Is that all there is? Is that all there is? If that's all there is my friends Then let's keep dancing Let's break o
The Stranger: Mersault in the Moment
Is that all there is? Is that all there is? If that's all there is my friends Then let's keep dancing Let's break out the booze and have a ball If that's all there is--Jerry Leiber, Mike Stoller
I hear the people singing, so it must be Christmas time
So you ask, why do you do this to yourself? You have a choice to read or not to read. It is absurd. Watch "It's a Wonderful Life." Watch "Miracle on 34th Street." Watch Benjy shoot his eyeglass lens out with his Red Ryder BB Gun.
I pour myself another Scotch. Light another cigarette. The smoke drifts up and slowly dissipates. Ah, smoking is not good for you, you say. I have news for you. None of us are getting out of this alive.
The attic fan is on. It sucks the smoke away. It is unduly warm. It does not feel like Christmas. There is no tree. There are no lights. Only the drone of the attic fan which not only brings a cooling breeze through the house, but also the coat of damp humidity that takes the crispness from the brown tops of the biscuits, uneaten, on the stove.
Talking to Mersault
Ah, Mersault. You miserable soul. Did you not see it coming? From the very beginning I knew this was going to end badly.
“Maman died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can't be sure.�
So you travel to the home where you have put your mother. The Director tells you to feel no guilt. Why should you? On your modest salary? Then not to want to see your mother. Not one last time? You sit vigil over her casket, but you smoke and drink coffee.
I understand a bit, Mersault. I saw my mother one last time. After a call from the hospital. Maman was dead. I went to see her. Of course, the nursing staff wanted the room cleared out. You expect to walk in and see your mother at rest. Reclining as if asleep. But they have not attended to her. Her jaw hangs slack and open. She couldn't breathe, you see. So, I forever think of her struggling for that last gasp of air. They want to know what I want to have done with "the body." I tell them the name of the crematorium. I do not remember whether I took her diamond earrings from her.
Perhaps it was a good idea not to open the casket. But you seem emotionless. You live in the moment. It is though you have no past, no future. You are indifferent.
Some would say you are entirely too honest. I don't think it is out of simple guilessness. No. At times, I myself have wondered what is the point to it all.
That you should seek out the comfort of a woman's companionship. That I understand. But after she has given herself to you, and asks if you love her. Well.
“She was wearing a pair of my pajamas with the sleeves rolled up. When she laughed I wanted her again. A minute later she asked me if I loved her. I told her it didn't mean anything but that I didn't think so. She looked sad. But as we were fixing lunch, and for no apparent reason, she laughed in such a way that I kissed her.�
You react to only the basic desires of a person. You appreciate them. However, you have, or if you have, any emotions, you keep them well hidden. All this will haunt you Mersault. You are a stranger. You are an outsider. And all your lack of emotion is unacceptable to the society that surrounds you. You will be a pariah.
Oh, yes. We, the members of society practice conventions that make us comfortable. We practice behaviors that make us predictable. There is so much safety in that.
But what if you are right. What if nothing has any meaning. How does that make you comfortable.
“Have you no hope at all? And do you really live with the thought that when you die, you die, and nothing remains?" "Yes," I said.�
What assurance to you gain by being so damned cocksure of such absurdity?
You murder a man. You offer no explanation other than it must have been the sun. Suddenly you seem to recognize there will be consequences.
“I knew that I had shattered the harmony of the day, the exceptional silence of a beach where I'd been happy. Then I fired four more times at the motionless body where the bullets lodged without leaving a trace. And it was like knocking four quick times on the door of unhappiness. �
Yes. It was like that. And you will face trial. Because you are a stranger who does not possess the emotions and expectations of those who judge you, they will hate you. They will condemn you because you do not follow the rules of the game they play.
You see, it is dangerous to live in an indifferent world. You, with your unwavering honesty take away the comfort of those who sit in judgment of you. They want their lives to have purpose and certainty by following the rules.
They will kill you for that, you know. It is sad, but true. Hope that the guillotine works the first time. I know that requires you to become a co-conspirator in your own death. That is the only say you have in this game's outcome.
Perhaps you will find some comfort and open yourself "to the gentle indifference of the world."
Afterthoughts
Thirteen years after The Stranger was published, Albert Camus said,
"I summarized The Stranger a long time ago, with a remark I admit was highly paradoxical: 'In our society any man who does not weep at his mother's funeral runs the risk of being sentenced to death.' I only meant that the hero of my book is condemned because he does not play the game."Carroll, David. Albert Camus the Algerian: Colonialism, Terrorism, Justice. Columbia University Press. 2007
**spoiler alert** A Necessary End: Banks and the Inevitable Conclusion
This is my third outing with good man Inspector Alan Banks. I'm coming to rather**spoiler alert** A Necessary End: Banks and the Inevitable Conclusion
This is my third outing with good man Inspector Alan Banks. I'm coming to rather like him. I've followed Banks from the beginning in Gallows View, published in 1987. To date the series strikes me as a fine ,well written police procedural told from a more gentle perspective, in a more peaceful and bucolic setting. In Yorkshire. The fictional town of Eastvale, more specific.
For Banks, in his debut, had left his more high pressure job in London as a member of the Unsolved Crimes Unit, and transferred to Eastvale, hoping to find a quieter life. A better place to raise his two children. Spend more time with his doting wife Sandra. All's well. Until Banks discovers that no place is immune to crime, not even the idyllic Eastvale.
Banks is quick to involve himself in investigations. He has a knack for interrogation. Some might suspect him of being a bit soft. But that would be entirely a mistake. Banks is capable of coming down as hard as necessary to uncover a killer.
Music is a passion with which he relaxes himself. And I have rather humorously followed him from his opera phase to his current fascination with classic American Blues and Jazz. Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, Billie Holliday. He's quite informed.
Banks dotes on his children. He misses his wife when she is away.
Contemporary readers, much younger than myself, might find A Necessary End quite dated. It is a novel revolving around a demonstration by Eastvale Villagers against a Nuclear Power Plant and also the presence of a new United States Airforce Base carrying nuclear weapons. You see, the Cold War is still quite real at the time of Robinson righting this case.
However, being a child of the late 1960s, I found no problem falling into the atmosphere of demonstrations, the exercise of civil disobedience. I who was a college student with a low lottery number was staring the possibility of heading to Vietnam with a forboding sense of my early demise. I attended my own share of demonstrations in my younger years. A member of the Student Mobilization Committee, allied with Vietnam Veterans against the war. Interesting thing about protest groups, how polarized they can be. And the bonds formed among folks for a common cause though of disparate personalities.
But enough of that. There is a Hell of a demonstration. A Bobby sent in from another district, Eddie Gill is killed. Stabbed. Over a hundred protestors are present. In otherwords, over a hundred suspects.
London sends out its own whiz kid from the Yard to quickly solve the copper killing. Consider him Banks opposite. Dirty Dick Burgess is an ultra right wing conservative. His immediate solution is that the dead Constable was killed by a terrorist. Possibly Communist, Possibly IRA, Possibly a Maoist. Never mind that Burgess has no proper head for politics and mixes contradictory philosophies at will, he sees conspiracies everywhere.
Alas. Banks has to face the problem in his beloved village without his wife or children who have gone away to aid Sandra's mother in the care of her ailing stepfather. So Banks finds himself with little excuse not to spend extra hours with the obnoxious Burgess.
There's a group of idealistic folk who live outside Eastvale at Maggie's Farm. The march to the beat of the different drum. The oldest are true children of the sixties. Mara, the perfect image of the earthmother. Her partner, Seth, a maker of fine furniture. Richard, a bitter man, an artist caring for his son Julian, while his wife is attempting to recover a life from drug addiction.
There are two younger among the crowd. Zoe, a modern day flower child who lives by giving Tarot reads, writing the local horoscope, and delving into the I Ching. She is an idealist of the New Age. Not really political, but happily at home in a new day form of communal living. And of course, there's Paul. The social outcast. The product of an abused home. Raised in foster care.
Mara, who was incapable of bearing children extends kindness to Paul. So, soon, does Seth, who takes Paul on as an apprentice in the fine art of carpentry and wood work.
Outside Maggie's Farm there is a true activist named Ozmend. Not at all foreign to organizing demonstrations. And Ozmend clearly has a past showing him capable of violent behavior. A younger couple are also in the Ban the Bomb/Ban Nuclear Power movement. However, they appear to be pure idealistic hangers on.
The point of all this? Thanks to Burgess who will have his agitator's guts for garters and ballocks for sport, the above named parties are his sole suspects. That and any other agitator he can manage to create.
But, Banks, always the thorough careful one wonders if there might have been a personal motive for Eddie Gills murder. He launches his own investigation, kept from his supervising officer. Gill was not a good clean cop. He loved to volunteer for Demonstration Control. He was a head banger of long standing. Any number might have their motive. Of course, the problem is the most likely suspects are those whom Dirty Dick harries for purely political motives.
All things must come to an end. Unfortunately, an end must be necessary. However, it is an end that may solve a crime and at the same time offer a deeply human reason for taking another person's life. Unfortunate. But, I must say, I've had my dealings with enough victims to reach the conclusion they deserved killin' as we might say in the South. Problem is, the law allows no one the right to do that.
On an interesting side note, I'm discovering that our Inspector Banks is all to0 human. He's exhibiting a distinct attraction to Dr. Jenny Fuller, who first appeared in Gallows View. And that attraction appears to be returned to Banks.
So, without doubt, I will continue with Inspector Banks' Investigations. No Sturm und Drang series. Not at this point. However, Peter Robinson has a distinct knack for realistic dialogue, the establishment of place in Yorkshire, and deeply introspective abilities to portray men and women at their best and worst.
You can't find a thing wrong with that. And you younger, folks. Don't be deterred that this title isn't hot off the racks. It remains as relevant today as the issue of brutality by police remains a front burner topic. And, beware. Not all nuclear weapons have been destroyed. You might find yourself wanting to "Ban the Bomb," too.
“Job, actually. I read it once a long time ago. It seems more frightening now though. The man who
Knots and Crosses: John Rebus and the Book of Job
“Job, actually. I read it once a long time ago. It seems more frightening now though. The man who begins to doubt, who shouts out against his God, looking for a response, and who gets one. ‘God gave the world to the wicked,� he says at one point, and ‘Why should I bother?� at another.�
“It sounds interesting. But he goes on bothering?�
“Yes, that’s the incredible thing.�
Conversation between Detective Sergeant John Rebus and Detective Inspector Gill Templer
, . Damned if I haven't met myself coming and going in Knots and Crosses, the first John Rebus novel by Ian Rankin. After sharing a quote from the novel, a friend from the UK responded it seemed I was identifying with John Rebus. An adept observation. However, I felt it more a matter of staring at myself in the mirror reading through this debut of a rather complex character. Considering some of the reviewers' opinions of John Rebus, he's either loved, hated, or merely shrugged off. Fancy that. Aren't we all? In spite of whatever opinion we may have of our own self.
While not a policeman, I was a career prosecuting attorney. I worked closely with law enforcement of all ranks. I was a go to Assistant District Attorney. Give it to Mikey. Mikey likes it. Well, I didn't like it. How do you like dead bodies in situ? The stench of voided bladders and sphincters. Floaters. Bodies undiscovered for days of temperatures in excess of 100 degrees Farenheit.
Cases involving children are the worst. I have mentioned it in other reviews. I will not repeat the detail here. However, I will say, having attended the exhumation of a child for a re-autopsy, whom I originally saw dead on a hospital gurney, and was present for the original autopsy, I recommend cremation if given the choice. Especially if the burial plot is beneath the water table. I have flashbacks to that case to this day.
Detective Sergeant John Rebus is involved in the investigation of a serial killer in Edinburgh, Scotland. All the victims are children between the ages of eight to twelve. He is only one of many. Really on the outskirts of the investigation. Assigned to the Incidents room scouring over reports looking for possible leads in the investigation. Tracking down reports involving a particular model of car following the report of a citizen having seen such a vehicle in connection with the abduction of one of the victims.
When you are a John Rebus, you realize most people go through life as tourists, just as the tourists who visit Edinburgh. They see the statue of Greyfriar's Bobby in the Kirkyard, the towering buildings, the usual sights, and take the usual photographs. Most people do live a Disney life, untouched by violence, safe in the knowledge that such things always happen to other people. That most of the time, whoever ends up dead did something they should have known better than to do, and all cases are solved within sixty minutes on the telly.
Rebus knows otherwise. So do I. That's why Rebus, the thinking man, isn't above having a go at the God of Job.
At times Rebus questions his own faith. �...trapped in limbo, believing in a lack of belief, but not necessarily lacking the belief to believe.�
As the investigation drags on and the number of victims increases, “Rebus reminded himself to stop praying. Perhaps if he stopped praying, God would take the hint and stop being such a bastard to one of his few believers on this near-godforsaken planet.�
Perhaps Rebus thinks Job's God is having the mickey off the innocent. I often thought so. I teetered on and off the road of faith for years. I've now reconciled myself to being what I call an "Orthodox Heretic," or perhaps a hopeful agnostic. Taking Pascal's Wager might be a safe bet.
It is far from a Disney World.
“Ah, but it was not a nice world this, not a nice world at all. It was an Old Testament land that he found himself in, a land of barbarity and retribution.�
Through the investigation of the abductions and murders of the young girls of Edinburgh, Rebus reviews his life as a policemen. Not unlike many of his comrades.
“Fifteen years, and all he had to show were an amount of self-pity and a busted marriage with an innocent daughter hanging between them. It was more disgusting than sad.�
Alarmingly, Rebus' daughter, Samantha, is twelve. It's hard not to have a chill run up the spine.
Once more I look into the mirror. For me, it was a marriage of twenty years, two children. Busted. I have grandchildren I've never met. I'm one up on Rebus. My second marriage is on the downhill run. It's never clear what exactly led to Rebus and his wife divorcing. I think it had to do with the work. The hours. The time away. I remember being told "You care about other people's children more than your own." The fact was, I knew mine were safe. I saw to that. But the work was relentless.
Rebus tells us.
“No sooner had he finished with a case than another two or three appeared in its place. What was the name of that creature? The Hydra, was it? That was what he was fighting. Every time he cut off a head, more popped into his in-tray. Coming back from a holiday was a nightmare. And now they were giving him rocks to push up hills as well.�
Ian Rankin makes Rebus a literate man. The allusions to Greeks and Roman mythology are most satisfying. The multiplying cases akin to the monstrous Hydra, one of the labors of Hercules. And pushing rocks up hills. Poor Sisyphus, doomed to roll a boulder up a hill without ever reaching the summit before it rolled back downhill.
Yes. The filing cabinets filled. They were crammed. Up to a thousand cases at a time. My word for the job was "relentless."
The plot of the novel is slow to build. Carefully built. As young girls are kidnapped and murdered, Rebus is receiving cryptic letters. Each contains a knotted piece of string. A note saying the clues are everywhere. As the cases mount, the letters include little crosses tied with knotted string. Knots and Crosses. Rebus does not connect the letters to the investigation.
But he will. When the killer assaults his ex-wife and kidnaps his own daughter, Samantha. All the letters to Rebus have been a taunt.
The initial letters of the previous victims' name spell out Samantha. Suddenly the case is intensely personal. And the killer has murdered each child by strangulation. A nasty death. Strangulation with a garotte. There are the knots. The crosses signify the killer intends to crucify Rebus.
No slow pace now. But a careful race against the clock to the finish. When the killer calls to say Samantha will die tonight.
What secret lies hidden in John Rebus' past that does not allow him to connect the dots to realize who the killer is?
This is a fine series debut. It far exceeds the ordinary police procedural. And it's good to know that the Rebus novels have extended to twenty-four volumes. I have some fine reading ahead of me. I wonder if Rebus will continue to have me staring in the mirror.
The Monkey's Raincoat: The P.I. Who Didn't Want to Grow Up
� ‘Prove yourself brave, truthful, and unselfish, and someday you will be a real boy
The Monkey's Raincoat: The P.I. Who Didn't Want to Grow Up
� ‘Prove yourself brave, truthful, and unselfish, and someday you will be a real boy.� The Blue Fairy said that. In Pinocchio.�- Elvis Cole Licensed Investigator, State of California
A dream is a wish your heart makes...
Mr. Cole, this looks like the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Yeah, with you and the big guy, Joe Pike. Don't tell him I said so. I don't want him to jump to the wrong conclusion. But, after all, he said you taught him good things. Says a lot about you. Seems Joe can take things pretty literal. Know what I mean?
Don't get me wrong. I was a little skeptical about you to begin with. What kind of self respecting PI has a Mickey Mouse phone, a Pinnochio Clock, and Jiminy Cricket figurines spread around his office? Any client walking into the place might wonder if they stepped into the wrong office. Underestimate you. But that's part of that self effacing act of yours, isn't it?
I get it. I used to wear a Mickey Mouse watch in the courtroom. Me? Oh, yeah. I'm Sullivan. ADA, retired. I tried guys that hurt kids. So, the Mickey Mouse watch. You and I would get along. Yeah, call me Mike. I'm retired now. Thank God.
You know, I got what you meant about wanting to be Peter Pan, never wanting to grow up. I worked with a lot of guys that went to the Nam. Yeah, some of them came back different, real different. Effed up. So you saying you decided you didn't want to grow up when your were eighteen in a rice paddy In Country. I get that. You didn't say so, but I bet you saw a bunch of shit you wish you hadn't.
Like I say, we'll get along fine. I had days I wished I hadn't grown up. People don't get me sometimes. I've seen as much as you have. It's the eyes of dead kids get me. Sometimes they look surprised. Others...they don't. Look surprised. It's like they knew it was coming. Some almost looked like they were glad it was over.
That Mickey Mouse watch. It made the living kids smile. I liked that. It pissed off the lawyers who represented the beaters, the rapers, the killers. I liked that, too. It's good when you can get under the other guy's skin. Yeah, you know that, too.
I started figuring you out when Ellen Lang and that barracuda friend of hers came into your office. Ellen's husband Mort is missing. And her nine year old boy, Perry. Ellen, that little hausfrau from Kansas, who didn't even know how to write a check. And that girl friend of hers, riding her to get on with it. Hire you. Get rid of the shit husband. You took that case for less than it was worth. I liked that about you.
Then I got to thinking about that Haiku by Basho at the beginning of your story.
Winter downpour-- even the monkey needs a raincoat.
Matsuo Basho, 1644-1694, Osaka Prefecture, Japan
That's the way your mind clicks. You are the raincoat, Mr. Cole. Aren't you? And your client is the monkey. When times get bad you protect your client. Whatever it takes. Joe Pike is your extra muscle. He was in the Nam, too. A Marine. And a cop. Maybe a little zealous. Maybe that's why he's not on the force, but with you.
You're a lot deeper than you let on, Mr. Cole. The records in your house, the music you listen to again and again. The shelf of books you read again and again. The books that fit your life, the way you live it, the way you work it. No wonder some folks don't see you coming, take you for granted. Like a man wearing a Mickey Mouse watch.
Nothing's ever simple as it looks, is it? Yeah, we all knew Hubby Mort was a shit. Had girls on the side. The little hausfrau at home probably knew about them, but wouldn't say a word. When Mort turns up with a bullet in his brain pan, neither you nor I were surprised.
But where's Perry? I wasn't surprised you tore up that fee check Ellen wrote you. All part of being that monkey's raincoat. Isn't it?
There's a real cute phrase the cool people. Wait a minute. The people who think they're cool, say today: "Not my circus, not my monkey." Ain't that a scream? No, I didn't think you would think so. But that's the way most folks are these days. You aren't. Yeah, I like that.
Let me just say, I like your style. And, Joe Pike? I wouldn't want him mad at me. Well, I wouldn't want you mad at me either, Mr. Cole. But I'd be glad for y'all to have my back.
Anybody reads this, I'll just tell them they will have to read this for themselves. I wouldn't want to spoil it for them. Let's just say the good guys win. That's not a bad thing.
Mr. Cole, I'll be back. Say, looks like you could use a good Mickey Mouse watch for your collection. Here. No, I won't miss it. I'm retired. You aren't. Besides, I'll be back to see it from time to time. I'll drop by with a bottle of Glenlivet like you like. Or I may try to talk you into some Glenmorangie Single Malt 18 Years Old. It's good. Like this story.
Hemingway in Love: His Own Story, A Shot of Tequila to be Taken with Ample Salt
Well, well, well. This is a beautiful little literary memoir written byHemingway in Love: His Own Story, A Shot of Tequila to be Taken with Ample Salt
Well, well, well. This is a beautiful little literary memoir written by A.E. Hotchner. Mr. Hotchner's a nice fellow. He helped Paul Newman start the Newman's Own food brand, the proceeds of which are donated to charity. He also, along with Newman, established the Hole in the Wall Camp for kids ages seven through fifteen with cancer and rare blood diseases from which they are unlikely to recover. Admission is free. Anyone involved in projects like that under his belt is all right in my book.
I can almost excuse him for writing this book about Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway took a much younger Hotchner under his wing around 1948. Obviously, Hotchner never suffered one of Hem's infamous tongue lashings as most of his friends did throughout Hemingway's life. Of course Hemingway had a use for Hotchner. Hotchner was involved in bringing a number of Hemingway stories to the screen, small and large.
To be continued after having slept on it. My blood pressure having subsided to a relatively normal rate. While I attribute no scurrilous motive to Mr. Hotchner, having read numerous academic biographies of Mr. Hemingway, I do believe Mr. Hotchner has been thoroughly duped by a man who considered truth to be a relative concept, one that served his purpose moment to moment. Believe me, more to follow...
So, it is a new day. I have had a solid night's sleep. A visit to the medicine cabinet should have my blood pressure on an even keel. I'll do my utmost to be objective. After all, I am a great admirer of the writing of Ernest Hemingway. Let's examine this little memoir.
As I write this, I'm listening to an interview with A.E. Hotchner. He is ninty-five years old now. Sharp as a tack. He obviously loved Hemingway. He thought Papa was the ideal nickname for the man for he viewed Hemingway as a father figure. Hotchner admits he did no research for this book. He vetted no facts. He wanted the reader to discover the personality of the man he came to know over the course of a thirteen year friendship.
Hotchner was an employee of Cosmpopolitan Magazine prior to the Helen Gurley Brown days. Before the Cosmo Girl days. When it was still a literary magazine. Hotchner was sent to recruit Hemingway to write an article on "The Future of Literature." Hotchner traveled to Cuba, sent a note to Hemingway introducing himself. He was surprised to receive a phone call from Hem, inviting him for a drink at the Floridita Bar. Although Hotchner did not realize it, it was the beginning of what became a fast friendship.
Hotchner last saw Hemingway at Saint Mary's Hospital in Rochester, Minnesota, three weeks before Hemingway committed suicide. Hemingway was in the depths of depression and out and out paranoia. He believed he was under surveillance by the FBI, that his bank account was being audited, that the Federal government was after him for back taxes. He believed his nurse, Susan was a federal informant. It was Hemingway's second admission to the hospital. It was Hemingway's second course of shock treatments. The treatments had no effect on his delusions.
What is contained in this brief memoir largely consists of segments excised from Hotchner's biography Papa Hemingway published in 1965 because of references to people still alive, especially Hemingway's fourth wife, Mary Walsh Hemingway, and his third wife, Martha Gellhorn, and, yes, Hadley Richardson Mowrer, who received the news of Hemingway's suicide while on vacation with her husband Paul Mowrer to whom she had been married since 1931 .
Hemingway poignantly tells Hotchner that his only true love was his first wife, Hadley Richardson, whom he lost to Pauline Pfeiffer. While Hemingway paints Hadley as his Eve, he depicts Pauline as his Lillith. He finds little fault with himself. Pauline was a seductress who inserted herself into the Hemingway family, becoming a friend to Pauline, all the while looking for a suitable husband, her target being Ernest. My, my, my.
It would be one thing if Hemingway's story of his love for Hadley haunting him for the rest of his life came at the end of it when Hotchner was visiting him in St. Mary's Hospital. But it did not. Hemingway related his story to Hotchner in the mid-1950s following his two airplane crashes while on safari in Africa with fourth wife Mary.
Hemingway's story, actually recorded by Hotchner on tape relates to times before Hotchner ever knew the man, the women, or the people Hemingway called his friends. The memoir relates none of the betrayals of friendship. It still contains Hemingway's blatant insistence that he was in the Italian army during World War One, although he was a Red Cross Volunteer. Hem portrays Scott Fitzgerald as one of his closest friends, even bestowing his lucky rabbit's foot on Scott when Fitzgerald had hospitalized Zelda in an asylum. In truth, Hemingway despised Zelda as much as she did him. Zelda called him a fake the first time she met him.
All of the 1920's expatriate crowd in Paris appear in this memoir. All with Hemingway's unique spin. Where his untruths are not actually told they exist by omission. Yes. For Hemingway, truth was a relative concept. While you may read this memoir and find an absolute air of heartbreak and poignancy within its pages, Hemingway lived a life of conscious choices. As biographer Robert R. Mellow so aptly titled his book regarding this man, it was Hemingway: A Life Without Consequences
You may wonder, considering the contents of this review, why a rating of four stars? Because A.E. Hotchner is a wonderful writer, whether he was duped or not. It is a portrait of friendship, beautifully captured. Perhaps, in friendship, it is sometimes easier to look the other way. Hemingway taught Hotchner much. That Hotchner viewed Hemingway a father figure is without question.
The punchline? Hemingway was right about one thing.
"Decades later, in response to a Freedom of Information petition, the F.B.I. released its Hemingway file. It revealed that beginning in the 1940s J. Edgar Hoover had placed Ernest under surveillance because he was suspicious of Ernest’s activities in Cuba. Over the following years, agents filed reports on him and tapped his phones. The surveillance continued all through his confinement at St. Mary’s Hospital. It is likely that the phone outside his room was tapped after all." Hemingway, Hounded by the Feds. A.E. Hotchner, July 1, 2011, The New York Times
The people Jesus loved were shopping at the Star Market yesterday. An old lead-colored man standing next to me at the checkout breathed so heavily I had to step back a few steps. Even after his bags were packed he still stood, breathing hard and hawking into his hand. The feeble, the lame, I could hardly look at them: shuffling through the aisles, they smelled of decay, as if the Star Market had declared a day off for the able-bodied, and I had wandered in with the rest of them—sour milk, bad meat� looking for cereal and spring water. Jesus must have been a saint, I said to myself, looking for my lost car in the parking lot later, stumbling among the people who would have been lowered into rooms by ropes, who would have crept out of caves or crawled from the corners of public baths on their hands and knees begging for mercy. If I touch only the hem of his garment, one woman thought, could I bear the look on his face when he wheels around?
Face it, we pass by others almost daily without giving them a second look. Because they don't look like us. They have no where to go. They make us uncomfortable. They make us fear becoming like them. By their very appearance. And, in our neighborhood, seeing one of those different from us, makes us think they do not belong there. They must be up to something. Lock the doors. Bring it up at the next neighborhood association meeting. Perhaps report the offender to the Neighborhood Crime Watch Program.
Cassie Dandridge Selleck has written a thoughtful tale of one of those "others" in The Pecan Man. It is a simple tale, almost fable like. And I enjoyed it, up to a point.
It is 1976 in the small southern town of Mayville. The residents there embrace their town as a reflection of Macomb, Alabama, of To Kill a Mockingbird. One jokes, "That May sure gets around." It is an indication that not many things have changed since the 1930s. But they have. Mayville seems unaffected by The Voting Rights Acr of 1965. Yet, the Civil Rights Movement was still active in the 1970s. These were the years of school desegregation. The times are changing.
Ora Lee Beckworth, a recent widow, narrates the story.
“The events of that year were the real driving force behind the mass exodus from the neighborhood. It was the year of the Pecan Man. None of us knew how much impact one skinny old colored man could have in our lives, but we found out soon enough.�
“When you're as old as I am, it takes a while to make a point. The Pecan Man had a name - Eldred Mims. I called him Eddie. The people of Mayville didn’t know his name at all, until he was arrested and charged with the murder of a sixteen year old boy named Skipper Kornegay.�
Ora Lee, through this short novel, must acknowlege she has looked the other way. In the process she learns a great deal of truth about herself. She surprises us by telling that after twenty-five years, she has decided to tell the truth about the Pecan Man no matter what the cost. Twenty years after Eldred Mims was tried and convicted for the murder of Skipper Kornegay, who just happened to be the son of the County Sheriff.
“Once a lie is told, you have to keep on telling it. You not only have to repeat it time and time again, you have to embellish it, layer upon layer until you don‘t even remember the truth.�
Ora Lee is not without her faults. She is a flawed character, which she comes to realize. In her 1970s world, Ora Lee hires Eldred Mims to cut her grass. She has a maid Branch Lowery, whom she requires to wear a uniform. They are servants to her.
But through the course of the story, Blanche, her children, Grace, Patrice, ReNetta, and the Pecan Man become intimately known to her. Ora Lee learns that family does not mean only blood kin. Each of these former servants and the children become an integral part of her life. In sharing Thanksgiving and Christmas with them, she is transformed into a much more loving and caring woman.
Why was Skipper Kornegay killed? Why was the Pecan Man arrested? Why did Ora Lee Beckwith withold the truth for twenty-five years before deciding to tell the truth?
These are the questions that form the central themes of Selleck's novel. To disclose the answers would spoil this nice story for future readers. I won't do that.
As the reader discovers the answers to those questions, a quandary arises. The individual reader must decide whether they find themselves comfortable with Ora Lee's tale, or whether the Truth of the matter makes them squirm with what to me were uncomfortable answers. Perhaps, reader, you find this remark cryptic. Accept it. Each reader must determine their reaction to this story.
Without doubt, this is a poignant story that has the possibility of touching the reader in more ways than one. None of us is perfect. Being human, we make mistakes we regret and wonder whether we or deserving of forgiveness or the hope of redemption. In some ways, each of us owes a debt for each of our mistakes. Eldred Mims sums it up:
“I reckon I'm the bes' judge of that. Sometimes the debt you pay ain't exactly the one you owe, but it works out jus' the same anyway. Lord knows I done caused my share of heartache in this life.�
Hasn't everyone? The heart of every fable is the moral of it. Each reader must determine the moral of this one. You may find some truth about yourself when you do. Perhaps, go shopping down at the Star Market.
This is the first of a planned two volume history of Europe during the Twentieth Century by Kershaw. It was earlier released in the UK and hit American shelves on November 17, 2015.
Kershaw was the ideal author for this history. He is perhaps the pre-eminent historian regarding Germany, World War Two, and the author of the highly lauded two volume biography of Adolph Hitler.
It should come as no surprise that Germany occupies the central role in this history. Kershaw places the blame for both the First and Second World Wars at Germany's feet. All of the facts are impeccably documented. Kershaw's point to this thoughtful work is a question. Why?
This is not a military history. Nor do the personalities of the key players take center stage. Consider this a work of analytical history. Kershaw's analysis works from start to finish.
This is an astute portrait of nationalism, class struggle, and racial intolerance. Kershaw depicts the effects of the rise of Bolshevism resulting in the development of a movement to right wing politics and the development of fascism.
Kershaw also paints a portrait of a desperate Britain, France, and Soviet Union, all playing for time, delaying the onset of war with Hitler. The policy of Appeasement is painted with absolute clarity. Kershaw's treatment of Stalin's Non-Aggression Pact with Hitler seems a bit mild in light of Soviet atrocities committed during the invasion of Poland.
What is missing from this thorough history is the human touch. The result is a work that would be more at home in the University lecture hall. Kershaw's history would make an excellent textbook. This is one for those who take their history neat. ...more
Delta Wedding by Eudora Welty was chosen by members of On the Southern Literary Trail as its group read for November
Delta Wedding: Lingering Awhile
Delta Wedding by Eudora Welty was chosen by members of On the Southern Literary Trail as its group read for November, 2015. Special thanks to Co-Moderator Diane "Miss Scarlett" for nominating this work
The time is coming soon to say goodbye A time of sadness it will be But, honey, listen to my parting sigh And linger on awhile with me
The stars above you, yet linger awhile They whisper I love you,oh linger awhile And when you have gone away Every hour seems like a day I've something to tell you Oh linger awhile
The stars above you, yet linger awhile They whisper I love you, oh linger awhile And when you have gone away Every hour seems like a day
Vincent Hall, Music; Harry Owens, Lyrics (1923)
Eudora Welty, Portrait, A Portrait Reader, July, 2015
>blockquote>Delta Wedding, F. ed., Harcourt, New York, New York 1946
Full review to follow. This novel is a group read for members of On The Southern Literary Trail, December, 2015. Author Ellen Urbani will be joining uFull review to follow. This novel is a group read for members of On The Southern Literary Trail, December, 2015. Author Ellen Urbani will be joining us to discuss her novel....more
The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter: Malcolm Mackay's First Volume of the Glasgow Trilogy
"It's ieasy to kill a man. It's hard to kill a man well.
The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter: Malcolm Mackay's First Volume of the Glasgow Trilogy
"It's ieasy to kill a man. It's hard to kill a man well.
Malcolm Mackay
Mackay is an extraordinary new voice in crime fiction. It's dark. It's gritty. And Mackay takes the reader by the throat and immerses the hapless plonker who happens to pick up this ambitious trilogy into the underworld of organized crime without mercy. He is unblinking in a straightforward tale of a twenty-nine year old hitman, Colum MacLean, a freelance artist in making other people's problems disappear.
MacLean is careful. He can kill a man well. The object is being cautious, careful, not being rash or reckless. Others in the game can be talkers, bragging about how well they take out a target. That gets you caught. That's not killing a man well. MacLean keeps his own counsel.
More important, MacLean knows you cant stay too busy in this profession. Especially when you're freelance and don't work for an organization. Too many jobs, too close together attracts attention. MacLean is patient. He works regulary, but only enough to keep food on the table and some spending money in the pocket.
But things can become complicated when you get picked up by an organization. Sure, it may be a short term arrangement, as here. The Syndicate of Jamieson and Young have a problem. Their regular button man, an old professional is out of commission with a broken hip. Frank MacLeod, the regular recommends young MacLean as his fill in. MacLeod has taken a shine to the boy. He's got the makings of a careful man who solves a problem well.
Jamieson and Young are in the drug trade. Their problem is Lewis Winter. Winter's been in the business for twenty-five years. Never considered a serious competitor. But Winter wants to improve his station in life. He has a beautiful younger woman, Zara Coe, who aspires to a flashier life style. Winter knows he's getting too old to hold onto Zara. He's beginning to bore her. In the clubs Zara demands Winter take her, men much younger than Winter are paying her welcome attention. Winter's got his pride. Tired of being humiliated.
So, Winter is ready to make a move. Maybe he has support. Maybe he doesn't. Jamieson and Young decide that Lewis Winter has become a necessary death. Winter is a short term solution. If Winter has new muscle behind him, removing him sends a message to his unknown higher ups.
Mackay's prose crackles. His sentences are clean, precise, and race at a staccato pace. Not an unnecessary adjective or adverb interrupts the breakneck pace of this story.
The hit is clean. Simple. Professional. But that's only half the story. Mackay introduces character after character, each with pitch perfect voice. Every chapter builds on the preceding one. This writer has talent that will hold the reader's attention completely rapt.
Perhaps the only honest character is Inspector Michael Fisher. He is not necessarily likable. His assessment of the suspects in the death of Lewis Winter is formed out of complete cynicism. On the right track to solving the murder of Lewis Winter, Fisher is sidetracked by focusing on suspects who are only tangential to the actual solving of the murder case assigned to him. Not even Fisher is without fault in looking for the easy answer.
In an interview regarding his literary influences as a writer, Mackay mentions the obvious. Jim Thompson, Chandler, Hammett. His remarkable narrative is evidence that all those authors have taken seed in Mackay's craft. Add in Richard Stark and Elmore Leonard. Mackay is a force with which to be reckoned.
This first novel leaves Colum MacLean no longer a freelance agent. He is now a member of a Glasgow crime syndicate. His future will be revealed in the final two volumes, How a Gunman Says Goodbye and The Sudden Arrival of Violence. I'll eagerly move from this first novel to its ultimate conclusion.
Read this one. This one comes with my highest recommendation. Five Stars. Solid. ...more
Bryan Stevenson has written a compelling memoir with Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption. This is an important work which should be read by any individual who is concerned with the concept of Justice and incidents of Injustice that merit compassion and mercy.
Stevenson, the founder of the Equal Justice Initiative, and its Executive Director, is a committed advocate opposed to the imposition of the death penalty, an advocate for unjustly imprisoned children, and an iconic American citizen at the forefront of discussing racism as reflected in the Judicial System. It is a book that will surprise you, shock you, and appall you. Simply put, read this book, one of the Ten most noted books of 2014 by the New York Times, the Washington Post, and numerous other literary reviews.
My work with the poor and the incarcerated has persuaded me that the opposite of poverty is not wealth; the opposite of poverty is justice. Finally, I’ve come to believe that the true measure of our commitment to justice, the character of our society, our commitment to the rule of law, fairness, and equality cannot be measured by how we treat the rich, the powerful, the privileged, and the respected among us. The true measure of our character is how we treat the poor, the disfavored, the accused, the incarcerated, and the condemned.� -Bryan Stevenson
Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption revolves around the case of an innocent man, Walter McMillian, a black man who had a white girl friend in Monroe County, Alabama, framed by the Sheriff, the District Attorney, and convicted by a Jury for the murder of a clerk in a dry cleaner's shop. Condemned to die. The Sheriff and the District Attorney ignored the evidence that exonerated him. Manufactured the dirty evidence that convicted him and placed him on death row. Incredibly, though no law provided for it, the Sheriff succeeded in McMillian being held on death row prior to trial within the Alabama penitentiary system. McMillian was held on death row for a total of six years.
Walter McMillian, Exonerated
Although the case occurs in the home town and county of Harper Lee, the community which has gained fame from Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, there is no Atticus Finch to implore the Jury, "For the love of God, do your duty."
Bryan Stevenson surfaces as a real life Atticus Finch who ultimately gathers the evidence, uncovers the chicanery and political machinations that imprisoned McMillian. Stevenson who was a young fledgling attorney not long out of law school. He has argued cases before the United States Supreme Court five times.
Walter McMillian is a man to cheer for. Stevenson is a man to be emulated by so many others in the Justice System. But Stevenson does not gleefully celebrate his victories, the exoneration of the innocent. A bubbling anger appears to roil within him at the injustices he has continued to attempt to right in those years following McMillian's exoneration.
That anger, for me, is understandable yet disturbing. I have to wonder if Stevenson bears a burden that prevents him from having faith in any system responsible for the administration of justice. Whether it is difficult for him to approach any adversary opposite the court room without feeling there is the possibility of fairness.
I was a prosecuting attorney for almost twenty-eight years. I spoke for vulnerable populations. Abused children, victims of sexual assault, both women and men who were undeniable victims of domestic violence. I directed our County's Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault Program for almost four years. I began the private practice of law and for nearly two years, represented children as a Guardian Ad Litem, and Adults charged with Criminal Offenses. The years finally took their toll. I am thankfully retired. The Equal Justice Initiative Office is only ninety odd miles away. I owe Bryan Stevenson a vist. Maybe a little volunteer work.
Alabama's Electric Chair, currently stored in the attic of Holman Prison.
Sunday Morning Coming Down: a Reader's Reflection
I'm having a most unusual Sunday morning. I'm listening to the music of Dale Watson, led there while contemplating Capital Punishment. I'm having a cup of coffee. I've been thinking. A lot.
Reading takes you on strange journeys.
"Yellow Mama" was the name given to Alabama's Electric Chair. Although the Alabama Legislature had authorized death by electrocution in 1923, there was no way to carry out that sentence until 1927.
Kilby Prison, 1922-1969, Montgomery County, Alabama
Alabama needed a way to electrocute Horace DeVaughan for a double murder committed in Birmingham. Inmate Ed Mason, an English cabinet maker by trade who was serving 60 years for theft and grand larceny, built Yellow Mama. The chair was painted with yellow paint from the nearby Highway Department. The same paint used to paint lane indicators on State roads. The inmates named the new chair.
While well built, the chair didn't work too well. On April 8, 1927, Horace DeVaughn was the first human being to experience "riding the lightning." It was a long ride.
"He prayed to Jesus for hours beforehand, and accepted no food, drink or cigarettes on the night of the execution. In his final statement he expressed that he had been forgiven and had no hard feelings toward anyone, and asked for someone to tell his mother goodbye and that his soul was saved. DeVaughan underwent three 2,000 volt discharges between 12:31 and 12:42 AM. At the first 40-second jolt his body surged forward, a thin gray smoke flowed from under the electrode over his head, and the odor of burning flesh was apparent. After the second discharge, flames were seen on his leg, but he was still alive. After the third jolt, he was pronounced dead. Twenty were present as witnesses, included Moore's brother, George, who traveled from Coffeyville, Kansas and claimed a piece of DaVaughn's belt as a souvenir of his visit."
(The Montgomery Advertiser, Montgomery, Alabama, (2002))
Horace Devaughn was a black man. Two weeks later, Virgil Murphy, a veteran of World War I who was convicted in Houston County of murdering his wife, became the first white man electrocuted in the chair. Before the state's use of the electric chair, executions generally were carried out in the counties by hanging. (The Alabama Department of History and Archives)
Tuscaloosa County "Old Jail," where the gallows were
So here I am listening to music by a Birmingham, Alabama, native singing about sitting in that chair. Most of my professional career it was my duty to uphold the imposition of the death penalty. No easy burden. It's a lot to think about when you ask a man's jury of his peers to kill him. I have the utmost respect for Stevenson, though we would have been on opposite sides of the court room had we ever met in one.
I have tried my share of Capital cases. The verdicts in each case was guilty. However, the Jury's sentencing recommendation in all but one Life in Prison Without Parole. Those Defendants will never walk out of prison alive. Unless the Legislature changes the law regarding Life Without Parole. It's quite possible. The State is going broke. The prisons are overcrowded. There is a growing geriatric population in our prisons.
The law prevents an Alabama Prosecutor from telling a Jury that the Legislature could one day allow the possibility of parole in a Capital case. Were a Prosecuting Attorney do that, it would be reversible error.
In each Capital case I have tried, the Judge presiding followed the Jury's sentencing recommendation. In each case, I did not ask the Judge to override the Jury's recommendation. In my opinion the Jury had spoken. The verdict was Just. When the Jury recommended Mercy, I believed Justice had been done.
There is that one case, though. The case where I sought the death penalty, the verdict was guilty. I strenuously argued to the Jury that the only appropriate sentence was death. The Jury's recommendation was death. The Judge presiding imposed the death sentence. That was fourteen years ago. The case remains somewhere in the seemingly endless series of Appeals.
The Defendant murdered his two month old son. Beat and shook him to death. The child had two rib fractures on his chest. The child had eight rib fractures on his back. Picture holding a baby in front of you. Your thumbs gently resting on his chest, your fingers cradling each side of his back. The weight of the baby supported underneath his arms by the flesh between your thumbs and forefingers.
Think of the amount of force necessary to break the cartilaginous ribs of a two month old child. Consider it the same degree of force as the impact of two vehicles colliding each travelling at sixty miles an hour. Consider that the baby's brain was shaken so hard that his brain swelled within his soft skull to the degree the pressure became so great his brain shut down all autonomous nerve processes.
The verdict was just. I have no, absolutely no reason, to be ashamed of the verdict I sought, the sentence I sought. Yet I live with the fact I asked twelve men and women to kill another human being. It will bring you down. But it the life denied a child who will never have the opportunity to grow up that haunts me. I do believe there are cases where the denial of mercy is just.
But. There is always the possibility of a "But." I agree with almost every word Bryan Stevenson wrote.
Surprised?
Two Diverging Roads
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I� I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. Robert Frost, "The Road Not Taken
Bryan Stevenson and I started out on the same road. Neither of us intended to become lawyers.
Each of us felt the compulsion to do something meaningful. As Mr. Stevenson decided he could not help others by continuing his studies in philosophy by philosophizing, I decided not to be a teacher of history, a professor of Classical languages, or even a psychologist, though I took my undergraduate degree in that field.
Actually, I attempted to bluff the Chair of the Department of Psychology into allowing me to undertake my graduate studies in his department a semester earlier. I told him, "Well, if no assistance-ships are available, I'll apply to Law School." It seemed a good idea at the time. I had been tutoring the daughter of a Law Professor in her Latin studies. When the Chair smiled and answered, "We must all do what we must do, Mr. Sullivan," I nodded, swallowed, left his office and applied for entrance to Law School.
I was offered a Graduate Assistant-ship by the Department of Psychology the same day I received my acceptance to the School of Law. In my youthfulness and arrogant pride I turned down the offer and entered the study of Law.
Bryan Stevenson and I also agree about the traditional Law School curriculum. It is esoteric, It is a tortuous experience being the victim of the "Socratic" method of teaching. Students of the law are drilled in the art of confrontation and argument. To me, the desire to "Win" and not "Lose" is instilled in the student of Law. And, therein, lies the danger of Hubris in an adversarial process where the possibility of pride overtakes principle.
Perhaps, I have greater faith in our Judicial system that Stevenson. Or, perhaps I have too much.
There is the point at which we took the road the other did not.
The Tragedy of Walter McMillan
The behavior of two Monroe County District Attorneys primarily contributed to Walter McMillian's conviction and unlawful imprisonment. There should be consequences. Sanctions. The paramount duty of a District Attorney is not to secure a conviction, but to do the right thing. As prosecutors, we are lawyers just as those who are engaged in the private practice of law. I sport a tee shirt that defines a Prosecutor as a lawyer held to a higher standard. I personally always believed that, practiced that.
On June 11, 2015, retired District Attorney Charles J. Sebesta, Jr. was disbarred by State Bar Association of Texas for professional misconduct in obtaining a conviction of Robert Graves for a Capital Murder of six people on the basis of testimony he knew to be perjured. Further, Sebesta flagrantly withheld evidence proving Graves innocence. As a result Graves, an innocent man, was imprisoned for eighteen years for a crime he didn't commit.
It has been fundamental constitutional law since 1963 that prosecutors have an absolute duty to disclose evidence exculpatory to the Defendant. In other words, evidence which might be favorable to the Defendant. See Brady v. Maryland, 373 U.S. 83 (83 S.Ct. 1194, 10 L.Ed.2d 215) .
In its opinion disbarring Sebesta, the Texas Bar Association found he had violated his ethical duty by: eliciting false testimony from Robert Carter, a Co-Defendant;
failing to disclose the exculpatory evidence of Carter’s statement the night before trial, clearing Graves� of involvement in the crime;
eliciting false testimony from a Texas State Ranger regarding Carter’s statements about Graves� involvement;
threatening an alibi defense witness with prosecution for the same murders, when he had no evidence to support her involvement, apparently causing her to decide not to testify on Graves� behalf;
failing to disclose that a prosecution witness was under felony indictment by Sebesta’s office at the time of his testimony.
See (2015).
That's simply as it should be. Stevenson's blistering memoir makes me cringe.
Bryant Stevenson attributes many of the problems he confronted to the lingering affects of slavery. Statistics do not lie. That racism exists is undeniable. Stating racism is the primary cause for the manner of imposition of Capital Punishment doesn't work for me. I initially intended to be a Defense Attorney. I cut my chops on the cases of Sacco and Vanzetti, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. My legal literary mentors were Clarence Darrow, Louis Nizer, Melvin Belli and allen dershowitz.
My take on McMillian's case hinges on the base instinct to win at all costs. The very instinct to which law students are subjected throughout their education, whether that is the intent of Law Schools or not. It is a weakness of human nature to submit to the will to win whatever the cost.
Just Mercy isn't perfect. Following is an excerpt from the Sunday Review of Just Mercy, Ted Conover, The New York Times, October 17, 2014.
“Just Mercy� has its quirks, though. Many stories it recounts are more than 30 years old but are retold as though they happened yesterday. Dialogue is reconstituted; scenes are conjured from memory; characters� thoughts are channeled à la true crime writers: McMillian, being driven back to death row, 'was feeling something that could only be described as rage ... "Loose these chains. Loose these chains." He couldn’t remember when he’d last lost control, but he felt himself falling apart.' Stevenson leaves out identifying years, perhaps to avoid the impression that some of this happened long ago. He also has the defense lawyer’s reflex of refusing to acknowledge his clients� darker motives. A teenager convicted of a double murder by arson is relieved of agency; a man who placed a bomb on his estranged girlfriend’s porch, inadvertently killing her niece, “had a big heart.�
“Some things you must always be unable to bear. Some things you must never stop refusing to bear. Injustice and outrage and dishonor and shame. No matter how young you are or how old you have got. Not for kudos and not for cash: your picture in the paper nor money in the back either. Just refuse to bear them.�-Gavin Stevens, Intruder in the Dust, 1948.
Extras!
"Yellow Mama," Dale Watson,
"The Death of the Death Penalty," DAVID VON DREHLE, Time Magazine, May 28, 20i5"
Walsh's debut novel is a bravura performance. This is an upcoming author to watch.
In brief, Walsh chronicles what appears the perfect world of a Baton Rouge privileged neighborhood. The adults belong to the country club. Husbands play golf. Wives play tennis. Their children attend an exclusive private school.
But a beautiful veneer covers many a fault that hides in a furniture piece beneath it. Many secrets hide behind the doors of the homes on Piney Road.
The polished luster that shines on the surface of this Louisiana lagniappe of infidelity and violence is shattered by the brutal rape of Lindy Simpson, a beautiful golden teen track star at the Perkins Private school.
Four suspects emerge, including the nameless narrator, a unique voice, that Walsh created, leaving the reader to wonder whether the key relayer of information has a shred of reliability.
This is a masterful story of family, love, loss, and the nature of friendsip. It is equally a wondrous tale of the pain of growing up and mistakes made for lack of knowledge for not having lived long enough.
For a writer so young, M.O. Walsh displays a knowledge of life and how people live it beyond his years. Read it....more
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