It is a common structural element in classical detective stories to gather all the persons involved in the narrative in a strategic room where the detective (Charlie Chan comes to mind, despite the ethnic controversy) and meticulously recreates the crime, often trapping the perpetrator who attempts to subvert the final solution, even if the final solution was not fully resolved by the detective’s recreation.
Then there was the Ellery Queen structure where the reader (or viewer) was invited to solve the mystery based on a clue Ellery hinted at but wouldn’t specify until the criminal was revealed (following the “suspects gathered in a room” formula).
Continue reading “Dino’s Address Was Not 77 Sunset Strip”
When I was an unformed youth I revelled in reading novels dealing with war and heroism, the more jingoistic the better. Vietnam cured me of this aberration. Prison stories about hardened criminals carving Swiss Army knives out of a bar of Lava soap once held my interest. A dime at Q cured me of this fascination .. wait .. was it Folsom or maybe just a bad dream? Shoot, I even wasted a year or two reading Science Fiction.
Continue reading “The More I Read, the More I Want To Read”
Another month in isolation. It’s raining (it’s always raining). I’m reading books and watching Criterion. T***p is well along the way to self destruction (there are still predictions out there insisting T***p will not make it to November). I’m living on cauliflower and smoked salmon dreaming of meatloaf in mushroom gravy. Sometimes I am envious of T***p’s Big Macs and KFC.
I don’t know if there is any connection with this pandemic isolation but I am feeling older and older. I rely on my rolling walker to make even the shortest trip across the bedroom (especially at night). I have to ask my son-in-law to open jars for me. My eyes water constantly and I find myself making the computer font larger almost weekly. I still have a sense of humor and a trickle of a sex drive (ha! that’s useful) but two things I have often heard of as diminishing with old age seem to have missed me: I now sleep more than ever and I love to eat.
Continue reading “Is It November 3rd Yet?”
Slam the door; turn the key; close the transom; roll the bureau in tight and stack the chairs on top. My on-hand reading is full and even with a strict yoghurt diet I’ll never outlast the shelves of books and the digital jungle of novels, short stories, poetry, and an essay or two or two thousand. I’m done. No more books.
Do you think the publishing houses will honor my demand?
Drat! What if I read on-line or in the Post or hear a recommendation on Twitter? Should I resign from all social media? Should I cancel the Post? Should I sell my computer? If I disappear will Apple Books survive me?
Continue reading “Away All Books!”