All posts by Lars Walker

Fiction, Reviews

‘Manistique,’ by Craig Terlson

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I shook my head. Lydia studied my face, looking for the lie.

“We’re just looking for answers,” I said.

That part was true—otherwise, I would’ve left this soggy grayscape days ago. Even now, the sun pulled a Houdini and went back to its usual place, shining somewhere over a cornfield in Kansas.

Luke Fischer, hero of Manistique, a Canadian transplant in Mexico, is emphatically not a private eye. But he ends up looking for people anyway. When his friend Franco, who is a private eye, asks him to sit in on a private poker game, he ends up witnessing a shooting. A young woman dies, and there’s talk of missing money. Soon Luke is headed to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan (of all places) trying to find the young woman’s father, who is rumored to have stolen a lot of money from some dangerous people.

In Michigan, Luke finds himself teaming up with “Sam,” an attractive female county sheriff. The body count rises steadily as they pursue Luke’s quarry, and when that man is killed, they pursue the killers. The trail will finally lead them all the way to New Mexico.

I very much enjoyed, and positively reviewed, Three-Minute Hero, the book that follows Manistique in the Luke Fischer series (I seem to be reading them in the wrong order). And the virtues of that book were displayed here – colorful hard-boiled prose and strong dialogue.

But the weaknesses were here too – a little more apparently. Chief of these is a certain aimlessness in the plotting. Although there’s plenty of violence in this story – and it’s pretty explosive – one can’t help wondering in the intervals what these people are here for. Luke’s mission is somewhat vague from the start, and even when he’s finished the job he was paid to do, he feels obligated to keep following the money –  though he doesn’t seem interested in it for its own sake. It’s something about justice, for people he barely knows.  One senses an echo of Carlos Castaneda, too,  as he has a mystical conversation on a motel porch with an old man who may or may not exist. Perhaps this is all an existentialist exercise.

I must also confess my slight annoyance at a surrender to current intellectual fashion, evidenced by the inclusion of not one, but two Girl Boss characters – women indistinguishable from men except in their physical appearance, one of whom easily tosses much larger men around a room.

And I have a couple Gun Culture quibbles – a .40 caliber pistol is described as remarkably powerful, and a “silencer” reduces pistol shots to a near-whisper (that’s technology firearms companies would pay good money for, because it doesn’t exist yet).

Author Craig Terlson is now a friend of mine on X, and an entertaining one. I like his writing very much, and all in all I enjoyed Manistique – especially as the story approached its big, climactic showdown. The next book in the series will show considerable improvement, so he’s learning the craft. I recommend this book, in spite of some weaknesses.

Authors, Reading

Remembering C. S. Lewis’ memory

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As you may recall (though it won’t be on the test), I’m a long-time member of the New York C. S. Lewis Society. I’ve been getting their monthly Bulletin for just as long. But the latest issue (Nov./Dec. 2023) features something novel – my name listed as an attendee in the minutes of a meeting. Being among those present was never convenient for me when they met in person, but since Covid, the meetings have been held on Zoom. The regular meeting date is, unfortunately, a night on which I usually have an obligation, but last June I finally got in, in a virtual manner.

Aside from that momentous development, this latest issue also features a headline article of considerable interest. It’s a reprint of a notable memoir by the late Alastair Fowler, originally published in the Yale Review (October, 2003). Dr. Fowler had C. S. Lewis as his dissertation supervisor while he attended Oxford University, beginning in 1952.

His memoir seems a fairly even-handed one – he clearly liked and admired Lewis very much, but he’s careful to describe his weaknesses, both as a supervisor and as a man, and to include some unsaintly details.

This article is particularly notable, though, as the one that finally exploded the unfortunate theory promoted by the late Kathryn Lindskoog in her 1988 book, The C. S. Lewis Hoax. Ms. Lindskoog insisted that Lewis’ abandoned novel, The Dark Tower, which his secretary Walter Hooper published in the collection, The Dark Tower: and Other Stories, was a counterfeit. She accused Hooper of writing it himself, and passing it off as a Lewis fragment. A lot of heat got generated by this accusation. But Dr. Fowler’s memoir states explicitly: “He showed me several unfinished or abandoned pieces… these included The Dark Tower, and Till We Have Faces. Another fragment, a time travel story, had been aborted after only a few pages.”

The Dark Tower is certainly different from Lewis’ other works, and many readers have found it distasteful. But Lewis wasn’t a one-note author, and he made conscious efforts to avoid that. Till We Have Faces, for instance, is quite unlike anything else he wrote.

There’s also a fascinating section on Lewis’ remarkable powers of memory:

Kenneth Tynan, whom Lewis tutored, tells of a memory game. Tynan had to choose a number from one to forty, for the shelf in Lewis’ library; a number from one to twenty, for the place in this shelf; from one to a hundred, for the page; and from one to twenty-five for the line, which he read aloud. Lewis had then to identify the book and say what the page was about. I can believe this, having seen how rapidly he found passages in his complete Rudyard Kipling or his William Morris.

I’m pretty sure (but here I rely on my own, far less robust, memory) that I read an account elsewhere which exaggerated this feat. That account claimed you could name a book, suggest a page and a line, and Lewis could recite it on the spot, verbatim. That always struck me as implausible, especially as Lewis often misremembers quotations in his letters. Fowler’s version seems far more likely, but still testifies to a remarkable memory.

Membership in the New York C. S. Lewis Society is not expensive, and I’ve always found it rewarding. I might also mention that our friend Dale Nelson adorns many Bulletin issues with his “Jack and the Bookshelf” column. The Society’s web page is here.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Fade Up From Black,’ by Steven Womack

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I get a lot of free e-books through online offers, as I’ve mentioned before. I guess it shouldn’t be surprising, in these days of self-publishing, that a fair number of those books are unreadable. For one reason or another. Unless an author writes so egregiously that I can’t restrain my pen, I’ve taken to generally dropping these books and forgetting them. Nobody set me up as a judge of aspiring novelists.

I had dumped two books in a row in the aforementioned manner, before I picked up Steven Womack’s Fade Up From Black: The Return of Harry James Denton. I was delighted to encounter readable prose, and settled back to enjoy it.

Harry James Denton is, apparently, the hero of a private eye series which the author dropped for a while, and is now picking up again. Harry lives in Nashville, Tennessee. He and his partner built their investigative business up into a digital security company, and now they’re both multimillionaires. But Harry’s old girlfriend, with whom he had a passionate but volatile relationship, recently died of cancer, leaving behind their 15-year-old daughter. The girl has been living with her mother in Reno, but will now be moving to Nashville to live with Harry.

However, the day before he leaves for the funeral, Harry gets a visitor in his office. The man is Leo Walsh, who was briefly a celebrated novelist some years back. A series of bad decisions led him downhill, and now he’s teaching screenplay writing at a seedy local cinema school. Leo tells Harry he wants him to investigate a murder – his own murder.

Harry explains that he doesn’t really do private investigation anymore, though he keeps his license current. He has a lot on his plate and can’t take the case. Leo Walsh walks away disappointed. When Harry returns with his daughter a few days later, he’s shocked to learn that Leo’s body has been found beaten to death and left behind a dumpster.

Harry feels guilty about turning the man away. Learning that the police have made no headway, and aren’t even trying very hard, he decides to stretch his investigative muscles again.

As I mentioned, the prose in Fade Up From Black was pretty good. That’s always a plus. But it takes more than good prose to make a successful mystery story. I’d been reading a while when I realized that the narrative was moving at a snail’s pace. Many pages passed between actual plot developments. The author has a fascination with describing Nashville traffic, for instance.

When things finally do start happening, Harry seems to have lost more than a step as a PI. He gets an anonymous threat over his cell phone – a threat not only against him but against his friends and daughter. Yet he – although he is a multimillionaire and owns A FREAKING SECURITY COMPANY, just ignores it, not taking a minute to employ the resources with which he’s so richly supplied. And again, in the buildup to the final confrontation, he puts off calling on his highly capable friends.

There are a couple veiled political comments in the book, and I think it’s fair to conclude that the author is a lefty. However, he actually did a pretty good job of trying to be evenhanded.

But overall, Fade Up From Black was a disappointment, flaccid in plot and deficient in dramatic tension.

Religion, Writing

Nidaros Cathedral

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So, I’m working away at ‘The Baldur Game,’ which I think is going to be a pretty good book. Better than pretty good, to be honest. Not that I’m unprejudiced. But this one’s a genuine epic — broad canvas, big action, historical figures, battles and obsession. The Viking book I always wanted to write, I think.

So, above, a little video of a tour of Nidaros Cathedral in Trondheim. This is where King (Saint) Olaf, a major character in this book, was buried. I believe his bones are still in there somewhere, but nobody’s sure exactly where (supposedly they were hidden to keep them from relic smashers during the Reformation).

I visited there once, briefly. It was part of a tour in connection with one of the cruises I lectured on. By good luck, they were doing a medieval fair in the Bishop’s Palace area that day. Fun to see.

According to my mother, my great-grandfather, her mother’s father, worked on the cathedral restoration in the 1880s. He came from a farm not far away.

Have a good weekend. My book is coming — possess your souls in patience.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Central City,’ by Indy Perro

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“Pete wants to know if there’s something there. He wants you to have the case because he believes you are honest and meticulous but still our guy, and we’re all on the same side…. I, on the other hand, didn’t want you on the case because I know you. I know you won’t let go of something if you don’t understand it.”

“Would you?”

“Yes. I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes you need to let things go. You can’t make the world right.”

Kane liked Detective Vincent Bayonne. Bayonne looked like a mountain man and a long-haul trucker had a coyote for a baby, but he had intuition.

A few days back I reviewed Indy Perro’s Welcome to the Party, a prequel to his noir mystery series featuring Detective Vince Bayonne and his gangster informant, Kane Kulpa. I noted that the writing and characterization were excellent. But that novella did not really prepare me for Central City, the first book in the series.

The year is 1992. The fictional Central City is run in the time-honored way – organized crime and the cops work in an uneasy partnership. Neither side wants blood in the streets. It’s bad for business. Even honest cops like Vince Bayonne “have a taste” from time to time; it’s the only way his criminal contacts will trust him. He has a new partner, a fat young man with brains but a lot to learn.

Kane Kulpa is right-hand man to two partners who run gambling and drugs and prostitution in a section of the city. He seems void of ambition. People think he’s lost the nerve that made him notorious during his time in prison. Few know about the mute, brain-damaged woman he shelters in his apartment.

When a naked man is found dead in a massage parlor, strangled with a belt and posed as if in prayer, Kane’s bosses want Bayonne on the case, for reasons explained in the snippet at the top of this review. But Bayonne is stymied. Usually, when he looks at a murder scene, it speaks to him, tells him a story. But this scene tells him nothing. When other men are found murdered the same way, he flounders. Meanwhile, a gang war starts, and Kane will have to decide where his loyalty lies.

I was very impressed with Central City. This is about as noir as a novel gets. The violence was shocking, the final resolution (mostly) a surprise. And Indy Perro is simply a knockout wordslinger. His descriptions fascinate, and his characters are compelling.

Still, I wasn’t entirely happy. The final resolution seemed a little too grand opera, too over the top. The story offers one of those familiar crime scenarios where really bad people – pimps and drug dealers – are rendered sympathetic simply by the fact that they’re contrasted with opponents who are monsters. And the picture of how a city works was simply depressing (worse because you can’t be sure it’s exaggerated).

Also, the author used “begging the question” wrong once. With his gifts, he should know better.

A notable eccentricity in the story is the information, casually related, that one of the city’s criminal bosses is a Lutheran pastor.

I hope Central City is excessive in its picture of the world. On the other hand, certain characters do exhibit genuine nobility from time to time.

I’m not sure what my final judgment on Central City is. Except that it was extremely well written and atmospheric. It left an impression. Definitely worth reading, if you like to take your Noir straight.

Authors, Reading, Religion, Writing

Jordan Peterson and Andrew Klavan, on stories

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I watched this video discussion yesterday, and it had me ready to stand up and cheer. I don’t agree with either of these men entirely (though I respect both immensely), but the essence of their theme is exactly what I’ve had on my mind recently.

In Surprised by Joy, C.S. Lewis remarks that, although he was an atheist as a young man, he found — to his annoyance — that all the writers who really spoke to him believed in God. I think most of the real creativity in art today comes, to some extent, from our side. Some of the best artists don’t even know they’re on the Road yet, but they are.

Fiction, Reviews

‘A Presumption of Death,’ by Jill Paton Walsh

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…Like the gentleman in the carol, I have seen a wonder sight—the Catholic padre and the refugee Lutheran minister having a drink together and discussing, in very bad Latin, the persecution of the Orthodox Church in Russia. I have seldom heard so much religious toleration or so many false quantities…

A while ago I reviewed Thrones, Dominations, the first Lord Peter Wimsey novel written by the late Jill Paton Walsh, based on notes by Dorothy Sayers, the creator of the character. I generally liked it, though I thought it sometimes a little forced.

But I thought I’d try the next book in the series, A Presumption of Death, a book Ms. Walsh wrote all by herself, based on a suggestion from Sayers’ writings. She took on a great challenge, but in my opinion the results were almost pitch perfect.

It’s 1939, and England is at war. British forces are on the back foot in Norway (there are many references to Norway in this story). Lord Peter Wimsey, long an asset of British Intelligence, is doing some kind of hush-hush, dangerous work in a place he’s not at liberty to reveal. His nephew Gerald is having the time of his life as an RAF pilot. Harriet Vane, Lord Peter’s wife, has moved the family – including her two babies – from London to Tallboys, to the country house they acquired in Busman’s Honeymoon. In the town, airmen from a nearby base are having a lot of fun with the “land girls,” city girls enlisted to do farm work in the absence of male workers.

Then, after the town’s first air raid drill, one of the girls is found murdered – clearly killed by someone familiar with unarmed combat. The local police detective asks Harriet to help him with the investigation – he feels out of his depth, and she has experience in these things, both as a detective novelist and as a collaborator with her husband. But she makes little progress. Then another body is found – that of a convalescing airman who’d rented a local cottage, apparently slaughtered in a makeshift abattoir in the Wimsey’s barn. When that airman’s identification proves questionable, mystery piles on mystery. That’s when Lord Peter himself appears at last. His exalted connections allow him, with Harriet’s help, to get to the truth of the situation.

I can honestly say that I completely forgot that I was reading a pastiche as I read A Presumption of Death. The book seemed to me a completely successful recreation of the characters, the settings, and the period. If Dorothy Sayers had continued writing Lord Peter books, I’m pretty sure she’d have produced something very much like this. The resolution of the book, in particular, seemed to me very much in Sayers’ spirit – a reconciliation of justice and mercy, with an ambivalent suggestion that mercy might not be as merciful as we imagine.

One annoying peculiarity in the book was the author’s repeated misspelling of the word “bailing” in “bailing out” (of an airplane). She spells it “baling.” The editors should have caught this (assuming it’s not just spelled differently in England).

I was also surprised to learn that (according to Lord Peter’s sister) the Delagardie side of Lord Peter’s family is not French, but Swedish.

Anyway, I relished A Presumption of Death. Well done.

Bookselling, Fiction

Deal on Kristin Lavransdatter for Kindle

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For a limited time, Kindle readers can get Sigrid Undset’s classic trilogy, Kristin Lavransdatter, for $2.99. Just thought I’d let you know.

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Ghost Orchid,’ by Jonathan Kellerman

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He had the kind of bony body that seems to diminish when it settles, as if inadequately supported by musculature. Crossing his legs had the effect of compressing him further.

If I remember correctly, when Jonathan Kellerman started writing his Alex Delaware/Milo Sturgis novels, they proceeded more or less in real time. The characters aged like you and I. But the series has been going on for decades now, and in a real world both of them would be long retired, if not dead (especially with Milo’s dietary habits). I think Kellerman has made the decision to freeze them, and they won’t be ageing anymore. Indeed, Milo’s hair, which sported gray stripes for a long time, is now described as fully black again.

And that’s good news. It means the books can go on as long as Kellerman can keep cranking them out. So long may he live, and keep writing.

The last book ended with a bang, and psychologist Alex is still recovering physically as The Ghost Orchid begins. Cop Milo feels guilty about putting him in harm’s way, and so has not called for his assistance in a while. Alex, on the other hand, is finding the inactivity tedious. Finally, Milo calls. He has a couple murder victims not far from Alex’s house, in case he’d care to have a look. Alex quickly responds.

Af first it doesn’t appear to be any particularly mystery. An attractive couple, she rather older than he, both naked and shot to death next to his pool. Her wealthy husband is the obvious suspect.

But the husband was out of the country at the time of the murder, and more than that he genuinely seems to have been ignorant of her infidelity. And she turns out to be an enigma – a false identity which, traced back, leads to another false identity. Who was she? Where did she come from? Or was this about her lover? Did he have some dark secret?

The Ghost Orchid is mostly a psychological narrative, telling a story of horrific abuse and its ramifications. The puzzle is more important than the suspense or action this time out, and that suits me just fine.

The Ghost Orchid offered the usual, familiar pleasures of a Jonathan Kellerman mystery. I enjoyed it. There are a couple Christian characters, and they come off as sympathetic. Recommended.

Music

‘The Ash Grove’

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Music tonight, as is so often the case with me on Fridays. Way back in the 1970s, I acquired an album by the late Roger Whittaker, entitled “Folk Songs of Our Time,” sadly no longer available as such. It was a loose collection, featuring some numbers that weren’t strictly folk songs at all. “Folk,” of course, is a nebulous category. It can mean a song genuinely passed down mouth to mouth through generations, or merely a song written last week in the folk style.

Anyway, I grew quite fond of the album, and the song, “The Ash Grove,” was one of my favorites. Mr. Whittaker sings it above, though I’m not sure it’s the same arrangement.

The song evokes the unmistakable air of antiquity. According to Wikipedia, it was originally a Welsh song, and was first published by the harpist Edward Jones in 1802. But a similar tune is found in John Gay’s “The Beggar’s Opera” (1728), and that tune has in turn been traced back to a Morris song called “Constant Billy,” published in 1665.

In my own imagination, I suspected it was a heathen song. The ash tree has deep folkloric significance – I have a little book about British tree superstitions down in my basement somewhere. In my novel, The Year of the Warrior, I give Father Ailill a mad, homicidal heathen slave who likes to sing “a song about an ash grove.” The original lyrics as we have them were by Jones in Welsh, of course, and they’re actually about a man mourning his lost love.

A good folk tune never escapes the hymn writers. “The Ash Grove” is well-known in churches as the tune to “Let All Things Now Living,” and “Sent Forth With God’s Blessing,” as well as a few others less familiar.