The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul by Douglas Adams

Source of book: I own this.

I first discovered the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy when I was pretty young. I can’t remember exactly how you, but probably late elementary school. I borrowed my dad’s copy, and definitely did not let them know I was reading it. At least after it became clear that it had a few, um, naughty references. But anyway, it was a lot of fun, even at that age, although I suspect some things went over my head. Later, my brother and I acquired all of the series, and proceeded to reference stuff from it as an inside joke of sorts.

Come to think of it, one of the highlights of my legal career was getting to use the “Somebody Else’s Problem Field” in a case. I got a chuckle from the judge.

A few years ago, I read Last Chance to See, a non-fiction work Adams co-wrote with Mark Carwardine about critically endangered species, but this was my first foray into Adams’ non-Hitchhiker fiction. 

Like the Hitchhikers series, I think you have to approach this book with the same mindset, which is that not everything will be explained, and the last few chapters will be too quick and messy to make sense. Apparently, Adams had a huge problem with deadlines, and tended to dash off whatever he could at the end.

This is the second book in the Dirk Gently series, and I have not read the first, so for all I know, I am missing some background information. The title itself is taken from a line in the third Hitchhiker novel, Life, The Universe, and Everything. A character named Wowbagger, who accidentally became immortal as a result of an industrial accident, has succumbed to endless boredom, the “long dark tea time of the soul.” Since the king of the gods, Odin, features in this book, perhaps this is a nod to immortality.

In any case, here is the setup. Dirk Gently is a self-nominated “Holistic” detective, believing in the interconnection of everything. He is also pretty much an incompetent slob, who takes a number of detective cliches to their extreme conclusion. An incident at Heathrow airport results in the disappearance of an airline clerk and the destruction of a terminal. Meanwhile, Dirk’s client, a record executive who had been complaining about a contract and a green man with a scythe winds up dead with his head rotating on a phonograph. As things unfold, it turns out that Odin made the mistake of signing a contract with a lawyer, his son Thor becomes recalcitrant, and chaos ensues. How will Dirk and his accidental accomplice Kate straighten things out?

There are two reasons that I won’t give away any more of the plot. First, because this is the sort of book that shouldn’t be spoiled. Second, I had to do some research to figure out exactly what the ending was supposed to mean. And even then, there appear to be multiple interpretations.

I do want to quote a few things, though. A good bit of the fun of Adams’ writing is his witty and unexpected lines. The opening paragraphs are particularly good.

It can hardly be a coincidence that no language on earth has ever produced the expression “As pretty as an airport.”

Airports are ugly. Some are very ugly. Some attain a degree of ugliness that can only be the result of a special effort. This ugliness arises because airports are full of people who are tired, cross, and have just discovered that their luggage has landed in Murmansk (Murmansk airport is the only known exception to this otherwise infallible rule), and architects have on the whole tried to reflect this in their designs.

They have sought to highlight the tiredness and crossness motif with the brutal shapes and nerve-jangling colors, to make effortless the business of separating the traveler forever from his or her luggage or loved ones, to confuse the traveler with arrows that appear to point at the windows, distant tie racks, or the current position of Ursa Minor in the night sky, and wherever possible to expose the plumbing on the grounds that it is function, and conceal the location of the departure gates, presumably on the grounds that they are not.

Another great one occurs when Kate (having survived the airport explosion) insists on checking herself out of the hospital, informing the nurses and doctor that the air in the hospital “smells like a vacuum cleaner’s armpit.”

Kate also delivers a line in frustration at Dirk, who very much deserves it.

“I see,” said Dirk. “You have, if I may say so, the air of one to whom her day has not been a source of joy or spiritual enrichment.”

“Too damn right it hasn’t,” said Kate. “I’ve had the sort of day that would make Saint Francis of Assisi kick babies.”

Later, Dirk contemplates the way things have changed since the good old days.

Things had certainly come down a long way since the great days of Faust and Mephistopheles, when a man could gain all the knowledge of the universe, achieve all the ambitions of his mind and all the pleasures of the flesh for the price of his soul. Now it was a few record royalties, a few pieces of trendy furniture, a trinket to stick on your bathroom wall and whap, your head comes off.

Last, there is one of Adams’ trademark descriptions where everything is delightfully upside-down.

Dennis Hutch had stepped up into the top seat when its [a record company] founder had died of a lethal overdose of brick wall, taken while under the influence of a Ferrari and a bottle of Tequila.

Anyway, a fun book, if not quite the classic that the Hitchhiker series is.

The Man Who Knew Too Much by G. K. Chesterton

Source of book: I own this.

At the outset, I should note that Chesterton’s book has absolutely nothing to do with the two movies by Alfred Hitchcock of the same name. Hitchcock originally directed a 1934 version, later remaking his own movie in 1956, utilizing stars Jimmy Stewart and Doris Day. That later film is famous for the song, “Que Sera, Sera.” But I digress. 

Chesterton wrote a number of mystery and detective stories through his career. The Father Brown stories are particularly well known. In my own case, the first non-used book I ever special ordered was the complete Father Brown. There are others, with various detectives which are in some way reminiscent of Chesterton himself, if not directly representative. The Man Who Knew Too Much is no exception.

This book, a collection of eight related short stories, features Horne Fisher as “the man who knew too much.” Specifically, Fisher knows far too much about the internal workings of politics because he is an insider, related to a number of the key players in a fictitious pre-war England, but unlike them in essence. Based on this knowledge, he is able to solve a number of murders, thefts, and blackmails that involve political figures in some way.

This might be interesting enough, but Chesterton adds a twist: Fisher cannot expose the criminals, because to do so would incur greater harm.

As Fisher himself relates to his friend, the journalist Harold Marsh upon their first meeting while Fisher is, well, fishing, he always has to throw back the big fish.

Marsh isn’t exactly Fisher’s Watson. He does figure in most of the stories (but not the ones that take place before their meeting), but he is more of an intellectual counterpart to Fisher. He challenges Fisher just as Fisher challenges the assumptions of his society. The two form a medium by which Chesterton can explore politics and philosophy. Their banter and deeper discussions both illuminate the crime and add dark complexity to the world in which the crime was committed.

It is a bit difficult to determine how much of Fisher’s political views reflect that of Chesterton. One suspects that there are substantial parallels, but fiction isn’t always that direct. Chesterton certainly has a love for paradox that often adds depth to metaphysical truths, but doesn’t entirely help in a discussion of concrete politics in the real world.

What this leads to is a common dilemma in interpreting Chesterton. As an inspiration to a deeper spiritual life and as a counterpoint to conventional truisms, he is a powerful voice. As a source of anything resembling coherent - or even desirable - public policy, he is both severely limited and on occasion dangerous.

I mention this in connection with this book because it contains some uncomfortable moments, when Chesterton - or at least Fisher - veers into xenophobia and anti-Semitism. In the one story, Fisher is unwilling to bring to light an attempted murder which inadvertently kills the perpetrator because of the chaos it would bring to British military. Not such a big deal, except that at the end, Fisher opines that the real cause of death in the armed forces is the fact (in his opinion) that the British military acts at the behest of Jewish financiers, who are the real persons pulling the strings in the world. Yeah, that old canard again. And it ruins what was otherwise brilliant tale of a love triangle, professional ambition, and class politics.

Likewise, there is a bit in the last story wherein Fisher accuses the government of intentionally importing foreign labor with the express goal of starving the peasants. I’ll admit to being a bit sensitive about this in part because my ancestors were once the poor immigrants accused of stealing the very bread from earlier European settlers of the United States. It also seemed jarringly similar to the rhetoric of the current “black helicopters” conspiracy minded crowd I know all too well in our own time. One wishes that Chesterton (or at least Fisher) would have shown a little more empathy for the immigrants themselves.

Of course, this is part of the complexity of Chesterton, who did get carried away a bit with “Good Ol’ England” with its Celts, Saxons, and Normans at the expense of everyone else, from the Germans on down. Except that since this book was written in 1922, I am willing to forgive a little anti-German sentiment. That whole world war and all. Likewise, Chesterton does show a bit of an anti-Semitic edge in the rest of his writing, although, as I have pointed out elsewhere, he was hardly alone in Europe with these views. On the positive side, Chesterton did speak out against Hitler and his racial views long before it became popular to do so. As I said, it’s complicated.

I hate to dwell on these flaws because there is much in this book to enjoy. Chesterton is at his best when he is teasing out the nuances of the human soul, particularly its dark corners. Father Brown solves his mysteries, not by looking for physical clues like Sherlock Holmes, but by ascertaining the human heart and its sordid motivations. In this book, Horne Fisher relies on his insider knowledge, to be sure, but also on his acute understanding of motive. It is, in fact, the complexity of motive that drives the narrative, and explains why exposure of the criminals cannot happen. There are, shall we say, complexities.

I should mention a few of my favorite moments. First is the character of the title character in “The Soul of the Schoolboy.” This boy accompanies his uncle on a tour of some of the sights of London, but does not share his uncle’s love for the antique. Rather, he is fascinated by the electrical wiring and apparati - and the endless variety of omnibuses, which he catalogues in his head.

It is as if Chesterton knew my sons. My older one - true story - can tell you within 5 minutes of entering a room where all the outlets are and what is plugged into them. And he started this at age four. And, my younger son can identify the make of a car faster than I can. At age one he was liking up matchbox cars in perfectly orderly and even rows. I could have sworn Chesterton looked ahead a century and saw them or something.

Also always interesting is Chesterton’s brilliance in deconstructing the “simplicity” affectation of the wealthy. I discussed this a bit in connection with The Flying Inn, which contains an amazing takedown of dietary trends. [insert link] In one of the stories in this book, an aristocrat prides himself on eating no meat but the fish he catches in the river abutting his extensive property. In fact, he spends all of most days simply fishing. “Of course, he’s all for simplicity, like so many of these millionaires.” Fisher points out that maintaining this facade of “simplicity” requires immense effort on the part of many “lesser” men, who labor for far less so that he can enjoy the “simple” life. So much of this is as applicable to today - or even more so - than it was 90 years ago.

One final quote, just because I enjoyed it so much. This is the opening of “The Hole In The Wall.”

Two men, the one an architect and the other an archaeologist, met on the steps of the great house at Prior’s Park; and their host, Lord Bulmer, in his breezy way, thought it natural to introduce them. It must be confessed that he was hazy as well as breezy, and had no very clear connection in his mind, beyond the sense that an architect and an archaeologist begine with the same series of letters. The world must remain in a reverent doubt as to whether he would, on the same principles, have presented a diplomat to a dipsomaniac or a ratiocinator to a rat catcher…

It is in these moments of humor, as in his introspective paradoxes, that Chesterton is at his best. While The Man Who Knew Too Much isn’t the very best of Chesterton’s works, it is worth a read for its strengths and in spite of its flaws.  

Other Chesterton reviews:

I have been a fan of Chesterton for some time, and he is in my top five persons I would love to have at the ultimate dinner party. I have been attempting to read something of his, whether poetry, fiction, or non-fiction, each year since I started this blog. Here are my past reviews:

Heretics and Orthodoxy

New Poems

The Flying Inn

Saint Francis of Assisi 

Also, a quick mention of The Ball and the Cross as one of my 10 most influential books. 

A Red Herring Without Mustard by Alan Bradley

Source of Book: Borrowed from the library.

I previously read the first two books in this series. The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie was Bradley’s debut novel (at the age of 70!) I reviewed that book in some detail. The second book, The Weed that Strings the Hangman’s Bag, was also excellent, although I did not write a long review for that one.

As I mentioned in my review of the first book, this series combines elements of the English and the American detective novels. The eleven-year-old heroine, Flavia, is observant, and gathers information through conversations; but she also is a chemistry buff, and solves the mysteries partially through procedure.

This book, the third in the series, continues the high standard of writing established in the first two. Literary, artistic, and scientific references are lovingly hidden in the narrative – and the author takes care that they are accurate. Even the musical references have been carefully chosen. As a musician, I love to hear mentions of more obscure works, and this book does not disappoint. (Case in point: Flavia’s rather mean oldest sister, Ophelia, plays Schubert’s B Flat Major Piano Sonata when she is distraught. This piece is more sublime than turbulent, which adds a bit of interesting nuance to the character.) 

Really, only a cold, cold heart could resist this music. 
 

This book also continued the development of the various characters in the drama. Flavia and her sisters and father continue to gain a significant back story, and are revealed, despite the unreliable narration of Flavia, to have more depth than previously revealed.

Another notable and welcome development is the reappearance of Dr. Kissing, the frail old man introduced in the first book. His quiet rebellion against the strict life of the nursing home where he resides is both inspiring and poignant, and laced with his characteristic wry sense of humor.

I also liked the exploration of Flavia’s need for a true friend. This wish is not truly granted in this book, but Flavia’s growing awareness of the void makes for an additional layer to her psyche. Throughout the series, I have enjoyed the way the author develops the characters through the eyes of Flavia. She is a believably precocious young lady: arrogant, callow, immature, selectively perceptive, and self absorbed. One cannot help but like her, while realizing that she would be maddening in person. Bradley’s writing brings all of this out without letting the technique get in the way of the story. The reader can zip through the book without difficulty, but the characters and their inner conflicts remain with the reader every bit as much as the plot.

As I noted in my original review, Bradley is an unusually good modern writer in a genre that has become a cliché. While the first book had a plot that fit the genre, the subsequent installments have refused to follow a predictable pattern. As a result, the books read less like “murder mysteries,” and more like stories about intriguing characters that just happen to involve mysteries. The difference is subtle, but important. Sherlock Holmes and Watson (and so many others) live on in our imagination, not because of the clever plots (although the plots are sure clever), but because of the memorable characters, which transcend any particular narrative.

My Review of The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde

Source of book: My wife owns this book

I am at a bit of a loss to describe what this book actually is. It is a detective story of a sort. It also has elements of science fiction. It has really bad puns. It inhabits a very peculiar world that warrants exploration – but the book was too short to do it justice. It does, however, have sequels, which could be interesting.

The basic alternate reality that Fforde creates is one where the Crimean War never ended, Churchill died young, and Hitler was stopped by a powerful and ruthless corporation. England and Wales are separate countries with their own cold war. England itself has become a police state with secret agencies whose purposes are unknown, perhaps even to their agents. Yes, plural agencies, including one responsible for policing literature. In this universe, literature is taken extremely seriously. Imagine Raider fans, but with Shakespearean conspiracy theories.

The final piece of “reality” in this universe is that literature has its own literal world, and that it is possible to cross over to that world from the “real” world. If this were not already odd, it is apparently possible for mortals to alter literature if they are able to enter the world of a book through its original manuscript. Thus, if one were to kill a character of a novel, he would no longer exist in any copy of the novel thereafter.

The protagonist of this book and its sequels is Thursday Next, a rather hard boiled “LiteraTec” agent. As this description hints, this is a detective story rather in the tradition of “American” detective stories. In addition to the familiar heroine, the other elements are present. There is never really any question who committed the crime. The plot concerns the tracking and neutralization of the villain, not the solving of any mystery. This is an odd combination at first, the American detective story as written by an Englishman and set in an imaginary, dystopian England.

I try not to ruin carefully laid plots with spoilers, so I will not further describe the details of the story.

This book is the least serious book I have read this year, and I was due for a light read. Again, classification is difficult because this book doesn’t fit a well defined category. I originally argued to my wife that it also lacked a target category of reader. After all, it is best read by those who have an extensive knowledge of the English classics, a large vocabulary, and a good grasp of history. However, it also is too short and too fast paced to really be considered deep or anything more than a weekend paperback. My wife did point out that she and a few friends love Fforde, and they appear to sell reasonably well. Thus, there must be non-literary sorts that read these as well. Who knows?

I will admit that it is unfair to judge this book without reading the later books in the series, as my wife considers the sequels to be better written. What I found disappointing in this particular book is that there are a number of interesting ideas that are never developed. While we get to know Thursday Next fairly well, and get a bit of information about the villain, Acheron Hades, the rest of the characters are mere names without personalities in any true sense. Some are “expendable crewmen”, of course, but I found I could not remember most of the other characters. Okay, so the batty inventor uncle was memorable, but that’s it.

Fforde also hints at political commentary. Again, it is never truly developed, and is jettisoned as the plot picks up speed.

The strength of the book is the detective narrative itself. If Fforde had spent less time on back story, this might have been a memorable page turner for that alone. Alternately, had his word count allowed him to develop both characters and politics, this could have been a farce or satire. So, one can either sigh at what might have been, or enjoy what really is an enjoyable book that gets better as it goes on.

A caution: there is a good bit of violence and vulgarity in this book, including some rather unprintable puns. Nothing particularly shocking for the hard-boiled genre, and common in most modern novels. Fortunately, Fforde did not feel it necessary to add sex, which would have been irrelevant to the story. Don’t get me wrong: sex can be important to a narrative; but too often these days, it just distracts from a plot that was running right along fine without it.

This book was definitely not a waste of time, but also is unlikely to end up stuck in my memory like some of the others I have read recently. Take this one on vacation, or use it to escape from reality for a while. Sometimes we all need a light read.