesis because, to my mind, it is more a collection of linked vignettes than it is a bonified novel. Indeed, PP has more in common with his Sketches by Boz than it does his later works. OT, probably the most famous of his novels for its numerous adaptations, is a novel; but I gather it does not draw the same love these days as his latter novels do. I loved it, despite its criticisms by those supposedly more learned than I. ED, his last work, is unfinished, Dickens dying midway through writing it. It may be a miracle he got as far along as he did, considering the state of his health at the time. ED shows the same complexity in its unfolding as did GE. NN exhibits a leap in Dickens’ maturity of writing, fairly early on. It resides midway between PP and OT, to my mind, in execution: it is most assuredly a novel, but it is still rather episodic (as was PP) in form. One expects that, I suppose, considering Dickens published each of his books in serial monthly installments, throughout his entire career. One can see him change his mind as the stories progress, especially early on, certain characters falling by the wayside as he found their story either less interesting than others, or irrelevant to the plot – more so in PP than in NN, where I suspect he may have plotted out the progress of the book before beginning.

Last year, I read a couple of Dickens biographies, as well: The first was Charles Dickens: A Life, by Claire Tomalin; the second, The Mystery of Charles Dickens, by A.N. Wilson. Both were enlightening; but the Tomalin title was more inclusive (albeit more focused on his later life and his affair with Ellen Ternan), whereas the Wilson biography was far more concerned with how each of Dickens’ books could be construed as being culled from his own personal experiences, veiled biographies.

This year I am reading The Old Curiosity Shop and Sketches by Boz. I know something of how OCS unfolds, if nothing of the plot: Thus far it reads episodically as did PP and NN. Indeed, I see Dickens change his mind a few chapters in, changing the narration from a third-person-singular observer’s voice, to a more omnipotent view. The writer makes mistakes, and changes his mind between chapbook submissions. SB is Dickens’ very earliest works, short vignettes published in newspapers and magazines, before becoming a novelist, in earnest. One hears him find his voice in these sketches, in which he is an apt and consummate observer of the city around him. Honestly, I highly recommend this book: the sketches help illuminate Dickens’ world.

I’ve a number of Dickens’ works ahead of me, still, most of them long – indeed, his longest titles are still ahead of me. I do intend to reread both A Tale of Two Cities and David Copperfield, as well, understanding I come at them with a more mature outlook. This will take years still; but in the end, I’ll read all of Dickens, just as I will soon have read all of Jane Austen.

“The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again.”
― Charles Dickens, Nicholas Nickleby

Redford

 

Everyone is a little star stuck, I suppose.

That said, there are very few whose passing affects me. Indeed, celebrities’ deaths rarely move me. Some have, however.

My first shock was Stephen King’s near death. He did not die in 1999 when hit by that van while walking, but I understand it was a very real thing that he might have. My reaction surprised me. I had not read King in years; but I’d read his novels in my teens and twenties, perhaps my most formative years, the first author whose works I consumed in any great degree.

The next to affect me was David Bowie’s passing. I actually mourned his loss. It matters not that I had not followed his latter career. Indeed, his music had always been present; and that longevity appeared immortal, even if he proved not to be. It’s largely his early work that moved me: “Space Oddity,” Ziggy Stardust, Aladdin Sane, “Fame,” “Golden Years,” “Young Americans.” "Heroes"! The list goes on. It helps that his duet with Queen (“Under Pressure”) and his album Let’s Dance were monster hits just as I was coming of age. His music moved me. It helped to define my musical taste.

Who might affect me next? Peter Gabriel, assuredly. Phil Collins, too, I imagine. Time will tell. Most celebrities, though, pass with little more than mild regret on my part. It’s a wonder, really, why some deaths floor us and others not. They’re celebrities. Not friends. We don’t know them. We only know their effect on our psyche.

Robert Redford’s passing did. And I understand why: His works, much like King’s and Bowie’s, had a profound effect on my world view. Not his early films. I have little experience of his days in television, aside from that Twilight Zone episode he starred in: “Nothing in the Dark.” Not his earliest silver screen films either: Inside Daisy Clover and Barefoot in the Park, and the like, most notably. They are fun to watch now, watching him evolve as an actor.

My first exposure to Redford might have been The Sting. Or Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. It was then that he rose in public consciousness. It helps that he starred with Paul Newman in these two films. (One might wonder why Newman’s death did not have the same profound effect on me, given how high he stands in my regard: it may be because he was older than Redford, that he first found fame outside my lifespan.)

Woven in with these modern classics stand Downhill Racer, Jeremiah Johnson, The Way We Were, Three Days of the Condor, The Candidate, and (most affectedly) All the President’s Men. Each of these films stood out in my mind from the fray: each meant something, each spoke to a point, and each were unflinching in Redford’s commentary on society as he saw it, we know now. Maybe that’s why they stand the test of time: they were in tune with society’s social conscience. Downhill Racer and The Candidate and All the President’s Men are all about how the adage “it’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game” could not be further from the truth in our Western Society. There are about holding the mirror up to our duplicity, in that regard. The Way We Were may be a love story, but it’s also about integrity in the McCarthy era. It helps that Hubbard’s story mirrors F. Scott Fitzgerald’s.

Redford remain as unflinching throughout his career. Indeed, in his life. He was political, ideological, remarking that he believed in causes, not political parties. He bought up land to protect it, championed native rights, supported fledgling filmmakers.

His middle career was as inspired. When he began directing, he held up the most personal of institutions to scrutiny: Ordinary People, for one; A River Runs Through It, another. He reminded us that what we see on television is not always what it seems: Quiz Show. The roles he chose were as inspired: The Natural; Out of Africa; (the little watched) Havana.

I suppose you can plainly see how large Redford looms in my consciousness. He became the watermark of what it meant to be a man, in my mind. The hallmark of integrity.

It comes to mind that the reason his passing has affected me as much as it has: he was the same age as my parents. My father was born in 1936, my mother in 1937, mere months apart. Redford was born shortly before them. The same age as them, he looked like them when in the prime of their lives, and beyond. And that likely drew me to him, even more so than his as lauded early collaborator and friend, Newman. I suppose that made Redford something of a father figure to me, almost as much as my actual father.

That may be projecting too much. But I have to say that Redford’s idealism inspired my world view, perhaps more than my father did. My father and I had very different interests and opinions. I expect that ours were more in line than I might know or admit. It’s not like my father and I discussed world events. When we did, we were as apt to argue than agree. Then again, that’s unfair. And probably untrue.

I never found myself arguing with what Redford taught me, however.

Time Considered

“Time is the longest distance between two places.”

― Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie 

It’s been some time since I checked in. I’ve no excuse other than time somehow gets away from me. I ought to do what I ought. And I do. It’s just that what that is seems to drift. These days that seems to be crashing out on a couch with a book, reading the innumerable titles on my shelves that I’ve collected over the years, with every intention that they be read within the next short while when I bought them, but realise now, in fact, that the pace at which I purchased them exceeded the pace I could ever read them.

Honestly, I ought to cease buying books. I promise myself just that often. Then I find myself killing time in our local bookstore while my wife browses clothing, or I drift into an independent (or monstrous chain store) while on holiday (sometimes because I have no other notion of how to occupy my idle hours) and discover I’ve another two or four or eight titles in tow, haunting my expectations. It does haunt me. I’ve likely not enough time to read what I own anymore.

I’ve likely not enough time to master another of my pursuits – music – either, no matter how much time I invest in it. It haunts me that I might have begun too late in life to excel at the instruments I’ve picked up: guitar, clarinet, and sax (to varying success, depending on how much time I’ve spent practicing each, and whether each has lain fallow, for whatever reason). There are days I delight in what skill I now have with them. And there are days I know that I am hopelessly inadequate, and perhaps always will be. Most musicians believe this, I imagine, regardless how good they are; but in my case I know this to be true. My memory is not what it once was, so recall can be spotty. My sight reading is not rapid, either. I understand that I need more time to decipher what in inscribed on the page than others that I’m acquainted with, and can only play what I read cold when it is not laborious.

I ought to post to my blogs more regularly, too. But doing so takes time, more time than I wish to commit. This blog staggers on, in fits and starts, picked up after I had all but set it aside, years ago. My other blog, Greyhawk Musings, has languished. It may for a time. It may forever. For those not in the know, it is a D&D blog, where I collected and ordered the scattered lore of AD&D’s original setting (Greyhawk) into easily digested subjects. I enjoyed the meditative immersion of that research; but I also understood, as I met and interacted with other fans of that setting, that I was nowhere near as invested in it as I ought to be, as they most certainly were. And never would be. It was a labour of love for them, and merely a curiosity for me. I understood then that I did not belong in their sphere, regardless our shared pursuit. I have greater interest in Classical Studies, something I discovered a love of in university (and through my original involvement in D&D). Ancient Greece and Rome and their story fascinate me, far more than any invented world ever could.

Indeed, I have a great interest in story. It matters not in what form: oral, myth, film, television serials, fiction or non-fiction. The telling of stories is a human thing, our oldest pastime. It is no wonder then that we invest as much time in the telling and listening of them.

It is no wonder then that I enjoy writing (actually, it’s very much a wonder why anyone does, but that’s a thesis in its breadth and depth). It matters not whether anyone witnesses it. I wish they would, though. I’ve always been a storyteller. I can make a short story long. And have. Longtime readers of this blog already know that I have written more than these blogposts. I’ve written short stories and two novels. None were accepted for publication, regardless the praise I sometimes received from those publishers who bothered to read what I submitted. There’s a Catch-22 quality to why that is. Those rejections discouraged my pursuing that pleasure further for quite some time; until I began musing on my own life some years ago, and began jotting down vignettes about it. I’m reminded of Charles Dickens did very much the same thing his early Sketches. I understand that writers write. Whether anyone reads what they write is another matter, altogether. So, I do. And gather thoughts on what I might mine from those vignettes.

And wonder whether I might have enough time to do something about them.

“A man who dares to waste one hour of time has not discovered the value of life.”
― Charles Darwin, The Life & Letters of Charles Darwin

Jane Austen at Home

 

The squirrel that I am, I read too many titles at the same time, consequently, I am still, this many months removed, engaged in my Jane Austen July TBR. Or was. I’d read Emma, The Murder of Mr. Wickham, and finally Jane Austen at Home: A Biography, by celebrated TV personality and historian Lucy Worsley.

I expect some few visitors here might be crying aloud, “Enough with Jane Austen, already!” You are in luck, then; my Jane Austen July reading has exhausted itself for the year. (I have to say, however, that if you did think that, then you are probably in the wrong place. I consume what I will, and much of it these days is, and will be, historically aligned, given the lists of unread books that I own and plan to tackle in the next while.)

I ought to have read this book before ever embarking on reading any Austen title. It is that illuminating. Moreover, it ought to be required reading for anyone considering reading Jane Austen. It is, obviously, a biography (and says as much in its title); but it is more than just a mere study of Jane’s life: It details her family’s circumstance prior to her birth; her early upbringing; her relationship with her parents; her extended family; her sister. And, perhaps more importantly, her relationship with her Georgian Period world. It is thus a feminist work. Of course it is. Jane may be one of English Literature’s first feminist authors. Granted, she was constrained in her feminism, given the world she found herself in, her status in the gentry, her family’s ecclesiastic and Tory leanings.

Steventon Rectory, Hampshire

Her world was a small one. Most women’s worlds were, then. Thus, the title: Jane Austen at Home. Most women had great need of finding a good match. How else might they have supported themselves, otherwise? If they did not marry well, and a great many women did not in her day – a natural outcome given the toll paid during the Napoleonic Wars – their prospects were limited, with diminishing prospects (destined to live on the charity of family for the rest of their lives), and an ever lessening standard of living (and that was if one was lucky enough to be a member of the gentry – imagine the poverty to be endured if she were not fortunate to be born to the upper classes). Jane’s life would ultimately be destined to just these reduced means, regardless her talent, regardless her having been a published author. She never made all that much money during her lifetime.

Chawton Cottage, by Anna Austen

Lucy Worsley’s book ought to be required reading for Janeites because it adds context to each of her novels. We can watch Jane’s life unfold through her fictional characters’ lives. She must navigate the world of the debutante. She is forced to leave her childhood home when her father retires and her brother assumes his parsonage. She must endure any family legacy she would be owed today bequeathed to others (most of whom had no need of the extra cash, already so flush they were floating). She grappled with the morality of familial sources of income (although her immediate family earned their income from her father’s parsonage, others did by the spoils of the Napoleonic Wars, slavery, and the opium trade – to say nothing of sketchy banking practices). One can unearth her life experiences from her text: family, friends, balls, romances, and betrayals. It’s all there, if you care to look for it.

Lucy Worsley did her research. Not only did she plumb Jane’s correspondence, she drew widely on other sources germane to the Regency era, both contemporary and “contemporary” to her years of life. How else could she have understood Jane? There was a lot going on. And the world was rather different than it is now. Jane lived during the Enlightenment and the social changes it was igniting. It was also a wilder, more freewheeling time than what was to follow, the more inhibited Victorian Age. War was raging. There were men in uniform everywhere. In that regard, Jane’s family had naval ties. One imagines, given Jane living close to the coast for a great deal of her life, that the threat of invasion from France was thought imminent. It evokes thoughts of the Second World War. And indeed, the Napoleonic Wars might be considered the “first” world war! One imagines whirlwind wartime romances, austerity, the worries concerning brothers fighting overseas; and most importantly – at least here – what might become of all the women when their fathers, brothers, and lovers should they pay the ultimate price (there was no social net then, beyond the charity of family).

And yet, for all that, Jane’s books are not Romances. She doesn’t concern herself with such stories, as she herself admitted that she had no experience with high adventure, and if she were to embark on such a story it would be so ridiculous that she might burst into fits of laughter at the attempt. So, she wrote about what she knew: house and home, family, courting, flirtations, marriages, and the worries women had concerning forging a future.

Like I said, I wish I’d read Lucy Worsley’s biography of Jane first. I would certainly have divined the greater depth hidden within her books I have hitherto read.

Foyle’s War

 

When speaking on what types of television drama’s one likes it is impossible to be exhaustive. Unless one is in the habit of only watching one or two types of shows. Even then it is hard to take someone at their word. I know people who profess to only watch sports. Then they are caught out referring to “loving” X (insert whatever tv show, sitcom or drama).

Honestly, it is difficult to pin down what one likes: Everyone has eclectic tastes, after all.

I’ve mentioned that I’ve watched a lot of SF television in my time. Less now than then. I like a lot of things. Historical drama. Murder mysteries. Documentaries. I’ve watched a lot of British dramas, too, owing to what airs on TVO and PBS.

It comes as no surprise, then, that I liked Foyle’s War. For those unfamiliar with it, it follows the investigations of DCI Christopher Foyle during the Second World War (and beyond). It ticked a lot of boxes for me. It was a “cozy” crime drama, much like Midsomer Murders, and Inspector Morse, except in this case, it’s historical and not contemporary. Thus, not only is there a crime to solve (sometimes two), its aim was to educate its viewers on what life was like while Great Briton was under siege by Nazi Germany. It explored, not only life under rationing, but also instances of war profiteering, black-marketing, Nazi collaborators, conscientious objectors, bathtub gin, and a whole host of anything else one might encounter while the war raged, including being bombed out in an air raid. For a while it divided its attention with Foyle’s son, a pilot enduring the Battle of Britain, and his PTSD; later with the American “occupation,” racism, and war-brides; and how aligned (r not) “Allied” goals were with Soviet Russia’s.

There was a lot going on in this series. Perhaps that was why I liked it. It reasoned that people have always been the same, regardless what might be raging around them: greed, loves, marital difficulties, infidelities, political duplicity, cover-ups, whatever. It mattered not that they all need pull together; some people will invariably pull for their own aims and ends.

The lead characters were Detective Chief Inspector Foyle (obviously), quiet, methodical, sagacious, scrupulously honest. He is invariably viewed by anyone who doesn’t know him as a provincial flatfoot, who could not possibly have a first-rate, analytical mind. Cozy crime dramas would be lacking without the somewhat hapless assistant, in this case Detective Sergeant, Paul Milner. His story arc is different from Foyle’s: where Foyle is a widower and a father, Milner’s arc is about his marital woes and success, and ambition. Lastly, we have Foyle’s driver, Samantha Stewart. She’s young, naïve, somewhat excitable. She’s our view into the feminine, and single, perspective of the war.

There are other recurring characters that flow in and out of the overall narrative: Foyle’s son, police brass, family members, and a spy or too later on. I will not dwell on them; suffice it to say that each are there to explore aspects of the war, as they arise.

I cannot praise this series too much. Characters, to my mind, are realistic; so too are their arcs. The stories are neither overly preachy (they are that, though: the point of the series is historical social commentary), nor sensationalist. And they are quintessentially British, insofar as the British have an insatiable love of murder mysteries: Poirot, Marple, Midsomer, Father Brown, Sister Boniface, Grantchester, Death in Paradise…. Need I go on?

This one is different, though. This one immerses us in the depth of the War, and shows us that not everyone who served during that perilous time was in uniform.

There’s No Accounting for Taste: TV

 

Television is changing. So is everything. It’s the nature of Pop Culture. Each generation is a litmus test, a time capsule of what was liked, appreciated, valued, and believed. One need not look much further than sitcoms, like I Love Lucy in the 1950s to realise that; then Dick Van Dyke in the 1960s; Mary Tyler Moore, Maude, and the Bunkers in the 1970s; Family Ties, and Night Court in the 1980s; Seinfeld, and Friends in the 1990s. Tastes evolve, Outlook changes. What was beloved in one decade is laughable (and not in a good way) in another.

So too did I change. Obviously. I was born in the 1960s, grew up in the 1970s, became an adult in the 1980s, began working in the 1990s, and matured in the 2000s. I first consumed the viewing preferences of the Greatest Generation, cut my teeth on that of the Silent, and ultimately was influenced by the Baby Boomers. It was only after leaving school that the pragmatic cynicism of Generation Jones, and the pragmatic distrust of GenX reared its head, and demanded that “Here we are now; Entertain us.” That’s a whole lot of world view to digest.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then let’s begin.

 

The 1960s

I don’t remember much of the 1960s, being born midway through. Living in the North (not the arctic, but the James Bay Frontier, where media was still relatively limited: two tv channels – one French, one English –, radio – I imagine the same split –, you can appreciate that choice was limited to the set either being on or off. What I do remember is pretty trippy. H.R. Pufnstuf, and the The Banana Splits Adventure Hour. Witchypoo on her broom, cracking mirrors, it was all shades of The Wizard of Oz, as I recall. Everything else fades into the background, shadows in the fog of time. I don’t think I watched much tv. I played outside. I went to bed early. I imagine most of my viewing was very early morning and weekends, mainly Saturday Morning Cartoons.

 

The 1970s

I recall far more from the 1970s, more as the decade progressed. The Hilarious House of Frightenstein, Land of the Lost, and The Starlost, to begin. Science fiction had a decidedly Magicam took to it, with people appearing to float in a world of minimalist high-tech dollhouses and puppetry. Need I mention that I watched Star Trek, in syndication? I expect not.

However indulgent my parents might have been concerning what was aired before bedtime, I mostly watched what my parents watched. In that regard, I recall the background hum of the Vietnam War. And Watergate. I was especially annoyed by Watergate: it pre-empted all our regular viewing with stodgy old men in glasses blathering on about Nixon and a whole host of apparently meaningless drivel concerning events I could not care less about, then. It was all blah-blah-blah, talk, talk, talk, when I wanted to watch Planet of the Apes and Hawaii 5-0. 

It wasn’t all Hawaii 5-0 and The Six Million Dollar Man, or even The Wonderful World of Disney. I might have been allowed to watch Logan’s Run, but I was just as likely watching The Waltons and Little House on the Prairie; Carol Burnett and Lawrence Welk. It turns out that networks on both side of the border were concerned by a falling sense of morality on the tube: there was too much violence on tv, too much sex. Something must be done! Thus, the wholesome content of The Waltons and Little House. We collectively remember them now with revulsion (more a feeling than a memory); but honestly, we turned in week after week, so how bad could they have been? The worse we can say about them, now, would be that they were saccharine, tales about family, and family values, lacking in car chases and violence – which, honestly, was the point.

North of the border there was greater concern about the lack of Canadian Content. Why should our networks produce our own expensive shows when there was abundance flowing out of the cornucopia of the American entertainment machine? Most viewers here did not seem to care. I did not; not then. We produced what I remember my mother calling Canadian Crap! The Beachcombers comes to mind, The Forest Rangers, The Littlest Hobo, Wayne and Schuster. But most shows were like Front Page Challenge. They were pale when compared with “high quality” American shows. It turns out that we could compete when we put our minds to it. The King of Kensington was the first Canadian produced sitcom that received high acclaim, from both critics and viewers. Some of it is even now considered exceptional: SCTV, for instance.

What I remember most of 1970s tv was emerging Social Consciousness. Norman Lear coms to mind. He looms large in my tv memory: All in the Family, The Jeffersons, Sanford and Son, Maude, Good Times, One Day at a Time. Shows that had a point. Gone were the like of Green Acres and The Beverly Hillbillies. So too The Brady Bunch and Gilligan’s Island. And Happy Days.

 

The 1980s

I have less recollection of 1980s TV. School looms larger in my memory. I recall I retained a love of SF: Star Trek, Doctor Who, V, The Martian Chronicles. It was hit or miss, however: Alien Nation, Buck Rogers in the 24^th Century. Airwolf, Night Rider, Quantum Leap. Some of it is abysmal now. Others hold up well. One short-lived show I was obsessed with was then was Kolchak: The Night Stalker. Yes, it was produced in the 1970s, but I did not see it here until High School, in the 1980s, on late night. Like a lot of TV, then, its production value was sketchy, but its influence was profound. So too The Twilight Zone. Same deal: I did not watch this show until the ‘80s.

My tastes were migrating, however. I was as likely to watch St. Elsewhere and Hill Street Blues, as I was Mork and Mindy. TV was definitely changing: Elsewhere and Blues might not enjoy the vitriol The Waltons and Little House did, but they were direct descendants, to my mind, Family Values meets Norman Lear. Honestly, what I remember most about 1980s TV are miniseries, when just about everyone tuned in for week-long airings of Roots, and Shogun, and The Winds of War, and the like. They were spectacular, the limited series of today in their time, novels come to life.

Family viewing in my house was Saturday Night at the Movies, with Elwy Yost, on TVO. It was TCM here in its time, before excessive abundance drowned it in a sea of possibility. Before then, movies were either aired blockbusters of years past, or made-for TV affairs. SNatM was different, it was classic film, hosted by a movie nerd who was so uncool he was beloved. Prior to Elwy my only ongoing exposure to classic film was what was aired Sunday mornings when I was very young, Ma and Pa Kettle, Abbot and Costello, Laurel and Hardy, Our Gang shorts. Elwy introduced me to a love of film. Not spectacle blockbusters, but Noir, and New Wave Cinema, Silents, and the like. To Bogart, Cary Grant, Barbara Stanwick, etc. I carry that love with me to this very day.

Then post-secondary school reared its head, and TV all but disappears from memory for a while. I watched. But it all slips from my mind. I’ve memory of The Smurfs, and Pee-Wee’s Playhouse, and SNL. I suppose the only thing that stands out is “Must See TV,” Thursday nights on NBC. How’s that for marketing! Four sitcoms and a drama to obsess on: Taxi, Cheers, Family Ties, Cosby, Night Court, A Different World, Seinfeld, Mad About You, Friends. ‘Nuff Said.

TV faded into the background in those years, with little other titles rising to the status of Must See TV, until Star Trek: The Next Generation found its way to the screen.

 

The 1990s

SF came back into TV consciousness with ST:TNG. The X Files iced that cake, for me. But TV was not what it tickled my fancy, for the most part. I’d broken the addiction while away at school. I was more about film now than TV. Because TV was an endless supply of stuff I had little to no interest in: Dawson’s Creek, Party of Five, Beverly Hills 90210, etc. There were those head and shoulders above the rest, like My So Called Life, for instance; but I did not watch that – you can’t watch everything. I was attracted by what might be (and was) referred to then as “TV Too Good for TV.” Some of it hit a nerve with the public and lasted, most did not, hence the tag: Twin Peaks, and Northern Exposure come to mind. I wanted something different, something beyond the pale. I suppose I got that more from film now, and less from TV. I was also working shiftwork. So, unless I taped something, I was unlikely to see it with regularity.

You’d think I’d have watched more: this was the age where my generation began to loom large, but, TV was becoming more formulaic as the decade advanced, in my opinion, until it was of little of interest to me anymore.

 

The 2000s

Some TV was less formulaic: The West Wing, for instance; but, by this time I was watching less TV than ever. But the TV I was watching was what had always appealed to me: difference. It matters not that some of it was wildly popular, it was its difference to what had come before was what drew me in. It was ever more cinematic. The Sopranos was not just about the mob; it was about a man losing his mind. Six Feet Under was about both the lives of those recently dead, but those who buried them (still the best series finale I can think of). Freaks and Geeks was what I remembered to be my youth, in a nutshell. Band of Brothers. Mad Men. Deadwood. Lost. Entourage. Bleak House. Rome. Firefly. The reboot of Battlestar Galactica. I’d never seen such TV. I was somewhat addicted. Lat said, what appealed to me was their complex plots and character studies. Cinematic stories are fun to watch, but they are meaingless without the otther two, mere spectacle. These, however, blended both. Loved 'em!

Until it all came crashing down.

 

The 2010s

There were outliers, but TV has paled for me again. Perhaps because my age group had been ushered to the wings again. Perhaps. We were the parents. The sinister bosses. The villains in a world that increasingly worships youth.

I wonder if I liked Stranger Things as much as I have because it is set in the 1980s. It’s nostalgic, paired with Lovecraftian Cosmic Horror. True Detective appeals because its stars are in my ballpark generation, and its Cosmic Horror oblique.

If I’m being honest, there are still a lit of shows I enjoy, but most are historical fictions, or cast with familiar actors, film stars who’ve migrated to the small screen. I expect this trend to continue, as I find that I hardly ever recognise new celebrities. They come and go with staggering regularity now that the we’re flooded with ever increasing content on streaming services. Who can keep up?

 

And Beyond

As networks flag, and soon to be swept into the dustbin in this brave new world of streaming, I know I will fall further and further behind, until, ultimately, I care little for what is on, on either the big or small screens. We, I believe, will all become our parents, baffled by what people choose to watch, it all so alien to our world-view and values. I realise that my mother indulged my viewing preferences, back in the day, when it was easier for her to let me watch whatever strange show I wished, only occasionally demanding I watch those other, more “wholesome,” family-oriented fare she would insist on: those Waltons, Little House, St. Elsewhere types. And to be honest, I do so miss some of that type of entertainment, series not drowning in melodramatic angst, or overwhelmed with all too stunningly beautiful superheroes that defeat all forms of evil, not because they are clever and courageous, but because they believe in themselves.

The Voyage of the Space Beagle

 

I’d never read A.E. Van Vogt. I was aware of him, though. I recall being of the opinion that his stories were largely Space Operas. Where I’d heard this escapes me. Perhaps it is because of this very “novel.” I place that word on quotation marks because a great many of Vogt’s novels are what he called “fix-ups.” A fix-up was his habit of taking a number of his published short stories and rewriting them, linking them together into novel form. How successful he was in this is open to interpretation.

Maybe I ought to introduce A.E. Van Vogt. He was Canadian, later residing in California. He was primarily a short story writer, a regular contributor to Astounding Science Fiction magazine during the Golden Age of Science Fiction, and has been cited as being of profound influence to a great number of SF writers who followed after him: Philip K. Dick, Harlan Ellison, Robert Sawyer, to name a few. He “was the first writer to shine light on the restricted ways in which I had been taught to view the universe and the human condition", declared Ellison. A great many others concur, it would seem, from what I've read of him; but recognition was a long-time coming. That might be because his prose had a fragmented, and sometimes bizarre narrative style. Or it may be because of his bizarre beliefs, and his short-lived involvement in L. Ron Hubbard’s Dianetics. Who knows why some authors bask in notoriety, and others languish in relative obscurity; why some are buried under awards and praise, and others not.

I submit that Vogt was denied praise for so long may be because his output, however imaginative, was uneven. In turns out that Vogt was in the habit of recycling his stories a lot. Indeed, as I noted above, this novel is one such example. The Voyage of the Space Beagle is actually a collection of four short stories, “fixed up” into what is presented here. Those stories are/were “Black Destroyer” (1939), “War of Nerves” (1950), “Discord in Scarlet” (1939), and “M33 in Andromeda” (1943). Although mostly the same as the originals, there are differences: In “Black Destroyer,” for instance, there is no mention of Beagle’s central character, Elliot Grosvenor, nor his scientific pursuit of Nexialism, Vogt’s all-encompassing meta-system prevalent throughout. Grosvenor’s role is taken up by the ship’s commander (later Director), Morton. Archeologist Korita is present, as is Chief Chemist Kent, and Biologist Smith; but not Nexialist Grosvenor. Nor is he (or Captain Leeth) or his field of expertise in “Discord in Scarlet,” either. This might be why …Beagle feels uneven, at times, why Grosvenor’s expertise feels forced. Shoed in. Nexialism feels like an impossibility, really. That someone should know just enough about every other field of study and able to make sweeping conclusions about every possible outcome of a crisis with limited input is a stretch, at best; impossible, in reality, to my mind.

The Coeurl - from "Black Destroyer"

What is far more possible is that Beagle (a reference to Charles Darwin’s voyage, his ship, and his book) is very possibly an inspiration for Star Trek. The Space Beagle is primarily an exploration vessel. Both Darwin’s voyage and Kirk’s Enterprise were both on a five-year mission (the Space Beagle’s mission length is not actually mentioned, but is in the order of years) to explore strange new worlds; to seek out new life and new civilizations; to boldly go where no man has gone before! (Well, maybe not Darwin’s…) Indeed, it ultimately leaves our Wilky Way galaxy, plunging into Andromeda. Along the way, it explores the ruins of a dead civilisation, encountering the Coeurl, a starving, intelligent and vicious cat-like carnivore with tentacles on its shoulders (suspiciously identical to D&D’s Displacer Beast), that kills a number of “red shirts” on the ship.

Ixtl - from "Discord in Scarlet"

The Beagle then encounters a telepathic race whose communications plunge the crew into homicidal madness. It must then survive the Ixtl, another “monster of the week,” that lays its eggs in the hollows of human cavities to reproduce. In the last story, the Beagle encounters a will-o’-the-whisp encompassing the whole of Andromeda, that unless overcome, will surely consume all life in the Milky Way in time. One cannot definitively conclude that Beagle did inspire Gene Roddenberry, but one cannot dismiss the similarities. What is conclusive is that “Discord in Scarlet” did inspire Ridley Scott’s 1979 film, Alien, however O’Bannon (the author of the screenplay) might deny it (he does), but there was enough similarity that Twentieth Century fox settled Vogt’s lawsuit, out of court, in the order of $50,000. One imagines that where’s there’s smoke there’s fire.

Illustration from "Discord in Scarlet"

The Voyage of the Space Beagle is an interesting study, if not a fabulous book. I found it dated. It might imagine an epic future for humanity, but its tech is firmly rooted in the 20^th Century. They still use atomic energy, paper, and there is a postal system aboard the ship, despite their having computers, and communicator “plates” (screens). The crew’s choice of language is a little cringe-worthy, too, referring to the Coeurl as “pussy.” I doubt they'd have been so dismissive of an obviously dangerous creature, however feline it appeared.

My greatest complaint is how clumsy Vogt’s writing is. It ain’t High Lit! His descriptions of tech sometimes left me baffled. So too descriptions of rooms. I found myself going over passages a number of times, thinking, “what are you saying!” Not a good thing. Also, why refer to video screens as "plates," when TVs existed, albeit in their infancy? Or Lazer weapons as Flame-throwers, regardless their being “atomic,” just because the beams were hot enough to melt the walls, literally?  And if they had Lazer weapons, why should the crew carry handheld “vibrators”? I expect they emitted tightly confined emitted vibrations. But can one tightly confine vibrations? One wonders whether they were merely a salacious inside joke....

My reservations aside, I’m pleased I read this time-capsule. If only that it was a precursor to Star Trek and Alien. It was a harbringer of what was to come.

Ficciones

 

I’ve been broadening my scope of reading lately. In some cases, this is merely done by reading what I already own. It’s a trend on YouTube these days. Perhaps it’s not a new trend; I expect there have been video essays on doing just that for as long as there has been YouTube. It’s good advice. And we should all take it. Otherwise, books that once excited us enough to purchase them might never be read; if you, like me, are not as quick a reader as we’d like to be, and other, newer (or older) titles distract us from doing what we ought.

Despite this desire, despite this promise to myself that I ought to do just that, and despite my declaration here that I will do just that, old habits die hard. Every so often (too often, truth be told), I’m seduced by what I’ve seen or read and do just what I vowed I would not do: I buy more books.

I recently was seduced into buying and reading a short book, Steven L. Peck’s 2009 psychological horror novella, A Short Stay in Hell, recently discussed in this blog. I learned, even as I heard of it, that it was inspired by, or perhaps adapted from, Jorges Luis Borges’ short story, “The Library of Babel.” Naturally, easily seduced me, had his interest piqued. Inspired how? Adapted how? Enquiring minds want to know…. “I must read this short story,” I told myself. Of course I did.

Thus, I bought another book: his Ficciones.

I, I must admit, cannot remember whether I’d ever heard of Borges. I might have. I must have. He’s considered a master postmodern short story writer. He was also a poet, an essayist, a translator. But hitherto I’d never read anything he’d written. That said, I’ve read what I read, and one cannot read everything. That also said, I decided I ought to, considering how thrilled I was with Peck’s disturbing novella. Imagine, I thought, how good its source inspiration is.

Oddly enough, Borges was not well known outside of France or South America (he was Argentine) until 1961, when he was introduced to the English-speaking world by Samuel Beckett. The success of García Márquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude helped Borges’ sales, I would imagine. Latin America authors had become all the rage, if at least for a time.

Ficciones stories were published between 1941 and 1946, some of which were collected in the anthology Labyrinths, in 1962, and here, in this collection (for the first time in English) the same year.

What are they about? They are hard to describe. They, each, are themselves labyrinths. Some are about books that never existed. Some of these are satires of book reviews of these books that never existed. Others are misdirection, tales told by unreliable narrators. They are about secret societies, conspiracies, and civilizations purported to be, but are merely elaborate hoaxes. Thus… lies (?). Most are perplexing; all are masterfully presented.

The best of them might not be “The Library of Babel,” but it was the I was most drawn to. (It was fun to learn that Borges was himself a librarian when he wrote it.) That might be because of both Peck’s adaptation, and YouTube videos extolling its virtues, the virtues of Borges, or all of the above.

I did not find Ficciones, for the most part, an easy read. Indeed, most stories were a struggle. I grappled with Borges’ complex thoughts and sentences; because of this, I only read one story per day. Luckily, most are quite short. So, I was able to reread a number of the most labyrinthian immediately afterwards. I would not have done so if I did not find them thought-provoking. That said, I might have abandoned the book if they were not easier the second time around. Some were straightforward, not requiring rereading at all. A few remained as indecipherable as on first reading. Regardless my failure, most were rewarding, in one way or another.

I likely will not read more Borges, however. Regardless how philosophical they are (and they are), despite Beckett’s heralding him, no matter Karl Ove Knausgaard declaring "Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius," the first story of the collection, "the best short story ever written," I found them a little too postmodern for my taste. Not that I dislike postmodern, as a rule. Sometimes, though, postmodern novels can be more work than they are worth. I note that philosophy majors adore Borges. Perhaps they divine reference and meaning lost on me. Perhaps it was the translation.

Perhaps I’m just a little too thick for Borges.

Ice

 

I profess that I was (and am) an SF fan. I’ve read a lot of it. But judging from some of the videos I’ve seen on YouTube, I can safely say that I’ve only read a sliver of what is out there. Honestly, that’s a good thing. If I’d focussed on SF (and Fantasy – which I’d also read my fair share of – that once subgenera of SF that has now all but overwhelmed its supposed parent) I’d have missed out on far more personally inspirational works.

But that, here, is neither here nor there. What is, is that in those heady days when I passed by the bulk of the bookstore for those SF/Fantasy shelves, I had once perused a great many of what’s now considered classic SF titles and authors: Asimov, Clarke, and Heinlein; Burroughs, Bradbury, and Ballard. To say nothing of the new kids on the block, then: Bova, Gibson, Sterling, and Robinson. To list them all would be tedious, so let’s just say I thought myself well versed in what was out there.

Need I say that after that lengthy preamble that I was wholly unaware of this now classic 1967 SF novel by Anna Kavan. Indeed, I have to say that I can’t even recall Anna, herself. Perhaps this is not surprising, given that Anna Kavan was not an SF writer.

I can’t concretely say when I first became acquainted with her novel Ice. It may be as recently as Charlie Kauffman’s surrealist film I’m Thinking of Ending Things. Kavan’s book was one of a number of somewhat famous/somewhat obscure works of art referenced within it. I did not pick it up then. I can’t say it (or many other of the works referenced) made much impression then, while I struggled to understand the unreal things happening on screen while its plot twisted in and out of my grasp. I only began to search for this novel after seeing it referenced and critiqued by a number of YouTubers singing its praise.

Now that I’ve read it, I question whether it is indeed an SF novel at all. It certainly is one on the surface. It’s post-apocalyptic: an undisclosed world war has come to its inevitable conclusion, and in its wake a nuclear winter is racing across the globe, a runaway mile-high ice advancing upon populations either in frantic denial, or succumbing to totalitarian autocracy, fracturing everywhere. The story is less about that than about a man obsessing about a woman, chasing after her, desperate (in his mind) to find her, protect her, to save her. As the story unfolds it becomes apparent that he wishes, not to protect her, but to possess her. She is forever being whisked away by another character, the Warden, of whom she is a prisoner, locked in rooms, abused, nearly catatonic in his “care.” She hates the Warden. But she also hates our unnamed protagonist, who is equally as brutal and abusive as is the Warden.

Everything is not as it seems, however. It’s right there, in black and white, at the very start, when our unreliable narrator declares: “Reality had always been something of an unknown quantity to me.” ― Anna Kavan, Ice

Kavan is telling us that nothing is here as it seems.

A couple pages later, our narrator tells us: “the consequences of the traumatic experience were still evident in the insomnia and headaches from which I suffered. The drugs prescribed for me produced horrible dreams, in which she always appeared as a hapless victim, her fragile body broken and bruised. These dreams were not confined to sleep only, and a deplorable side effect was the way I had come to enjoy them.” ― Anna Kavan, Ice

Everything unravels from there. It takes a while to reorient oneself while navigating the oddly fragmented timeline – unless the above excerpts jumped out at you. Whole passages appear as dreams within the text, seemingly out of context from the narrative. Are they memories, imaginings, fantasies? Then, the story resumes. It’s all a bit unsettling. Hallucinogenic.

What’s germane here is Anna Kavan, herself. Kavan’s life was a bit of a tragedy: an unhappy childhood, failed marriages, drug abuse, suicide attempts, hospitalizations. Which brings me to what I believe the book is really about. Her style has been called slipstream fiction. And Ice is a great example of it. It is supposed to be unsettling, hallucinogenic, because, like much of her work (none else of which I have read, I will admit; I got most of her biographical information from the book’s introduction, and Wikipedia) it is perhaps an exploration of her self. Bear with me. Others have come to the same conclusions, I’ve discovered.

Everything in Ice is allegory. The Ice is heroin. The Warden is her periodic hospitalization. And our unnamed “protagonist” is her addiction. The Ice closes in. The Warden whisks her away, locks her up, the confinement painful. She hates the Warden, but is reluctant to leave her repeated confinements. Our narrator always finds her as the temperature plunges and snow falls, the Ice mere miles away. He “rescues” her, yet he too treats her roughly. She does not want to go with him. He insists. She hates him, and tells him so; yet he persists in his pursuit of this meek and compliant woman, regardless of her stated desire that he leave her forever. He refuses to listen. His rescues are all but kidnappings. But even when he “abandons” her she waits for him. She knows he will come back for her. And he does. Obsessively. She appears to love him. Taken this way, it all makes sense: the surreal context, the hallucinations, the obsessive nature of the love/hate relationship.

So, is it SF? It is. It is not. Is Ice a difficult read? It could be. But it is not.

Could I have read this in my early reading, had I know about it? No. Not at all. I would have been helplessly adrift. I preferred hard SF then. Less so now. Now, I prefer explorations of the human condition. More Bradbury, say, than Clarke. So, it is probably a good thing that it took me as long as it has to find this book, the last of Kavan’s published in her lifetime.

The Murder of Mr. Wickham

 

I bought this a few years ago on a lark, thinking to pair something contemporary to Jane Austen July reading. But on reading the back cover I noted that it was, supposedly, a continuation of Emma, a title I’d not yet read. I set it aside, thinking I ought to have greater familiarity with those characters before this; and, let’s be honest, if this were truly a continuation of Emma, albeit a murder mystery, as hinted by the title, I expected there to be a whole lot of spoilers within it concerning the original, spoilers I’d rather not be party to.

How could there be spoilers concerning a 200-year-old book, one asks, one that has a number of screen and television adaptations? Well, I might opine that screen adaptations aren’t always entirely faithful to their source material; and, let’s face facts, after watching thousands of films and tv shows over the course of my life, not everything sticks. So, I set Claudia Gray’s 2022 novel aside for a spell.

To be honest, after last year’s reading of P.D. James’ Death Comes to Pemberley, I wasn’t expecting much. I’d long since come to the conclusion that, published author or not, whomever might hazard an homage to classical works, fan-fiction is fan-fiction. It’s someone’s desire to live in the world of their favourite characters.

I was rather shocked to discover that Claudia Gray (Amy Vincent, but I will continue to refer to her as her pen name, here) is very much one of those authors, and not in a way I might have expected. She has written a whole host of Star Wars novels. Seven, in fact. She is also a prolific fantasy writer, too. Luckily, I did not know this when I purchased this book, or else I may not have done. All prejudices included, I’m sure I would not have done. In my experience, fan-fiction, even that published by publishing houses, is not high-brow. It’s usually only tolerably proficient as literature, in my opinion. You may have a differing view, but I find that publishing houses understand that fans don’t particularly care how poetic the prose may be; indeed, fans prefer that the tale be cinematic, exciting, not layered with theme, nuance, and especially not with devices like unreliable narration. Fans want immersion. They want to live in that world. I’m pleased, then, that I did not know her past publishing history. That said, I wholly expected The Murder of Mr. Wickham to be an immersive experience for Janeites. (Yes, that is the term.) It is just that. So, if I’m not a fan of immersive fan-fiction, then why bother? Simply, I like murder mysteries. I don’t read them often, but I’d a stint when I read Ellery Queen Magazine, alongside Sci-fi pulp mags. Thus, why not? I’m game for a murder mystery set, unexpectedly, in Jane Austen’s Georgian world.

This does not say that something like The Murder of Mr. Wickham is ever going to become a literary classic. It is not Jane Austen. It lacks her biting wit. Her long exacting prose. Her slight of hand in expressing social commentary, when such a thing was not something a respectable lady was invited to do, especially in mixed company; and perhaps not even when not. But, as it turns out, Claudia Gray’s The Murder of Mr. Wickham is a tolerable pastiche of Jane Austen. In its favour it is modern as well: in its prose, social comment, in character depiction; and in its being up front in what it is: an homage to Jane Austen. Claudia Gray channels Jane Austen’s books well, in such a way as one need not have read Jane Austen’s works to appreciate her story (and Jane’s, as well).

I might add that while this is indeed a murder mystery, it is not an Agatha Christie mystery. Then again, perhaps it is. Agatha focussed a great deal on character. But, where Agatha focussed a great deal of energy on the actual murder investigation, Claudia Gray leans more on its characters histories. And there are a lot of characters in The Murder of Mr. Wickham. Those characters are not just drawn from Emma, either. Some are her own creation, the son of George Knightley and Emma Woodhouse of Emma , for instance, and the daughter of Henry Tilney and Catherine Morland of Northanger Abbey, who, it turns out, are the protagonists of all of Claudia Gray’s Mr. Darcy and Miss Tilney Mystery Series, four thus far.

Claudia Gray has taken some liberties: her book is not entirely true to Jane Austen’s books. Her story is a mishmash of the books and the movies. Colonel Brandon’s given name is never given in Sense and Sensibility, itself, but presented as Christopher in the 1995 film. There are other deviations, as well, some greater than others. Colonel Brandon’s ward in the book, for instance, was Eliza Williams; in the film Eliza was Colonel Brandon’s first love, and it was her illegitimate daughter Beth that was his ward. Claudia Gray uses the film’s plot devices and not the book’s; perhaps because, in this day and age, more people are familiar with the film than the book.

I mentioned that Claudia wove a number of Jane Austen’s characters into her story. Those were not only from Emma, Pride and Prejudice, and Sense and Sensibility, as already noted, but also Persuasion, Northanger Abbey, and Mansfield Park. She has made a judgement call on when each of those books take place, in regards to Wickham.

The books were published as follows:

·       Sense and Sensibility (1811, probably set between 1792 and 1797)

·       Pride and Prejudice (1813, set in the early 19th century)

·       Mansfield Park (1814)

·       Emma (1816)

·       Northanger Abbey (1818, posthumous)

·       Persuasion (1818, posthumous)

None are specifically anchored in time, although dedicated Janeites might be able to suggest, with evidence from the texts, when each either does or possibly takes place. Claudia sets them as follows:

·       Pride and Prejudice (1797-1798)

·       Northanger Abbey (1800)

·       Emma (1803-1804)

·       Persuasion (1814-1815)

·       Mansfield Park (1816)

·       Sense and Sensibility (1818-1819)

Claudia sets out her reasons for this in the introduction. Regardless her reasons for the changes she makes, most concerning how they are connected to the eponymous Mr. Wickham, the story holds together well, in my opinion. The characters are stronger than in Death Comes to Pemberley, smarter, more emotional, more thoughtful, altogether more realistic. Honestly, I found Claudia’s story more entertaining than P.D. James’.

What is more poignant here, to me anyway, is that, although this is a murder mystery, it is altogether more a Jane Austen novel than it is an Agatha Christie one. Which is to say that a great deal of this story concerns itself with how Claudia imagines how these beloved characters’ lives unfold following the plots of their original stories – as it concerns the dastardly doings of the nefarious Mr. Wickham.

Which is kind of what’s it’s all about.