What Would Wallander do?

Swedish crime writer and personal hero of mine, Henning Mankell, was aboard the Swedish ship Sofia, one of six ships in the flotilla carrying aid to Gaza. The 25-strong crew, including Mankell – as well as Nobel peace laureate Mairead Corrigan-Maguire – were among hundreds of activists arrested and held in Israeli custody following the storming of the Gaza aid flotilla. Mankell, who has been politically active from a young age and was once a merchant seaman, said he had been struck by the lack of other writers and intellectuals on the voyage and called on others to become involved. I know how he feels. 99.9% of people I know do nothing about anything for anybody ever. Mankell had decided to join the aid-delivering flotilla in a gesture of solidarity towards Palestinians currently living under the Israeli blockade.

I’m not sure I would fuck with the guy from whose tortured and twisted mind sprang Kurt Wallander, the clinically depressed, disillusioned Swedish police detective. Living with the guilt of having accidentally shot and killed a man in the fog, and in and out of alcohol-fuelled depressions, having witnessed a friend tortured to death and his wife savagely beaten and left for dead with a noose around her neck, a sadistic serial killer violently slaughtering successful men with an axe before collecting their scalps as trophies, a young Dominican girl set herself on fire in something called a “rape field”, a flower shop manager found starved and garrotted in the woods, nuns with their throats slit in an Algerian convent, a birdwatcher skewered to death in a pit of carefully sharpened bamboo poles… and a Swedish housewife murdered execution-style.

Seriously, I wouldn’t fuck with this guy.

Society had grown cruel. People who felt they were unwanted or unwelcome in their own country, reacted with aggression. There was no such thing as meaningless violence. Every violent act had a meaning for the person who committed it. Only when you dared accept this truth could you hope to turn society in another direction.
— Henning Mankell (Die fünfte Frau)

The crime writer describes the ‘horrifying moment’ when he realised Israelis had chosen to attack the ships in the guardian uk.

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I Would Like to Inspect the Hanging Chads, Please.

The “Lost Man Booker Prize” has been awarded to……..the wrong book.

The designated “best book” of 1970 has finally won its Man Booker prize. Troubles, by J. G. Farrell, was anointed the winner of the “Lost Man Booker Prize,” a one-time-only award intended to honor the books that “missed out an opportunity to win the Booker Prize in 1970″.

4,000 readers worldwide cast their votes for their favourite shortlisted novel via the Man Booker Prize website – with Troubles taking 38% of the vote, more than double that of other contenders. Harumph.

Voters chose from a shortlist of six selected by a panel of three judges, all of whom were born in or around 1970. The shortlist included The Birds on the Trees by Nina Bawden (Virago); The Bay of Noon by Shirley Hazzard (Virago); Fire From Heaven by Mary Renault (Arrow); The Vivisector by Patrick White (Vintage) and my pick – which I talked in length about last month – The Driver’s Seat by Muriel Spark (Penguin).

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On the Nightstand

I’m currently reading the new biography of Muriel Spark, the secretive author of “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie,” who referred to herself as “Lucrezia Borgia in trousers” due to her ability to strike fear into the heart of anyone who threatened her artistic vocation. In 1992, Spark invited Martin Stannard to write her biography, offering interviews and full access to her papers. Before her death in 2006, she was said to have been negotiating the text of the book with Stannard line by line. The book has received rave reviews in the U.K.

Spark became, Stannard concludes, a “great comic artist of the macabre”…….

MURIEL SPARK The Biography By Martin Stannard
Illustrated. 627 pp. W. W. Norton & Company.

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Happy Birthday, Nancy Drew! 80 Years Old, Sweet 16.

I am both proud and ashamed to admit that I have an entire room dedicated to the annals of teen detective fiction. I own and have read not only every Nancy Drew mystery multiple times, but all the other teen detectives, too: Trixie Belden, Judy Bolton, Beverly Gray, even the Hardy Boys. Basically, I am very familiar with the entire canon of teenage sleuthery.

But it was seminal teenage detective Nancy Drew who was the first, the original. She was the one. Lithe, blue eyed, titian-tressed, teen dream Nancy, the girl goddess from whose golden egg all other girl sleuths were hatched. Nancy was born on May 1st, 1930 – the octogenarian teenager celebrated her 80th birthday this month – making her the oldest living teenage sleuth still active in the business of solving mysteries. Nancy Drew was the brainchild of a sinister sounding “novel factory” called Stratemeyer Syndicate. “The Syndicate” sausage factory’s stable of ghostwriters were already cranking out boy’s serial fiction such as The Hardy Boys and The Rover Boys as well as the creepy Bobbsey Twins and the even creepier Honey Bunch series. It was the “golden age” of noir detective fiction and from The Syndicate’s diabolical ingenuity sprung a unique book commodity: popular old-fashioned adventure stories infused with spicy modern crime, packaged for teens. Nancy was The Syndicate’s IT Girl, a slim and stylish embodiment of the era’s “New Woman” who worked, voted and lived her life independent of men. She was an instant smash, selling like Hannah Gruen’s hotcakes in the nadir of The Great Depression. As the book’s popularity grew, new ones were churned out year after year, and Nancy was tailored to fit each successive era. In terms of popularity, Stratemeyer Syndicate was the Stephanie Meyer of it’s day. But with writers. Continue reading

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From Allen Lane to Amazon: the story of publishing in the 20th century

Publishers such as Allen Lane and Paul Hamlyn revolutionised British publishing in the 20th century, turning it from a cosy club serving the elite into an industrial powerhouse. Iain Stevenson charts a century of triumph for the printed word

neat little film from today’s guardian

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IS This in Fact………………………………………………. THE MOST HORRIFYING BOOK EVER WRITTEN?

Most horrifying?

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If Martin Amis is Filmable, What Isn’t?

Remember Money: A Suicide Note?

I love this book! I even love the gross protagonist, “John Self”, a fat, gambling, chain smoking, pill-popping, rotting toothed alcoholic, guzzling junk food, lines of cocaine “the size of a hangman’s rope”, booze, cigarettes, pornography and hookers in seamy bars, brothels, strip clubs and video arcades. In his words, he is “addicted to the 20th century”. As a “top commercial director” ala “Mc G” he’s both producer and gluttonous consumer of every corrupting piece of filthy lucre the 1980’s has to offer. The plotless plot of Money is kind of an old-fashioned cautionary tale like a Captain of Industry with vulgar, satirical, sadly realistic portraits of life in the fast lane in the Reagan/Thatcher/Carrington era. When Mr. Self is summoned to Hollywood to direct a film called “Big Money”, featuring a parodic cast of pathetic and idiotic actors, he is plunged into a frenzy of debauchery and decay, and after a betrayal and botched suicide attempt his high rollin’ life speedballs to a screeching halt and beats a hasty retreat to London, broke, trying to make sense of his miserable existence and confront the fallout of his private hell of lonely gratification, while facing a whole new set of problems.

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Ye Olde Printing Press

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Writer du jour

Iris Murdoch


Influenced by many, including Freud and Sartre, and a committed Russophile, Iris Murduch was nonetheless a complete individual with an inspired moral sense. Irish-English Dame Murdoch was a novelist, playwright, critic and philosophy professor. A prolific philosophical novelist who brought ethical commitment, narrative energy and a huge intellect to fiction. Once asked how long she took off between books, she replied “about half an hour“. She wrote a varied and dazzlingly unique twenty-six novels, chock full of colorful puppet people she manipulates in elegant but diminishing design. Her books are an unusual compound of intricately patterned plot, ingeniously twisty-turny storytelling, unlikely incidents, audacious symbolism as functions of character and action, provocations of myth and philosophy, and a blend of magic and suspense and revelations of the belief that the power of art and mythology is a means to an understanding of something greater than the self.   Continue reading

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Writer du jour

Lord Byron


Famously described by his maitresse Caroline Lamb as “mad, bad, and dangerous to know” – in the 1990’s famously invoked by Dylan McKay, who we hoped would be all these things too but ultimately only shared LB’s reckless disregard for money and ended up in Dockers like everyone else – LB was a creature of great beauty, not stocky and club footed. He seduced and laid waste to half the women and men of the period (he was ahead of his time in that he drove his jilted lover Lady Lamb to anorexia). He did everything: ran a newspaper with Shelley, was leader of an Italian Carbonari, was a hero to Greece and to the entire English speaking world. He loathed Wordsworth and loved his dog so much that after the poor thing contracted rabies, his master nursed him in his arms, unconcerned for his own safety. Don Juan was his epic yet still massively underrated and under read. He had violent mood swings, and like all worthwhile people, suffered from debilitating depression. He was so cool he put himself into exile. Had he not died from the common cold, he would have been King of Greece. The Greeks loved him so, they kept his lungs in an urn.   Continue reading

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