“What Time the Sexton’s Spade doth Rust” by Alan Bradley

 

320 pages, Bantam, ISBN-13: 978-0593724514

At last – AT LAST – the eleventh Flavia de Luce novel is here! It’s been a long, bleak seven years since The Golden Tresses of the Dead was published and we were graced by mystery’s most original character in ages. What Time the Sexton’s Spade doth Rust by Alan Bradley picks up soon after the events of Tresses, and I had to familiarize myself with Flavia and all that happened in the previous books, not the least being the death of her father, Havilland, and dealing with her status as the new mistress of Buckshaw, her ancestral home. Right away things get off to a poisonous start as we find Flavia in St Tancred’s graveyard contemplating the rotting corpses in the ground below – when Cousin Undine fetches her back at Dogger’s behest because Mrs. Mullet has been accused of poisoning Major Greyleigh, one of Bishop’s Lacey’s residents – a resident with a past.

Very quickly, the old patterns reestablish themselves as Inspector Hewitt begins his inquiries, only to find Flavia has picked up the trail as well. The relationship between experienced inspector and inquisitive girl has always been fraught, what with the two one another’s mutual admiration warring with sheer exasperation. I said before that I thought that Flavia saw Inspector Hewitt as a kind of surrogate father, a role that (perhaps) may flourish now that she has lost her real father. Flavia herself mentions how this dynamic in their relationship has cooled with the birth of the Inspector’s long-hoped for daughter (named for Flavia, don’t forget) and his, perhaps, exasperation with her meddling…er, make that assistance (indeed, Inspector Hewitt explicitly warns Flavia off the case – an order Flavia, naturally, promptly ignores).

A rather newer dynamic in the series is that between Flavia and her cousin, Undine de Luce, the daughter of Lena de Luce, likewise deceased. I suppose that Undine was intended by Bradley to be a charming imp, one sent by providence or whatever to hassle and harangue our preteen chemist/detective with her boisterousness and unpredictability – but she isn’t. More often than not she is an irritating nuisance to Flavia…and to us. I would much rather see Flavia tackle her case alone or with the sometime-assistance of Dogger and others, but Undine is just not the delightful scamp she is (I presume) intended to be. Maybe I’m transforming into a humorless old coot, but the younger de Luce’s shenanigans leave me frustrated – much like Flavia. If this was Bradley’s intention then mission accomplished; if not, then…

But Flavia’s relationship with Dogger is now the principal personal connection in her life as, indeed, it has been for some time. With the Arthur W. Dogger and Associates private detective agency still up and running, Flavia’s partner in crime-solving is as engaged in her extracurricular pursuits as ever, only now in a semi-official manner. It is this dynamic which has always been central to the books, and a good thing, too, as I would rather see Flavia and Dogger go about their business much more than tolerate Undine for any length of time. The obvious love and respect the characters have for one another warms the heart and makes one thankful that at least ONE person in Flavia’s world recognizes her worth and gives a damn for her. We can only hope that this tender though damaged man lasts a little longer for our heroine’s sake.

One final matter that Flavia wrestles with, one that she has wrestled with through the last couple of books, is her maturing. She is quite aware of what she’s goin’ through and tries to tackle the problem as a scientist – and for the most part, fails. Her change is a biological matter, of course, but it is also an emotional one, one for which, as a creature ruled by reason, she is rather unfit to handle. But to listen to her wrestle with what is the onrushing freight-train of puberty is to sympathize. I mean, we’ve all been there at it SUCKED, and I think we all would like to act as Flavia’s parent and try to help her through this stage of life. It also humanizes the hell out of Flavia and makes her more relatable. The character is English, from the mid-20^th Century and of the ruling class – but she is also all too human and we love her all the more for being so.

So after all that…how was the mystery? As with every other Flavia de Luce mystery, What Time the Sexton’s Spade doth Rust is competently written and engaging, due almost entirely to Flavia. If any other lesser character were in the lead role, I don’t think I would have made it through the first eleven pages, never mind the first eleven books. No Victorian polymath or English spinster or Belgian fusspot would have been as engaging as the prepubescent mucker who refuses to acknowledge any constraints on her ability or freedom. Anyone else would be insufferable and not nearly as entertaining. The mystery at the heart of this tale wraps up a thing or two that have been ongoing in the series and also drops a bombshell of a revelation that was…rather contrived, I think. And it lacked the emotional punch I think Bradley was going for.

We are expecting another Flavia book in a years’ time (maybe) and then a movie sometime soon (maybe), though I have read little progress on either front. Will that book be the last? Dunno. But it seems to me that Bradley may be wrapping things up, seeing as he has his heroine tell the world that, in regards to her family and its place in the Nide, “I am Flavia de Luce: a living and vital mushroom growing out of the dead wood of the de Luce family”. After the next book we will have a matched set of a dozen perfect gems of series, and perhaps no more. I dearly hope not.

“The Foundation Trilogy”, by Isaac Asimov

 

752 pages, Bantam Spectra, ISBN-13: 978-0307292063

The Foundation Trilogy by Isaac Asimov – that would be Foundation, Foundation and Empire and Second Foundation – is a collection of short stories originally published in Astounding Science-Fiction magazine between May 1942 and January 1950 and thence collected into this trilogy of books that were originally published between 1951 and 1953 (Asimov later published Foundation’s Edge in 1982 and Foundation and Earth in 1986, along with the prequels Prelude to Foundation in 1988 and Forward the Foundation in 1993; don’t know if I’ll get to those, but I’ll keep you posted).

The Foundation Trilogy is considered a classic of early science fiction, having won the 1966 Hugo Award for Best All-Time Series (one wonders how one can come up with such an award when writers are still writing and history has yet to end) and its influence can be felt throughout Sci-Fi from its original publishing to the modern day, from properties such as Dune, Star Wars and even Futurama and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (which rips off Foundation’s “Encyclopedia Galactica” shamelessly). Indeed, while reading I picked out any number of modern Sci-Fi tropes that are now standard but that Asimov invented, an indication as to the influence of these stories.

There are two guiding forces around The Foundation Trilogy, one based on the arguments forwarded by History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by Edward Gibbon and the other on psychohistory. Working with his editor John W. Campbell, Asimov developed the concepts of the collapse of a Galactic Empire sometime in the far-flung future (dates are not given); the mathematician Hari Seldon spends his life developing a theory of psychohistory, a new and effective mathematics of sociology, in order to preserve what can be of the Empire and limit the period of chaos to come after its fall:

 

Psychohistory dealt not with man, but man-masses. It was the science of mobs; mobs in their billions. It could forecast reactions to stimuli with something of the accuracy that a lesser science could bring to the forecast of a rebound billiard ball. The reaction of one man could be forecast by no known mathematics; the reaction of a billion is something else again.

 

Seldon foresaw a Dark Age that would last for approximately 30,000 years following the collapse of the Galactic Empire, an epoch that could very well cause the extinction of the human race. But Seldon had a plan to combat this catastrophe, calculating that these thirty millenniums of darkness could be shortened to but a 1000 years, but only if the right people were in the right places at the right times to keep the flame of knowledge lit. Thus, he created two Foundations, groups of scholars ostensibly brought together to write the Encyclopedia Galactica but that in fact were to work behind the scenes to keep learning alive through the empire’s fall.

The Foundation Trilogy, for all its accolades, is not a masterpiece, much less the Best All-Time Series. But it is without question the precursor of all the Sci-Fi that came later, especially considering that the expectations of Sci-Fi for its time was pulp entertainment (I have to believe, as well, that the fact that an honest-to-goodness scientist wrote these books added to their intellectual appeal). It is also a product of its time, when there was still the belief that science could solve all mankind’s problems and faith in experts was at an all-time high, a naïveté that subsequent decades – hell, the last couple of years – has destroyed.

Other ways in which The Foundation Trilogy is a product of the 1950s: there’s lots of smoking; newspapers still exist; the first woman doesn’t appear until pg. 197, and then only to model a dress of light; races aren’t mentioned (but I presume they are white, perhaps some Asian people); religion – in this case, the worship of technology – is still extant, but only as a tool of the state to promote and expand its reach; nuclear power is the status of the enlightened powers while its lack signifies barbarism; psychology is still a thing; message cylinders are still in use, as is microfilm; royalty is still around as are, by necessity, dynastic marriages – I could go on, but anyway.

Asimov’s plot isn’t perfect, but it’s functional, and the myriad technologies and concepts he conjures up are interesting and plausible (even if others, mentioned above, are less so). The failings are elsewhere: the characters tend to be flat, cardboard cut-outs of people; the great leaders of one generation are virtually indistinguishable from the next; women are virtually nonexistent (except for Bayta, the rather likable young heroine in the second part of Second Foundation; and Arkady in the last). And there is zero poetry in Asimov’s prose; instead, there are merely endless pages of expository dialogue occasionally graced with the most meager of descriptions.

I can see why The Foundation Trilogy inspired other, later writers to create galaxies of their own to prosper in, and the series itself, while flat, was still entertaining – rather like a warm Coke: the carbonation is gone and it isn’t at all spunky, but it still quenches your thirst. And I think I get what Asimov was trying to do with The Foundation Trilogy, as he moved away from the archetypical science fiction hero who is right and doesn’t really have any sort of interesting journey, to characters who learn and grow and change. I’m glad I read it because now I get so many of the references that I see in other science fiction series, but I don't think I’ll ever reread it.

“Defending Jacob”, by William Landay

 

432 pages, Delacorte Press, ISBN-13: 978-0385344227

Defending Jacob by William Landay revolves around assistant DA Andy Barber, his wife Laurie and their 14-year-old son Jacob, who has been accused of murdering a classmate, Ben. It is, interestingly, written as a series of flashbacks, with Andy’s grilling by another assistant DA, Loguidice, occurring in “real time”, if you will, and the story unfolding through his memories and testimony. And the heart of the story is one that no parent ever wants to answer, namely: What would you do if your child was accused of murder?

All things being equal, I found Defending Jacob to be rather predictable – and annoying; Andy’s vague references to (for him) future developments as he narrates (to him) past developments, all to end at a “twist” and an abrupt ending wherein we the reader must decide for ourselves just what happened and who is guilty or innocent…which SUCKS. I want my mysteries solved at the end, and for Landay to leave it up the reader is just lazy writing – or cowardly, as if the author didn’t have the guts to say definitively one way or the other what the fates of his characters were.

But besides all that, Landay’s characters seem to lack flesh on their bones, and the actions of some are downright unbelievable. I mean, take Jacob: the kid must have been based on the Sphinx, he’s so damn inscrutable. Perhaps he takes after his father, Andy, who managed to keep a dark secret from his wife for fourteen years. The wife, Laurie, seems to want to be the perfect mother and anything less than achieving this perfection means she is a failure and to blame for any of her son’s problems. Basically, nobody seems to act realistically for great swaths of the book.

Perhaps Landay just wanted to spark debate about a couple of hot-button topics, like: What lengths would a parent go to in order to protect their child from a murder charge? Is there any scientific validity in Behavioral Genetics? How biased is the media in reporting sensational stories and does their version shape public opinion? Does placing a child in nursery school create children with Reactive Attachment Disorder? What is the effect of social media on our society, especially of children? I could go on, but won’t.

Defending Jacob, then, for all the accolades it has received – and a mini-series starring Captain America – was subpar as a mystery and not very gripping as a thriller. And, damnit, I want my mysteries to be solved when I close the covers for the last time.

“The Making of Gone With The Wind”, by Steve Wilson, forward by Robert Osborne

 

352 pages, University of Texas Press, ISBN-13: 978-0292761261

So, I was walking the aisles of the Fraser Public Library all out-of-sorts: I wanted to read something but didn’t know what; oh, I could have started on the next two books for my book clubs, but I wasn’t in the mood – and besides, we wouldn’t be discussing them for another three months, anyway. Which is when I came across The Making of Gone With The Wind by Steve Wilson, a coffee table book about the making of one of early Hollywood’s masterpieces. And, seeing as I wasn’t in the mood for anything taxing, I checked it out and dove right in, just wanting a book to while away my time with that wouldn’t challenge me too much.

The Making of Gone With The Wind was first published in 2014 in commemoration of the film’s 75^th anniversary and features over 600 items from the archives of David O. Selznick, the film’s producer, and his business partner John Hay “Jock” Whitney, which are housed at the Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas at Austin (I wondered why the University of Texas published this thing). As histories go its…okay; I mean, nothing earth-shattering or deep-delving, as it proceeds at a brisk pace describing the making of this glory of classic cinema, with most of the text a paragraph or two besides splashy pictures.

But it’s not for the text that one buys this book, it’s for those pictures: hundreds of photos from behind-the-scenes of the making of Gone With The Wind, along with production art, concept paintings, costume shots and so on. The pictures bring to life what it must have been like to have been a part of this epic, this piece of celluloid history in which a beloved book was transformed into a just-as-beloved film that has captivated millions since its release so long ago. That is why one buys The Making of Gone With The Wind; to try and be a part of something special, or at least imagine that one was.

But the history cannot be ignored, either, as Wilson chronicles the many controversies that involved the making of GWTW: from Southern Whites fearful that their heritage would be mocked by a bunch of Yankees, to African Americans – and, especially, the NAACP – concerned with how their race would be portrayed (and especially if a certain ‘N’ word would be in use), to the controversy of casting some English girl as Katie Scarlett O’Hara Hamilton Kennedy Butler…it’s all chronicled by Wilson in all its faded controversy. The fights surrounding the picture may seem like small beans to us today, but at the time they were so important and all-consuming.

The Making of Gone With The Wind is, then, a look into the past at a film classic that was withstood the test of time and serves as a beacon of culture and refinement that modern-day political tempests cannot shake loose.

“Washington: A Life”, by Ron Chernow

 

 

904 pages, Penguin Press, ISBN-13: 978-1594202667

Washington: A Life is the third Ron Chernow biography that I have read, the other two being Grant (reviewed on July 18^th, 2018) and Alexander Hamilton (reviewed on September 11^th, 2018). Obviously, there’s a reason I keep coming back for more. With the benefit of a couple of centuries of hindsight, it is evident that Washington was a rather insecure man who nevertheless pursued fame like a rottweiler chasing a poodle. He was also something of a moody cuss given to dark thoughts and angry outbursts, especially towards those who questioned his intentions; nothing was more likely to provoke his legendary rage than accusations that he was guided by base motives.

His education left something to be desired, a fact he was continuously all-too-aware of, and so he compensated mightily by studying rules of etiquette, mimicking successful older men and cultivating the loyalty of younger men, though always displaying an extraordinary sensitivity to what others thought of him, especially his intelligence. Yup, like with most Great Men – and I use the term unironically – Washington wasn’t easy to know or get along with and yet, somehow, he managed to forge and lead a ragtag mongrel fighting force that defeated the world’s greatest army, become his nation’s first President and steer the new nation through the shoals of global chaos before leaving it all behind like a modern Cincinnatus to live the life of a private gentleman.

Washington’s contemporaries observed that he seemed to be blessed by Divine Providence – or dumb luck; take your pick. How else to explain the many bullets that whizzed around but never struck him? Or his emergence from a string of catastrophic military disasters in the French and Indian War and the War for Independence with a reputation enhanced rather than ruined? Even Washington’s rivals (who deeply resented him) were at odds trying to explain how this tall target on his magnificent horse could avoid even a scratch in every battle he participated in, whether to his person or his reputation.

The past two centuries have seen scholars detailing rather more prosaic explanations of Washington’s “unparalleled rise and elevation”, including his acquisition of thousands of acres through fortuitous inheritance and relentless speculation; his marriage to the wealthy widow Martha Dandridge Custis; his connection with members of the powerful Fairfax family who became important early patrons; his struggle to master his body and his passions within the language and conventions of 18^th Century Anglo-American republicanism; and, most recently, his creative conflation of his personal ambition with the cause of the Republic. Luck can only explain so much; one must also equate Washington’s rise to determination and speculation as he did anything and everything to get ahead in life. Your prototypical American, I would argue.

It can be hard for us moderns to admire George Washington, as public displays of patriotism are met with suspicions of closeted racism, and praising the first (slave-owning) President of the United States can earn one scorn and derision, if you’re lucky. I believe that Chernow took a rather sage and nuanced approach to slavery in the early republic, his decision to address the topic throughout the book – indeed, as Washington struggled with the subject throughout his life – being both necessary and forthright. Unknown to me until I read this biography, Washington found holding other humans in bondage to be repugnant, yet couldn’t see his way through to emancipate his slaves (although he did free all those he owned upon his death, having no control over “dower” slaves under his roof). He was also alone among the Founding Fathers to advocate for manumission of slaves, a position that did not endear him to his Southern compatriots (would that he had been successful or, better yet, had led by example). At the same time, he was a strict taskmaster – never cruel, but certainly shortsighted when it came to the likely feelings of his slaves. This is a topic that we as Americans must address, but not in its current state, with the Left using slavery as a cudgel against the generations of Americans who have been born centuries after it was expunged from our nation when “the blood drawn with the lash [was] paid by another drawn with the sword”.

Washington: A Life is an admirable addition to anyone’s library on American history and solidifies Ron Chernow’s place as one of our greatest biographers, past and present. The myths, legends and smears on this great man are dispatched or explained in the context of historical record, with the biggest takeaway being, perhaps, the fact that our country has never worked in harmony and has always been divided. The American Experiment has and will (hopefully) continue to be a work in progress, having been tested so often