Fer-De-Lance, by Rex Stout

Fer-De-Lance

Rex Stout, 1934, 313p.

The first book in Rex Stout's copious Nero Wolfe mysteries. Published in 1934, it appears around the same time when hardboiled American detective fiction was appearing as a sub-genre, and it actually is an interesting coupling - combining the prototypical American tough guy with the "gentlemen detectives" which were the British mainstay at the time.

Nero Wolfe, corpulent and cerebral, directs the investigation sequestered in his Manhattan brownstone. Archie Goodwin, the narrator, is his American leg-man, a tethered version of his darker American counterparts. Where many of the British detective fiction in this area is confined, here we bounce from the closed world of Wolfe's brownstone to the car-focused movements of Goodwin. It is a formula that works, with the dynamic established in this first book virtually unaltered for the remaining 30+ novels in the series.

The writing is the real hero here: inventive and colloquial, evocative and playful. It never tries to be more than entertaining, exuding charm but forsaking depth.

A major problem for me is that Wolfe is an infallible genius and all the detection is done up front, leaving the bulk of the novel to drive verdicts to conclusions -- largely by bullying. Additionally, as an enthusiast of character, there is a lot missing here. While our principal cast have dimension, those inhabiting the mystery around them (including the victims) are paper thin, or worse.

I started with the first book, but next I will try one of the best-loved episodes next before passing judgement. Enjoyable sun-time reading, certainly.

Chronic City by Jonathan Lethem

Chronic City
Jonathan Lethem, 2009, 480p.

The novel centres on a pot-fuelled and bohemian friendship in a semi-parallel Manhattan. Here a giant tiger (literally? or perhaps lovesick mining gear?) stalks the streets; Marlon Brando is alive or dead or maybe never was? Orbiting the earth is (perhaps) our narrator's fiancee, stranded by Chinese space mines. Can Perkus Tooth, retired columnist and cluster headache survivor come to understand this Manhattan? If he does, can any understanding be transmitted to Chase Insteadman, retired sitcom actor and designated mourner?

Initially disappointed, I am retro-reading this book as a frame for the series of love letters from space that run through the novel. These letters are beautifully written, compelling, and in the end manage to be heartbreaking in three dimensions. The rest of the novel focuses on Insteadman, a consciously cardboard entity. He provides a required frame for the space letters, and the earthbound world around him occasionally sparkles with beauty or wit. I understand that his vacancy is one of the points of the novel, but also sucks too much of the vitality from its bones.

Oddly, this book compels me to read more Lethem, not so much because the journey was engaging, but because the glimpses along the way were so enticing. Trolling around in reviews suggests that there might be works by him that glimmer all the way through. So, Motherless Brooklyn goes into my "to be read", but I would not recommend this as an entry work for Lethem.

Bridge of Birds by Barry Hughart

Bridge of Birds
Barry Hughart, 1985, 288p.

Based loosely on Chinese folktales and the form of the Taoist novel, this is a semi-episodic quest adventure to save the children of a village who have been poisoned by local (yet oddly omnipresent) hucksters. Along the way, our heroes fall sideways into a quest of divine proportion. Our hero and narrator is Number Ten Ox, the village lummox. He is dispatched to find a sage to cure the children, and finds Master Li, an impossibly old drunk with "a slight flaw in his character". The episodes in the quests have a cyclical form, with repeated elements and situations mixed with inventive and suitably unlikely palaces, magic and monsters.

Full disclosure requires that I mention that fantasy and folk stories are two genres that I struggle to enjoy. The fact that this novel kept my interest says a fair bit about its execution. Folk stories in particular, with their tendency towards archetypes and evil, magic and beasts, feel inhuman and didactic to me. The supposed Taoist form here avoids my least favoured aspect of the folk story: the innocent. Even the divine are fallen and foolish, and the human tends towards the foreground.

This book felt to me like "Chinese Takeout" — by consensus it is isn't based deeply in any reality, enjoyable to chow down on but ultimately not terribly substantive. I was hungry an hour later. Charm, some wit, fairly skilled execution. A bit cardboardy and... a strong suspicion that most of these dishes have the same base sauce.

Also, way, way too salty.