“The Daughter of Time”, by Josephine Tey

 

206 pages, Touchstone, ISBN-13: 978-0684803869

I said back on July 13^th, 2016, in my review of Richard III: England’s Black Legend by Desmond Seward that “what the JFK assassination is to Americans, the murder of the Princes in the Tower is to the English”; that is, a perennial conspiracy surrounding a supposed unsolved crime which is nothing of the sort – to wit, Richard III had his nephews King Edward V and Richard Duke of York murdered (oh, and Lee Harvey Oswald assassinated JFK and acted alone, too).

But the credulous must be appeased, and so theses fictions march on. In 1951 Josephine Tey (that would be Elizabeth MacKintosh to you and me) put her hand to this tale with The Daughter of Time, in which her character, Scotland Yard Inspector Alan Grant, in hospital on leave nursing a broken leg, investigates the murder of the Princes in the Tower (the title comes from Sir Francis Bacon: “Truth is the daughter of time, not of authority”).

The topic has been popular for some six centuries, and this book no less so: the British Crime Writers’ Association named it number one in The Top 100 Crime Novels of All Time in 1990, while the Mystery Writers of America named it number four in The Top 100 Mystery Novels of All Time in 1995. Clearly, something is afoot for a book on a controversial subject to be so honored, and so let’s you and I figure out just why that is, shall we?

The Daughter of Time finds the aforementioned Inspector Grant researching an historical mystery at the suggestion of his actress friend, Marta Hallard, after she brings him some pictures of historical characters, one of them being Richard III of black fame. Grant prides himself on being able to read a person’s character from his appearance, and Richard seems to him a gentle, kind and wise man, incapable of the heinous acts set at his door. And so the game is afoot.

Whether Tey took her own premise seriously or not I cannot say; what I can declare is that it without question deserves inclusion The Top 100 Crime Novels of All Time (at number 1 or 4, whatever you like). It is taut and well-thought-out, with each premise and theory that Grant and his compadres investigate both fascinating and plausible. Whether or not you accept her conclusion (I don’t), it is an excellent mystery and a rollicking good read, to boot.

Tey was not the only one who believed Richard innocent, and throughout the 450+ years since Richard lived and died there have been loyal groups in Britain who have continued to believe that he has been falsely maligned and to work to rehabilitate his reputation. Tey’s book influenced that movement and convinced many to join it, such has been the far-reaching influence of this unique (fictional) murder mystery.

This a work of fiction, of course, and The Daughter of Time offered a fascinating journey through English history while giving a lesson in high-minded obsession. Grant becomes thoroughly convinced of the falsity of the charge against the accused and is determined to prove him innocent and bring the guilty to justice (it is, after all, what he does). That he is misguided is easy to forget as one reads this near-perfect mystery.

“Call It Sleep”, by Henry Roth

 

599 pages, Robert O. Ballou, ISBN-13: 978-224405329206

Just when in the hell did I read Call It Sleep by Henry Roth? I know I didn’t read it for personal growth or knowledge or anything like that. So I must have done so for a class, somewhere. But what class? Would it have been in Junior High? High School? Some college course, lost to the mists of history? Hmmmmm…anyway, I dunno. But read it I did, and here is my penetrating, insightful review. Call It Sleep was all but ignored for thirty-odd years when originally published in 1934, but when literary critic Irving Howe reviewed it in The New York Times Book Review in 1964 it was reborn and hailed as a modern American classic. So there’s that. In a nutshell, it is about 6-year-old David Schearl, a “dangerously imaginative” Jewish boy growing up in the immigrant ghetto of New York’s Lower East Side in the early 20^th Century and his coming to terms with conflicting forces as he tries to forge his own identity.

In many ways, Call It Sleep is a typical coming-of-age story, albeit the character is much younger than is typical of this type of tale; indeed, there’s really nothing overly special about his life until he meets and befriends Leo, a Gentile – which is perhaps the point, for David’s experiences mirror those of his fellow Americans, Jew or Gentile. But I can see why, when this book was published, it was scandalous and shunned by the Respectable. One can find everything from suggestions of sex between children to foulmouthed Irish gashouse workers, and there’s quite a bit in between the two. But it’s a hard book to read because of all of the hardships, heartbreaks and disturbing incidents, one after another, that David and his family must endure. I’m sure all of these dark developments did nothing to boost the Golden Streets narrative favored by many an American then, and I can’t imagine immigrants wanting to read about the suffering they were experiencing.

Also, Roth was serious about capturing the dialect of his various urban characters, and I do mean the dialect, not just the flavor of their speech. Need examples? Okay: “My ticher calls id Xmas, bod de kids call id Chrizmas. I’ds a goyish holiday anyways. Wunst I hanged up a stockin’ in Brooklyn. Bod mine fodder pud in a eggshells wid terlit paper an’ a piece f'om an ol’ kendle. So he leffed w’en he seen me. Id ain’ no Sendy Klaws, didja know?” Or: “Beshnas mos hamelech Uziyahu vawere es adonoi yoshav al kesai rum venesaw, vshulav malaiim es hahahol. Serafim omdim memal lo shash kanowfayim, sash kanowfayim lawehhad, beshtayim yahase fanav uvishtayim yahase raglov uvishtayim yofaif”. And: “If I blyibm duh ywully ylyod, den he wonthye hilyt me so moyuch, myaytlybe”. Even reading those bits out loud – like I did with Margaret Mitchell’s similar attempt to recreate black speech in Gone With the Wind – didn’t help very much.

While at times a slog, Call It Sleep tells a tale that rings true for many an immigrant to the New World, whether they came over on the Mayflower or any number of steamships decades afterwards. Through the use of intricate analysis of David’s thoughts, Roth portrayed those innate emotions that we have all experienced and, from time to time, continue to experience, regardless of who we are or where we came from.

“The Dovekeepers”, by Alice Hoffman

 

 

528 pages, Scribner, ISBN-13: 978-1451617481

 

The Dovekeepers is the twenty-eighth novel by Alice Hoffman and is set around 70 AD after the Roman conquest of Judea and the fall of Jerusalem. Taking place over four years, it centers on the lives of four women who make their way to the Herodian stronghold of Masada and the families of several other survivors, especially the zealots who could rightly be held responsible for the whole thing (although the Romans needed precious little excuse for conquest).

• Yael, is treated like a dog by her father the assassin because her mother died giving birth to her, leaving her to maneuver life almost in a vacuum
• Revka, who could only stand by and watch helplessly as Roman deserters brutally raped and murdered her daughter, only to enact her revenge
• Aziza, who was raised as a boy and fought as a warrior by her stepfather, two facts that leave her adrift and without a place in the world
• Shirah, reputed to be a witch who worships Ashtoreth and has powers others believe in more than she does herself, and is the mother of Aziza

These four very different women are the Dovekeepers, whose work involves collecting these bird’s eggs for food and their droppings for fertilizer. The work is humble and dirty but, amid the filth and noise of the birdhouse, the women grow close, their lives becoming inextricably bound together as they inexorably change and the Romans come ever closer, all against the backdrop of the destruction of the world of these ancient Jews.

I was taken in by The Dovekeepers from the first word; Hoffman is a master storyteller who creates characters of flesh and blood and behave as they will in the situations she puts them in. Not once did I think that Yael, Revka, Aziza or Shirah did this act or spoke those words merely because that is what the plot called for. They behaved exactly as you would expect them to, knowing what you know about them. Their actions drive the story from one tragedy to the next, and the fact that you become so caught up in the lives of these women long gone speaks to the narrative power of the author. You truly feel for Yael, Revka, Aziza and Shirah – and for those who come into their orbit – and feel their every emotion as if it were your own. Being a little familiar with the Siege of Masada, I knew that the ultimate fates of most of these women would not be pleasant, and as I approached the end of the book, I became increasingly concerned for the well-being of them all.

Another strength of The Dovekeepers is how well Hoffman depicts the First Century AD in all of its dusty glory. This world in which the Romans sought to subjugate everything in their path merely for the sake of subjugation is as real within these pages as the world outside your door. From the fall of Jerusalem, to the deserts our protagonists wander through, to the relative paradise of Masada are all described in detail and brought forth once more. As much as her characterizations, the backdrop against which our heroines lived is as important to the story as they are, and this whole sun-drenched and sand-blasted place is made real once more by Hoffman. Between our four protagonists and everyone they encounter to the land they encounter them in, The Dovekeepers is that rare feat of historical fiction that is as informs like a textbook as it entertains like a novel. I will certainly miss Yael, Revka, Aziza and Shirah.

“The Lost Girls: Love and Literature in Wartime London”, by D. J. Taylor

 

336 pages, Pegasus Books, ISBN-13: 978-1643133157

Sonia Brownell, Lys Lubbock, Janetta Parladé and Barbara Skelton are amongst only a few of the subjects of D. J. Taylor’s The Lost Girls: Love and Literature in Wartime London. These swinging dames cut a swath through English literary and artistic life, with World War II barely slowing them down. All found themselves drawn into the orbit of Cyril Connolly (the most unlikely ladies’ man imaginable) and his literary magazine Horizon. Three of them had affairs with Lucian Freud, one of them married George Orwell while another became the mistress of the King of Egypt. No shrinking violets here, make no mistake. Equally at home in Bloomsbury and SoHo (or Cairo, for that matter), along with the couture studios of Schiaparelli and Hartnell, these “Lost Girls” would inspire the work of Nancy Mitford, George Orwell, Anthony Powell and Evelyn Waugh, and afford the missing link between the Lost Generation and Bright Young Things and the cultural revolution of the damnable 60s. And if you’re like me, you never even heard of any of them.

And there’s a reason for that. Taylor describes these women as chic, glamorous and bohemian and, for the most part, all of that is true. But as you read on you discover that these trailblazing women were actually rather conventional, seeking domesticity, albeit on their terms. They fell into and out of relationships, fought with their lovers, had abortions, married unsuitable men who cheated on them, divorced and tried again. Toward the end of their lives, some lived in penury, succumbed to alcoholism or died friendless. Not a hell of a lot to celebrate, one would argue. When I got this book, I somehow imagined that these Lost Girls were part of a wider movement in which women expanded their opportunities during an unprecedented catastrophe – but mostly, it was a record of an elite set of women and the clothes they wore, parties they attended and gossip they spread. Even though these Lost Girls hovered ‘round and worked with a bevy of famous literary people, they seemed more focused on status and fame, and snagging a rich husband. How very pedestrian.

All were comely, their beauty noted upon by critics in that era, and they tended to have a middle-to-upper middle-class upbringing in which they frequently became estranged from at least one of their parents. They often remembered their school years less than favorably, were members of the first generation of women to become independent in their 20s and take jobs that involved war effort work or in offices. According to Peter Quinnell, a staffer at Horizon, the Lost Girls seemed to carry a “sense of personal trauma” with them, and others noted their “air of waywardness and loneliness”, but also called them “courageous”. Another similarity was their relationship at different times with Cyril Connolly, who acted as the hub of the literary world in London then (yet another was that they all seemed to place a high premium on not being “boring”). Taylor states that “any attempt to label them ought to be resisted”, but throughout the book, he employs the “Lost Girl” label to explain their lives.

“The Devil’s Due”, by Bonnie MacBird

 

384 pages, HarperCollins, ISBN-13: 978-0008348106

Bonnie MacBird’s The Devil’s Due is her third interpretation of Arthur Conan Doyle’s immortal detective, and just like in her two previous outings, she succeeds in breathing new life into this most famous of sleuths. Under her keyboard, Holmes and Watson are believably drawn, so much so that one would like to believe the conceit of the author that she did not write this tale but that it was gifted to her by person or persons unknown and that the true author is in fact Dr. John Watson, just like Conan Doyle always maintained. Her Holmes/Watson dynamic is believable, so much so that the whole Watson-One-Step-Behind-Holmes thing comes across as natural rather than tedious (and which becomes necessary in the denouement). The Devil’s Due circles around the narratives of an alphabetical killer of philanthropists with dark secrets, a new Chief Commissioner of police and budding fascist, French terrorists, and a girl’s school that is more than it seems. Through it all Holmes, naturally, sticks to his guns and follows the clues where they lead him though the Heavens fall, Watson, naturally, staying doggedly alongside him.

The Devil’s Due moves along at a brisk pass and never flags due to overwrought dialog or melodrama, two things Holmes would never countenance. MacBird does a fine job of leading the reader astray with a red herring or two throughout, so much so that I was kicking myself for not seeing who the perp really was. The story also contains an eclectic mix of eccentric characters that always populate a Sherlock Holmes mystery, whether they be an illiterate street urchin-come-spy or needy society widow. With that being said, a little more development of these characters would have served the story better, considering the roles that some of them end up playing by the conclusion. And MacBird does a fine job of leading the reader astray with a red herring or two throughout, so much so that I was kicking myself for not seeing who the perp really was. Also, the book is freighted with a lot hyperventilating about modern problems, especially immigrants and the prejudices around them; while this was indeed an issue at the time, MacBird seemed to come at the issue with a modern sensibility that was grating and, worse, inaccurate.

But it is the dialogue MacBird employs that is the highlight of not only The Devil’s Due, but of all of her other Holmes books, as well. The Watsoncentric ambiance of her books is true to Conan Doyle and adds a kind of credibility and continuity to all of the works. For all of those Sherlockians the world over for whom the original run of stories is simply not enough, MacBird has done a masterful imitation of the master’s voice and style nicely, and this book provides true satisfaction to any fan of the Baker Street fiddler. The mysteries are good, the characters, old and new, are excellent and the experience is uplifting. While having Holmes being (literally) demonized in the London press didn’t pass the London fog smell test, and having Holmes be entirely too deferential to some of the other main personages is out of character for this genius who can’t help but look down on those not as brilliant as he (which is most of humanity), The Devil’s Due still made me long for yet more tales from MacBird; as a true heir to Conan Doyle she has no competitor, and one can only hope for yet more Holmes stories in the very near future.

“The Last Action Heroes: The Triumphs, Flops, and Feuds of Hollywood’s Kings of Carnage”, by Nick de Semlyen

 

352 pages, Crown, ISBN-13‏: ‎ 978-0593238806

While I read for any number of reasons, it is knowledge and self-improvement that tops my list – but man cannot live on salad alone, or steak, or poultry and so on; now and again a slice of cheesecake or dish of ice cream is called for. So when I saw The Last Action Heroes: The Triumphs, Flops, and Feuds of Hollywood’s Kings of Carnage by Nick de Semlyen at the Clinton-Macomb Public Library I thought “Ah, what the hell. Ice Cream is back on the menu”. Semlyen’s book is rather like Caseen Gaines’ We Don’t Need Roads: The Making of the Back to the Future Trilogy (reviewed on March 19^th, 2024), in that neither is very challenging or enlightening; many of the tales he tells are familiar and are simply rehashed in this volume. Indeed, while de Semlyen does better than Gaines by in fact interviewing the subjects of this book, the vast majority of those interviews were cribbed from earlier sources, and so The Last Action Heroes resembles a movie montage in which our Hero becomes stronger and faster after five minutes of training.

But so what. De Semlyen has written a memoir of my youth when giants walked the earth, movies were entertaining and an expansive VHS collection was a status symbol. All of these titans of the multiplex are here, along with other, less statuesque stars. Chuck Norris. Arnold Schwarzenegger. Sylvester Stallone. Bruce Willis. Jackie Chan. Jean-Claude Van Damme. Steven Seagal. Dolph Lundgren. One could argue that not all of these names belong, but one cannot argue that each left an impact on popular culture – even if only as punchlines. This testosterone and patriotic fueled era of American movies (not Chan) was a once-a-millennium phenomenon, never to be repeated, and pity the poor fools of later generations who missed out on all of the fun. To be alive and a movie fan at this time meant to be spoiled for choice as to what movie to see every week, even if you were young and broke (like me) and had to wait for HBO to broadcast it or Blockbuster to rent it to you. You know: The Good Old Days.

And we learn a thing or two about these muscle-bound celluloid gods. Chuck Norris was actually a non-violent Christian who would rather talk than fight. Arnold Schwarzenegger is as driven as you have heard with a never-say-die attitude and an immigrant’s faith in America. Sylvester Stallone is as resilient as Rocky (or Rambo) who never lets a bomb get him down. Bruce Willis was as ordinary as you would think who seemed just happy to be mentioned in the same breath as these others. Jackie Chan was an international star who struggled to make it in America but whose stunt innovations influenced others well outside of China. Jean-Claude Van Damme, for all his ridiculousness, is an unfiltered quote-machine who has struggled with his demons and seemingly come out on top. Steven Seagal is truly the humorless asshole he comes across as and one wonders how more successful he’d be with a little self-awareness. Dolph Lundgren is fluent in five languages and was on his way to becoming a scientist before Stallone discovered him.

The Last Action Heroes was a fun read and allowed me the pleasure of reliving my youth when popular culture sought to entertain and not indoctrinate, when movies could be unabashedly patriotic and movie stars were bigger-than-life personalities for all the right reasons.

“Patton, Montgomery, Rommel: Masters of War”, by Terry Brighton

 

480 pages, Crown, ISBN-13: 978-0307461551

Patton, Montgomery, Rommel: Masters of War by Terry Brighton is a kind of broad, triple biography of perhaps the greatest American, British and German generals of World War II (let the arguments begin on that declaration). The book is broadly chronological as it follows its three subjects while they maneuver through their relative country’s military structures and serve the same in peace and war. As is shown, Patton, Montgomery and Rommel served three quite different nations with quite different military establishments and quite different ways of shimmying up the greasy pole of promotion. And I have to say that Brighton, a British military historian, does not shirk his duty in showing us his subjects, warts and all.

While many historians have tried to explain away Johannes Erwin Eugen Rommel’s fascination with and support for Hitler, Brighton shows that the Generalfeldmarschall supported his Führer up to the final moments of his life. His complete acceptance of the Nazi program and belief system (even though he never joined the actual party) is well laid out, and there can be no doubt that he was a fervent supporter of the same and was not just being a “good German soldier” who did not have all of the facts. While no doubt a military genius who did the best he could with his limited resources, Rommel made his share of blunders, although Brighton shows the Desert Fox continuously learning from his mistakes. One can only thank whomever that Nazi Germany never got its act together and fully supplied Rommel with whatever he needed.

George Smith Patton Jr. was beyond just bombastic and profane, as his well-known episodes of losing control and slapping soldiers in hospitals for being cowards are described. Without question the most privileged of the three, Patton had his share of obstacles to overcome, not least of which was dyslexia. And his love affair with the M4 Sherman medium tank over the M26 Pershing heavy tank is inexcusable. But as a tank commander his only equal was Rommel or, more controversy perhaps, Guderian, the true inventor of the Blitzkrieg. As an armor strategist with a clear-eyed view of what the tank could (and couldn’t) do, and what the Allies needed to do to win the war, Patton was brilliant, forceful and without remorse. One can see why Eisenhower tolerated him as he did and why the Germans were right to count him as Enemy Number One.

Surprisingly, coming from a British author, Bernard Law Montgomery comes across as the worst of the bunch, a general who managed to win one battle in one setting and then applied that same philosophy the rest of the way, whether or not such tactics fit the situation at hand. When he does not get the resources he wants, or is denied the command he seeks, he purposely slows his progress down and causes numerous casualties to his fellow commanders as a way of showing that he should have been given this support or command all along. How many thousands of unnecessary casualties were caused by this self-absorption? How long was the war extended by this prima donna? Perversely, Montgomery was the most successful of the three post-war, only because he was the only one to survive the hostilities.

Patton, Montgomery, Rommel illustrates all of this and shows how and why these gifted if difficult leaders of men succeeded and failed, and all without any obvious prejudice. Would that all histories were this enlightening.