Book review: The Body in the Library

The Body in the Library is a mystery novel by Agatha Christie, first published in 1942, sez wiki, but don't read that, or indeed this, unless you want spoilers. I enjoyed it; it is pleasingly baffling but in the end nicely resolved.

We start with a dead girl, or rather woman, Ruby a dancer, found in the library of Colonel Mustard. Eventually it turns out that it is even in the wrong library, which is witty but I think not quite plausible. After some investigation occurs we have a second dead body, in a burnt-out car in a quarry, this one a schoolgirl. Eventually - I think I realised this just a little before Miss Marple reveals it - we discover that the two bodies have been swapped; this neatly links the two apparently unrelated deaths, as well as invalidating all the carefully contrived alibis since the time of death is no longer what it was.

The cost of this is to make the evil culprits able to murder a perfectly innocent schoolgirl - for no reason but alibi -, on top of the dancer-come-golddigger Ruby, who is more plausibly murderable. That seems quite a lot to ask. Note that by the use of language we are lead to think of one as a woman and another as a girl, which makes it less likely in our minds that they could be swapped.

Once Miss M has worked out the swap, it would be natural to get the girl's parents to ID "Ruby"s body; this inexplicably isn't done, but would have made all the police work a good deal simpler. Ditto, I think, re the bitten fingernails; it was remiss of Miss M not to share this earlier.

Oh, and also: Josie, staring at the body of "Ruby", radiates anger. But - as she well knows - it isn't Ruby, it is Pamela, so there is no cause for anger, only sadness.

Book review: Where Angels Fear to Tread

By E. M. "Howard" Forster. His first book. Has vague echoes (errm, or presentiments) of "A Room With a View" in that it is about the English in Italy; but unlike that, where the respectable English abroad meet the English lower classes - the horror - here the respectable but silly Lilia meets a charming young Italian of no family.

For reasons unclear to me the respectable folk inhabit Sawston, an unremarkable town on the railway line from Cambridge to London; closer to Cambridge than Stevenage; which may perhaps explain the connection. The book is probably better if you know none of that.

The book contrasts the suffocatingly dull but respectable life of Sawston with the beauty freedom and dirt of Italy. I would interpret it as another novel about the English, as Howard's End is, and A Passage to India arguably is. Except my edition contains an afterword, an exchange of letters between Forster and Trevelyan, which tells me it is really about the growth of Philip. Oh well; I really think my interpretation is better.

English society does not come off well from the book. The Herritons are by construction unlovely; Philip's Italiophilia appears shallow; no-one gets to lead a natural life.

But considered as a novel, the book is interesting and enjoyable to read, and well constructed. The "reception" section on wiki is worth reading. I wonder if the "charitable" comment influced India, which does look kindly on its characters.

Aside: to me, the most remarkable element of the story is that the folk of Sawston can afford to send Lilia off on a year-long tour of Italy with a companion, and Harriet on a whim for six weeks in the Tirol. But perhaps that is how it was in the days of the Empire.

Book review: Massif

By Garth "Sabriel" Nix; which I enjoyed. Though I see I would consider my standards of a review in the old days to be intolerably brief now.

I enjoyed this book; it is a fun easy read. There is the odd "bad" person in it, but they don't get in the way and are quickly resolved out, thereby removing digressions that in other works would distract us for hundreds of pages. This one is relatively brief and to the point, and indeed at the end it does have a point, or at least a conclusion, again beating many another book. The lightness of tone, the lack of depth, gives it a YA-ish flavour; as does the humdrum language. But this is the best actual scifi I've read for a while.

I think I won't trouble you with the plot or the reveal; suffice to say that everything moves along nicely. I can raise a few quibbles though without spoiling things: the most obvious is the DB doesn't need to give Our Heroes a spacehip and has no motive for doing so (except as a backup? And yet, why be so rushed, in a species nominally trillions of years old. Although "trillions" is careless, being older than the universe, and unnecessary; billions would have been harmless); and had he not done so, his dastardly plot would have come to fruition.

I noticed a thing at the end, which in retrospect I guess is often used, but I haven't consciously remarked it before: the "reveal" is intertwined with "rescuing a comrade who needs urgent medical or might die", so that in getting carried away with how the rescue goes, we get dragged rapidly over the reveal part, and are less likely to trouble ourselves with its sanity.

Book review: The Odyssey

Or, The Odyssey by Homer, rendered into English prose for the use of those who cannot read the original, by Samuel Butler. Although in fact SB's brilliant theory is that it was written by a young woman. But as far as I can tell - not very far - that theory doesn't affect his translation, beyond the addition of a few snarky footnotes that keep pointing out the author(ess)'s interest in womens' matters.

I read the text from Gutenberg on my Kindle whilst wandering in the mountains, since it was all de rage then; a month later all interest has naturally faded, since we are goldfish. Speaking of goldfish, I read it a month ago, so the details have naturally faded.

Odysseus lies shamelessly to everyone he meets, including his wife and father, frequently for no obvious reason, and generally after saying "I will tell you true". This is one of the ways to tell he is not a modern hero. Is he even the Hero? He is definitely the protagonist; I naturally assume he is the hero, because that's what I was told as a child, but maybe he isn't.

He also keeps losing his men, who routinely die horribly in one way or another; they even do this in the lies he tells, when it wasn't even necessary for made-up strangers to die. But he has clearly got so used to the pattern that it even appears in his fantasies. And so after a while one begins to wonder if their deaths are really all their own fault, as his stories alwys make out, or is it perhaps possible he was just a crap leader of men?

The bit about shooting through the axes at the end really doesn't make sense and has "obviously" been hopelessly garbled; or perhaps it is the kind of weird thing a young woman might invent as an archerly feat, who had no knowledge of archery? I also think that a wooden bow that had been left in a storeroom for twenty years would be useless. It is also a bit odd that only he is strong enough to bend the bow; his super power is wiliness, not crude raw strength.

Speaking of wiliness: although - perhaps mostly towards the end - we see Odysseus racking his mind, sleepless, trying to think up stratagems, he fails totally and has to be spoodfed by Minerva, repeatedly.

But enough carping, what of the good bits? The multi-layered-ness of the story is kinda fun, and not at all what I would expect from the rustic simplicity of the antients compared to our modern sophistication; yet another reminder that people have been intelligent for quite a while now (there is another possible explanation, that the text started as scattered myths and fragments of stories and was woven together into a whole with the funny shape that comes down to us). The various components of the story are interesting, but suffer from me having known them since childhood, so they lack novelty. The bit at the end - when Big O is slowly oh so slowly winding himself up to finally do something about the suitors - reminds me of the scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail where Cleese the knight is attacking the castle with the wedding celebrations, and we see him running towards the gate - then cut away to the guards squinting into the distance - then back to Cleese, who is no closer; and so repeat a few times before he turns up and slaughters a pile of people, pointlessly.

Book review: The Nine Tailors

The Nine Tailors is a 1934 mystery novel by the British writer Dorothy L. Sayers, her ninth featuring Lord Peter Wimsey. The story is set in the Lincolnshire Fens, and revolves around a group of bell-ringers at the local parish church. The book has been described as Sayers' finest literary achievement, although not all critics were convinced by the mode of death, nor by the amount of technical campanology detail included says wiki.

As for the literary style, that does seem to be present, to some detriment of the detective aspects, but I'm happy with that.

We live in Cambridge, on the edge of the fens, and have visited places named in the text, and have seen the landscape; so that helps with sympathy to the novel.

The "mode of death" is frankly a disappointment. I think you can make a case for it fitting the gloomy flooded bell-ringing style, but denouement-wise it is a distinct let-down; after all the excitment the book is suddenly over, with no release. Unless you like the idea of Deacon being effectively tortured to death, which some might; he was a bad person, after all.

I guessed the Deacon-is-not-dead twist; that was not hard and really the evidence for his death so weak that you wonder he was considered dead at all. DLS doesn't even throw in a "it was wartime; people were busy" type excuse, because I think she is aware of how weak it is and doesn't want to draw attention.

But I failed to think through the implications of DinD, even though they are - in retrospect - obvious, so that's deffo a score for her.

Some things seem too convenient: recalling sailor Jim from the far side of the world; the French police tracking down a woman with laughably inadequate information. But other things are rather nice: the two brothers unshakeably protecting as they think each other for example. I don't think that killing Will at the end was necessary or nice, though.

The cipher is strange though: it is not really decodable (though Our Hero of course does) so how is it distinguishable from random text? If it is intended as proof that there is a secret, I don't see how it can be. You can't prove it until you decode it, at which point it might just as well be plaintext. But the link to the emeralds placement up in the rafters with the high-church rector's renovations, is lovely; the character of the church is well told.

Book review: The Philosopher's Pupil

The Philosopher's Pupil is a 1983 novel by the British writer and philosopher Iris Murdoch. It is set in a small English spa town called Ennistone; but I cannot speak to the truth of that as I DNF'd this; indeed I barely started it, abandoning it in the prologue, wherein some uninteresting and unlovely characters argue with each other about uninteresting things.

I notice that wiki barely cares about the book: the list of characters is longer than the plot description, which is entirely unreferenced.

Modane to St Gervais: France again

Part three: France and Home.

Tuesday 18th: sleep well despite the best efforts of the All-Stars Snoring Team. 

 

B’fast 7 and not a moment earlier. Elisabetta is old inside (wood floors and walls) but with modern extension: wide windows overlooking the plain towards Courmayeur. Which is the plain I liked so much, seeing it from the other side. I'll walk it one of these days. It looks like Rivendell.

Off 8:15. 9: Casemetta al col de la Seigne, 2365; some kind of mountain expo thing. But it has a nice bench in the sun out of the wind from the col with views down valley (and a little charging station, v thoughtful). The big black pointy thing is the Aiguille Noire de Peutery. 9:40: col de la Seigne 2512. Just in cloud. 10: 2315, a flock of sheep and a shepherd tugging a donkey, and a zillion people heading up. Somewhere opposite is the ref Robert Blanc but I am skipping that. 10:50: ref des Mottets 1864. Several new-looking buildings; apparently the krauts burnt the place down in ‘44. Half hour for cafe. 11:49: Ville des Glaciers so called, 1789. Farm shop offers cheese, get a lovely Tomme de Chevre with the best crust I’ve seen. And superb taste too. This is the roadhead; and a navette payant will take you lower. Clouds have cleared the col in favour of the Aiguilles. I'm waiting out the noonday sun with Marcel mooning over Gilberte. 1: off. 1:45: 2050. 3: 2412. Just above the highest cows and ready for the final push to the col. 3:40: col du Fours 2661. It is ugly: first thing is a giant electricity pylon, then the slopes of rubble. 4: ref du col de la Croix du Bonhomme, 2443. Ferme, for works it appears. Has the world's most fly-infested dry toilets. 4:50: col du Bonhomme, 2329. The little hut is still there! That M and I sheltered in, it was all cloudy then. Ponder descending to Bourg St Maurice for the lulz but go for St G. 6:10: ref de la Balme 1706. Buy a biere can I sneak a shower? Nearby aire du bivouac is my plan: one last night under the stars. Get a coffee but decide taking a shower would be off. Wash feet at nearby trough (and loos), find spot in bivvy area at front. I am the only tarp, though there are micro-tents. Finish off this lunchtime’s yummy Tomme. Settle down. 

Wednesday 19th: up before 6:30 (it was cold without down jacket; but, bonus, I have mastered the art of pissing out of my s’bag without getting up at night; this only works with a tarp, obvs) off 6:40. Les Hoches 8:40 first sun. 10:10: down in St Gervais. Buy juice etc then stop in the good old cafe by the church. For the last few km through Bionnay I forsook the beautiful river path for the convenience of the road and the hope of a cafe but nothing - except one that for some reason I took against - until St G. The path down does a good job of staying off road by the rushy river but the cost is avoiding ville: we were past Les Contanimes where I had intended to stop before I realised I had gone beneath it. Initially there were lots of TMBers grinding up, but none past Les C; I think we're off TMB after there. Book train to Paris for 12:49; there was a 10:49 too but I didn't want to rush. Look at hotels - many - look at Louvre - rats all booked up tomorrow. Get an Orsay ticket for 16:30 before they go too. Funicular down then walk out of park to the gare (at gare: there seems to be a cable car directly from station to St G). The funny ticket office for the tramway is still there. And so… most of the adventure is over. Cafe. And catch the 12:49. It has ac, it has comfy seats, not crowded, and so far it has great views. Change at Bellegarde for Lyria 3:02 to Paris bang on time; I am in the upper tii; it is about full. Book hotel Paris (de Mont Blanc). Ponder Eurostar. We pass the lovely lake of Nantua, there is one obvious way to go through by road or rail.

Thursday 20th: today I have little to do before Orsay late pm. So slow b’fast and lie in room, before heading out to San Fran books to see what they have. Which turns out to be quite a lot of scifi, most junk, but get three Edmund Coopers which will enable me to pass the day quietly. Then the Abbey bookshop. Which is also tiny with cramped aisles I can barely weave through. After two elongated allonges, decide to have the linguine, with I think sea bream tartare. Hopefully not too much of that. It turns out that I don't really like raw fish, but I knew that already and ordered it for the good of my soul. It went nicely with the bread. This part of Paris is good to walk around. Visit St Severin. Based on last night and b’fast I think I have underspent on my hotel. It isn't quite a flophouse, but is a small faded place. Small is ok, and I guess faded is ok too, but the ac gurgling in the night even when turned off is bad; and the toilet is so small you can't shut the door; and the b’fast is a tray of stuff no buffet. But the location is good. To Jardin de Luxembourg which I remember. The pond where you can hire toy boats to sail is there. Cafe. I have a slight sore throat which makes coffee less pleasant. To Orsay and am let in early. Wander around, they are rebuilding it bigger? The collection seems bigger, but not better. Or am I feeling grumpy? When I start not caring about the Redons that I enjoyed last time, stop.

Friday 21st: home day, assuming all goes well. B’fast at 7, or rather a little later as Mme is busy making noises off. Leave 8, wander slowly, pix of Sainte Chapelle tower and angel. Cafe. Sit on bridge enjoying river for a bit; go via Tuilleries but it isn't exciting tbh.and so, slowly, to Gare du Nord. Go through control, even though I am early; it is irritating but not painful. Onboard 12:50. And we're off. Northern France isn't that exciting especially under rain but the rain is good.

What I brought back with me. The usual picture for future reference:

Underneath, a scrap - perhaps 2/3 length - of thin carrymay. Big blue exped rucksac; 2 x BBlaxk Diamond Z-fold carbon fibre poles; trail shoes; faithful black hat; bivvy stuff: grey bag, tarp, thermarest, tent pegs.

S2S thin sleeping bag; silk inner; reading and sun glasses; Kindle. Buff; "evening wear" clean T: OAV; clothes bag (thermal leggings; thermal top; evening socks; thin and fleece gloves.

Food bag; Black bag of misc inc head torch, plasters, toothbrush, tissues; yellow bag of cables and charging including small charge block; money-passport with attached compass, key, penknife, whistle; tea towel; working socks inner and outer; 2 x underpants; shorts; thin long-sleeved top.

Not shown: orange Rab raincoat, small blue Exped daysac, water bottle.

Total weight: 6.8 kg.

Not shown, because sent back separately: boots, axe, crampons, helmet, down mitts and outers, down jacket, gaiters, w'proof trous.

See-also: What I took to Austria.