‘The Deep Blue Good-bye,’ by John D. MacDonald

I am tall, and I gangle. I look like a loose-jointed, clumsy hundred and eighty. The man who takes a better look at the size of my wrists can make a more accurate guess. When I get up to two twelve I get nervous and hack it back on down to two oh five. As far as clumsiness and reflexes go, I have never had to use a flyswatter in my life. My combat expression is one of apologetic anxiety. I like them confident. My stance is mostly composed of elbows.

Another deal on a Travis McGee book by John D. MacDonald – and this is another important entry in the series, if only by virtue of its being the first.

I’ve told the story here before, because it amuses me. So I’ll just summarize it now. In 1963, Fawcett Publications, a major popular paperback house, hired a new author to create a detective series, replacing Richard S. Prather, their former top seller, who’d followed deeper pockets to greener pastures (to mix a metaphor). John D. MacDonald, the new kid, came up with a slightly reclusive hero, a beach bum living on a houseboat, called Dallas McGee (changed quickly to Travis McGee after the Kennedy assassination in Dallas, Texas). McGee called himself a “salvage expert,” but he didn’t salvage shipwrecks or cars. He recovered stolen objects or money, in return for half the value as a finder’s fee. The first book to appear, in 1964, was The Deep Blue Good-bye. (Every volume would incorporate a color in the title.)

McGee is persuaded by a friend, a dancer, to talk to another dancer named Cathy Kerr. Cathy is a country girl, a single mother, living hand to mouth. But she thinks she might have a right to a missing treasure. Her father, she explains, came home from the war with some secret package that he hid carefully, before being sent to prison for murder. He died before his release, but after a while his former cellmate Junior Allen showed up – a big, strong, dynamic type who swept Cathy off her feet and soon had her completely dominated. He also dug holes all over their farm. And one day he found something and vanished. Cathy is pretty sure he found her father’s stash, and she and her kid could sure use half of it, if McGee could get it back for her.

McGee doesn’t need work just now, but he’s impressed with Cathy’s dignity after all she’s been through. He traces Junior Allen’s footsteps, learning he was last seen on a yacht with a rich, beautiful woman. McGee finds the woman, Lois Atkinson, in her home, cast off by Allen and now a wreck of herself. Allen systematically broke her down and degraded her, and she has nearly starved herself to death in despair and self-disgust. McGee nurses her back to health, and at last begins a gentle affair with her, one which threatens to break through his prickly personal defenses.

But he still has Junior Allen to catch, and he formulates a devious plan to con the con man.

Unfortunately, as with all plans of battle, this one does not survive contact with the enemy. And Junior Allen is a formidable enemy indeed. The climax is one of the most harrowing and memorable in the series.

I read a review some time back that argued that The Deep Blue Good-bye is unworthy of the rest of the books, weighed down by the standard tropes of 1960s men’s fiction. I cannot agree. MacDonald certainly serves up the expected necessaries – plenty of violence and sex. But I think the original readers back in 1964 must have been puzzled by this book – there’s a lot of genuinely excellent prose here, and even the obligatory sex scenes are lyrical and revelatory of character, rather than sordid. (Though I do not approve of the sexual mores.)

Some of MacDonald’s prose – I would argue – is as good as that of his contemporaries Hemingway and O’Hara, only ensconced in far more interesting stories.

I drove back through late afternoon heat. The world darkened, turned to a poisonous green, and somebody pulled the chain. Water roared down the chute. Rose-colored lightning webbed down. Water bounced knee high, silver in the green premature dusk, and I found a place to pull off out of the way and let the fools gnash each other’s chrome and tinwork, fattening the body shops, busying the adjustors, clogging the circuit court calendars. The sign of the times is the imaginary whiplash injury.

Another notable element in this book was one moment – never to be repeated again that I can recall – when McGee hints at some trauma in his earlier life that left him perpetually commitment-averse.

To draw a line under it all, I highly enjoyed The Deep Blue Good-bye and recommend it. Not for kids.

Sunday Singing: Jesus! What a Friend for Sinners

I was surprised to learn today’s hymn of the faith is not more popular than it is, because it’s one of my favorites. “Jesus! what a Friend for sinners!” (also called “Our Great Savior”) has been published in only 77 hymnals. It was written by Presbyterian minister John Wilbur Chapman (1859-1918), who was advocated large evangelistic events around the turn of the 20th century. The tune is a wonderful Welsh piece by Rowland H. Prichard (1811-1887).

“The Son of Man has come eating and drinking, and you say, ‘Look at him! A glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners!’ Yet wisdom is justified by all her children” (Luke 7:34–35 ESV).

1 Jesus! what a Friend for sinners!
Jesus! lover of my soul;
friends may fail me, foes assail me,
he, my Savior, makes me whole.

Refrain:
Hallelujah! what a Savior!
Hallelujah, what a Friend!
Saving, helping, keeping, loving,
he is with me to the end.

2 Jesus! what a strength in weakness!
Let me hide myself in him;
tempted, tried, and sometimes failing,
he, my strength, my vict’ry wins. [Refrain]

3 Jesus! what a help in sorrow!
While the billows o’er me roll,
even when my heart is breaking,
he, my comfort, helps my soul. [Refrain]

4 Jesus! what a guide and keeper!
While the tempest still is high,
storms about me, night o’ertakes me,
he, my pilot, hears my cry. [Refrain]

5 Jesus! I do now receive him,
more than all in him I find;
he hath granted me forgiveness,
I am his, and he is mine. [Refrain]

A Peaceful World, If You Can Keep It

O Thou Faithful Father in heaven, would that I could render unto Thee adequate thanks and praise for all the blessings Thou hast bestowed upon me during all the days of my life up to this hour, but this is not within my power and ability. For I am flesh and blood, which cannot but do wrong. Thou, however, dost daily grant me blessings without measure . . .

from A Lutheran Treasury of Prayers (CC BY NC ND 4.0)

My church tradition doesn’t encourage the use of liturgical prayers to mark the hours of the day, though I wouldn’t doubt some leaders would like to move us toward that and more awareness of the church calendar. Perhaps it’s impractical for modern believers. We have many ways to keep the time and many ways to remember the Lord throughout the day.

I begin with this because last week I finished The Book of the Dun Cow again–this time with friends. The heroes perform a supernatural duty unknowingly by marking the day with liturgical crows, specific canonical crows for Lauds, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, and Compline. I say crows because this is a beast fable. The leader/pastor of this part of the world is the rooster Chanticleer.

It’s a marvelous story with great pacing, strong characters, and the moving theme that the everyday Gospel habits of ordinary church people keep the enemy bound.

Simply, the animals were the Keepers. The watchers, the guards. They were the last protection against an almighty evil which, should it pass them, would burst bloody into the universe and smash into chaos and sorrow everything that had been made both orderly and good.

I wrote about it the first time I read it a few years ago, so I’ll direct you there and move on to other links to share. A cool bit of trivia: The Book of the Dun Cow is the name of the “oldest surviving miscellaneous manuscript in Irish literature,” written on what some believe to be the hide of the cow of St. Ciarán of Clonmacnoise.

Star Wars: I’ve been sucked into YouTube reviews and reactions to the new Star Wars series The Acolyte. It started with World‘s review: “The investigation makes no sense, and the Jedi detectives are incredibly stupid. They ask all the wrong questions and dismiss the most obvious clues. The plot is full of holes.” And it followed by several YouTubers who would love to enjoy a good sci-fi show and don’t find it here. It’s discouraging. As I’ve said before, if the Tao of the Force means anything, it means the good stories will come back after the bad ones have their moment.

Science Fiction: SciFanSat, “an online magazine where imagination takes center stage,” has ten issues available.

Memoir: Professor Esau McCaulley says, “No book can replace the role that real friends and family members play in our lives, but books can change or inspire us. They can depict traits that we are drawn to emulate. They can help us imagine different futures when hope is in short supply.”

Faith: “Perhaps the emptiness of the culture of self in a time of tumult—war, economic anxiety, political instability—is causing many to turn once again to Christianity.”

Photo: John Margolies Roadside America photograph archive (1972-2008), Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division.

‘Peace River Village,’ by Christopher Amato

In our diversity-loving modern world, nothing is more popular than various kinds of fusion (perhaps because lots of fusion ultimately leads back to uniformity). Sometimes fusion can work very well, as when, oh, for example, an author blends historical fiction with adventure fantasy.

Other fusions work less happily, or at least it looks that way to me based on reading the fusion of Cozy Mystery with Thriller that is Christopher Amato’s Peace River Village.

The eponymous PRV is a retirement community in Sunland, Florida – which I take to be a fictional town (at least I never heard of it when I lived in the state). In a quiet, pleasant cul de sac, several former police officers have settled down for their golden years, purely by coincidence. There’s a vigorous widow who used to be a captain in Gary, Indiana, and two old cops from Chicago and DC who’ve settled into curmudgeonly routine and torpor. And another cop has just moved in across the circle.

One non-cop is a widow named Cora, whose great concerns are her daughter and granddaughter. The daughter is a degenerating drug addict living in a fetid apartment, but she still has hope for the granddaughter, Jennifer. Jennifer is a good, pretty girl who aspires to go to college. She is close to her grandmother, and spends a lot of time with her.

So when Jennifer doesn’t show up for a promised weekend, and Cora can’t reach her on her cell phone, Cora consults her neighbors, then calls the police. But the police dismiss the girl’s disappearance as a runaway case, and the neighbors start making inquiries on their own. What they uncover will lead to corruption, drugs, and human trafficking.

I’ll say this for Peace River Village – it interested me enough to keep me reading to the end, just because I was concerned about what happened to the girl. But I found the book very slow. The labored jollity of the retired cops’ jokes and the general low energy of their lives didn’t harmonize well with the serious nature of the crime and the victim’s peril. Things got moving toward the end, though, timed just right to permit a nick-of-time rescue.

The writing was labored and overdone – it could have used a lot of verbiage-trimming. The book had the flavor of Christian fiction (though I don’t think it is one of those), except for quite a lot of profanity.

I didn’t like Peace River Village a lot. Your mileage, as always, may vary.

A confusion of options

A traditional Norwegian chest. Photo: Anne-Lise Reinsfelt, Norsk Folkemuseum. Creative Commons attribution Share-alike 3.0.

I wrote the other night about the glories of the English language, from the perspective of the creative writer. English offers lots of word choice options. Which can be overwhelming. I remember reading somewhere, long ago, about the odd psychological fact that if you’re looking for something to read – in an airport bookshop, for instance – it’s easier to select a book from a single revolving wire rack of paperbacks than from a wide array of shelves-full of books. In the second instance, the very quantity of your options paralyzes. You find something that might be interesting, but you can’t be sure there isn’t something better further along. You dawdle, paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of your options. With the small wire rack, you can quickly grasp the range of your choices, and grab up the best of what might be a mediocre lot.

New speakers of English face a similar problem, I imagine. They often have several choices (counting various word combinations) when looking for what the French call “le mot juste,” the precise, correct word.

In a Norwegian-related Facebook group the other day, a poster from Norway posted a picture of a chest they’d inherited. They described it, in all innocence, as a “coffin.” I don’t think anyone actually made fun of them for the word choice – in Norwegian, the word “kiste” serves for both ordinary storage chests and coffins. I suppose there are conceptual consequences – in Norway you put things away in chests, and you yourself are put away in a chest when you die. There’s a sense that they pack you up and put you in storage, like an artifact.

Not that Norwegian doesn’t have some challenging word options of its own. Long ago, I was corrected about the word for physical exercise. As I recall, I used “eksersis,” a natural guess for an English speaker. But “eksersis” refers to a drill, as in the military. What we call exercise they call “trening,” which is probably, I assume, a borrowing from English, but with the meaning slightly altered for local requirements.

The Norwegian who called a chest a coffin probably translated with artificial intelligence (I imagine). We hates AI around here, we does, for just such reasons. AI, though, is adequate for quick and dirty jobs (sadly, my lamented late side gig translating film scripts qualified as quick and dirty – not that I did it that way. But the quality I was able to offer in my work couldn’t compete, because quick and dirty is also cheap).

Ah well, the world of translation had its chance at my services, and they cast me out. Instead, I will soon release The Baldur Game to inevitable universal acclaim, becoming rich and famous in my declining years.

After which I’ll be packed away in a kiste.

That’s kind of morbid, isn’t it? Sorry. I had to tie the thread up somehow. Tying up plot threads with a death is one of the cheapest go-to tricks in the fiction writer’s bag. Or chest.

‘Dead Man Switch,’ by Matthew Quirk

I think I may have to give up reading thrillers. The older I get, the more tender-hearted I seem to grow, and the harder it is to read about people in peril. Meanwhile, as I get older, the thriller writers get better and better at their job. Matthew Quirk’s Dead Man Switch was excellently written, and I thought it might kill me.

This is the second volume in a series starring a hero named John Hayes. Hayes previously worked for yet another (the recurrence of this theme in literature surely must indicate some public hunger) super-secret, deniable military unit tasked with assassinating the very worst terrorists in the world. The operation, called Cold Harvest, does not officially exist, and all its operatives know that if they’re caught they’ll be liable to capital punishment. But they also know the thing has to be done.

Hayes has retired, withdrawn to a secret location with his wife and stepdaughter. For strategic reasons he has agreed to be officially listed as a fugitive. In the eyes of the world he’s a traitor and a hunted man.

But he gets called back to Washington. Several members of the Cold Harvest unit have recently died in accidents. The accidents have been meticulously orchestrated, but they’re not coincidental. Someone is trying to wipe out the unit members.

But that, as it turns out, is the least of it. The real plan is much bigger than that, and diabolically organized by a master criminal choreographer.

Good plotting is a fine thing, and Dead Man Switch is marvelously plotted. But what impressed me even more was that the characters were extremely well drawn and psychologically complex. I cared about them – which made reading about their sufferings all the more difficult.

Author Quirk also has a knack for elevating suspense through withholding information from readers, only to spring it on them at the strategic moment. He writes very short chapters, which makes the story seem to move faster.

Dead Man Switch is a masterfully written novel, superior in style, in plotting, and in characterization. If you relish action, I’m sure you’ll like it. I’m not sure I could handle another.

Borges on the magic of English

I need to read some Jorge Luis Borges. Pretty much all I know of him, I like. But I’ve only read one or two of his stories, and those in school. Pure laziness on my part – or a fear of finding myself out of my intellectual depth.

Anyway, this Argentine author has astonishing things to say about the English language in this little clip. He expresses an idea I first encountered years ago in Writer’s Digest magazine. It was in an article also written by a writer who used English as a second language. People learning English often – and very understandably – complain about the size of the vocabulary you need to learn. Which is fair enough. But, this author pointed out, once you’ve mastered it you’ve got an unparalleled instrument in your hands, like a huge organ with a hundred stops. You can get an infinity of subtle effects out of it.

Borges notes here that most every word in English has a light or a dark version, depending on whether you choose the Latin or the Germanic option. He also talks about combinations of verbs and prepositions, which I hadn’t been aware of before.

In my Erling books, I’ve tried to employ Germanic words as much as I could, for two reasons. First, when I was learning to write (I took a sort of correspondence course and studied Writer’s Digest religiously), I was instructed to generally choose the Germanic (Anglo-Saxon) word. Anglo-Saxon words, they said, are punchier, stronger. They make your writing more vivid and active.

I took that advice, and still believe in it (though I’m sure there’s an element of cultural bias involved. In the 18th Century, writers aspired to sound Classical, and always opted for the Latin word). But I had a further reason for going Anglo-Saxon. I was writing about Vikings, and I wanted to evoke a northern, Germanic mood. I like to think my diction contributes to a sense of place and time.

How do I master this vast English vocabulary, you ask? Read. Read a lot. Read above your comprehension level (authors like Borges, for instance). If you read on Kindle, they’ve got a neat feature where you can highlight a word right on the page and get a definition as if by sorcery.

‘The Sign of the Four,’ by Arthur Conan Doyle

“How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, HOWEVER IMPROBABLE, must be the truth?”

In 1889, Arthur Conan Doyle, struggling young London physician and aspiring writer, had one of those magical moments that save a career and change literary history. He’d already sold a detective story called A Study In Scarlet to an English publication, and now an American publisher, Joseph Marshall Stoddart of Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine, was asking for a follow-up. His company proposed to start an English version of their magazine, and they wanted the rights to a new story that would be printed both in Britain and America (music to a writer’s ears!). Stoddart invited Doyle, along with several other writers (Oscar Wilde was one of them, and would influence one of the characters in the final story), to a dinner at the Langham Hotel on August 30. Doyle agreed to bring Sherlock Holmes – who’d never been intended as more than a one-off character – to life again in a serialized novel to be called The Sign of the Four.

The story opens in Holmes’ and Dr. Watson’s lodgings, where Holmes is suffering a period ennui for lack of work. (This is the first time we learn of his cocaine use, to which Watson strenuously objects.) Then they are visited by Miss Mary Morstan, a young woman Watson finds extremely charming. She tells them that a mysterious benefactor has been sending her periodic gifts of valuable pearls. Now she has an invitation to visit a man named Thaddeus Sholto, who tells her she has been grievously wronged, and he wishes to put things right. Holmes and Watson agree to accompany her to see the man, who proves to be a hypochondriacal esthete (the Wilde influence). He says he is the son of a recently deceased retired officer from India, who was a close friend to Mary’s father. But his father, he says, cheated her father, taking possession of a treasure that should have been shared by both. Now his brother Bartholemew also refuses to divide the wealth. Thaddeus asks them to go with him to face Bartholemew and get Mary’s rights for her.

But when they all go together to see Bartholemew, they find him hideously murdered and the treasure missing. The police, when they arrive, arrest the hapless Thaddeus. Holmes and Watson take their own line in the case, following up Holmes’ scientific observations and deductions. Eventually it will all lead to a reckless chase down the Thames in steam launches, and a lurid confession from the true murderer.

One can discern an acquisitions editor’s hand in the framing of The Sign of the Four. To appeal to readers’ tastes, Doyle has added a couple elements missing from A Study In Scarlet. First there’s a romance (one is happy for Watson in finding a wife, though Doyle never knew what to do with her in later stories and fans have happily wasted tons of paper arguing back and forth how many times Watson was married). Secondly, there’s a chase, employing about the fastest transportation technology available at the time.

TSOTF has never been one of my favorite Holmes stories. Mainly (as I said in my previous review) I don’t much care for the foreign excursion; I like Holmes in his element – yellow fog and hansom cabs, top hats and bowlers. And Doyle generally does foreign cultures somewhat poorly – this story features three Sikhs in India named Mahomet Singh, Dost Akbar, and Abdullah Khan. Of all those name elements, only Singh would be used by actual Sikhs. The rest are Muslim names, absurd in context.

Doyle was not the first or last detective writer to distort police procedures for the sake of his plot, but the deviations seem pretty extreme here – would a police inspector actually allow a treasure box that’s material evidence in a homicide case to be carried to a private person’s home before examining it before witnesses? Whatever happened to chain of custody?

This is also the story where Doyle’s memory fails him, and he informs us Watson is suffering from a leg wound from Afghanistan, rather than the shoulder wound he had in A Study In Scarlet. More inexhaustible fuel for controversies among Holmes scholars.

Still, it’s a Holmes story, and not a bad one in its best parts. (The quotation at the top of this review, one of Holmes’ best-remembered lines, comes from TSOTF.) I always had the idea that it was this story that made Sherlock Holmes a public sensation, but that’s not true. It was the short stories, which Doyle would now begin writing, that would really put him on the literary map.

Sunday Singing: How Sweet and Awful Is the Place

Today’s hymn comes from the great English hymnist Isaac Watts (1674-1748). It was published in 1707, while Dr. Watts was pastor of Independent Church of London. The tune is a familiar Irish melody called St. Columba. (And since I found it, let me share this organ prelude to St. Columba. You’ll want headphones for both recordings to catch the subtleties.)

“Blessed is everyone who will eat bread in the kingdom of God!” (Luke 14:15 ESV)

1 How sweet and awful is the place
with Christ within the doors,
while everlasting love displays
the choicest of her stores.

2 While all our hearts and all our songs
join to admire the feast,
each of us cries, with thankful tongue,
“Lord, why was I a guest?

3 “Why was I made to hear Thy voice,
and enter while there’s room,
when thousands make a wretched choice
and rather starve than come?”

4 ‘Twas the same love that spread the feast
that sweetly drew us in;
else we had still refused to taste,
and perished in our sin.

5 Pity the nations, O our God,
constrain the earth to come;
send Thy victorious Word abroad,
and bring the strangers home.

6 We long to see Thy churches full,
that all the chosen race
may, with one voice and heart and soul,
sing Thy redeeming grace.

Remembering War Heroes and Baseball

Summer in America means baseball, even if you aren’t a fan. The clip above is an artistic moment from a great baseball film, The Natural. I saw a clip from a Japanese game yesterday that showed a right fielder rifle the ball to the catcher at home plate, getting a runner out. The speed of that throw was thrilling–a little like the pitching portrayed above.

What else is going on this week?

Memorials: This week we honored the 80th anniversary of the invasion of Normandy. Of the 2,403 Americans killed on D-Day, 20 of them were from Bedford, Virginia, a community of 3,200. Over 40 Bedford residents were serving during the war, most in the Virginia National Guard. Their fallen were subsequently called the Bedford Boys.

This Stars and Stripes report has a list of the names of those who participated in the invasion.

War Correspondents: There’s a bed-and-breakfast in Chateau Vouilly, France, 20 minutes from Omaha Beach, that once housed the reporters who wrote the stories of the Allied troops advance. In 1944, it was a good, out-of-the-way spot, not too far from the action—for at least two months.

Every night, the hostess served the press corp milk and cookies. “On the tougher days, Hamel served glasses of Calvados, the famed local spirit made from distilled apple and pear cider. Reporters called it the ‘breakfast of champions.'”

Reading: About what novel did author Robert Louis Stevenson say this, “Many find it dull: Henry James could not finish it: all I can say is, it nearly finished me.”

Photo by Ben Hershey on Unsplash