Golden Age of Detective Fiction Forum

July 9, 2008

Memorable Clues

Filed under: General GAD — Jon @ 11:24 am

Since I last chimed in on this subject, I have been checking up on the excellent “memorable clue” suggestions that several of you have kindly submitted at my request. I still have quite a few left to check out (I’m neither a speedy reader nor researcher), but so far they have seemed to support my original theory (well, maybe the less ambitious term “notion” is more accurate), which I will now divulge. Please forgive how poorly I explain this; I assure you that my ideas are stronger than my ability to express them.

Though people read Golden Age detective fiction for a variety of reasons, certainly one of the key appeals of the genre is a sensation which one might be call “sudden retrospective illumination.” This sensation is referred to by many other names, including “paradigm shift,” “epiphany,” “the Homer Simpson effect (D’Oh!)” or, in Aristotelian terms, the convergence of “anagnorisis” (recognition) and “peripeteiea” (reversal). By whatever name, it entails the seemingly paradoxical simultaneous experience of surprise and inevitability (or, at least, deterministic causality).

Well, as I feared, I haven’t explained it at all well, but I suspect that most of you know what I’m talking about ( I also have another theory [by Anne Elk!] that the appeal of this sensation is tied to a subconscious validation of our very existence… but I’ll bore you with that one another time). At any rate, I believe that for many of us, this sensation is largely what defines a great whodunit denouement, and Dorothy L. Sayers described the joy of it thus:

“The aim of the writer of this type of detective story is to make the reader say at the end, neither: ‘Oh well, I knew it must be that all along,’ nor yet: ‘Dash it all! I couldn’t be expected to guess that’; but: ‘Oh, of course! What a fool I was not to see it! Right under my nose all the time!’ Precious tribute! How often striven for! How rarely earned!”

Now, so far as I’ve been able to discern, the clues suggested all provide this sensation… well, perhaps I should more accurately say, the relationship between the clues and the truths they are ultimately shown to indicate provide it. As such, they allow for solutions which surprise us, and yet are entirely consistent with all data we’ve been given earlier.

Almost without exception, however, these memorable clues also have one other important common denominator: while they are consistent with the ultimately revealed solution and, more importantly, serve to bolster the sense of inevitability of that solution (“What a fool I was not to see it! Right under my nose all the time!”), almost none of them deductively prove anything. While they may indicate possible discrepancies in the earlier, apparent scenario (i.e. what seems to be the case prior to the denouement), they don’t logically demonstrate that scenario to be impossible. Rather, they work to bring cumulative strength to the probability of the true scenario, serving, as Pooh Bah from Gilbert & Sullivan’s THE MIKADO would say, as “corroborative detail, intended to give artistic verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.

Not that truly deductive clues do not abound in detective fiction, but you’ll find very few of them among our “most memorable” collection. For, surprising as this may be, the consensus of “memorable clues” clearly suggests that proving a scenario true by discounting all other possibilities (no matter how unassailable the logic) does not have nearly the power on the memory as does reinforcing its truth via a multitude of “circumstantial” elements.

I know that this theory holds for me. I have read several works in which it is proven that only T could have been the killer, because U, V, W, X, Y and Z couldn’t fulfill the (usually opportunity-based) requirements to be the culprit. However, as there are few details which indicate that T was the killer (beyond the elimination of other possibilities), I am not entirely satisfied by the denouement. Though I admire it in many respects, I believe that Queen’s THE GREEK COFFIN MYSTERY holds that weakness (though not nearly as damagingly as many other works).

Conversely, there are several powerful whodunits in which nothing (or nearly nothing) is proven, and yet the denouement has a powerful, memorable effect, both surprising and “inevitable.” FIVE LITTLE PIGS and HE WHO WHISPERS are two of my favorites which come to mind, though many of the other most notable works of the genre also qualify. Everything “clicks” in the denouements of these works — it all seems ultimately inevitable — yet none of the clues provided are truly univocal; they all could be accounted for with other explanations. It is only their cumulative effect which seems overwhelmingly convincing. Moreover, a large percentage of these powerful clues are behavioral discrepancies, about which nothing can be proven (a sudden change in the behavior of a character certainly indicates something, but though it can strongly indicate what that something is, it can never be proven).

I believe that the explanation for this perhaps surprising conclusion about deductive vs. corroborate clues is that, despite the importance of rational thought to the experience of detective fiction reading, the effect of “sudden retrospective illumination” is ultimately a primarily visceral one — it hits us at a gut, rather than intellectual, level.

That is not to suggest that deductive clueing is unimportant to the genre. Indeed, they are extremely useful, often giving the mystery’s solution intellectual credibility. However, their most important function is often as a precursor to the more memorable, non-deductive clues. For example, a process of deductive elimination may prove that Mr. Jennings, and only Mr. Jennings, had the opportunity to drink the full contents of the whisky glass. But it is the clue that Mr. Jennings, a well-known teetotaler, drank the whisky (and the ultimate explanation for this bizarre behavioral discrepancy) that will be most remembered.

One exception to my notion — and it is indeed an important one — is the famous “curious incident of the dog in the nighttime” clue from Conan Doyle’s SILVER BLAZE. It can be summed up as a simple logical syllogism:

1. The dog would bark if the visitor to the stables was a stranger.

2. The dog did not bark.

3. Therefore the visitor to the stables was not a stranger.

Though one could argue that it too doesn’t positively provide absolute logical proof (the first premise is not entirely solid; there are other possibilities which could account for the dog’s silence: the dog could be drugged, it might have be switched for another dog, etc…), I will grant that it fairly well proves its point.

Then, why is the deductive “dog in the night-time” clue memorable?

I can find two possible explanations:

In the first place, the logical syllogism of this clue is tied intimately with a behavioral discrepancy (unlike the Mr. Jennings clue above, in which the deductive process only leads us to the behavioral discrepancy). Thus I’d suggest that it is the why? aspect of the behavioral discrepancy and its explanation, rather than the deductive proof of that explanation, which is most viscerally powerful.

In the second place, this clue fits into that relatively rare category of clues which are clearly presented, long before their final explanation, as clues; we know that it is of importance, it is only the nature of its importance that is unknown to us until later. John Dickson Carr referred to this type of clue (of which the title phrase of his THE CROOKED HINGE is another non-deductive example) as the “enigmatic” clue, as it openly presents an enigma to the reader. The majority of clues in mysteries, on the other hand, consist of plot details which have their status as clues only made apparent at the time they are explained. The “enimatic” clue is undoubtedly among the most difficult type of clue to create, for, to put an indicator openly in front of the reader—in essence, to say to him “this is important; I challenge you to guess what it means” — and then to provide him with an answer that is both surprising and satisfying is quite a feat. Having been baffled by something so clearly and openly put in front of his face, the reader can only be greatly impressed. The “curious incident of the dog in the nighttime” achieves this, thus explaining its power.

Again, I apologize for my inability to articulate this all clearly—it’s a tricky subject. Hopefully, some of you got an idea of what I was trying to say. If so, please give me your thoughts on the matter.

– Scott

July 6, 2008

GK Chesterton

Filed under: GK Chesterton — Jon @ 10:02 pm

The current NEW YORKER has a very interesting article on G. K. > > Chesterton, including his anti-semitism. Father Brown is mentioned > > only briefly, but the article is filled with interesting insights. > > I’ll be interested in what GADers think of it.

Doug Greene

July 3, 2008

Maps in GAD mysteries

Filed under: General GAD — Jon @ 2:23 am

I think it’s interesting that so few Streets actually have maps, as this presence of maps in Golden Age novels is one of Julian Symons’s special digs at the genre.

So, based on people’s reading of GAD novels, how many would you say had maps?

Interestingly, two reprint editions of Miles Burton books from the seventies had maps on the jackets, though as far as I know they were never published with maps originally. Did Street make maps that were not used in his lifetime?

How many Streets had maps originally? Let’s see The Ellerby Case (house plan) and Shot at Dawn come to mind immediately. I’m sure I’m leaving some out.

How many Christies have them? I recall her They Do It With Mirrors from the 50s had a house plan, and that Marsh’s Scales of Justice from a few years later had a map. That must have been about it.


June 25, 2008

Does Size Matter?

Curt asked: “Why are crime novels so long these days?”

Because most of them are throwbacks to the nineteenth and early twentieth style of wide-ranging psychological/realistic novels, and those were usually and almost by definition long, very long books. It’s one of the most fascinating paradoxes about *modern* crime fiction that it’s actually not *modernistic* – the genre has eschewed surrealism, structuralism, Nouveau Roman, stream of consciousness, magical realism, oulipianism and other movements that shaped literature in the last century, and basically remained stuck in the era when it was born. Which in turn raises another question: is it possible for crime fiction to be genuinely modern and accept, if not embrace, the state of the art?


What makes a ‘Cozy’?

Filed under: Cozies,Sub-genres — Jon @ 8:07 pm
Tags: ,

Since GA detective novels frequently are classified as “cozies” I’ve become interested in just what a “cozy” is supposed to be. Here’s what I found on (by the way, I saw a link there to “The Bloody Tower”!).

Cozies: 1. solved by an amateur sleuth, preferably a woman (with a college degree)

2. takes place in village or small town

3. characters are likeable (except victim and presumably murderer)

4. no graphic violence, profanity, explicit sex

I suppose Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple books would meet almost all these criteria, though a book like Sleeping Murder has a rather unpleasant subject buried under the genteel tone, when you think about it. But whether or not GA mysteries are “cozy” by definition, they offer a contrast to many crime novels today with #4.

How much of the appeal of GAD novels is found in #4 and that related nostalgia for past times, how much in the pure puzzle format itself, which can, presumably, flower as well in coarser environments? We hear a lot of criticism (often justified) of the GA genre for its retrogade values, but isn’t there some appeal there too for many readers, precisely in that traditionalism, or some aspects of it, at least? Even something that might have not been seen as “cozy” back then therefore might seem to be such in some ways to us today.

I’ve been looking at Reginald Hill lately and am trying to think how to place him in relation to the Golden Age. James and Rendell sometimes get called cozy today (much to their chagrin, I would imagine). Hill definitely is less genteel. Aspects of Dalziel rather remind me of Porter’s Dover, though obviously the former has the keener brain. “Deadheads,” from the early 80s, has a large share of humor, but has moments of serious reflection as well. The focus is on a puzzle, which seems to involve multiple murder in a rather “gamey” GA fashion. Sexual banter and racial and sexual inclusion (Indian and gay cops, feminist cop wife) are not traditional, but, on the other hand, Hill seems to have greatly expanded these elements in later books (just concerning the “f-word,” it seems to occur in its variations many times in later Hill books, where in Deadheads the word has not yet made its appearance in any form). In this Hill from the early 80s, at least, I actually don’t feel desperately removed from the world of the Golden age puzzle novel (which encomapssed the police procedural, at least with Henry Wade).

The Catalogue of Crime did little with Hill, evidently having been sufficiently put off by two novels, Child’s Play and Ruling Passion. On the other hand, Keating picked A Pinch of Snuff (about snuff films? — very uncosy!) as one of 100 best mysteries.


June 2, 2008

Favourite GAD film?

Filed under: Films,SS Van Dine — Jon @ 9:14 pm

It would interest me if other GADers would vote on their favorite mystery films, much as we recently did regarding members’ favorite “Father Brown” stories.

Let me start (if anyone’s interested in such a thread), by suggesting a film even older than “The Kennel Murder Case,” and that’s Fritz Lang’s 1931 classic, “M;” although I admit that it may not fit the criteria for a pure detective story. More recent films I enjoyed would be the 1974 version of “Murder on the Orient Express,” “The Usual Suspects” (1995), and “Murder by Decree” (1979). In the category of guilty pleasures, I’d even include “Malice” (1993).

Moreover, just to open myself to ridicule, I’ll also suggest a completely off-the-wall selection: A 37-episode(20-30 minutes per episode) anime (Japanese animation) series, “Death Note.” The synopsis of this series is bizarre and unique: a Japanese student finds a mystical book that lets him write the name of a person in that book, and as soon as he does, that person dies. This power quickly goes to his head, and to battle this brilliant megalomaniac, Japanese law enforcement hires an equally brilliant but enigmatic detective known only as “L.” The series is comprised of the extraordinarily well-written cat-and-mouse game between these two individuals. I dare you to rent the first DVD of this series–which contains the first four episodes–and not be hooked. But don’t confuse it with live-version movie, which–although I haven’t seen it — can’t be nearly as intricate; which is the chief allure of this series. Unfortunately, only the first 5 discs have been released in English, so I have no idea how this series will end. The full series will be 10 discs, released one disc at a time. The last disk will be released in spring 2009.

In any event, none of these films are necessarily my favorites — no doubt they’ll occur to me as soon as I post this — but they’re some that I’ve definitely enjoyed. I look forward to other opinions, if anyone cares to share.


May 23, 2008

Snobbery with Violence

Filed under: Michael Innes,Snobbery — Jon @ 5:40 am

I’ve been rereading some Michael Innes published in the ’60s and came upon this gem:

{“You know the Chief Constable? He’s — ?” Pendleton paused significantly.

“He’s a Colonel Morrison.” Appleby was conscious of a need for patience. “And not late-risen from the people, or anything disagreeable of that sort.”

“My dear John, if there’s anything I can’t be charged with, it’s being a snob. But there are times when one doesn’t want too many jumped-up fellows running around.”

Appleby found no reply to this — or no reply of any particular relevance. “I began on the beat myself, you know,” he said.}

In spite of which neat skewering, Innes himself has some very firm ideas about what’s proper behaviour for a gentleman.

I’ve also been reading some other ’60s published mysteries. I notice a considerable gulf between those written by authors who were first published in the GA and those by post-WWII authors. Few, if any, of the latter would have thought of penning this passage.


May 22, 2008

Declining puzzles and rising characterization

Filed under: modern trends,Simon Brett — Jon @ 3:54 am
Tags: , ,

I was surprised that Simon Brett’s brief article produced such passionate responses, including even a sideways (or is sidewise?) swipe at the Detection Club for electing him its President. It seems to me that, except perhaps for the tone, that Simon’s article was non-controversial. Like it or not, the pure puzzle novel, the unadulterated Whodunit, that dominated between WWI and WWII is no longer the major form. I also think it is obvious that characterization has become of greater importance than it was 80 years ago. Indeed, I would argue that the greater depth of character has saved the Whodunit — and it has made Julian Symon’s prophecy completely wrong that the detective novel would give way to the crime novel. The detective novel is still very much with us; the puzzle is still a major part of the genre; but characterization has become just as important as trickiness in the telling.

Look at the current Members of the Detection Club — some of course (eg, le Carre) write spy stories, but most still retain the puzzle and mystery and genuine detection. And the Members remain the most proficient practitioners of the genre. One of the greatest honors a British (or Colonial) mystery writer can receive is to be chosen a Member. Except for a couple of crime thrillers, Simon Brett himself has remained loyal to the Whodunit in his own books.

I argue in JOHN DICKSON CARR: THE MAN WHO EXPLAINED MIRACLES that the effect of WWI for English writers was the emphasis on the puzzle and its solution, the proclamation that (all evidence to the contrary) the world still was orderly, still made sense. The 1920’s was (were?) also the era of the crossword puzzle, of board games, of contract bridge and canasta, of the Murder Game — and the chess puzzle detective story.

But WW2 had a different effect — (unlike WWI with minor exceptions) England was directly bombed by the Germans — and the immediate postwar era was grim, with rationing and shortages. Doing a crossword puzzle no longer made the world seem rational. And even the metaphysical world seemed to collapse — churchgoing declined radically. The Whodunit in England survived because it recognized those changes.

I say all this even though I love the GAD formalism.

And now I have probably (re-)opened a can of worms.

Doug G

May 18, 2008

The Sins of the Saint: Racism in GK Chesterton

I’ve been reading this topic with great interest, particularly since I was indirectly responsible for starting it! My views:  I am, like Henrique (welcome!), a committed Chestertonian. He is, as many of you are by now wearily aware, my favourite detective writer. (The Innocence ranks, in my opinion, alongside Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris, Dumas’s Comte de Monte Cristo, and Dickens’s Our Mutual Friend.) Indeed, I seriously considered doing my Master’s on him.

Mike [Grost] (whose work I respect) overstates Chesterton’s bigotry. There is no doubt that GKC saw non-Caucasians as ‘different’ and ‘exotic’*, and was prejudiced, to some degree, against Jews and blacks.  [*: All cultures, whether British, Chinese or Esquimaux, see their culture as the ‘norm’, and other cultures as differing from it. For most people nowadays, happily, other cultures are ‘different but equal’, rather than ‘different and inferior’.]  However!  Chesterton’s ‘bigotry’ is complex, and has a number of different causes. He was arguably racially prejudiced against blacks (recurring imagery of savages, cannibals and apes), but vehemently against violence or discrimination (see Father Brown’s condemnation of lynching in “The God of the Gongs”).  He was not racially prejudiced against Indians, but disliked Hinduism and Buddhism, on philosophical grounds. He saw Buddhist renunciation of the world and of the will as ‘despair’, and disliked the paganism of Asia (see Everlasting Man).

His attitude to Jews is more complex. The Marconi scandal (prominent public figures, amongst them several Jews, were guilty of insider trading) and Godfrey Isaacs’s subsequent successful suit of his brother Cecil made him dislike Jews in business and politics. However, as Henrique pointed out, Chesterton strongly opposed the Nazi persecution of the Jews and supported the idea of a Jewish homeland. (See also

Some of the examples Mike cited are convincing, although are often not enough to mar the story. Most of them, however, are more complex than he suggests, deal with minor characters, or simply do not hold up.  Anti-black “The Man in the Passage” has a half-black actor, Isidore Bruno. The narrator compares him to ‘a barbaric god’ (p 210), and states that he looks at Aurora Rome with ‘all the appetite of a savage and a spoilt child’ (p 211). However, there are also references to English prejudice. A policeman calls him ‘a cannibal sort of chap’ (p 214), and, at the trial, the counsel for the prosecution ‘got it into his head (mostly by some ramifications of his family’s religion) that Father Brown was on the side of the prisoner, because the prisoner was wicked and foreign and even partly black’. More complex than it appears. A ‘savage’ half-black character, but also reveals English prejudice.

“The Perishing of the Pendragons” has two black servants, henchmen of the villain. Their ‘tight uniforms of yellow’ make Father Brown think of canaries (pp 263 – 64). More dubious is the climactic conflagration, where they attack the heroes with cutlasses. “In the blood-red glare, with their black faces and yellow figures, they looked like devils carrying instruments of torture” (p 267). Racial prejudice, granted – but does it really mar the story?

“The God of the Gongs” is famous for Nigger Ned, the black boxer who is also head of a Voodoo cult. There is no denying that the following passage is racist: ‘That negro who has just swaggered out is one of the most dangerous men on earth, for he has the brains of a European, with the instincts of a cannibal. He has turned what was clean, common-sense butchery among his fellow-barbarians into a very modern and scientific secret society of assassins…’ (p 280) Nor is the description of ‘the fashionable negro…, his eyeballs rolling, his silk hat still insolently tilted on his head’ and ‘his apish teeth’ (p 279) acceptable to modern audiences. However, there is more going on here. Father Brown condemns lynching as a ‘work of hell’, in sharp contrast to Flambeau’s remark ‘sometimes I’m not surprised that they lynch them’, a remark occasioned, admittedly, by ‘an attitude we must always remember when we talk of racial prejudices: something innocent and insolent – the cake walk’ (p 275). Father Brown comments on English prejudice, and the tendency to confuse ‘Italians’ and ‘octoroons and African half-bloods of various shades’ – ‘I fear we English think all foreigners are much the same so long as they are dark and dirty…’ (p 281). The revelation of the villain’s activities plunges England into a state of racist paranoia: Persons of a figure remotely reconcilable with his were subjected to quite extraordinary inquisitions, made to scrub their faces before going on board ship, as if each white complexion were made up like a mask of grease-paint. Every negro in England was put under special regulations and made to report himself; the outgoing ships would no more have taken a nigger than a basilisk… The Black Man meant in England almost what he once meant in Scotland. While there is racism in the treatment of the murderer, the passage also indicates contempt for racism. All the attempts, both popular and official, to catch the killer are unsuccessful (the number of people falsely questioned), and driven by an unreasoning fear, rather than by justified precaution. The remark about passengers being forced to scrub their faces is a reversal of the belief that black pigmentation will rub off. Indeed, Ned disguises himself not as a white, but as a ‘nigger minstrel’, secure in the knowledge that no one will bother to look for a black man under a black face. Since those bands were formed of white men blacked up, this could be taken as an indication that race is to some degree unimportant (as one would hope from a Catholic author who maintained that “all men matter…to God”), with whites blacking up, blacks blacking up, and whites suspected to be blacks whiting up—a rather dizzying merry-go-round of colour.  Anti-Jewish

“The Queer Feet” has a Jewish hotel proprietor. He is ‘a kind man, and had also that bad imitation of kindness, the dislike of any difficulty or scene… It is a mark of the magnificent tolerance of Mr. Lever that he permitted this holy place [the hotel] to be for about half an hour profaned by a mere priest, scribbling away on a paper’. While ironic, it is the magnificent respectability of Lever and his hotel, which tries to shut out the realities of death, rather than his race, which is being satirised. His accent thickens under stress, no doubt because his mother tongue was Yiddish or Hebrew (p 48). The object of Chesterton’s scorn in this story, however, is not the Jewish Mr. Lever, but the Establishment plutocrats, who represent ‘the combination of modern humanitarianism with the horrible modern abyss between the souls of the rich and the poor’. They ‘could not bear a poor man near to them, either as a slave or a friend. That something had gone wrong with the servants was merely a dull, hot embarrassment’ (p 47). Their souls are described as ‘a small dried pea’ (p 49). Father Brown rebukes them: ‘Odd, isn’t it, … that a thief and a vagabond should repent, when so many who are rich and secure remain hard and frivolous, and without fruit for God or man?’ (p 50). Anti-Semitism minor at worst.

“The Duel of Dr. Hirsch” is, in my opinion, not anti-Semitic. Instead, Dr. Hirsch’s plot is to create anti-Jewish sentiment, made clear by Father Brown’s reaction to Valognes’s remark: ‘I believe it’s some plot! … some plot of the Jews and Freemasons. It’s meant to work up glory for Hirsch…’ (p 204). His Jewish attributes (e.g., red hair) are make-up adopted by the villain. Not anti-Semitic.  The villain in “The Purple Wig”, Isaac Green, is a crooked lawyer, ex-moneylender and pawnbroker (both trades associated with Jews). The following passage, which condemns Green, is arguably anti-Semitic: This man used the old feudal fables – probably, in his snobbish soul, really envied and admired them. So that thousands of poor English people trembled before a mysterious chieftain with an ancient destiny and a diadem of evil stars – when they are really trembling before a guttersnipe who was a pettifogger and a pawnbroker not twelve years ago. I think it very typical of the real case against our aristocracy as it is, and as it will be till God sends us braver men. (p 254) At the same time, the story criticises a miscarriage of justice: the government has awarded the title and estate to a crook. Charge of anti-Semitism stands. Possibly influenced by Marconi scandal.

As Curt has already said, “The Curse of the Golden Cross” has a much too rosy view of Jews in mediaeval England, who were, after all, expelled by Edward I in 1290 (later readmitted by Cromwell, who wanted to hasten the Second Coming). Some anti-Semitic prejudice here. Anti-Semitism present, as well as a rather fanciful idea of history!

“The Actor and the Alibi” has a Jewish actor, but is not anti-Semitic. There are two references to his being Jewish: It contained Mandeville’s second walking gentleman, carrying on the not yet wholly vanished tradition of Charles’s Friend, a dark, curly-haired youth of somewhat Semitic profile bearing the name of Aubrey Vernon. (p 513) ‘There was that amiable Jew who calls himself Aubrey Vernon, he’s out of it…’ (p 521) Anti-Semitism not present.

“The Ghost of Gideon Wise” has two unsympathetic Jewish characters, the millionaire Stein (a monopolist) and the revolutionary Elias (described as a ‘sneering Jew’ on p 449, and later, by a policeman, as a ‘“narrow-faced rascal … a more creepy, cold-blooded, sneering devil I never saw”’ [452-53]). Anti-Semitic, but for business reasons (Marconi again?).   Anti-Oriental

“The Wrong Shape” has an Indian mystic, who longs for nihilism and the renunciation of the will (p 96) – a philosophy Chesterton loathed as despair (see The Everlasting Man). Father Brown dislikes Eastern art, because ‘the colours are intoxicatingly lovely; but the shapes are mean and bad – deliberately mean and bad’ (p 92). Philosophically based dislike of Oriental religions.  “The Red Moon of Meru” has another Indian mystic. Father Brown comments on prejudice: ‘Our prejudices seem to cut opposite ways,’ said Father Brown. ‘You excuse his being brown because he is brahminical; and I excuse his being brahminical because he is brown. Frankly, I don’t care for spiritual powers much myself. I’ve got much more sympathy with spiritual weaknesses. But I can’t see why anybody should dislike him merely because he is the same beautiful colour as copper, or coffee, or nut-brown ale, or those jolly peat-streams in the North. But then,’ he added, looking across at the lady and screwing up his eyes, ‘I suppose I’m prejudiced in favour of anything that’s called brown.’ (p 556) However, as stated above, Chesterton disliked Eastern philosophies, as the following makes clear: ‘We, whose fathers at least were Christians, who have grown up under those mediaeval arches even if we bedizen them with all the demons in Asia –we have the very opposite ambition and the very opposite shame’ (566-67). Philosophically based dislike of Oriental religions. No colour prejudice.

There is a half-caste servant in “The Three Tools of Death”. There is an unfortunate line on p 163 (‘His slits of eyes almost faded from his face in one fat Chinese sneer’), but he is a minor character. Minor character. Does it mar the story as a whole?

Norman Drage in “The Arrow of Heaven” is part Asian. ‘Something in his yellow face was almost Asiatic, even Chinese; and his conversation seemed to consist of stratified layers of irony’ (p 334). Father Brown finds him in a disreputable state in a Chinese restaurant. Charge of racism has some truth. Does it mar the story as a whole?

“The Quick One” has a Muslim, ‘a brown Asiatic in a green turban … a distinguished Moslem (one of whose names was Akbar and the rest an untranslatable ululation of Allah with attributes)’ (p 609), who tries to kill a man when Mahomet is insulted, for which his intended victim praises him and acknowledges that he was in the wrong. Far more dubious is the fact that the victim, who hates Jews (607), is described by Father Brown as a man ‘who might have saved England’ (613). Complex.

There is the threat of an Indian curse in “The Salad of Colonel Cray”, but this is really only exotic colouring, in the manner of Doyle.   Anti-native American

This accusation levelled against “The Resurrection of Father Brown” isn’t convincing. If anything, Chesterton is condemning the American reporter Saul Snaith for his prejudice (pp 319 – 21). However, there is certainly some racism in the depiction of the part-African Alvarez: Africa of the forests looked out of the eyes of Alvarez the hybrid adventurer; and Race fancied he could see suddenly that the man was after all a barbarian, who could not control himself to the end; one might guess that all his “illuminated” transcendentalism had a touch of Voodoo. (p 328) Complex. Racism in character of Alvarez, but Mike’s original charge isn’t supported – rather the reverse.  Anti-gay

“The Chief Mourner of Marne” has a David / Jonathan relationship, but I doubt whether this is homosexuality. “The Worst Crime in the World” – Is Mme Grunov a lesbian? She’s married. Neither are convincing. Certainly nothing like Josephine Bell’s genuinely homophobic Summer School Mystery.

Now, by our standards, many of Chesterton’s remarks come across as racially prejudiced. This is part of his worldview, and part of the society into which he was born. There’s less prejudice in Chesterton than, say, MacDonald’s White Crow (the eponymous villain is an albino negro, who looks just like us, and whose brain is superior to the white man’s – and who can also be identified in the dark by his smell, and who has sex with a thoroughly depraved, needless to say, white woman) or Burton Stevenson’s Gloved Hand. In this last, the murderers are wicked because they’re Hindu, and want to convert other people to Hinduism, whereas, while GKC disliked Hinduism and Buddhism from a philosophical standpoint (see The Everlasting Man), the Hindus in “The Wrong Shape” and “The Red Moon of Meru” are used by Anglo villains as scapegoats. Many writers of the time also had racist views. In Death in the Clouds, for instance, two of Agatha Christie’s characters discover that their common interests include ‘a dislike of negroes’ (a prejudice which she lost in her late works).

The Secret of Chimneys is also anti-Semitic, with “Fat Ikey”, alias “Noseystein”, but later books (3 Act Tragedy, for instance) are not.  My problem with Mike’s argument is that, while there is a racist undercurrent to Chesterton’s stories (although complex or very minor), he confuses the wickedness of a work (a moral quality) with its being badly written or constructed (an aesthetic quality). Now, for Mike, any sign of prejudice or bigotry in a work is enough to condemn it as morally unacceptable.   Now, can great art (or even a good book or play) be the work of someone who had racist views? Obviously. Until the present day, very few people saw those of different races or creeds as equal to their own. Most of the great artists of the Renaissance, for instance, would have blamed the Jews for the murder of Christ.

That does not stop their paintings of the Crucifixion from being powerful art. William Shakespeare, the greatest dramatist in the history of mankind, was demonstrably prejudiced against Jews and blacks, not to mention the Welsh and the Irish (Merry Wives of Windsor, Henry V), and his history plays were used as propaganda by a dynasty whose claim to power was dubious. The Merchant of Venice could be described as doubly culpable, in that it has the Prince of Morocco and what seems the stereotypical Jew, Shylock. However, throughout the nineteenth century, the character was nearly always presented as the sympathetic victim of anti-Semitism. Certainly, Shylock is much more sympathetic than Marlowe’s Jew of Malta. Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist has the character of Fagin, although Dickens denied prejudice against the Jews, since many of the fences in London at the time were Jews, and tried to make amends with the sympathetic Riah in Our Mutual Friend. Evelyn Waugh was famously reactionary, and disliked not merely blacks and Jews, but nearly the whole modern world – and yet his works (including Decline and Fall and Black Mischief) are among the wittiest and sharpest satires in English.

The fact that these works contain passages or sentiments which are unacceptable to modern audiences does not prevent them from being great art.  Much depends on the purpose of the work. There is a difference between the artist’s worldview, and the artist’s purpose in creating the work.  Can propaganda be art? Can a work of art be racist in purpose? A far more difficult question. A work which is meant as propaganda can be powerful, beautiful or intensely moving, or an accomplished art-work. Richard III, of course, is Tudor propaganda, and yet the murderous hunchback is a dynamic and fascinating character, and the play’s representation of the Machiavellian pursuit of power is penetrating. Many critics consider Triumph des Willens to be one of the greatest films ever made, considered purely as direction. Parsifal, which some have argued was written under the influence of Gobineau, has some of the most powerful and sublime music ever composed (amongst its mauvaises quatre heures!).

There is, however, a moral gulf between Wagner’s work, in which the racism is only part of the whole, but not the purpose of the Buhnenweihfestspiel, which is about renunciation and purification, and Riefenstahl’s film, which was propaganda for a criminal regime. The author’s purpose is crucial. That said, I feel much more comfortable listening to Lohengrin or Tannhauser, or even the Ring – and I prefer Meyerbeer (who was Jewish) to all of them.  So what am I saying? That while we should admit the existence of racism or sentiments unpalatable to a modern audience, unless they are the purpose of the work, they are no justification for denouncing a work. Even then, in certain cases, a work of propaganda, or in which racist sentiment played a large part in its conception, can have features which make it worthy of our respect, at least in form, if not in content.


May 17, 2008

Van Dine’s Rules

Filed under: General GAD,SS Van Dine — Jon @ 7:59 am
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Eighty years ago, S.S. Van Dine – a pseudonym for Willard Huntingon Wright and the author, most notably, of the Philo Vance detective novels – came up with a list of twenty rules for how detective fiction should and should not be written. I’d invoked these rules at one of my panels at the LA Times Festival of Books and figured it would be fun to revisit them. Obviously, all of them have been broken in the 80 years since – sometimes well, often not so well – but #15, I think, still matters the most:

The truth of the problem must at all times be apparent – provided the reader is shrewd enough to see it. By this I mean that if the reader, after learning the explanation for the crime, should reread the book, he would see that the solution had, in a sense, been staring him in the face-that all the clues really pointed to the culprit – and that, if he had been as clever as the detective, he could have solved the mystery himself without going on to the final chapter. That the clever reader does often thus solve the problem goes without saying.

Of course, that’s if your primary motive is to keep the reader on his or her toes. Van Dine thought of detective fiction as an intellectual game; what’s transpired in the eight decades since is how said novels have become more about the emotional and the visceral. Or to spell it out more clearly, empathy in classical detective fiction was an afterthought; now it’s a crucial component. I think that’s rather a good thing.


The Rules are at:’s+Twenty+Rules+for+Writing+Detective+Stories

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