Weeding out books challenge

Next week I have lined up reviews of two books, a western and a horror—my first book reviews this year—as well as reviews of short stories that I'm reading with great vigour than I did last year. My goal is to read at least six books per month, two every ten days. Anything more is a bonus. So far I'm nearly through with three books, the third being a vintage mystery. I also plan to read a lot of short stories in nearly every genre though I won't be reviewing every one of them.

Saturday morning, I cleaned my primary bookshelf with the chief purpose of weeding out books I'd, and hadn't, read, and ensuring that no termites or silverfish were feeding on the pages and bindings. Fortunately, there weren't any. The twenty books I got rid of included a few that belonged to me, such as three very old, tattered, and yellowed Carter Brown paperbacks (unread), Of Mice and Men and Cannery Row, and The Moon is Down by John Steinbeck (read), India: A Mission Mutinies Now by V.S. Naipaul (read), Vultures in the Sun by Brian Garfield (read and reviewed), Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak (read), and Angels and Demons by Dan Brown (read).

I wanted to dispose of more books in my collection but every time I picked up one, to toss it into the giveaway bag, I heard myself saying, “Next time,” and back it went on the shelf. Weeding out books is as ambitious as a reading challenge. In fact, reading books is less of a headache than getting rid of them. It’s like orphaning the books. A certain level of detachment is required to do that.

This year, however, I do want to get rid of more books than I did last year, which means I'll be reading that much more.

Nowadays I seldom give away books as I rarely come across people who read. This leaves me with two choices: sell them to used bookstores or to old paper marts or scrap dealers, known as raddiwallahs. Selling your books to either is the literary equivalent of a criminal offence: in the first, they’ll be strewn around, collect dust, and whatnot; in the second, they’ll be shredded and recycled into paper cups or toilet paper. 

A final word: a book is a man’s second best friend. Last evening, I attended a conference where some half-a-dozen central (federal) ministers spoke one after another. Their speeches were long and tedious. Rather than fall asleep, I opened my book (the western I mentioned above), and read a few more pages. It was time well spent.

Passengers, 2008

There is a plane crash. All but five people survive. Claire (Anne Hathaway), a therapist, is asked to counsel the survivors. Predictably, she falls in love with one of them, a young man named Eric (Patrick Wilson), even as the other four mysteriously vanish, and reappear. Are they really missing or are they missing her sessions? her mentor Perry (Andre Braugher) asks pointedly. Claire is unnerved by what's going on around her and that includes Eric's odd behaviour, like standing on a railway track and screaming at an oncoming high-speed train. She digs deeper and is balled over when she finds out the truth behind Eric's secretive nature and her own name among the list of passengers on the ill-fated plane. 

Passengers, directed by Rodrigo García, is a schizophrenic film; one of those neither here nor there kind of movies. It doesn't help that the survivors including Claire have someone looking out for them. In her case it's her Aunt Toni (Dianne Wiest); in Eric's case it's a dog, a Siberian Husky; someone or something from their past. Half way through the film you think you're getting a whiff of what's going on, or do you really? I didn’t. Questions pop up: who are all these people? Is this in the present or in the past? Are they alive or are they dead? Is this heaven or is this hell? What the hell is going on here?

I have a poor understanding of films about distorted reality. I just don’t get them. People said Shutter Island and Inception were brilliant films made by brilliant directors. I’m sure they were. I saw both the films. Only I understood them better after I came home and read spoiler-rich reviews.

Passengers was the second choice on cable, a switchover from Payback (1999) just when Kris Kristofferson's henchman was smashing Mel Gibson's exposed feet with a hammer. This is what happens when you're spoilt for choice.

Some interesting book covers

The Street by Ann Petry,
1946

The Bitter Tea of General Yen
by Grace Zaring Stone, 1932

A Room in Moscow by Sally Belfrage, 1959

The Inner Room
by Vera Randal, 1964

Murder One by Dorothy Kilgallen, 1968.

Anthropology of an American Girl
by Hilary Thayer Hamann, 2003

Note: For previous posts on Book Covers, see under Labels.

Michael Crawford, aka Frank Spencer and the Phantom

A profile of a gifted actor and singer for Overlooked Films, Audio & Video at Todd Mason’s blog Sweet Freedom.

In the 70s and 80s and long before cable, India’s state-run television Doordarshan (Far Sight) telecast several British sitcoms like Fawlty Towers, Sorry, Are You Being Served?, To the Manor Born, Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em, and 'Allo 'Allo! Yes Minister and Yes, Prime Minister came later followed by American series like Cosmos: A Personal Voyage by Carl Sagan, Dynasty, and Remington Steele. Der Alte, or The Old Fox, was a popular German crime serial at the time.

During this period Doordarshan also broadcast mini movies lasting no more than an hour. They were watched avidly. I remember one such film, Baxter, about a young boy unwanted by his parents (or so I think) and adopted by a young married couple who are fond of him. It was a poignant film. I haven’t been able to trace it since.

All that was in the past though some British sitcoms like Blackadder and 'Allo 'Allo! have made it back to Indian television screens, thanks to cable.

Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman in The Phantom of the Opera, 1986.
© Donald Cooper/Rex Features

A couple of years ago, we watched Joel Schumacher’s The Phantom of the Opera (2004) starring Gerald Butler, Emmy Rossum, Patrick Wilson, and Minnie Driver, and instantly fell for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s awe inspiring music vocalised by the lead actors other than Driver. At the time the film reminded me of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s famous stage production that had English actor and singer Michael Crawford in the title role of the Phantom. I have not seen it, only read about it.

Michael Crawford—now where had I heard that name before? To my pleasant surprise, I discovered that he was none other than the accident-prone, bumbling idiot, and affectionate husband Frank Spencer in Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em which was first broadcast in 1973 and then again until 1978. For a while I actually thought they were two men with the same name. I mean how could the blundering Frank Spencer be the debonair Phantom? A BBC poll rated it one of Britain’s best sitcoms.

In case you haven’t seen the sitcom or heard about it, here’s what it was all about, courtesy Wikipedia: “The wimpish, smiling Frank, sporting his trademark beret and trench coat, is married to (his long suffering wife) Betty (Michele Dotrice) and in later series they have a baby daughter, Jessica, which offered scope for even more slapstick humour. Frank was a gift for impersonators, and for a time it became a cliché that every half-decent impersonator was doing an impression of him, particularly his main catchphrase, “Ooh Betty,” (and) a quavering “Oooh…,” usually uttered with his forefinger to his mouth as he stands amidst the chaos of some disaster he has just caused (and which he himself has invariably escaped unscathed).”

Frank and Betty Spencer (Michael Crawford and Michele Dotrice)
© Wikipedia

While Michael Crawford, CBE, will always be remembered as Frank Spencer in this silly but delightful comedy about a made-for-each-other husband and wife, it would be unfair not to mention his other achievements, particularly as an award-winning singer who has cut albums and a stage actor on both London's West End and New York’s Broadway.

He was only 19 when he got a role in the American film The War Lover (1962) alongside Steve McQueen. At 25, he made his Broadway debut in Peter Shaffer's Black Comedy with Lynn Redgrave and was noticed by Gene Kelly who gave him a part in the film adaptation of the musical Hello, Dolly! Crawford then went on to act in various plays (No Sex Please, We're British), films (Disney adventure Condorman), and sitcoms (Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em, which made him a household name).

Michael Crawford, CBE
© www.wmeentertainment.com

Crawford got his second big break in 1986 when Andrew Lloyd Webber cast him in the musical stage adaptation of Gaston Leroux’s novel The Phantom of the Opera in the title role opposite English soprano Sarah Brightman. 

Over the next two-and-a-half years, he gave more than 1,300 performances on both West End and Broadway winning several music and theatre awards on the way. The Phantom of the Opera has since been produced in nearly 150 cities across 25 countries and recently celebrated its 25th anniversary. In 2011, Crawford and Webber teamed up again for the musical version of L. Frank Baum's novel The Wizard of Oz.

Years later, when Joel Schumacher made The Phantom of the Opera for the big screen, people wondered why the smiling and affable Frank Spencer wasn’t cast in the role of the Phantom. Michael Crawford has never been able to shake off the sitcom tag. In 2004, however, he’d have been 62 and perhaps a tad old to play the Angel of Music but he was the original Phantom, the man who has inspired many Phantoms over more than two decades.

The Mystery of the Semi-Detached by Edith Nesbit, 1893

He went upstairs, and at the door of the first bedroom he came to he struck a wax match, as he had done in the sitting rooms. Even as he did so he felt that he was not alone.

Edith Nesbit (1858-1924), the renowned English author and poet, wrote for children and adults with equal ease. She wrote dozens of books and short stories for the young and old. She had a particular fascination for horror stories many of which were published in literary magazines like Strand.

‘The Mystery of the Semi-Detached,’ which is part of Nesbit’s second collection of horror stories titled Grim Tales, is about an ordinary young man who is waiting in a suburban lane to meet the girl he is engaged to be married. When she fails to turn up long after the appointed hour, he goes to her semi-detached house and finds the front door wide open and no sign of life around. The atmosphere is eerie and the man is scared. Still, he enters the large and empty house shrouded in darkness. He walks into the first bedroom upstairs, lights a match, and is absolutely unprepared for the sight that meets his eyes—on the bed, in a white loose gown, is the girl he loves, her throat slit from ear to ear. He runs away from the scene and approaches the police who take him for a drunk and imprison him for the night.

The next day the cops accompany him to the house where they find that the girl is all right. She had been to a hotel with her mother and a rich uncle and, in what is a bizarre twist to the tale, insists that she had locked her room and carried the key with her.

Did the young man see an apparition in the house or was it a premonition of a grisly  death, if not that of the girl he loved then perhaps someone else?

While the 1,250-word story falls in the horror category, it is by no means scary or suspenseful. Both the man and woman have no names. In this story they don't matter. The author's style is simple and lucid. I may read some of the other tales in Grim Tales. After all, Edith Nesbit is a big name in fiction.

'On the Ownership of Books'

As a rule I don't reproduce entire articles or passages written by others; maybe, a few quotes in context of a review or a general post. This time, however, I’m making an exception because I felt readers would enjoy it as much as I did (in context of my commandments in an earlier post). The article is titled ‘On the Ownership of Books’ and it was published 85 years ago, in 1928, in The Literary Review [Vol.1, No.1, June 1928] of State Teachers College, Farmville, Virginia. Today, the college is known as Longwood College affiliated to Longwood University. 

The author of the article is one Frances Volk who, I think, was a student at State Teachers College. She was also the vice president of Argus Literary Society, VA, in 1926. Frances has written on a topic that is very close to our hearts—books—and her views even nearly a century ago were just the same as ours today. Some things never change. Read on…

On the Ownership of Books

By Frances Volk

There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any courses like a page
Of prancing poetically.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How fragile is the chariot
That bears a human soul!
— Emily Dickinson

There is a special appeal about the books which you own. No other books are quite like them. No matter how much you like the books which belong to the library, or to your friends, or even to your family, none of them quite fits into that place which is reserved for your very own books. How proud you felt when you were a child and were given a book, and looked inside to find a book-plate on which was inscribed the words: "Mary Ellen — Her Book."

By owning books, I do not mean merely possessing them. Anybody can have books—whole rooms full of them, and never own a one. You have to love them and become a part of them before you own them. Next to reading books yourself, nothing is more pleasant than lending your books to someone else who will cherish them. You get a vicarious enjoyment out of it almost equal to your own first reading of the book which is borrowed.

And new books! The feel of them! To hold in your hands a new volume in its unsoiled cover, its pages freshly cut and waiting to be turned, with the pugnant odor of printer's ink still clinging to it, and to know that it is your own, "to have and to hold,"—that gives a thrill which any book-lover knows.

Owning new books is really detrimental to the moral character, however, in a mild sort of way. You steal time from yourself in order to read them. It takes a very Puritan-like person to resist the call of a new book. What if you will have the book all the rest of your life? You want it now, and you usually take it now, too.

Old books are just as delightful as new ones. I do not mean to slight them, but old books are like grown-ups. You take your time and talk to them sedately, but new books make you feel impulsive like children, and you just have to stop and play with them.

Just as you can never fully appreciate flowers until you have raised them, tended, watered, and picked them, so you can never truly know the value of a book until you have owned it, marked it, and loaned it. Then it is a "joy forever" provided, of course, it is duly returned.

© The Literary Review, State Teachers College, Farmville, Virginia, Vol.1, No.1, June 1928

Two short stories about corpses

I open the score in the new year with forgotten books at Todd Mason’s blog Sweet Freedom, this Friday, with two fairly readable short stories revolving around dead bodies.

Smothered in Corpses by Ernest Bramah, 1912

“But as I glanced back at the corner of the disreputable street, I saw a face charged with diabolical hatred watching me from the grimy window of the room I had just quitted. It was the visage of the aged Chinaman…”

‘The End of the Beginning’ is the first of three short stories in Smothered in Corpses by English author Ernest Bramah (E.B. Smith). It is a murder mystery where the murder remains a mystery.

One morning John Beveledge Humdrum, a physician from Kensington, London, prepares for a breakfast of bacon and eggs and instead is served up with a doubled-up corpse of a well-dressed young man inside his bookcase. The doctor recalls the events of the previous evening when a heavily-veiled woman in a luxury car had taken him to a poor tenement to treat a young boy who had swallowed a bone button. There Humdrum met a villainous-looking Chinaman with a pigtail. As the physician left the slum, a loud explosion destroyed the house and a singed pigtail fell at his feet.

Is there a connection between the corpse inside his bookcase and the Chinaman and the explosion?

Before Humdrum can gather his thoughts, he is brought into the present with the sudden appearance of Erratica, a beautiful young girl who appeals to the doctor to save her from her enemies. She opens the door of the bookcase, flings the corpse on the dissecting table, takes its place, and closes the door after her.

The “enemies” on her tail is, in fact, Inspector Badger of the Detective Service, an old acquaintance of Humdrum, come to inform him of the murder of the prima donna he’d met the previous evening—Senora Rosamunda de Barcelona, a famous Spanish singer—who was found dead with eleven stab wounds, a bone button wrapped in the doctor’s prescription, and a yard of pigtail tied round her neck.

After the inspector leaves, he opens the bookcase only to find it empty and on his dissecting table the corpse of an elderly Italian anarchist he’d met a month ago, instead of the body of the young man.

‘The End of the Beginning’ is an absurd story but a well-written one. As I said, it is one of three stories—the other two being ‘In the Thick of it’ and ‘The Beginning of the End’ also concerning John Humdrum—that Ernest Bramah carved out of a 120,000-word manuscript so as to participate in a short story competition of not more than 4,000 words each. This explains the absurdity of the tale. The three stories are part of The Specimen Case, a collection of many stories.

I thought the experiment was as ingenious as the story. This was the second story I read where a murder mystery revolved around a bookcase. On December 13, 2013, I reviewed The Book Case, a riveting tale by Nelson DeMille.

Nice Corpses Like Flowers by Dorothy Les Tina, 1943

The head and shoulders were part way under the work table, and the thin little coroner was complaining bitterly as he crawled out, stood up and brushed off his knees.

“Why,” he asked no one, “do corpses always get themselves in such awkward positions?”

The coroner’s wry comment doesn't help Detective Clint Fleming in his investigation of the murder of Fred Jensen, a young man, who is found with a florist's knife in his chest and the gilt letter ‘U’ clutched between his fingers.

Fleming is a sharp, cynical, no-nonsense cop who relies more on his gut feelings than on his powers of deduction to solve murder cases. It’s his instincts that enable him to find out who killed Jensen and why.

He questions three suspects, all of them employed in the floral shop—Pat Murray, a pretty young girl, Jack Unger, a young man possessive of the girl, and Herb Martin, a short and stocky man with a temper—as well as its owner Thomas Davies.

What does the ‘U’ stand for? Fleming wonders. Does it stand for the second letter of Pat's last name, the first letter of Jack’s last name, or the ‘u’ in murder?

Fleming, who is romantically inclined towards Pat, finds the truth hidden in the dead man’s secret formula for preserving fresh flowers and smuggling of drugs in out-of-season flowers.

I enjoyed this short story and particularly the character of Clint Fleming who resembles, in speech, attire, and conduct, the many police and private detectives of mid-20th century crime fiction. This story appeared in Crack Detective Magazine, March 1943.

The Chicago-born Dorothy Les Tina is (was?) a teacher and a writer, and served in World War II, in the Women’s Army Corps as a public relations officer in several posts, including Fort Rucker, Alabama. I haven't been able to find out much about Les Tina or her other works.