Reading Club

 Full disclosure:

She's my sister. 

But do you realize how hard it is to get relatives to read your work?

Reading Club

Snowed in? 

Have I got a good book for you.

 

Edward Albee

 “Read the great stuff, but read the stuff that isn't so great, too. Great stuff is very discouraging. If you read only Beckett and Chekhov, you'll go away and only deliver telegrams for Western Union.”

― Edward Albee

Review: Bombay Monsoon

 The ugly American is always an innocent. It’s innocence that makes him ugly.
Danny Jacobs is not only an innocent, he’s polite. He doesn’t ask personal questions. He takes everyone at their word, at the surface. It’s not that he has no experience; he’s a foreign correspondent for a young and rising news service. He’s been dangerous places. He even has a shrapnel scar on his butt from Vietnam. What he lacks is suspicion, and it’s a nearly fatal flaw in Bombay in 1975. 

     (The action takes place during the Emergency which Indira Ghandi imposed to keep power, a time when democracy and truth were suspended, a time in which a young new correspondent was discouraged from asking personal questions.)

     But his neighbors are friendly. Everyone he meets is friendly, including a wealthy upstairs neighbor who’s in “import-export” and his stunningly beautiful girlfriend whom Danny falls hard for--even some people he’d rather not be friends with, including even an uglier American than himself who keeps turning up in his path. But all these people DO ask personal questions. They all know everything there is to know about Danny, including some dangerous secrets he’s certain ARE secret.

   Bombay Monsoon is like skating on thin ice. No one is who they present themselves as. Even as the truth is slowly peeled away, the reader has to ask: have we finally reached the truth? It’s a tale of constant betrayal with more twists and turns than the hair-raising mountain roads Danny must navigate. And he’s never in the driver’s seat. 

    To tell you more would spoil the surprises. Head out to the bookstore now.

Midwest Book Review: the Dutch Painter

 

From MBR:

A welcome addition to the growing library of Sherlock Holmes stories, "The Strange Case of the Dutch Painter" by Timothy Miller does full justice to the exploits of that master detective which was originally created by Sir Conan Doyle. A 'must read' selection for all dedicated mystery buffs, as well as the legions of Sherlock Holmes fans, and also readily available for personal reading lists in a digital book format (Kindle, $9.99), this paperback edition of "The Strange Case of the Dutch Painter" from Seventh Street Books is an especially and unreservedly recommended for all community library Mystery/Suspense collections.

Aaron Sorkin

 

"I like dialogue. It sounds like music. What the words sound like are as important to me as what the words mean."

-- Aaron Sorkin

I'm not insane!

Have saber, will travel.

I mean, I had this figured out long before any German scientists.

"The story of van Gogh's madness was part of a coverup, the authors say, by none other than van Gogh's friend and fellow artist Paul Gauguin."

For the full article, 
check out NPR 

Scion Society hazing

 The admissions test was brutal.
First they blindfolded me. Then:

(Actually I just had to give my name)

1) They asked me whether the train from Paddington at 8.30 would get me to Devon by noon.

2) They asked me to discern five different types of tobacco ash by smell alone.

3) They asked me to recite "The Great Rat of Sumatra" word for word.

4) They asked the middle name of Watson's fifth wife.

5) They asked me in which story Holmes first mentions "the little grey cells."

6) They told me to put on a deerstalker cap backwards.

7) They swore me to secrecy.

But I passed! I'm now a member of the Crew of the Lone Star Barque Society (based in Dallas). I can put a swagger in my step.

Claude Levi-Strauss

 

"Language is a form of human reason, which has its internal logic of which man knows nothing."

Review: The Fugitive Colors

 Nancy Bilyeau used to live in Tudor England. Now she lives in Georgian England
(with side trips to Gilded Age New York). I say this because her books are so meticulously researched that the reader feels he is reading an actual narrative from the past, and that’s a very good feeling indeed. We’re transported to 1760s London, the silk-design shop of Genevieve Sturbridge, the heroine of The Blue, a fearless, determined woman whose aspirations to be an artist got her entangled once in a world of spying and intrigue, shifting allegiances and yes, murder and will do so again in short order in The Fugitive Colors.

The difference is that this time Genevieve has a business and a family to protect, so that her room to maneuver against the various forces trying to entrap her in their webs is even more circumscribed, the stakes that much higher. And the cast of villains and artists which Bilyeau blends so well is that much richer. What are the fugitive colors? Let’s just say that the outisize ambitions of the premiere English artist of hos day, Sir Joshua Reynolds come into play, as well as a host of artists jostling for his spot. And did I mention the king of France? And the Bow Street Runners? And Casanova? It’s a heady brew that Bilyeau mixes up, served up in the finest of crystalline prose.

Contraband

 

Psst! I just got my copy of Maus. 

It literally came in a plain brown wrapper. Keep it on the downlow, willya? They're coming down hard on readers, and I've already got Beloved and Ulysses against me.

John or Paul?

 

Which one are you, John or Paul?

As an artist, which are you?

The raw or the cooked? 

     

 I mean, there are those artists who want to dig into themselves, confess themselves, use themselves as their source material. And then there are artists who hide behind their art, who use their art to please, to put on a hundred different masks. I think it's true no matter what medium you work in: writing, acting, painting, etc. Of course art by it's very nature is a kind of hiding; even if it is a revelation, it's always at one remove. One can always deny it if questioned by Pilate. 

Yet it is also an invitation to follow the clues, no matter how tortuous or obscure, to the soul. So there's a dialectic involved.I adore Lennon, but I'm definitely a McCartney, hiding behind the mask of Dr. John Watson. (Not that an artist can't occasionally break the mold: McCartney's Yesterday or Lennon's For the Benefit of Mr. Kite.

Reflections on Reflections

    There comes a time in every draft of a novel when things start to click together, to reflect each other. For instance, did you know that King Tut photographer Harry Burton preferred sunlight for his pictures? Which meant he had to use a complicated setup of mirrors and reflectors to bring the sun into the tomb. (I didn't know this, and had to rewrite that whole section.)

     

But then I realized that must have been the exact method used by Geoffrey Hodson, 50 pages earlier, to create the illusion of dancing fairies! 

Research always shows you the way.

Memorabilia

 

I'm not really one for memorabilia, but I figure I owe these guys something. So I got this.

Benedict Cumberbatch

I like Benedict Cumberbatch. I like Sherlock. How could I not? But the truth is, I have no news about either subject. I have no special insights into either phenomenon. I have no whimsical tales to relate. I'm simply pandering, hoping that a picture of this dashing young man will garner my blog more followers. Hey, it's worth a try.

Thanks, Benny.

 

The Strange Cases of Strange Cases

 Of course, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was the inspiration for the title of my first (and therefore my second) novel. I should perhaps have done my research further. It turns out there are a lot of "Strange Case" titles out there, and I am now chained to them for all eternity, like Marley's ghost with his cashboxes. And some of the titles are a wee bit...well...

HUGO SPROUTS AND THE STRANGE CASE OF THE BEANS
THE STRANGE CASE OF THE RICKETY COSSACK: AND OTHER CAUTIONARY TALES FROM HUMAN EVOLUTION
THE RABBIT REPORT: THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MISSING GINGER
THE STRANGE CASE OF THE SPOTTED MICE & OTHER CLASSIC ESSAYS ON SCIENCE

These are just some of my new bunkmates. But my favorite, hands down, is this title:

I haven't read the book, and I never will, because it couldn't possibly live up to its title. Perhaps you've read it and enjoyed it. Let me know. It's definitely a brother from another mother. 

Now excuse me, I have to get back 

to work on The Strange Case of the Pharaoh's Heart.

Where to start with Agatha?

 If you've always wanted to read the Queen of Crime, but didn't know where to start? Here's an excerpt from an excellent primer:

The shocker

If you’re looking for an ending that shook contemporary readers and is still capable of jolting the unsuspecting reader today, then settle down with The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. The eponymous victim is a neighbour of Poirot’s and his sudden, violent demise brings the detective out of retirement.

                                               --Janice Hallett

For the entire article, check out The Guardian.

Art Spiegelman

 Samuel Beckett once said, "Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness."

...On the other hand, he SAID it.”
                  ― Art Spiegelman

Book burning

 Face it: if you read books, you read banned books. If you ban books, you don't read books.

This is really a war between readers and non-readers.

One Happy Customer

Bringing a smile to all ages. That's my mission.

 

Lermolieff has his say

 From an interview with "Ivan Lermolieff, Holmes's confederate in The Strange Case of the Dutch Painter:

What is something you want people to know about you?

My name is not Ivan Lermolieff. That’s only a nom de guerre hung on me by Vernet—or can I say Sherlock Holmes? My real name is—oh, perhaps I should stick with Lermolieff. Which is actually an anagram of my mentor’s name. More or less.

For the complete piece, visit Karen's Killer Book Bench--

As I was saying...

 Any age is the right age to introduce them to the Great Detective. Especially members of the Red-headed League.

On the other hand...

 

It's good to know that it's a relaxing read for all ages.

Hmm...

I love pictures of readers with my books. However, there are some endorsements I'd rather not claim.

 

Remember your first book?

 Check out First Book and give them their first book.

Over half of America's low-income children are growing up in homes without books.

That's millions. Millions of children live in a book desert - no books to spark imagination. No books to strengthen their critical thinking skills. No books to connect with the outside world.

First Book changes all of that.

John Crowley

 

“Learning to decipher words had only added to the pleasures of holding spines and turning pages, measuring the journey to the end with a thumb-riffle, poring over frontispieces. Books! Opening with a crackle of old glue, releasing perfume; closing with a solid thump.”

--John Crowley

Lagniappe: From Poem to Screen

 “Who’s on line two? Bob Frost?” 

    “Bobby, how’s it hanging, baby? How’s Vermont? Sap still rising?” “Oh, mending walls, eh? Make sure you get a good contractor. This guy Sophie got on the guest house, he’s a goneph. I swear, I’m pouring money down a rat hole.

 "So what have you got for me, baby? A new poem? Pitch me! Two ears, no waiting.” “Stopping in the Woods on a Snowy Evening? Great title. Says it all. Three teen-age couples, cabin in the woods, axe-murderer, chop, chop, chop, big box office, I can smell the money, these kids can’ get enough of the crap!

For the rest check out Lagniappe

Historical fiction or conspiracy theory?

 

Vincent van Gogh did not commit suicide.

He was murdered.

And I can prove it.

How? By fudging the facts. Creating doubt. Promulgating conspiracy theories.

Historical fiction writers do it every day.

Let’s face it, we’re deep in conspiracy theories these days, and more and more people are latching on to conspiracies to explain the world around them. Conspiracy theories are a growth industry. Unless the market is being manipulated by the Russians, or lizard people, which would explain a lot.

For the entire article, visit Lesa's Book Critiques

Interview: Historical Novel Society

A review/ interview with the Historical Novel Society:

 

"Timothy Miller’s second ‘Strange Case’ novel features a witty amalgamation of Sherlockian investigation with historical oddities. The Strange Case of the Dutch Painter (Seventh Street Books, February 2022) revolves around the suicide of Vincent Van Gogh, and throws up some intriguing perspectives on the era, the painter, and the power of art."

For the entire piece, visit the Historical Novel Society

Review: Dreamland

 If you liked Robert Altman’s Gosford Park (and I loved it) chances are you’ll love Nancy Bilyeau’s Dreamland. In both mysteries foreground and background are switched, so that while the bodies pile up in the background, in the foreground are the various tangled relationships among a very wealthy (or perhaps not so wealthy?) family which rivals the Rockefellers for both fame and fortune. But where it differs from Gosford Park is that the action takes place not at a typical country house but at a Coney Island you probably never knew existed circa 1911: when there were three magnificent hotels for the wealthy set right against three magnificent amusement parks for the working man, and where the wealthy can slum and cast off their outward shows and indulge their ids.

It’s this magnificent realization, full of detail, of the two worlds side by side, and the edffect it has on each character that make this a truly exceptional, fully realized novel. Seen through the eyes of an older daughter who already suspects the rottenness of her wealthy life and dares to plunge into the world of Dreamland, one of the three amusement parks, she finds herself in love with and defending the number one suspect of the murders. Either she’ll get him off or be killed herself. This is mystery in the hands of a master of the historical novel. I’ve read Bilyeau’s other novels—this is the one to start with.

A Master of Disguise

 

My thoughts on why Sherlock Holmes lives a life of disguises, first presented in Crime Thriller Hound.:

There are two kinds of actors. One acts to reveal himself. The other acts to hide himself. The first has no protection from the world. She is all blood and bone and sinew and nerve, like an illustration from Grey’s Anatomy. She is always herself, on full view for the world to witness.

​

The second is all armor, though the armor is constructed of quicksilver. We never get a glimpse of him. He is the hero with a thousand faces, a chameleon.

​

It’s a well-known fact that Sherlock Holmes was a master of disguise, using his talent for transformation in some fifteen stories in the canon, from a sailor to a priest to an old woman, often delighting in showing off his talents by fooling Watson, who knows his face better than any man, having captured it in print in its every mood. Indeed, some, such as Captain Basil in The Adventure of Black Peter, seem to be regular characters with shadowy lives of their own. It has been conjectured that he must have had an early career on the stage. Watson at one point even bemoans when he opted to become a consulting detective—“The stage lost a fine actor," he says 

in A Scandal in Bohemia.

​

Well, if we had to choose what kind of actor he is, I think all hands would go up for the latter, the concealing kind. Sherlock Holmes gives nothing away. His heart, his history, even his very thought processes are meagerly doled out to even his closest friend, John Watson. He’s more than ready to give credit for his work to Scotland Yard bumblers, to efface himself from the record books. He would have vastly preferred Watson’s accounts of his adventures to be pared down to scientific case notes, to let himself be equal to x. And the only woman he shows any warmth for at all is an actress who bests him by means of a disguise, while he never socialises with his own (even more unsociable) brother.

​

But where does his fascination with disguise come from? His need to erase himself? Does Sherlock Holmes hate Sherlock Holmes, and if so, why?

​

For the answer, or at least a conjecture, I think we have to delve into Holmes’s past, and we have little enough to go on there. We know that his father was a country squire, settled in his ways, yet he chose a French woman, from a family of prominent painters, as his wife. It’s an odd match.

​

Perhaps she brought money to the estate?  The Vernets were certainly wealthy. Or perhaps it was a second marriage for Mr. Holmes, and he needed a new mother for his children from his first.  For her part, she could not be choosy at her age.

​

Because since we know her family, we can find her in the family genealogy. She was almost certainly Louise Vernet-LeComte, whose mother Camille was the sister of Horace Vernet. She would have been about thirty-two when she gave birth to Mycroft, thirty-nine when Sherlock was born. Both her age and the gap between births suggest stillbirths in between, or at least children who did not live to majority. It’s entirely possible that she died giving birth to Sherlock.  If not, she would likely have been a very protective mother to her youngest son. But if so, his father, and even Mycroft, might have blamed her death on him. There’s reason to want to hide, estranged from his very birth from his family, carrying guilt as his original sin.

​

And if he came from a family of country squires, where is the family seat? Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft seem to have inherited a country estate. Did his father lose it, either through drink or mismanagement? Or is there an older brother, whom they are so estranged from that neither ever lets his name pass their lips?

 

We know Holmes did not finish university. Could his father have died without leaving him a penny to his name, forcing him to “live by his wits?”

​

Or could it be that Mr. Holmes was not his father at all, that Louise was sent back to live with her brother Emil when she could produce no more children after Mycroft, and she had an affair? The clue to Sherlock’s actual father may then be hiding in plain sight.  After Moriarty’s death he seems to have undergone some crisis of the soul,  traveling from one guru to another, ostensibly in the guise of a Norwegian explorer named Sigerson. Perhaps his father was a Norwegian explorer named Siger, and his wanderings after the death of Moriarty were actually for the purpose of seeking him out? Or (and this I will admit is stretching it to the limit) perhaps his father was George Sigerson, Irish neurologist, politician and poet, who visited France often in his youth. He would have been thirty-two at the time Sherlock was born. Illegitimate birth still held the stain of bastardy in the 19th century. That would have been reason enough for Holmes to plant a palisade around himself.

​

Indeed, we have to ask ourselves why he ever abandoned the stage to create his own unique profession. I think it’s because there is a third type of actor. Most actors are self-absorbed. They shouldn’t be censured for it. It’s actually a necessary trait when one’s only instrument is oneself. But some actors are concerned more with the play than their part. They cannot see the tree for the forest. Because they are so caught up in the mise en scene, on every part, they cannot focus on themselves. Such actors make excellent directors.

I think Sherlock Holmes was so concerned with hiding his secrets that he made a profession of uncovering the secrets of others.  Even his clients must unmask themselves before Holmes will take them on, even if you’re the King of Bohemia. Holmes became a pioneer semiotician, carefully brushing away his own footprints in the snow.

​

Perhaps we should just respect Sherlock’s privacy.  But let’s look at this another way: he chooses Watson as his friend and foil precisely because of his lack of artifice. Yet it is Watson who exposes him, over and over. I think that too is a deliberate  choice on Sherlock’s part, that he can only reveal himself when translated into third person. In that case, all this conjecture makes fertile soil for more stories, more encores.

​

He’s amassed hundreds of encores. Let’s just give him a thundering ovation.