Mystery at Shadow Pond

Mystery at Shadow Pond by Mary C. Jane (1958) I always thought “Mary C. Jane” sounded like a pen name—I finally looked her up—Mary Childs Jane—perfect name for a children’s author. These Scholastic Book Services paperbacks from the Sixties are surprisingly easy to find, considering a lot of people must be nostalgic for them, as I am. I buy one occasionally and have several Mary C. Jane books—but this is the first I’ve read—a really good mystery. It starts out remarkably slowly for such a short book—but I like that—very old-fashioned feeling—takes a while to establish everything—and there are quite a few characters. The main one, a young girl, is smart, but not unbelievably clever. It takes her awhile to clear up—with the help of her brother and a new friend—a satisfyingly deep mystery. Her brother has built a crude robot (pictured on the cover)—a modest, believable project for a kid around 1960. The new friend (whose mother is deceased—that particular detail, once again) is a smart kid and introduces them to an interesting local writer character—a very cool, young man. There’s also a mysterious, miserly neighbor, some very sketchy visitors, a kind of mythic dead grandfather who has potentially left a secret, some missing letters, a lost cat, a lame, loveable horse, and some exciting bad weather. This book has it all, or enough at least, and the ending plays out as deliberately as the opening. I’m definitely going to consider, now, reading my other Mary C. Jane books.

5.16.24

The Divorce

The Divorce by César Aira (2010) I’ve read three or four books by César Aira—I find these short books irresistible as books—inspiring objects that I love. Because I’m an idiot, I’m attracted to really short, small books, and ridiculously massive, long, heavy ones—while finding 300 page novels and short story collections much less attractive (I can’t quite say off-putting). Also idiotic is that I didn’t write anything about this book immediately after finishing it—some time ago—and now, looking over it, I may as well be trying to extract messages from concrete. Let’s see—a guy’s meeting someone at a café—and at the moment some water is accidently dumped on a guy on a bicycle—several stories are launched simultaneously. Of course, we can only get to them one after the other. The one I remember liking most is about a woman with no business experience successfully running a company by using this mysterious “manual” and nothing else—which made me think about all people in power or important positions—and what their days might be like, and how many of them might be getting by with a version of paint-by-numbers or the Cub Scout handbook—or who knows? I’m sure there were a lot of ideas in the book that made me think of seemingly unrelated topics—I just wish I’d written my thoughts down. One funny observation I recall is that it felt like these were actually short stories, but he was using this weird device to present them as a novel—but if so, why? It’s still very short as a novel—and he’s published books of short stories. Well, anyway, I liked this okay, but least of the books of his I’ve read—but still, I’m looking forward to reading the next one I get my hands on.

5.11.24

The Botany of Desire

The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollan (2001) As inspiring as I find this book, I like to imagine if I’d encountered it while in high school (a quarter-century before it was written) and wonder if it would have altered my career trajectory. (I don’t just mean botany, or science—but history, as well, even philosophy.) Its subtitle: A Plant’s-Eye View of the World, indicates how it expands its specific subjects to an overview of our very existence. I read it a few years back, but returning to it recently—as inspiration for writing a fictional story with “desire” at the core—reminded me how much fun the book is—maybe one worth going back to occasionally. I believe some PBS show was based on it—haven’t seen it—but I imagine you could get a lot out of that was well. It’s about the evolutionary relationship between humans and plants—taking the intriguing slant that the plants are equally in charge—if not more so. For someone like me who occasionally likes to consider humans as the bottom of the scale (trees at the top—or maybe even rocks), the book leads to further thought. He’s got a great approach—starting with four basic desires (sweetness, beauty, intoxication, control)—and expands those ideas with the stories of the apple, the tulip, cannabis, and the potato. He takes a particularly personal approach to each—involving his own garden. Each section could be its own book (and the book could be expanded to every recognized desire—or even every known plant). It says a lot for his choice of subject matter, though, that I’m unable to pick a clear favorite—or even one I wasn’t as into as the rest of them. I don’t smoke weed, I’m through with apples, list tulips among my least favorite flowers, and can’t stand French fries—but after recently rereading this book—I’m currently excited about nothing as much as those four subjects.

4.28.24

Rupert Piper and the Dear, Dear Birds

Rupert Piper and the Dear, Dear Birds by Ethelyn M. Parkinson (1976) The sixth of seven Rupert Piper books (the first was 1958 and the last 1979—only one I haven’t read yet). This is the weirdest yet, in a way—it gets really deep into observations of birds—some pretty intense stuff, actually—but it never feels like the overall story suffers due to an agenda. At its heart is still a humorous satire about Rupert Piper and his best guy friends, their families, and the small town. I did start to feel a little uncomfortable with the way the similar aged girls are kind of—not only left out—but not loved as much, by the author, as the boys. But her books are always primarily about young boys—and so that’s where the point of view is going to lie. I’m pretty sure Ethelyn M. Parkinson didn’t have kids of her own. I’d be curious to know what she was like. Probably someone’s most fascinating aunt. Anyway, this book is kind of an extended, comic, meditation on intentions versus actions. The boys initiate the “Boys’ Bird Haters Club of America and Wakefield” (their town)—complete with dedicated notebooks in which to record the bad habits of birds—and secret badges that each has a photo of a local, bird-hunting cat—concealed on back. Ultimately their goal is to let the people know all their negative observations of birds. It’s a long game, extending over several seasons, and in order to keep up their complex ruse, they are forced to take odd jobs to raise money for bird seed and other bird amenities—both to maintain their fabrication as bird lovers—and to get close enough of compile “the goods” on the creatures. Naturally, you see the boys’ transformation coming down Fifth Avenue (depending on your age and/or sophistication)—but that’s okay—it’s just as enjoyable, or more so, knowing the kids are going to come around to bird loving. There’s a lot of characters—local oddballs—including a really well-drawn, local, busybody. The ending almost falls into the classic court case climax—that kind of drama—with speeches, and minds being changed. It’s all very good.

4.23.24

The Anthologist

The Anthologist by Nicholson Baker (2009) The saga of a relatively unsuccessful poet struggling to write the introduction to an anthology of rhyming verse—is an almost absurdly hilarious, and inaccurate, synopsized hard sell to a publisher who is interested (as they all are) in selling books. Who’s going to pay $25 for that book? Well, fortunately fans of Nicholson Baker. I’d call myself one, but I forgot about him for a while. His book, The Mezzanine (1988) made such an impression on me that he’s never been far from my thoughts, even though I’ve admittedly not followed his career very closely. I recently heard about this new book of his, about drawing, which sounds like my cup of tea—so I looked at what else I might have missed, and tried this one, which I loved. It’s narrated by “Paul Chowder” who has a voice and demeanor I was immediately drawn to. He reminds me of some older, smarter friends I’ve had over the years who indulged my cluelessness and taught me a lot—enriched my life, as well as amused me. Much of this book is about poetry, and the more you know about that subject, the more you might get into it—but I’m weak in that area, but never mind. It’s also about a guy whose girlfriend has left him, and he’s trying to find his way—we can all relate to that (or should be able to). He’s kind of a contradictory combination of know-it-all and fool, kind, yet exasperating—easy to laugh at, and also laugh with. Personally, a guy I wanted to spend time with. I think there’s another book with him at the center, so I might read that one, too.

4.13.24

Fairy Tale

Fairy Tale by Stephen King (2022) Another story with a kid whose mother is dead. Can someone direct me to a good essay about why this is so prominent, from Nancy Drew to this book and about half of them in-between? The poor moms! I don’t know why I’ve struggled to connect with Stephen King books—after all, his memoir is my favorite book On Writing. This one was great fun—but the longer the protagonist wore on me, the less I liked it. Maybe just because he’s a 17-year-old regular dude. There are other troubling things—the focus on virility, beauty, bravery, and gun lust—which I guess is just the real world (as well as a lot of fairy tale world)—but still, the author is inventing this world. But, overall, the tale of the other world is so vivid I felt like I was there—S. King is the guy you want on the other side of your campfire. Maybe books are like friends—it’s hard to say why you connect, or don’t connect—and harder still to say why you grow apart. But I have respect for all books, same as all people—at least the ones whose foundation isn’t hatred. As you might expect with this title, it’s constantly self-referential, something that sometimes bothers me and sometimes delights me—I guess depending on how it’s done—same with the constant allusions—I’m more receptive the ones I know. Too lazy to go back and revisit most of the fairy tales, or the Bradbury that I missed. Speaking of which, my favorite Ray Bradbury is that most grounded in the everyday—and I also liked the calmly drawn-out and fascinating regular world first half of this book, most. On the other hand—there’s nothing I like more than a story about a deep, mysterious hole, or well—no disappointment there. And I can use a happy ending once in a while, as well as the love of a dog, and a reprieve from senseless tragedy. Though, I’ve got to say, I would have covered that well with more than concrete and sheets of steel. There are probably people out there looking for it right now. And some of them are sequelists.

4.2.24

Footprints Under the Window

Footprints Under the Window by Franklin W. Dixon (1933) This is the first time I’ve read the original text version of this book (thought to be by Leslie McFarlane) and I wasn’t expecting much, for some reason, assuming the books peak out with the excellent What Happened at Midnight. The first half is a meandering mess, both confusing and boring—but then it picks up as it gets really weird. The internet tells me that some people don’t think it was written by McFarlane, since the style is different, and I can see that—especially the first half. Later it feels more like his sense of humor—stuff about “dreams of cats” and all that. This is essentially the Hardy’s Chinese adventure—meaning, their run-in with Bayport’s waterfront Chinese community. As you might expect from a book from the Thirties (as well as original text Hardys) it’s a problematic portrayal of that community, full of racist stereotypes intended for humor, particularly where dialogue is concerned. If you can get past that (and really, it’s the exaggerated dialogue that is most cringeworthy) the story turns out to be an interesting one, involving illegal trafficking of Chinese workers who are being exploited and terrorized. One of the Chinese men is a pretty good villain, someone to be feared. And the most fun character is one of the friendly Chinese men, who the Hardy’s attempt to protect by letting him stay at their house—secretly, without Aunt Gertrude’s knowledge—and the weirdest detail: they have the man disguise himself as a woman. It’s one of the strangest segments in any Hardys adventure I can recall. The real villain, a blowhard white guy, is satisfyingly disgusting, and there’s a mystery-man named Sydney Pebbles who may have a double—very strange. And where in the hell are the parents? I won’t give away the “footprints” part—which seems like a weak device, but turns out to be kind of satisfying, in a goofy way.

3.27.24

The Creative Act: A Way of Being

The Creative Act: A Way of Being by Rick Rubin (2023) I have always liked Rick Rubin for some reason—I mean, beyond his professional accomplishments—the public figure, the personality, the oddball eccentric—whether that’s genuine or manufactured. I think he’s funny—and, for me, he has a quality that’s hard for me to describe succinctly—so I’m not getting into that—but I’ll just say I’m glad he’s out there. If someone had asked me if I’d be interested in a book by him—about creativity—I’d have said I didn’t think it would be likely there would be such a book—but I’d sure be interested in reading one if there was. So, I did like this book a lot. It’s not just about music, and it’s not just about writing—but it pertains a lot to both music and writing—two of my biggest interests. But also, to all art and creative endeavors. Some parts are more specific and some parts more general—I’m glad I wasn’t called on to organize the thing. I liked some parts way, way more than others, but that’s to be expected. It’s got a table of contents, so you could focus on areas that might interest you more, but I think it’s a good book to just go through front to back—take in what you can—maybe keep it by your bed or by the toilet. Maybe read it slowly and then start again. Depending on where you are in your life, different parts will be more resonant. I personally believe that if all people engaged more in creative acts, it would be a benefit for all people. It’s a matter of degree, I guess—so I mean, to a greater extent, with more focus on the importance of creativity, with more acceptance and patience. I know some people don’t believe that. But I think everyone has curiosity, and everyone has dreams, and everyone has flaws and idiosyncrasies—which is a good place for creativity to start. Maybe someday we’ll get out of these dark ages.

3.19.24

The Case of the Ticklish Tooth

The Case of the Ticklish Tooth by Scott Corbett (1971) I persist in re-reading these Scott Corbett “Inspector Tearle” mysteries—a short series, five books—probably because the 2nd (Fugitive Firebug) was one of those Scholastic Book Club books and one of my favorites as a kid. But they are a little annoying. I think Corbett’s best book might be Tree House Island, though there are many I haven’t read. Anyway, this series is about twelve-year-old detective Roger Tearle who, along with his sister and friend, have an egg delivery business, and as an amateur sleuth, Roger embarrasses the local constable whenever a mystery arises. The dental work theme in this one grows old, as does Roger’s anxiety—though I guess that goes with the territory of being a genius investigator, and he certainly is (at least for age 12). The best part about this series is that the kids have the greatest treehouse—which is really the thing that pulled me in, and endures. I’m a big treehouse fan, I guess. Unfortunately, it barely plays a part in this volume. The other high point here (and the series) are the illustrations by Paul Frame—he’s one of my favorites. And thus, the treehouse drawing that takes up page 6 is, for me, the book’s pinnacle. A nice thing about the actual book is that it’s from the Bellevue, Ohio, Public Library (I assume, respectfully removed from the library). I’ve been through that town.

3.7.24

Erasure

Erasure by Percival Everett (2001) Even though he’s published around 25 novels, I had never heard of Percival Everett until I saw Dr. No (2022) set out at a bookstore, which got my attention (as a Bond fan)—and then set out, as a recommendation, at the library—which reminded me to see what it was all about (hooray for bookstores and libraries). I liked it so much, its sense of humor and perspective, I decided to overwhelm myself trying to deicide which one to read next. But then I heard they were making a movie (American Fiction) based on this one, Erasure, from 2001. I’m always interested in the challenge of adaptation, and it makes sense to me to read the book first. I didn’t like it quite as much as Dr. No, but I liked it a lot. There’s a lot here (more than can be contained in a movie), but ultimately, I thought the filmmakers made really good choices—and especially, in my opinion, pulled off the hardest feat—a really, really good ending. The other reason I really wanted to read the book is that it’s about an unsuccessful author of literary fiction—and there is no more attractive subject matter for me. I am not going to summarize (especially the movie—I don’t even watch trailers)—seeing it without knowing much about it would be ideal. I would recommend this book, and now I want to read another of Everett’s—got to decide which one. One thing about the book that particularly fascinated me—well, brought up a question I can’t answer—is how he dealt with the novel within a novel—the character’s stereotypical take on clichéd urban Black fiction whose subsequent popularity spirals out of control. He inserts the whole (short) book in the novel—and within one page you “get” it—and paging ahead, I thought, wow, he really went for it—but I don’t have to read this whole thing, do I? But I’m kind of a “have to read every word” person, so I forged ahead, and the weird thing was, I ended up getting caught up in the story. I suppose that’s the power of narrative—or maybe I was essentially implicated as the type of culture consumer he’s criticizing. Or maybe Everett pulled a kind of sleight-of-hand, starting it out pretty reprehensible, but gradually improving its literary quality to keep you going. I really don’t know, but I love those kinds of questions.

3.3.24

Ruth Fielding on Cliff Island

Ruth Fielding on Cliff Island by Alice B. Emerson (1915) The subtitle (I love these) is: Or, The Old Hunter’s Treasure Box. I almost felt bad about reading (in the bath) this nice, old copy—I’d donate it to a collection, if someone would preserve it—but books are for reading. Handwriting in front: “A Happy Birthday to Dolores, from your loving friend, Mathilda. 4/30/25.” So that means the book is at least 99 years old! Reading this is like two versions of time travel—the physical book, and the story. Well, you can find digital versions for like nothing, if you’re interested—I think that’s how I read an earlier Ruth Fielding—and found it well-written and fascinating—the early 1900s girls’ school social stuff. This one is an even better story—they all go to an island in winter (I love the winter books most of all!) and are up against an all-too-believable old-codger, bully, real-estate villain, and also up against the elements—trapped in a cave during a blizzard—you can’t ask for more! There are annoying elements, of course, like how the one girl who likes to eat is named “Heavy”—endless jokes about her weight and one-track mind—it gets old. The most interesting character isn’t Ruth—who’s a little too perfect, like Nancy Drew—but their new friend, Ann, who’s having trouble adjusting to the social circles due to the culture shock—she’s from Montana and was essentially a cowgirl. At one point, the mean kids send her a gift and it’s a literal dunce cap! She, of course, wins them over as opportunities for ropin’ and ridin’ come up—she keeps saving the day—it’s a little obvious—but she’s the best character—along with this backwoods boy from the island in question—who’s at the center of the mystery.

2.20.24

Bunny

Bunny by Mona Awad (2019) With many contemporary novels, I’m drawn to them because I hear an interview with the author—and while I like most authors in their interviews, you never know how you’re going to respond to their books. I liked this book right away because it’s funny and weird—and I aligned with the sensibility—and I liked the main character, Samantha—I related to her. Then I realized it’s about my favorite subject—writers in a university writing program. I don’t know why I love that setup so much—maybe because I never was in a writing program—and I somewhat regret it—but also, I find the whole idea both attractive and repulsive, almost equally. I was in an undergrad arts program—though it was a very positive experience—but I can always relate to tension in stories like this, and the feeling of being in a privileged position but still being an outsider. In this case, it’s a very exclusive New England school—a fictional one, maybe based on somewhere—I don’t know, but it’s an extreme version to the point of sometimes sounding nightmarish—at least from Samantha’s point of view. For me to describe even a little bit of the plot of the novel would be pointless, and a disservice to the book (I mean, even more than that’s usually the case)—and, also to a potential reader. So, I’ll just say that I really liked it, I got caught up in it, it was scary and fun, somewhat disturbing, definitely satisfying. It starts right out being pretty extreme, but it’s worth just going with it—it keeps you off-balance and confused, even as you uncover the secrets.

2.13.24

A Man Named Doll

A Man Named Doll by Jonathan Ames (2021) I liked You Were Never Really Here (2013) so much, I was looking forward to another Ames book and was excited to see two—this one and a sequel, The Wheel of Doll (2022)—hinting at a possible series (I’m a sucker for series as much as the next guy). Plus, it’s relatively short, and I know (from an interview) his interest in writing a “page turner.” The book lived up to everything I hoped for. It’s about a less-than-glamorous LA PI (who loves his dog) who gets caught up in some real trouble. He’s experienced, wise, even smart, but he keeps making one hilariously inadvisable choice after another—I mean, relative to the practical world—fortunately, his blunders make a really good story. The action really moves along and is consistently fascinating. I also really like the specific Los Angeles locations—which you’re welcome to look up on internet maps (and “street views”) and put yourself right there—if you so desire. I really did like this guy, too, with the funny name (Happy Doll), as well as his lady friend, and his dog. I cared enough to get stressed out—but the enjoyable version of stressed out. Also, I hope I mentioned, I get Jonathan Ames’ sense of humor, and the book is really funny.

2.8.24

Less

Less by Andrew Sean Greer (2017) I was drawn to this book knowing little about it other than it is a midlife-crisis story about a writer (two of my favorite subjects)—well, also, I heard an interview with Andrew Sean Greer, and I liked him. I will attempt to read any book that is about writing (or writers being unable to write), but right off, I didn’t think I’d get far because, glancing ahead (or reading a review?) I knew it was going to be a kind of exotic travelogue—a bit of a sore spot—in that I feel bad enough about not traveling, myself, to not want to read about it. Also, a guy freaking out about “old age” when he’s 13 years younger than I am is a little annoying. But I quickly got caught up in it and it grew on me. I quickly felt at home with the subject, Arthur Less—his way of going through the world—constantly in crisis, but also weirdly at ease. I liked how he had this kind of life-defining relationship with an older, famous writer (I love those characters). Also, as a gay man, his sexuality is always present in the story, but at the same time not the focus any more than the aging really is. As—similarly—is his broken heart and quest for love. What I mean, I guess, is these are all crucial issues for Arthur Less at a pivotal point in his life—but I was really enjoying watching him go through the world—not with ease, but a kind of grace. The reason for this is the sense of humor—the way it’s told—the humor keeps being surprising and fresh. It’s like the telling of his story—the ease and humor of it—you intimate is the quality that’s the crucial, deep quality of the character, Less.

1.31.24

Liberation Day

Liberation Day by George Saunders (2022) I don’t read many short story collections—I’m not sure exactly why—I just like novels better. Maybe it’s because stories are similar to poems in that you’ve really got to connect with them—and I usually only connect with a small percentage. But, well, same goes with novels! I feel like a really good reader (who is also a fast reader) could insist on finishing every novel started, even if they didn’t like it much. And so… same goes with short stories? But then, how about poems? I guess what I’m saying is, is it easier to connect with something because of the narrative? Well, I really connected with some of these stories—and to such a degree that I felt like the ones I didn’t connect with—it might just be a matter of me coming back to them, later. Which I might do. Some are quite long, like the first one (title of the book)—and it seemed even longer—it felt like a novel in scope. It was one of the stranger ones—but I liked it in that way I often enjoy things I don’t understand—disorienting to the point of making me feel insane. “The Mom of Bold Action,” then, was to me, the funniest one here—but it’s also quite disturbing—good combo. I particularly liked the work-oriented stories. “A Thing at Work”—really pretty scary. And “Sparrow”—another funny plus disturbing. I noticed at least a couple of stories where there’s a character named “Randy”—always fascinating to me when an author chooses to use that name—like we’re already halfway to making fun of that character because his of his name. My favorite story was the last one, “My House”—it’s the shortest, but it really got to me. On the surface it’s the simplest—but that’s deceptive, because there’s more to it than is at first apparent. It seems to be about the weirdness of owning a house (which I’ve never done—but has always been something that’s bothered me—the idea of it—that I could never put my finger on). And communication between us odd humans. But then it manages, seemingly without trying, to sum up the ephemeral nature of our existence. For me, it’s the most devastating one in the book.

1.25.24

Secret Sea

Secret Sea by Robb White (1947) I read a lot of Robb White when I was a lad—he wrote tons of books, mostly adventure, and mostly with nautical themes—many World War II era. He also wrote screenplays—most notably for William Castle, including The Tingler. He is a good writer, and the first thing I noticed about this book was how it just moved along—never bogs down—it keeps up the excitement. A lot happens in a short book. It’s the story of a sailor, just after the war ends, hunting for treasure—which may be aboard a sunken Spanish galleon that he’d discovered—I guess somewhere between Florida and Cuba. He enlists the help of a tough street kid and is pursued by a ruthless ex-Nazi. And, naturally, the sunken ship is being guarded by a giant octopus. There’s nothing too corny about the whole adventure—for all that—not even overdramatic—it’s pretty matter-of-fact storytelling—including insights from war experience, science, and an understanding of human nature. It’s all very believable, but also an exciting page-turner.

1.6.24

Lee, Myself & I: Inside the Very Special World of Lee Hazlewood

Lee, Myself & I: Inside the Very Special World of Lee Hazlewood by Wyndham Wallace (2015) A bio of Lee Hazlewood that’s weighted toward the end of his life, and is particularly intimate. Wyndham Wallace is a English music industry guy, and big fan of L.H., who set up shows, arranged sessions, functioned as manager, and got to be a close friend, later in life. Since he was able to get very close access to him, he had exceptional insights for writing this book—which includes a lot of personal, sometimes painful stuff, and also some hilarious stories. Lee Hazlewood was a singer, musician, and songwriter—who was exceptional and unique—no one like him. I have been a huge fan of his for years, so I was excited about this book—which doesn’t just list his accomplishments—but gets at the difficult, sometimes volatile man behind it all. In a way, I’d like to keep him in my mind as this legendary, mysterious figure—but ultimately, getting a close look at the actual person is rewarding. It just deepened my appreciation of him. We are now in an age where most of the music is easily accessible, so you can decide for yourself if you like the music (though there’s a lot, and it’s all over the place—just a crazy body of work). If you want to get to know more about the person behind it, this is a loving, deeply caring portrait.

12.31.23

Masters of Atlantis

Masters of Atlantis by Charles Portis (1985) Since Dog of the South was my favorite book I read last year, I wanted to read something else by Charles Portis right away, and this was his next novel. It’s probably unfair to give a book such expectations—and I didn’t like it as much as the earlier book—but I liked it a lot. It’s about an American man, Lamar Jimmerson, who, while overseas, early in the last century, discovers an ancient text via some questionable characters—and then makes it his life’s calling—Gnomonism—for better or for worse. He meets an Englishman named Sydney Hen, gets him involved, and later, back in the States, establishes a temple in Indiana. There, the ambitious Austin Popper gets involved and helps the Gnomon Society rise to new levels. Those are the big three, and we follow their progression for decades, as they break apart, feud, come back together. There are lots of other characters involved as well, each one coming along to add another wrinkle to the absurdity, as the Society has its ups and downs—and eventually they all end up in Texas. The book has a very organic feeling, and while there’s something ridiculous and hilarious on nearly every page, still it feels like it could all be actual history—as it’s no stranger, essentially, if you really think about it, than reality. There isn’t really any climax that it’s moving toward, just an ongoing, slow disintegration, as the characters age, don’t become any wiser, and continue to suffer setbacks and humiliations. I guess it’s much more like real life than anything. That might sound like it could be depressing, but for some reason, I found it weirdly comforting—in that, aside from absolute delusion, the only sane way to look at our lives—the strange contradictions of being a human—knowing that we can never really know anything—is through being able to laugh about it all.

12.28.23

While the Clock Ticked

While the Clock Ticked by Franklin W. Dixon (1932) I was going to quit reading Hardy Boy books after What Happened at Midnight (the book in the series before this one), because that one has got to be my favorite of them all—so it would be all downhill from here. Also, I had the memory that this one, despite the great title, wasn’t very good. But I’ve been enjoying seeing all the posts on some Hardy Boy groups on Facebook, so that inspired me to re-read more of the books (and actually read for the first time some of the original texts). Also, I thought it might be fun to do a ranking of the first 40 books (I stopped collecting them at number 40). Well, as it turns out, this one is really pretty good. The brothers try to help a guy who has a mystery at his mansion—threatening notes are finding their way into his impenetrable, vault-like, secret room. I love stories about secret rooms almost as much as I love secret rooms! I’m writing this on Christmas Eve, because one of my favorite memories of Christmas (Eve) was when I was maybe 10 years old, and I got a Hardy Boy book for Christmas (maybe it was even Cabin Island), and after opening all the presents, I focused on that one, lay down next to the fireplace, and started reading it right then. I got through the first chapter, then fell asleep.

12.24.23

The Mill Creek Irregulars: Special Detectives

The Mill Creek Irregulars: Special Detectives by August Derleth (1959) The second installment of the ten book Mill Creek Irregulars series. I really liked the first, The Moon Tenders, as well, and I’d like to read them all, but they’re not easy to find. It’s set in and near a fictional Wisconsin River town based on Derleth’s hometown, and set in the Twenties. Steve is the first-person narrator and more prone to a runaway imagination than his friend Sim, who just wants to fish and stay out of trouble. (I had to wonder, at one point, if Sim’s unusual name could be a joke on “Stick In the Mud.”) Still, they’re both fans of Sherlock Holmes and his Baker Steet Irregulars, and when a mystery presents itself, while visiting Steve’s relatives in the country, they are both game. The intrigue involves something possibly unseemly going on with one of the neighbors—and it’s an unusual kid’s mystery story in that the adults (on their side—Steve’s aunt and uncle and family friends) are equally involved and invested in the outcome. So, it feels somewhat true-to-life—no one’s particularly brilliant or heroic—and there are comic elements without it being too ridiculous. The best thing about the story, though, is the feeling of the small-town life in the Midwest, the description of simple things, and the colorful characters, and the language. It reminded me somewhat of what I like about Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine (similar time period, and also Midwest), and also, the “mundane” parts of early Hardy Boys stories. I’ll have to keep an eye out for the next book, The Pinkertons Ride Again.

12.5.23