Praise of Folly

Laus stultitiæ. Encomium Moriae. Lof der Zotheid.

Donald E. Westlake (1933–2008)

Erasmus is devastated to read of the unexpected death of one of his popular literary heroes, the great Donald E. Westlake, novelist of the human condition through the medium of comic, crime, and science fiction, and a great satirist (not to mention in his youth one of the Happy Pornographers, cranking out “men’s fiction” under pseudonyms with Lawrence Block, Hal Dresner, et al.). Erasmus had just been wondering why no book had appeared under his famously prolific name in some time and guessed he, not a young man, might have been ill.

Fortunately for Mr. Westlake, he seems to have been in good health until felled by a heart attack on his way to a New Year’s party in Mexico. Even though I’d suspected he might be in poor health, the suddenness of the news is shocking.

Erasmus offers his most profound condolences and sympathy to Mrs. Westlake, their sons, his stepchildren, grandchildren, and sister.

Requiescat in pace, fabulator elegantissimus maximusque.

Terry Teachout

Sarah Weinman

New York Times

See Erasmus’s comments on Westlake’s…
  • wonderful creation J.Archibald Dortmunder
  • Road to Ruin
  • antihero of genius, Parker (in the review of Collateral)
  • Nobody Runs Forever
  • Watch Your Back!
  • œuvre in general (second link) 
(And though Erasmus has been terribly remiss in blogging, he recommends unreservedly what may be the ultimate Parker novel, Dirty Money. Brilliant as usual.)

January 01, 2009 at 11:16 PM | Permalink

David Foster Wallace, requiescat in pace

Erasmus fell in love with the loopy ten-minutes-in-the-future novel A Broom of the System in 1987, he thinks, and has read it at least twice. The protagonist, Lenore Stonecipher Beadsman, and her would-be swain, the microphallic Rick Vigorous (of Frequent & Vigorous) stick in his mind to this day. Wallace's later opus, the cyclopean Infinite Jest, was an exceptional work, if, like most modern fiction, neglectful of plot. All his writing was exceptionally well-crafted and enlivened with a rare wit and moral seriousness.


Wallace appears to have succumbed to the mortal sin of despair and has taken his own life. Pray for the repose of his soul.

Requiescat in pace.

September 14, 2008 at 12:37 AM | Permalink

Still Out, but Still Alive

Erasmus says, check out Terry Teachout on Elmore Leonard.

January 22, 2007 at 11:43 PM | Permalink

While Erasmus is out (sick at the moment)

Read, read, read. Some great stuff on '50s and '60s pulp fiction:

http://www.2blowhards.com/archives/2006/11/post_17.html

An unacknowledged titan of twentieth-century fiction:

http://www.avclub.com/content/node/55345

And the late and great:

http://www.mysteryfile.com/JDM/Interview.html

Gratias for your continued indulgence of Erasmus's absence.

November 19, 2006 at 03:22 AM | Permalink

Airplane Reading: The Stranger House & The Ethical Assassin

Erasmus just spent a fair bit of time on planes and in airports and was able to knock of two books, once excellent, one despicable.

Reginald Hill's new book, The Stranger House, is a wonderful read. It is a stand-alone novel unrelated to his justly celebrated Dalziel & Pascoe crime novels. Sam (for Samantha) Flood, an atheistic Australian mathematician, and Mig Madero, a haunted Anglo-Spanish ex-seminarian sherry heir, meet in Illthwaite, a Cumbrian village, both looking into their families' pasts. What unfolds is a wonderful, slightly Gothic mystery, with complex layers of history and present-day drama all layered together. Hill's beautifully tangled plot, deeply drawn characters, and formidable erudition produce a terrific tale featuring lost loves, Norse myths, a saint's relics, Jesuits and recusants, espionage, reason, religion, romance, and perhaps even a ghost or two. A marvelous, marvelous book. Ave.

David Liss, whom Erasmus has very much enjoyed in the past, has completely alienated Erasmus with his new volume, The Ethical Assassin. While it starts off very promisingly, in the vein of the "Bunch of South Florida Wackos" genre so dubbed by Dave Barry (though here transported to the northern part of the state in 1985), its eponym proves to be Milford Kean, a character who strikes Erasmus as plainly derivative of Gregory Mcdonald's immortal I.M. Fletcher. However, Kean, a rich heir has decided to kill some white-trash dognappers who are selling the animals to a medical laboratory (why he doesn't kill some white-collar professionals on the demand side of the equation is an open question; likely Liss didn't want to alienate his white-collar readership). Kean strolls through the book as one of those allegedly charming Zen-master types who pop up so frequently in the popular fiction of the 1970s. Moreover, he explicitly justifies his actions in terms of a higher morality exactly like those which have been used to exterminate White Russians, Jews, kulaks, the bourgeoisie, a quarter of Cambodia, etc. Kean seems to believe that animal welfare (though he'd no doubt say "rights") justifies his murderous behavior (as indeed his predecessors adopted the proletariat, the German nation, the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere as their casi homicidarum. Erasmus was willing to go along with this for the sake of the story, up through the point where Kean apparently dies at the hands of a sleazeball with whom he's gotten into a gunfight. Murder breeds murder. But, no. Kean is saved by the book's narrator whom he rewards handsomely, and then Kean rides off into the sunset. And perhaps some sequels. Liss then thanks any number of animal-mascotting extremists (some apparently incarcerated) in his acknowledgements. The book is well-written, swiftly plotted, and the dialogue is good. The characters are a bit shallow, but better than many. That said, the book's underlying morality (its "assassin's ethics") is so repugnant that Erasmus has consigned his copy to the recycling bin, and will never buy another book by Liss, in case his royalties make their way to people who feel inclined to murder in protest of the treatment of animals which (however justly) disgusts them. Non placet. Te ipsum futue.

March 21, 2006 at 02:22 PM | Permalink

De historicō

HistorianErasmus has spent several pleasant evenings in the company of Elizabeth Kostova’s first novel, The Historian. Erasmus doesn't care to give away any of the book's twists and turns, but it gives away little to say that it broadly concerns historians, Vlad III Ţepeş of Wallachia and his alter ego courtesy of Bram Stoker, Count Dracula the vampire.

As an enthusiast of Balkan history, vampire myths, and Stoker’s novel, Erasmus could not resist picking up the book, and was not displeased. Ms. Kostova’s research was very good. Her writing is quite good, and the story’s twists and turns are quite satisfying. Erasmus found it a thoroughly entertaining, literate, page-turner. (And moreover, her characters visit Budapest and Istanbul, two of Erasmus's favorite cities.) He looks forward to Ms. Kostova’s future works.

Vlad_tepesBy way of criticism, Erasmus will note that in an obvious homage to Stoker, Ms. Kostova has written The Historian as an epistolary novel. While this is clever, the form was already rather antiquated when Stoker took it up in 1897. Dracula's dynamism overcomes the form’s inherent artificiality (and indeed was a bit of a techno-thriller as well for the day, featuring all sorts of high-tech Victoriana like typewriters, telegraphs, dictation cylinders, et cetera). The Historian is generally successful, but one’s suspension of disbelief is slightly tested by the premise’s requirements of huge caches of letters and diaries which make up the book's 642 pages.

Dracula2Moreover, the first historian and narratrix we meet begins the story when she was 17 or so in Amsterdam in the early 1970s. This frame narrative then proceeds to disappear for huge sections of the book as we learn about the book’s real protagonists, her father and the mother she never knew. Her parents’ story and her own reconnect at the climax, though the frame narrative adds little dramatic heft to the scene which is, alas, slightly disappointing and less dramatic than one would have wished.

Erasmus’s main complaint about the book is the same as he had about another very enjoyable literary entertainment, Matt Bondurant’s Third Translation: dreadful editing. Ms. Kostova should complain loudly to her publishers. Erasmus was poked in the eye by errors in the book’s Romanian, Hungarian, and Turkish, and at least twice the text strongly suggests the main language of the Ottoman Empire was Arabic rather than Ottoman Turkish. Moreover, various characters receive books labeled DRAKULYA, which is an obviously semi-Anglicized version of the Romanian Drăculea (perhaps English by way of Russian or Bulgarian?). Why this bizarre orthography appears rather than the Romanian, or a German or Slavic "Drakulja" is never explained. Along the same lines, Ms. Kostova's editors introduced (or let stand) the Bulgarian Tsarigrad when the Slavonic Tsargrad was more appropriate in some instances.

NosferatuBut Erasmus quibbles. Obviously.

Vampire novels of late have been dominated by either gothic-lite romances or talky political squabbles, both the legacies of Anne Rice, whose Interview With the Vampire and its undistinguished sequels completely revitalized the form. Erasmus also suspects the very popular vampire-politics role-playing game Vampire: The Masquerade compounded these tendencies among writers familiar with it. The Historian is a fine addition to the vampire genre, and a welcome return to the tradition of Stoker. Her villain, and Erasmus won't reveal who he is, is far more akin to Count Dracula than Lestat and kith.

Her accomplishments are all the more impressive as The Historian is Ms. Kostova's first novel. In consequence, Erasmus must say, Ave.

P.S. Erasmus's review is not at all affected by Ms. Kostova's apparent knowledge of his occult work, Sicarii fortunæ. (See page 217 of the Little, Brown edition.)

February 14, 2006 at 11:57 PM | Permalink

Where the Truth Lies

Where_the_truth_liesErasmus's four regular readers will remember his shock at learning that the guy who wrote "The Piña Colada Song" is also a hell of a novelist, in addition to his lengthy and impressive curriculum vitæ in a variety of artistic endeavors.

So, as when finding any author with whom he is impressed, Erasmus turned turned to his backlist, which in Holmes' case is one volume, Where the Truth Lies. Erasmus found it to be exceedingly well-written, very well-plotted, and extremely well-crafted as a historical novel.

The history in question is that of the 1950s and the 1970s, in which a young, female journalist going by the name of O'Connor delves into the break-up twenty years earlier of a comic duo who resemble Martin & Lewis very, very strongly. A young woman's body was found in a bathtub at a New Jersey casino right around the time they broke up, and the presumable murder has always cast a pall over their breakup, as well as a spell over the investigatively minded.

The historical details of both the '70s and the '50s seems impeccably rendered, and again, Erasmus is amazed to see how a novelist of this talent has flown beneath the critical radar. (Though it may be Mr. Holmes' '70s-style tinted shades and beard, calling to mind Blue Öyster Cult, et al.)

Erasmus has no interest in seeing the poorly-reviewed cinematic adaption and advises interested parties to read the book before seeing the film (which does feature some excellent actors).

Erasmus does wonder, however, with no little distaste, what the heck Martin & Lewis ever did to Rupert Holmes.

Where the Truth Lies, ave.

January 27, 2006 at 05:50 PM | Permalink

Civitas urnarum

Jar_cityOccasionally, when Erasmus is feeling down, he likes to be reminded that there are entire cultures who are more depressed than he. At these moments, Scandinavian mystery fiction is Erasmus's genre of choice. They frequently feature detectives like Maj Sjövall & Per Wahlöö's classic Martin Beck who goes from unhappy marriage to unhappy divorce to sorta-happy relationship. Henning Mankell's world-weary Kurt Wallander isn't as burdened, but he's clearly carrying an existential burden.

So it was with a mixture of astonishment and glee that Erasmus happened upon Jar City by Arnuldur Indriðason. Indriðason's sleuth, Inspector Erlendur (Icelanders use only a given name and a patronymic) has not only an unsympathetic ex-wife, but a heroin-addicted daughter who's pregnant. Ah, the exquisite despair.

Erasmus kids a bit. However, Jar City is an excellent read, though the title refers to a fairly minor plot point. It was clearly an evocative phrase that the English-language publishers liked. Erasmus very much prefers the Icelandic Mýrin, or The Mire, which is in fact a leitmotif in the book.

Erasmus very much enjoyed the book, the plot of which combines an investigation into a an apparently innocuous murder victim's exceedingly sordid past with a twist which can genuinely be described as uniquely Icelandic. Erasmus very much hopes that more of Arnuldur Indriðason's works make it into English.

Placet.

(Typographical note: alas, the edh and thorn do not appear in the work. And Mr. Arnuldur's patronymic appears on the cover with a d-with-bar à la viétnamiènne rather than an edh [ð]. Erasmus apologizes to Iceland and Viking descendants everywhere.)

January 26, 2006 at 12:05 AM | Permalink

The Big Over Easy

EggJasper Fforde's newest book is an entertaining variant of the conceit he developed in his brilliant Eyre Affair and the subsequent adventures of Thursday Next, a literally literary detective. The Big Over Easy is a police procedural starring DI Jack Spratt of the (ahem) Reading constabulary. Spratt, who has a reputation as a giant killer, leads the investigation of the death of Humperdinck Jehoshaphat Aloysius Stuyvesant "Humpty" van Dumpty, a large egg, ladies' man, and investor. Assisted by DS Mary Mary (who doesn't seem too contrary), DI Spratt has to puzzle out whether he's dealing with accident, suicide, or murder. His path is made all the more tortuous by the inherent difficulties of Nursery Crime, but also by the machinations of Friedland Chymes, the world-famous detective whose ubiquitously published works and prominence in the Most Worshipful Guild of Detectives give him a powerful platform to impede his old colleague Spratt.

The Big Over Easy placet. It's a very funny lark, though the nursery-rhyme millieu gives it less depth and opportunities for wit than do Thursday Next's adventures. Still, Erasmus will pick up The Fourth Bear in July.

January 24, 2006 at 01:21 AM | Permalink

Another Layer

While flying about, Erasmus also picked up another novel on which a movie he liked was based.

J.J. Connolly’s Layer Cake is a great read. It’s not the most accessible crime novel, particularly for the American reader, as it’s buried under British criminal argot and East London dialect.

The story’s unnamed narrator is a 29-year-old drug dealer whose goal is to get out of the business by the time he’s thirty. This proves more difficult than anticipated. The characterizations in the book are far better than in the movie, which struggled to contain all the plot put into it.

Connolly’s adaptation for the screen is very good, incidentally: reading the book, one realizes just how complicated a plot he had to simplify. What the movie loses in depth over the book, it gains in clarity of plot. The book is even more tangled than the film.

Connolly’s protagonist escapes the underworld in the book, though not without paying a significant and harrowing price. Also, the book ends with a nice ironic twist akin to the Ocean’s Eleven scene Erasmus cited approvingly below.

If you liked the movie and are up for a challenging read, Layer Cake will repay. If you’re put off by the language, Erasmus might suggest watching the film first, as a sort of crib note, to get the plot right in your head before returning into the book.

Layer Cake, liber, placet.

January 19, 2006 at 05:13 PM | Permalink

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