Tag Archives: Andrew Klavan

‘After That, the Dark,’ by Andrew Klavan

He was thinking about this when the waiter brought the check to him. Gwendolyn made a motion toward her purse.

“Now, now,” he said, “don’t try any of that twenty-first-century stuff with me.”

“You’re right, she said. “It’s a rotten century. I only stay for the antibiotics.”

It has become a tradition for me to purchase and savor each new Cameron Winter book by Andrew Klavan as soon as it comes out, and to tell the world what a pleasure that annual event has become in my life. After That, the Dark is the fifth in the series, and I enjoyed it, though (I must admit) a little less than I expected. That is for reasons which author Klavan has no doubt anticipated and discounted in his own mind. I’ll get to that.

Cameron Winter, our continuing hero, is a former assassin for a super-secret government division which no longer exists. After its dissolution, he reinvented himself as an English professor, He now teaches at a small college somewhere in the Midwest.

A thread that ties the books together is his conversations with his psychologist Margaret, who is helping him work through his old traumas and sins. Recently she has been particularly interested in his relationship (or reluctance to initiate a relationship) with Gwendolyn Lord, a widow he met a couple books ago, with whom he struck immediate sparks.

In After That, the Dark, Cameron finally asks her out, only to be blindsided by how well it goes. The two are not simply compatible – they click together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. And in this story, the investigation is sparked, not as usual by Cameron’s sixth sense for hidden mysteries in crimes in the news, but by a puzzle posed by Gwendolyn herself. She tells him about a friend who works in a prison, where a “locked room” murder occurred. A prisoner, who had been strip-searched, is found shot to death with a nail gun in a padded, locked cell.

Cameron goes to the prison town to look into the matter. He is not aware that he’s at the center of a conspiracy, among the moves and countermoves of highly placed, faceless, ruthless chess players. Cameron is a gifted operative, and he’ll need all his gifts to survive this one.

Was After That, the Dark fun to read? Sure was. Was it as good as its predecessors? Maybe not quite – I’m not sure.

My main problem was moral. Gwendolyn, Cameron’s new love interest, is an open and devoted Christian. Yet (minor spoiler alert) she falls straight into bed with him at the first opportunity. I could have understood that plot point if it were treated as a mistake, but in the aftermath she justifies it, saying that they were clearly made for each other by God, so it must be okay.

Andrew Klavan is a wise and perceptive writer. Surely he’s aware that everybody who’s ever fallen in love feels exactly the same way.

It should be noted that Klavan is a convert to Christianity, and comes to the topic from a different angle than “cradle Christians” like me. Also that these books are not intended as “Christian fiction” in the same way that the average CBA book is.

Nevertheless, that rationalization for premarital sex is, in my opinion, too predictable and conventional for a writer of Andrew Klavan’s considerable wisdom.

Otherwise, highly recommended.

‘The Kingdom of Cain,’ by Andrew Klavan, further thoughts

[Blogger’s note: I may or may not be able to post tomorrow. I’ll be having cataract surgery, and experience suggests I may not be able to read a computer screen for the rest of the day. Thank you for understanding.]

But philosophers, for their misfortune, are not the only people in the world. Genuinely mad and frantic people are all around them and do them the worst turn of all: they take them at their word.

I make it a practice to read Andrew Klavan’s non-fiction books at least twice. (And there’s more than a good chance I’ll get the audiobook of The Kingdom of Cain to listen to while I drive to Minot for Høstfest this fall.) So I sat down with it again yesterday, and found it just as compelling as on the first reading. Klavan offers new insights on good, evil, and art. And sometimes – I flatter myself – we think on parallel lines.

When I first reviewed The Kingdom of Cain, I mentioned two famous murders Klavan describes, which have gone on to inspire numerous works of imagination – the case of Ed Gein (who inspired “Psycho” and string of slasher movies), and the case of the original murderer, Cain.

But I neglected to cite one murder he spends considerable time on, one which – though pretty sordid in its own right – has had a remarkably prestigious literary progeny. That is the case of Pierre Francois Lacenaire, a pretentious Parisian thief who, with an accomplice, murdered a con man and his bedridden mother in 1834, to steal money that wasn’t there. It was far from the perfect crime – the two murderers were quickly arrested by the “stupid” police and put on trial for their lives.

But for Lacenaire, this development provided the one thing he’d always wanted – celebrity. He was a handsome man, and now he assumed the role of Byronic hero. He was, according to himself, a genius chained down by poverty and the injustices of society. He had struck back against the universe like some Titan out of Greek mythology. The public ate it up. Ladies loved him. Lacenaire went to the guillotine, but he went a famous man.

Lacenaire, Klavan says, was treading in the footsteps of the Marquis de Sade, whom he considers the only really self-consistent atheist philosopher. If there is no God, Sade reasoned, there is nothing in the world but power. Since one can’t be certain that other people even exist, and since one can’t feel anyone else’s pain, the only moral course is to increase one’s own personal power. Greater power gives one the scope to increase one’s pleasure, the only good we can know. One ought to do everything one can to increase one’s power, so one can force others to serve one’s pleasure. Any talk of love or compassion is unscientific sentiment, the excuse of the weak and cowardly.

Fyodor Dostoevsky recognized this logic – and rejected it. He had suffered imprisonment, had almost been executed, and had found God in suffering. So he wrote Crime and Punishment, one of the world’s great novels, based on Lacenaire’s crime, but refuting its logic.

But Friederich Nietzsche recognized the argument, too. And he agreed that God was dead – that we had killed God. Therefore, we now faced the terrible duty of becoming gods ourselves, so that we could forge a new, stronger morality.

Nietzsche despised antisemites. But his sister, who became his literary executor, was a violent hater of Jews. She worked to popularize her late brother’s writings among the rising Nazi Party.

And we know what fruit that bore.

That sequence is just part of the whole narrative of The Kingdom of Cain. The book is not only an essay on art, but a work of theodicy – an effort to explain how there can be evil if God is good. The answer to that, Klavan argues, will not be found in reason, but in art. Because art speaks in a more compelling language, offering not arguments, but a loving Face, for those with eyes to see.

Anyway, The Kingdom of Cain is a great book. It may prove a classic. It has my highest recommendation.

‘The Kingdom of Cain,’ by Andrew Klavan

The legacy of Cain is murder. It is the attempt to kill the accusing image of God within us and re-create the world in the image of the desires we mistake for ourselves.

The novelist Andrew Klavan has morphed himself (in between writing marvelous mystery stories) into a philosopher of art in recent years. His book The Truth and Beauty examined the English Romantic poets, linking their artistic strivings to the search for God. I loved that book, but had trouble understanding its ultimate point. This led me to do some theorizing of my own (I’ve posted some of my thoughts on this blog). Klavan’s latest book, The Kingdom of Cain, suggests to me that I’ve been generally on the right track.

Andrew Klavan has often mentioned wryly that one of his great fears, when he became a Christian, was that he’d become a Christian writer – the kind of writer who tells stories about a little girl who prays that God will help her find her bunny rabbit, and God obliges. Instead, he has made his uneasy way working at his proper craft, writing the kind of stories he cares about and suffering the criticism of those readers who want bunny stories.

So this book begins as a sort of apologia for realistic (even earthy) Christian fiction – an issue that matters to me as well, in my humble way. Can depictions of the darkness of life – the ugly things that evil, twisted men do to each other and to the innocent – serve to glorify God?

Klavan thinks they can.

He starts out with the ancient, original murder – that of Cain upon Abel. He describes how the spirit of Cain has passed down through history to find full expression in post-Christian thinkers and psychologists – men like Nietzsche and Freud – and de Sade. How Dostoevsky pondered such ideas, found them wanting, and brought forth brilliant, moral works of art – Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karamazov. He describes the crimes of a nondescript Wisconsin psychopath named Ed Gien, whose hideous career inspired “Psycho,” “The Silence of the Lambs,” and a score of inferior knock-offs.

Then he ponders the mysteries of creation, the fall of Man, and redemption. The book ends in a vision of what the author considers possibly the greatest work of human art – Michelangelo’s “Pieta,” an achievement that contemplates what Christians consider the greatest crime of all time – the greatest crime possible – and transforms it into sublime beauty.

Here, he suggests, is an answer to the mystery of Theodicy, the question how a good God could permit evil. The answer, Klavan suggests, cannot be parsed in logic or spoken in words. Only Beauty, a gleam of light from Heaven received by the soul, can provide answers for those who have eyes to see.

But read The Kingdom of Cain for yourself. I’m certainly going to read it again. I experienced genuine physical thrills as I followed its line of thought.

More on art: Trying to think above my weight class

Photo credit: Evie Fjord. Unsplash license.

Still haven’t finished the book I’m reading, so you get further puerile musings on art tonight.

I have read Andrew Klavan’s The Truth and Beauty twice, and I’m still not sure I understand it. I kind of suspect that’s the point of the book – that art is essentially an effort to convey an experience that can’t be pinned down in words. You “catch” it or you don’t. Kind of like Zen, I suppose, though I hate to use that comparison.

But my point (I think) is that art is mysterious and evasive. There are formulas, but they never really touch the heart of the thing. It’s what C.S. Lewis called “Joy” in Surprised by Joy, and he linked it with Romanticism – which, not coincidentally, is what The Truth and Beauty is also about.

I watched one of Klavan’s interviews on YouTube the other day, and (if my memory is correct) he said he talked about the value of Pi and Fibonacci’s theorem in TTAB. He said that Pi expresses itself in Fibonacci’s Golden Ratio, which, he maintained, suggests that the Trinity itself is expressed in creation. Every living thing around us, from the smallest single-cell animal to the human and the elephant, develops according to that ratio. The leaves of the trees tend to grow in tripartite forms. Fractals create three-part shapes, leading to astonishingly naturalistic digital images.

The value of Pi – the number three plus a little more. Three, but not a static three. There’s some mystery added, a little extra to surprise us and keep us off balance.

Theologians have scoffed at the legend of St. Patrick teaching the Irish about the Trinity by showing them a three-leaf clover. “Bad analogy,” they say.

But what if the clover expresses the Trinity in a more profound way? Not as an analogy, but as an artifact? The metaphorical fingerprints of the Potter in the clay vessel He has created?

I think this Fibonacci stuff may be one reason why I was never a good artist, back when I was young and dreamed of making a living with pencil and brush. An art teacher in high school once told me I was good at symmetry, and that pleased me. But symmetry isn’t what you want in art, I think, most of the time. You want dynamism –a sense of movement, if only the movement of the viewer’s eye.

I missed that Fibonacci knack – dividing things into threes, creating a compelling imbalance. My work just sat there. (Among its other failings.) I always think of a panel from the Calvin & Hobbes comic strip that impressed me – Hobbes leaps at Calvin, and the line of his body and tail is so elegant that you can feel the motion. I could never draw a line like that, though I wanted to very much.

Anyway, I guess it all goes back to a basic disconnect between our impoverished age and the past (the break came during the World Wars, I think). The old artists believed they were expressing God (or even pagan gods), and sought to recreate beauty. Nowadays, artists only think they’re expressing themselves – and they believe themselves to be cosmic accidents (bad for the environment too).

Christians are capable of producing really great art. Subcreation. Genuine, God-reflecting beauty. We’ve done it in the past. And our competition is occupying itself taping bananas to walls. It should be an easy contest.

But we need a) to take art seriously, and b) to encourage our talent.

Re-reading ‘A Woman Underground,’ by Andrew Klavan

Winter, who a moment before had been truly worried he was losing his mind, was now wondering if he was the last sane man on earth. So often he struggled with the fact that he had killed people. But just now he was wondering if maybe he hadn’t killed enough of them. Maybe he should have killed them all.

It has become my custom to read each of Andrew Klavan’s Cameron Winter novels twice, as I find them peculiarly suited to my emotional world (which is not to claim that I am anything like Winter, who is, for instance, both dangerous and attractive to women). On my first reading of A Woman Underground last fall, I didn’t find it as congenial as some of the others. I liked it better on second reading. I think I missed things the first time out, for purely subjective reasons.

Cameron Winter is not your average English professor. Not long ago he was a top-secret government assassin. His stories interweave his memories of his past as he confides in his psychological therapist, who is helping him work through his guilt and conflicts.

In A Woman Underground, Winter reminisces about a terrible assignment he carried out once, dealing with a human trafficker in Turkey. But his therapist, an older woman, keeps trying to turn the discussion to his old obsession with a girl he fell in love with as a child, who eventually turned into a very different person from the one he first knew. Winter tries to explain that both stories are connected. But then he discovers that this lost love made a secret visit to his apartment, though she missed him. That’s enough to put him on her trail – and soon he will realize that he’s not the only man out looking for her.

I think what made me uncomfortable in my first reading of A Woman Underground was that it hit me in areas that are sore spots in my own interior world – romantic obsession and betrayal. On my second reading I recognized better how well the story serves Winter’s character development and the overall series narrative arc. I was also happier with the darkly ironic denouement this time.

Either way, the book was utterly gripping, and I neglected things I should have been doing to read another chapter.

A Woman Underground is a superior mystery-thriller, worthy of the groundbreaking series to which it belongs.

‘A Woman Underground,’ by Andrew Klavan

Since in Winters’s interior world, it was always the year 1795, he did not like to curse in front of a lady, so he swallowed his first reaction and said, “That’s awful.”

I wish Andrew Klavan’s Cameron Winter novels were two or three times longer than they are. It’s a gift of God that a writer of Klavan’s caliber has become a Christian, thus permitting the creation of amazing books like these (though the Christian subtext is always kept sub). I suppose not everyone reacts to them as I do. Some people don’t like them, after all. And perhaps I respond viscerally to the main character himself, because I identify with him.

In any case, A Woman Underground begins with one of our English professor hero’s stories from his past, as told to Margaret, his psychologist. It’s a disturbing story about a colleague of his from his days as a government assassin, the straightest arrow of all straightest arrows and a devout Christian, who disappeared on assignment in Turkey and Cameron was sent to find out what happened to him….

But Margaret interrupts him. She wants to know whether he’s phoned the woman he met in the last book, the one with whom he had a mutual attraction. No, he hasn’t. Why not? Well, he’s been dealing with some things…

Yes indeed, he has. He’s still obsessing about Charlotte, the girl he fell in love with as a child. She learned some shocking things about her family years ago, and just went off the rails, running off with a fringe political group.

You need to find Charlotte, to get some closure, Margaret tells him. And almost immediately, Charlotte appears – sort of. Cameron goes home to his apartment and smells her childhood perfume in the air. An examination of his building’s security recordings shows that a woman did come to his door. It looks like it might have been her. She’s carrying a book. That book will be the clue that leads Cameron on a trail into the shadowy world of the right-wing underground, to lies and betrayals and shattered illusions.

The previous Cameron Winter books have run on a formula – Cameron’s “strange habit of mind” kicks in – his brain enters a sort of fugue state, where he intuits a crime that the police can’t see. And so he goes in to meddle and see that justice is done. This time, the big mystery is his own, and though the “strange habit” makes its appearance, this time it’s to help him solve mysteries rather than to discover their existence. This way works just as well.

I know I’ll read it again. I read them all again. A Woman Underground is a stellar addition to one of the best mystery series going.

Klavan on how to start a writing career

I’m worthless to you tonight. No book to review, and no thought in my head worth sharing.

You’ll have to settle for some guy named Klavan, who’s supposed to be a novelist. I know it’s a disappointment when you came for Lars Walker, but life is hard and this will make you stronger.

Jordan Peterson and Andrew Klavan, on stories

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.

‘Your Life is a Work of Art’ with Andrew Klavan

I’ve made great strides with the InDesign software I’m struggling with, but the last few intractable problems still defy… tracting. And I don’t have a book to review tonight.

So I offer the video above, from a podcast called “Order of Man” (about which I know naught, but I found nothing objectionable when I watched). It’s about an hour, and it features an interview with Andrew Klavan about his latest novel, The House of Love and Death (which you really ought to read). He also discusses his journey to faith.

‘The House of Love and Death,’ by Andrew Klavan

A young woman, slender as cigarette smoke, drifted toward him across the lawn. A breeze blew, bearing the first biting chill of winter. An armada of cumulous clouds sailed across the blue sky. Winter could picture the smoke-thin girl borne away on the breeze and vanishing. Yet on she came.

I’ve reached a strange point in my strange life when I no longer get Christmas presents. And yet I do get Christmas a present each year, ever since Andrew Klavan started writing his Cameron Winter books. These are my Christmas presents (a little early), even if I do have to buy them myself, and I await them with under-the-tree anticipation.

Klavan does the thing he does, perhaps, better than anyone alive. And it all comes together seamlessly in this idiosyncratic series of novels about a former government black-ops assassin, retired to teach English at a small midwestern college, but occasionally intruding himself into a murder investigation. Because he has a “strange habit of mind,” an instinctive ability to project himself into crimes, analyzing motives and methods.

In The House of Love and Death, the third in the series, Cam reads a news story about a multiple murder in Maidenvale, a small town not far from Chicago. In a mansion in a gated community, three members of a wealthy family were gunned down, along with their nanny. The police suspect the slain daughter’s boyfriend, a Mexican-American boy who attended her private school. But Cam senses a hidden logic in the crime, a logic he can’t yet put his finger on. So he drives to Maidenvale to ask questions. He finds the local police detective hostile, and adamant the boyfriend is innocent. A female security guard at the gated community is certain the boy did it. But Cam isn’t convinced either way. Before he gets to the truth, he’ll face threats from the police, the local drug gangs, and the family of one of the victims.

In a way, though, this is all a kind of distraction. Cam has reached a crisis point in his sessions with his psychologist, Margaret. He’s preparing to open up to her at a new level – to reveal to her the worst thing he ever did in his life as an assassin. Something that’s closed his heart off and prevented his forming romantic connections in all the years since. But will the truth be too much for even her to accept?

Another interesting plot thread is an ongoing subplot about Lori, a “diversity” officer at the college, who’s made it her mission to get Cam fired, not realizing that her inquiries are raising red flags in Washington. If she only knew it, Cam is the only thing standing between her and deniable liquidation.

I wish I could have brought myself to read The House of Love and Death more slowly. I’ll probably read it again.  I can’t imagine how it could have been better.