Support Your Local Library

Annamaria on Monday

This morning it snowed in NYC.  The first falling snow I've seen in sometime.  That's because I have been spending my winters in a place with a Mediterranean Climate: Italy -- Florence to be exact. In less than a week I will be on my way.  Though it's never easy for me to organize myself for 2 1/2 months away, this year I am particularly discombobulated. 

I spent most of the fall focused on getting a manuscript ready to send to my agent.  Then I went back to the first draft of Vera and Tolliver 5 and found scene by scene pouring out of wherever those stories come from. First drafts are the hardest, but for me also the most riveting aspect of writing fiction.

I am, therefore, rerunning a post from 10 years ago, on a topic very close to my heart. Here it is. It's about a gift i urge you to give.  

Annamaria on Monday

It's nearly Christmas.  I urge you to give a gift to everyone in your community.  One they can use freely, enjoy, find extraordinarily useful.  That will inform the ignorant, entertain the bored, help the unemployed find a job, and distract those in pain.   No shopping is involved here.  All you have to do is make a donation to your local library.

One of the lions--Patience and Fortitude--that grace the Main Branch of the New York Public Library

I realize that, unlike murder, free public libraries are not everywhere.  They are pretty much everywhere in the USofA.  If they exist where you live, you owe it to yourself to follow my advice and give to your local bastion and guardian of civilization.  Libraries are the most benign places on earth.  I have gotten to experience all of the top three.

The libraries of the world line up like this. One: The Library of Congress in Washington.  Two: The British Library in London.  Three: The New York Public Library, where I have the enormous privilege of calling myself a writer in residence.  Mine is the MOST user friendly.  And open and welcoming.  Not so much, numbers one and two.

At the Library of Congress, you have to apply if you want to read, show ID, make a case for yourself.  It is not onerous, but not totally open either.

Here is the drill if you want to research at The British Library.  First, you have to go on their website, which is dense with long paragraphs of information spread over many pages.  The information is arranged in the most arcane way: like books stored by the Dewey Decimal system--according to rules understood only by licensed librarians.  If you are really determined, you will be able to find and fill out the application form.  Once you have submitted a properly completed form, you will be directed to a list of acceptable forms of identification.  You will need to present two of them when you arrive at the library.  You will also be given your personal applicant ID number.

The British Library

On the day you arrive for the first time, you will be directed to a special room, where you enter your ID number in the computer system and then wait.  Eventually applicants will be called by that ID number to be interviewed.  A very friendly, in my case, person will ask you to explain what of their collection you want to see and why.  I have no idea of the criteria they use to judge your worthiness.  All I know is that I passed muster to read in their Africa and Asia Room.  They gave me a special British Library photo ID.

If you survive the above, you go to the cloak room in the basement, where you give up all your worldly possessions except for your computer, pencils (NO PENS), and your notebook.  You put those three things, and nothing else in a clear plastic bag.  You then can take the elevator to the reading room you have designated.  There a guard will check your ID and your clear plastic bag.  Then and only then you can read a book.

I don't resent this.  It is a privilege to be able to read British Library's books, and they have a right to require whatever they want of the people they allow in.

But nothing like this happens in the NYPL or in public libraries all over the the USA.  If you want to read a book, all you have to do is ask for it.  If you want to borrow a book to take home from one of the branch libraries, you have to have a card like this.  No photo, no approved forms of ID, no expiration date.

  

I consider free public libraries sacred.  They are my temples of free knowledge.  My places of worship.

I fell in love with the library as a very young child, when my brother and I called it "The Liberry."

My Brother and Me

The Paterson (NJ) Public Library saved my life. I would have grown up somehow if I could not have read its books as a child, but I would not have grown up to be me. Even before my brother and I learned to pronounce it, we loved to go. We went at least once a week in the summer. Our mother took us to our local branch, about a twenty minute walk from home, a simple storefront filled with hundreds of books and staffed by two of the nicest ladies ever. Mommy got books for herself and my brother and I chose from the children’s section. He had a weird taste for books about snakes, guns, and tanks—a bother since we were allowed only three books at a time. When I finished reading mine, I was stuck with his questionable selections until the next trip. As long as we were still in elementary school, the rules allowed us only children’s books, but since I was voracious, there was soon nothing left for children that I hadn’t read. So as a seventh grader, the librarians allowed me to select biographies (but never fiction) from the adult section.

Paterson Public Library

During the summer, between grades seven and eight, I took to going with my friend Dolores to the main branch, a bus ride away. It was much grander than our local storefront. Here is a picture of it—a building designed by Henry Bacon, who subsequently designed the Lincoln Memorial. It’s now on the National Register of Historic Places.

It was one of the most elegant places we had ever seen. Only churches and the Paterson City Hall compared with it. Even in the big library, however, we were not allowed grown-up books, except for biographies. Why the librarians thought that the lives of real people would be more edifying than those of fictional characters is beyond me now, but in those days we just took what we could get. Consequently, I read the lives of Fred Allen, William Randolph Hearst, and Lunt and Fontaine, among many others—lives of people who lived large, an idea one could hardly get a whiff of in our working class neighborhood.

Now I am privileged to do my research at the Main Branch—the Stephen Schwarzman Building—of the New York Public Library, a marble temple of knowledge that can tell you anything you want to know and will tell it to you no matter who you are.

 An Italian friend who was living here in New York was amazed when she found out how egalitarian our library is. We went together to do research one day. She is from Florence, home to one of great libraries of the world: The Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze. It is massive and beautiful. And like libraries everywhere has on staff some of the most devoted employees anywhere. When the floodwaters were rising in 1966, one of them, a woman, stayed until the last possible moment, moving priceless treasures from the lower floors to the upper ones. When it was too late to continue, she escaped over the rooftops, carrying Galileo’s telescope. That library is fabulous, but unlike ours, you can’t just walk in. You have to have top-notch credentials just to get through the door.

Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze

My friend and I walked into the Main Branch one day along with scores of others seeking all kinds of information. She wanted to know the New York City and New York State laws governing the manufacture of foods containing dairy products. I wanted a map of Paraguay in 1868. We both found what we wanted: she in the main reading room, and I in the Map Division. Where else in the world can you do that? And get the help of kind and knowledgeable people to do it efficiently. It’s amazing.

Map Division

And it is gorgeous, is it not?

Main Reading Room

Your library needs you. You may not even go there yourself, but the library deserves your support. PLEASE, give a donation to your local public library. You can probably give online in a couple of minutes. There are kids in your town who need the library, for whom it will open vistas that will change their lives.

The Story of Chanukkah, (Mostly) Unexpurgated Version

Jeff—Saturday

With December upon us, I was thinking of my traditional Christmas post when it hit me that the week after next has us coming up on Chanukkah, and I’ve not written anything about that week-long holiday in over a half-dozen years.  Shame on me.  So I fell back upon some long time ago research and settled upon the version told on the website Judaism 101.  I’ve tinkered a bit with it, but it’s virtually lifted straight off that website. So thank you, whoever wrote this piece.  By the way, for those of you who wonder why one who writes about Greece is writing about Chanukkah… read on.

Chanukkah, the Jewish festival of rededication, also known as the festival of lights, is an eight-day festival beginning on the 25th day of the Jewish month of Kislev (roughly equivalent to December).

Chanukkah is probably one of the best-known Jewish holidays, not because of any great religious significance, but because of its proximity to Christmas. Many non-Jews (and even many assimilated Jews) think of this holiday as the Jewish Christmas, adopting many of the Christmas customs, such as gift-giving and decoration. It is ironic that this holiday, which has its roots in a revolution against assimilation and the suppression of Jewish religion, has become the most assimilated, secular holiday on the Jewish calendar.

Alexander the Great

The story of Chanukkah begins in the reign of Alexander the Great. Alexander conquered Syria, Egypt and Palestine, but allowed the lands under his control to continue observing their own religions and retain a certain degree of autonomy. Under this relatively benevolent rule, many Jews assimilated much of Hellenistic culture, adopting the language, the customs and the dress of the Greeks, in much the same way that Jews in America today blend into the secular American society.

Antiochus IV

More than a century later, a successor of Alexander, Antiochus IV was in control of the region. He began to oppress the Jews severely, placing a Hellenistic priest in the Temple, massacring Jews, prohibiting the practice of the Jewish religion, and desecrating the Temple by requiring the sacrifice of pigs (a non-kosher animal) on the altar. Two groups opposed Antiochus: a basically nationalistic group led by Mattathias the Hasmonean and his son Judah Maccabee, and a religious traditionalist group known as the Chasidim (no direct connection to the modern movement known as Chasidism). They joined forces in a revolt against both the assimilation of the Hellenistic Jews and oppression by the Seleucid Greek government. The revolution succeeded and the Temple was rededicated.

Judah Maccabee

According to tradition as recorded in the Talmud (the written version of original oral law and commentary comprising Jewish civil and ceremonial law), at the time of the rededication there was very little oil left that had not been defiled by the Greeks. Oil was needed for the menorah (candelabrum) in the Temple, which was supposed to burn throughout the night every night. There was only enough oil to burn for one day, yet miraculously, it burned for eight days, the time needed to prepare a fresh supply of oil for the menorah. Significantly, an eight-day festival was declared to commemorate this miracle, not the military victory.

Chanukkah is not a very important religious holiday. The holiday's religious significance is far less than that of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Passover, and Shavu'ot. It is roughly equivalent to Purim in significance, and you won't find many non-Jews who have even heard of Purim! Chanukkah is not mentioned in Jewish scripture; the story is related in the book of Maccabees, which Jews do not accept as scripture.

The only religious observance related to the holiday is the lighting of candles. The candles are arranged in a candelabrum called a menorah (or sometimes called a chanukkiah) that holds nine candles: one for each night, plus a shammus (servant) at a different height. On the first night, one candle is placed at the far right. The shammus candle is lit and three blessings are recited. On subsequent nights only two blessings are said.

After reciting the blessings, the first candle is then lit using the shammus candle, and the shammus candle is placed in its holder. Candles can be lit any time after dark but before midnight. The candles are normally allowed to burn out on their own after a half-hour minimum, but if necessary they can be blown out at any time after that haif-hour.  Special candle lighting rules apply on the Sabbath (Shabbat), by reason of the Sabbath rule against igniting or extinguishing a flame.

Each night, another candle is added from right to left (like the Hebrew language). Candles are lit from left to right (because you pay honor to the newer thing first). On the eighth night, all candles are lit.

It is traditional to eat fried foods on Chanukkah because of the significance of oil to the holiday. Among Ashkenazic Jews (essentially those from Central and Eastern Europe), this usually includes latkes (pronounced "lot-kuhs" or "lot-keys" depending on where your grandmother comes from—aka "potato pancakes").

Gift-giving is not a traditional part of the holiday, but has been added in places where Jews have a lot of contact with Christians, so their children don’t feel left out of receiving gifts. It is extremely unusual for Jews to give Chanukkah gifts to anyone other than their own young children. The only traditional gift of the holiday is "gelt," small amounts of money--because coins are a symbol of independence!

Another tradition of the holiday is playing dreidel, a gambling game played with a square top. Most people play for matchsticks, pennies, M&Ms or chocolate coins. The traditional explanation of this game is that during the time of Antiochus' oppression, those who wanted to study Torah (an illegal activity) would conceal their activity by playing gambling games with a top (a common and legal activity) whenever an official or inspector was within sight.

I never knew that last bit.  Perhaps I should have studied more and eaten less latkes.

Happy Chanukkah.

–Jeff

Jamie McDougall....

Harry Lauder

Jamie as Harry Lauder

 I have a friend who is as mad as a box of frogs. He’s also one of the most talented people I know. He’s a professional opera singer who does a bit of TV and Radio presenting, and had me  as a guest to talk about my favourite piece of music.

I think I blogged about it at the time.

The Danse Macabre.

No surprise there.

                                                              

Anyway, his name is Jamie McDougall If you google Jamie McDougall Highland Cathedral  and watch the BBC link, ( He’s wearing a white jacket). It's traditional to start  crying 2 mins and 10 seconds into the video. If you don't you are devoid of a heart.... or you might be a bit deaf..... 

His voice has been described as a “soothing mug of hot chocolate on a chilly night.”

So Jamie is appearing on Broadway, or off Broadway, or somewhere around there. He’s in New York at the mo, talking to folk at the Met….

                                                        

                                      The operatic version of Where Do You Get Your Ideas From

Doing what I hear you ask.....

Well. You may know the songs 

 I Love a Lassie,   When I Get Back Again to Bonnie Scotland,  Stop Your Ticklin’, Jock!,  Roamin’ in the Gloamin’,  The Picnic (Every Laddie Loves a Lassie),  Keep Right on to the End of the Road ]

All those songs were either written or co written by Sir Harry Lauder  4 August 1870 – 26 February 1950).

He was Scotland’s most beloved music hall entertainer, achieving international stardom in the early 20th century and was well known for his tartan attire, his bent walking stick ( which has a type of tree named after it) plus the songs as above.

He was the first Scottish artist to sell two million records. ( and among the first few Brits to do so)

And all that is very lovely, BUT, and it’s a very tragic but,  he actually got his knighthood for services to charity, raising a funds for the British war effort during World War I.

Lauder’s only child, a son called  John Currie Lauder, was born on 19 November 1891 in Hamilton, South Lanarkshire. He was a very talented boy,  very musical, he was the cox for the Cambridge Footlights rowing boat, attended City of London School then Jesus College, Cambridge ( BA in Political Economy in 1911).

Then World War I broke out. John enlisted with the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. He saw service  and sustained a wound to his arm, then got dysentery, fever, and was then fatally wounded on 28th December 1916.

Understandably, news of John’s passing devastated his dad. He wrote in his biography about reading the piece of paper that informed him that John had been killed in action, realising that he had been killed days before they knew.

Harry wrote the song Keep Right On To the End Of The Road, in memory of his son. It’s a song of resilience and sacrafice.

 

“Keep right on to the end of the road,

Keep right on to the end,

Tho' the way be long, let your heart be strong,

Keep right on round the bend.

Tho' you're tired and weary still journey on,

Till you come to your happy abode,

Where all the love you've been dreaming of

Will be there at the end of the road.”

 

All Scots kids of my vintage know that off by heart.

 John’s fiancée dedicated her later life to charitable causes in his memory, including support for disabled ex-servicemen.

There’s a one man show written about Harry Lauder, his songs, his humour and of course the tragedy of the loss of his son.

Jamie McDougall has taken this musical event all round Scotland, and to London and is now….. Here’s the quote....(drum roll here...)

 “Today I received the amazing news that Lauder will have an eight week run off Broadway in New York May-June 2026.

I’m beyond excited at the prospect of taking Lauder to America in the city that Welcomed Lauder in 1907. So watch this space folks it’s going to be an exciting time.”

                                              

                                                      Jamie in full voice.

Cheers

Caro

Falling Over in Tree Pose: Practice over Perfection

Karen Odden – every other Thursday 

I have been practicing yoga, on and off, for about 15 years. Mostly off, because there were several years when I didn’t do yoga more than once or twice and some years when I did not go at all. But of late, I’ve returned to it, visiting my local yoga studio once or twice a week. From a physical standpoint, it’s a good counterpoint to the hiking I do most days. It keeps me from turning into someone with the flexibility of a stick. 

For those who don’t practice yoga, this is what the tree pose is supposed to look like. For me, it’s difficult. I have arthritis in both feet, so balancing is not easy. I fall pretty much every time. In class, I choose a spot near a wall, so I can grab for it, if I need to. (I used to imagine being the first domino that falls over, causing everyone else in my row to crash. I'd wonder, Should I warn the person next to me that this is possible?) 

It doesn’t really matter that I can't do tree pose – I will never be fabulous at yoga, that’s not the point. Besides, I think there is a certain pleasure in doing something you know you're never going to be good at, right? No pressure. You just sort of do it and laugh. 

Why do I find myself going to yoga now? I can think of a variety of reasons. Maybe it’s a “turning 60” thing, becoming more at ease with the idea that we’re all flawed beings, who try and fail, who don’t always bring our best selves to the table ... like yesterday, when I found myself cursing a blue streak at my printer which was suddenly and for no good reason flashing OFF LINE at me in all caps. But yoga helps me remember that many of the moments when we lose it, the moments of frustration -- and certainly when they’re a month in the rearview mirror -- are about as consequential to the world as falling over in tree pose in a yoga class. 

Maybe I'm gravitating to yoga again because, over and over, the instructors say, It’s your practice. The important thing is to keep showing up. If I have a New Year's resolution, it's the same every year: do your best to show up. That includes at my writing desk. But also for my people. And the flip side of this resolution matters too: to recognize when other people show up for me, let it sink into my heart, and thank them.

Maybe it's also because I have just finished edits on my first Kit Jimeson book and am now starting the next one. (Yoga focuses on deep breaths, in and out. Necessary when you're on page 1 of 300.)

And maybe, too, it's because there is a spiritual element to yoga.

This makes me think about the book I mentioned in my last blog, From Strength to Strength. Arthur Brooks writes a chapter about the importance of spirituality, especially in the second half of life, partly because it connects us to something larger than ourselves.

Brooks is Catholic. I myself was raised Catholic and veered away from the church in my 20s for various reasons; I was married in the Episcopal church, which was more in line with my values. I’m not particularly religious now, and I don’t attend church more than on Easter and Christmas, to take my mother-in-law, but I do appreciate that yoga has a spiritual element, core values, tenets, pillars, rituals, practices – much like an organized religion – that feel right to me.

Yoga also makes me more aware of the power and importance of the moments when I am part of something larger than myself – when I practice something in a group, with all of us doing it in our own ways but still together in the experience. This means when I write collaboratively (with my writer friends, exchanging our drafts); when I read a book my friends are reading, so we can discuss it (book clubs); when I cook with my family. And when I practice yoga, where, at the end, I bow my head in gratitude for the aspects of our culture that privilege practice over perfection and process over productivity, and that value just showing up. Namaste. 

Oh, look at that! As I inserted the photo of the book, I realized ... the cover of this book is all trees. Posing properly!

If you have a practice that you love, something that makes you feel grounded or connected to something bigger than yourself, please do share in the comments. (I promise I will not always wax so philosophical. 'Tis the year's end, 'tis season.) Thanks for reading. 

You get more than you give

A wee 'Crisis collage' from over the years, starting with my first stint as 'doormen' - ie friendly security - back in 2015. I was even interviewed by BBC as a Kiwi helping out

Craig every second Tuesday

Kia ora and gidday everyone,

So last Friday was International Volunteers Day and I've been thinking about volunteering a bit lately, given the season and other things going on. Often at this time of year I'm gearing up to help out with Crisis at Christmas, an annual campaign in the UK that helps to provide meals, shelter, companionship, and many different kinds of support to those experiencing homelessness. I first got involved, somewhat by accident, in 2015 when I was stranded solo in the UK for the festive season thanks to visa applications and slow-moving bureaucracy. 

A rich silver lining to what could have been an otherwise grey Christmas cloud that year. 

In the decade since, I've participated in six Crisis 'seasons', giving hundreds of hours to volunteering in great teams at a couple of different London venues, helping our guests (rough sleepers) in various ways. It's been a really eye-opening thing, in terms of the broad impact of homelessness, breaking down (mis)perceptions, and more. 

I've been blessed to be involved with some terrific organisations over the years, making a difference locally, nationally, or beyond.  Lately it's been parkrun and Crisis mainly, along with Maddie raising funds for Shooting Star Children’s Hospices last year with her 10k charity walk. (And recently I've found myself on our local allotment garden committee too, using my legal/writing skills).

digging over cactus-edged cornfields
in the Colca Canyon, Peru

But in the past it's been everything from days clearing farmland in Peru or helping with kids after school programmes in Buenos Aires barrios, to various kids, human rights, or health causes in Aotearoa and elsewhere. Even running the Auckland marathon for the Heart Foundation, when I'd never been a runner (off sports fields) til then. 

It's true what they say - you get more than you give. 

I feel very fortunate that my Mum and Dad instilled in me from a young age the idea of giving back to anything you loved, getting involved, and also helping out where you can, where you see a need. The people I've met and the experiences I've had 'giving' my time etc, have been life-changing for me as much (or more) as those we've helped. 

The 2025 theme for International Volunteers Day was #EveryContributionMatters, highlighting that every act of volunteering, big or small, builds a stronger world. I've certainly witnessed that, whether it's someone bringing in some warm socks at Crisis for Christmas, having a short chat with someone vulnerable and for them to feel 'seen', or the way a kid's confidence soars when someone shows a genuine interest at an after-school club, or they've been attending parkrun for a few weeks or months. The little moments matter. A lot, sometimes. 

Some of our volunteers at our local junior parkrun

We're all busy. Busier and busier nowadays, it seems. So much urgency, whether genuine or just perceived. There's so much pushing and pulling at us. So little time, it seems. The news can be god-awful far too often, too. Finances are stretched thin to breaking. We all 'don't have time' for so much that matters. 

But as they say, in times of crisis, 'look to the helpers'. 

Helping out with L.I.F.E charity at a kids after
school club in poorest parts of Buenos Aires

I still firmly believe, perhaps naively, that there's more good in the world than bad. I've seen so much of it, in many different places. From many different people, of may different cultures and backgrounds. Whether volunteering officially or in 'caring' roles and professions or just helping out with family, friends, and communities, local clubs ad societies, wherever they see a need. On that note, if you can, perhaps find a way to volunteer, even if just for half an hour as a one-off, with something that matters to you. 

You may not change the world, but you could change someone's. 

Even your own. 

(Too cheesy? Perhaps. But hey, it's that time of year.)

Until next time, Ka kite anō

Whakataukī of the fortnight: 

Inspired by Zoe and her 'word of the week', I'll be ending my fortnightly posts by sharing a whakataukī (Māori proverb), a pithy and poetic thought to mull on as we go through life.

“Iti noa ana he pito mata”

(From the withered tree, a flower blooms)

Brilliant or Stupid

Annamaria on Monday 

This post is inspired by a conversation I had with Stan Trollip that began with lamb chops and ended (as my conversations with Dr. Stanley Trollip so often do) with my learning something really interesting and fun to know.  I share now, here my new knowledge about the Dunning-Kruger Effect.

I was complaining to Stan about how many ignoramuses think they ought to be in charge.  That is what Dr. David Dunning and Dr. Jason S. Kruger studied - the relationship between how much a person knows about a topic and how confident that person is likely to be.  Their conclusion: the less people know about a topic, the more confident they are.  And the more they know about it, the less confidence the have.

Here is a quick explanation of how this works:

Explanation 

This explains so much. All those overconfident nincompoops who stupefy us with their conviction. The kids who fail the exam because they think they already know the subject and therefor don't study. And perhaps we ourselves, thinking things are easy for everyone because they're easy for us.  There are the overconfident software engineers who think of themselves as brilliant and end up making it impossible to get this paragraph back to left-aligned.  

But I digress.

As a writer, this topic makes me how mystery authors might find this topic interesting when creating characters.  In our genre, we often see the over confidence character in stories where the private detective has to deal with overconfident police inspector. But what about making a story with buddy private detectives, one who thinks his own brilliance is nothing special and the other one who thinks of himself as genius.  I am not saying I could write such a thing, but I think it would be a lot of fun to read such a story. 

 Stan urged me to include John Cleese in my search, something I knew I would enjoy.  I think you will like it too.   

Dumb or Smarrt

 

Quoth the Raven “Not fair"

 

Sara Johnson, 1^st Sundays

I suspect, because you read Murder is Everywhere, that you like learning about the mystery and crime genre. Because so many people do, I designed a six-part course entitled Exploring Mysteries. I’ve taught the class at NC State and Duke Osher Lifelong Learning Institute. It always fills to capacity. In session one – History of Mystery – I ask participants what the earliest detective story was. The frequent response is Edgar Allen Poe’s Murder in the Rue Morgue, published serially in 1841.

Poe was paid handsomely for it: $56. (He only receive $9 for “The Raven.”) The brutal murders of a woman and her daughter occur in their locked Paris apartment, kick starting the locked-room mystery trope. Amateur detective M. Auguste Dupin uses deductive reasoning to solve the case. (The story, if you haven’t read it, is in the public domain.)

                                           

Spoiler alert: The culprit is an escaped orangutan who climbed in through an open window. Thriller writer Adrian McKinty said, “Do that nowadays and your book would rightfully get chucked, probably back at your own head, during a signing.

But Rue Morgue wasn’t the first detective story. French writer and philosopher Voltaire penned an example of detective fiction almost 100 years earlier. The novella Zadig, published in 1747, tells the story of a young Babylonian man – Zadig – who encounters troubles due to his virtues. While not containing the components of a modern mystery (victim, murderer, clues, red herrings, etc.), Zadig uses deductive reasoning to assist the King’s huntsman.

                                                                      

King’s Huntsman: Have you seen the King’s Palfrey run by?

Zadig: No horse ever gallop’d smoother; he is about five Foot high, his Hoofs are very small: his tail is about three Foot six Inches long; the studs of his bit are pure Gold ...

King’s Huntsman: Whereabouts is he?

Zadig: I never sat Eyes on him, not I.

Her Majesty’s dog is missing, too. Zadig describes her: She has had Puppies too lately; she’s a little lame with her left Fore-foot, and has long Ears. Yet he claims to have never seen the dog. The huntsman, in disbelief, sentences Zadig to life in Siberia for stealing both horse and dog. Luckily, Zadig has his day in court. He explains how his use of observation and deduction – tracks in the sand, swished dust, gold flecks on rocks, etc – led to his conclusion and he is exonerated.

Poe, who was versed in French literature, was probably influenced by Zadig. The same is true for Arthur Conan Doyle, who came on the scene in 1887 with “A Study in Scarlet.”Almost this exact phrase appears in five Sherlock Holmes stories: “It seemed to me that a careful examination of the room and the lawn might possibly reveal some traces of this mysterious individual. You know my methods, Watson.”

But let’s not jump ahead.

                                                                          

Caleb Williams by William Godwin, published in 1794, is classified as an early mystery thriller. The novella contains a murder, its detection, and suspenseful cat-and-mouse pursuit. This was followed in 1819 by the novella Mademoiselle De Scudéri by German author E.T.A. Hoffman. The detective is an elderly woman, the murder victims are young men, there’s a serial killer, and it includes elements modern readers expect in crime fiction such as interviews and hidden clues. Much later it was adapted as on opera, film, and graphic novel.

                                                              

Another pre-Rue Morgue work of early detection is “The Secret Cell,” published serially in The Gentleman’s Magazine in 1837. Though the story lacks the puzzle plot of later mysteries, it features a missing heiress and an unnamed intelligent police detective. (Fun Fact: It’s author, William Evans Burton, may have been married to three women at the same time.)

                                                               

Serialization in magazines was a low-cost way to gauge the public’s response to the story, novella, or novel. If the work flopped, there was no need to produce a book.

“The Haunted Homestead” by Henry William Herbert came out one year before The Murders in the Rue Morgue and has three parts: The Murder, The Mystery, and The Revelation. Author and blogger Tim Prasil describes it as clearly a murder mystery spotlighting a semi-Sherlockian investigator and weaving in supernatural events to spark and propel the investigation. 

Here’s a snippet from the murder scene in Part I: One cry for mercy! one long, sick thrilling gasp! one fluttering shudder of the convulsed and lifeless limbs! and his heart’s blood was mingled with the turbulent stream – and he lay at the feet of his destroyer.

Yikes! 

I am unaware of any female crime writers before Metta Victoria Fuller Victor’s The Dead Letter. It’s credited for being the first detective story written by a woman, but it didn’t come out until 1866. If you know of earlier works by women, please share with me and I’ll add them to my class.

It’s fun to know the origins of this popular genre. Until next month, friends -

Sara E. Johnson, 1^st Sundays

The Trojan War Myth Exposed!

J

 Jeff–Saturday

How many of you have heard of the Trojan War?  I bet there’s not one of you who hasn’t. It’s the world’s best known epic tale of romance, action, and intrigue, and thanks to Homer’s telling in the Illiad and the Odyssey, a source for countless storylines down through the ages…including the Coen Brothers’ 2000 film, O Brother, Where Art Thou.

But how many of you know the actual story of the War? Other than of course the bit about the (possibly) kidnapped Helen’s face launching a thousand ships and The Horse.  Aha, the ranks are thinning quickly.

Well, here’s my adapted telling of the tale based upon a version I came across while reading The Everything Classical Mythology Book, by Lesley Bolton.

The most well-known character in the myth is, of course, Helen of Troy, though she really wasn’t from Troy.  That’s just where she ended up spending ten years waiting to be “rescued.”  Helen was the most beautiful woman in the world and the daughter of the union of Zeus and Leda (not Leto, whose children with couldn’t-keep-it-in-his-pants-Zeus were the twins Apollo and Artemis).

Helen by Evelyn De Morgan

However the aggravation of raising such a beautiful daughter (something I know first hand) didn’t fall to her natural mother and father (assuming there’s anything natural about a Greek god turning himself into a swan to seduce a mortal), but to her foster father, King Tyndareus of Sparta.  

King Ty, as I like to call him, worked out a way of keeping all the suitors for his daughter’s hand (and a lot more) at bay by making all swear that in order to participate in the competition, they had to agree to abide by Helen’s choice of husband and defend her against anyone who might try to kidnap her.  The winner was Menelaus of Sparta and they were wed.

Menelaus by Giacomo Brogi

Then along came Paris of Troy, who stopped in to say “Hi” to the groom and, when the opportunity presented itself in the form of a quick trip out of town for Menelaus, to repay his host’s hospitality by stealing away his bride. 

Paris and Helen by Jacques Louis-David

But the kidnapping wasn’t a spontaneous whim.  Paris felt he had a right to claim Helen.  You see, Paris had been the judge in a beauty contest among the gods Athena, Aphrodite, and Hera to settle a dispute as to which of the three was the fairest.  In keeping with the sort of judging still seen in many parts of the world today, Paris made a side deal with Aphrodite that he’d choose her in return for her promising him the most beautiful woman in the world, Helen. But before he could claim her, she’d married. 

No matter, to Paris a deal was a deal and he’d come to Sparta to collect his prize. He spirited Helen away and, after spending their first night together on Kranae, a tiny island just off the port city of Gytheio on Greece’s Southern Peloponnese, it was off to Troy.  

Abduction of Helen, Francesco Primaticcio

Church on Kranae

[As a side note, that one-night diversion has created a thriving cottage industry on modern day Kranae, for today couples exchange marriage vows at a church on that spot, no doubt hoping for better luck than came to Paris and Helen.]

Not surprisingly, Menelaus didn’t take kindly to Paris’ thank you, and when Menelaus’ trip to Troy with Odysseus (aka Ulysses) to demand of King Priam of Troy her immediate return proved futile, Menelaus returned home to Sparta, massed Helen’s former suitors who’d pledged to defend her against kidnappers, and with his brother Agamemnon in command, dispatched an army of a thousand ships to reclaim her. 

But the Olympian biggie gods were involved in this mess up to their tiarasses.  Some had aligned with Greece (e.g., Poseidon because he was pissed at the Trojans for not having paid his bill for construction work, and Athena and Hera because of Paris’ involvement in fixing their beauty contest).  Others sided with Troy (e.g., Aphrodite who’d created the mess in the first place, and Apollo joined in it with his twin sister, Artemis.)

Anytime the gods got involved in something there were problems.  And in this instance, just to get things started, Agamemnon had to sacrifice his daughter to the god Artemis (a backer of Troy) for the winds to blow and launch his thousand ships. 

The Greek plan was simple, conquer the numerous towns surrounding Troy and thereby squeeze it into submission.  A simple plan turned into nine years of war with still no end in sight. Hmm, sound familiar? 

In the tenth year everything went to hell in a hand-basket for the Greeks.

First, the Greeks’ greatest warrior, Achilles (slayer of the Trojans’ greatest, Hector) died when pierced in the heel (surely you knew that) by an arrow cast into the air by Paris from behind his fortress walls and guided to its mark by Apollo.  

Then a fight broke out between Odysseus and Ajax of Salamis (non-kosher style for sure) over who’d get to wear Achilles armor (starting to sound more and more like that Brad Pitt 2004 version of the tale called Troy, does it not?), an honor ultimately bestowed on Odysseus that led Ajax into madness and ultimately taking his own life.  And then the Amazons weighed in to fight on the side of the Trojans.

But the Greeks did not give up.  Led by Odysseus they captured the King of Troy’s son, and through him learned what they needed to do if there were to be any hope of Troy falling.  The Greeks did as the prince had said, culminating in snatching away the sacred statue of Athena—the Palladium—which stood within Troy to protect the city from destruction.

But still Troy did not fall.  Then Odysseus came up with a plan, perhaps the most famous hustle in history: one requiring a gigantic wooden horse and some mighty gullible Trojans.

It was the blueprint for a classic scam that’s since played out countless times in print and film:  Present the mark with a fascinating unexpected gift.  Get a shill to tell a believable story compete with a hook that gets the mark to thinking it’s come up with a way to outsmart the hustler, and toss in a last minute twist that threatens to destroy the plan but fails because of an even greater surprise twist.

In this case, the Trojan Horse (more aptly the Greek or Spartan Horse, since they built it) appeared one morning outside the walls of Troy with the Greek army nowhere to be seen, leaving the Trojans confused over what to do with it: destroy the horse, or bring it within their city’s walls.   Then appeared a man in rags—the disguised Greek soldier Sinon—who claimed he’d escaped being sacrificed to Athena by the Greeks as an offering to appease her ire at their having stolen the Palladium from Troy. 

Then seemingly by chance he revealed a secret of the Greeks: that the great wooden horse before them was also meant to appease Athena by serving to replace the Palladium, but the sneaky Greeks had intentionally built it far too large to pass inside the walls of Troy out of fear that if brought inside it would bring victory to the besieged city.

Just as the Greeks’ plan seemed to be working, one Trojan stepped forward to challenge Sinon’s story (standard screenwriting fare these days), and hurled his spear at the wooden horse, no doubt hoping to elicit a cry from whomever it struck within. But just as he did, a giant sea monster reared up and devoured the cynic, distracting the crowd from the point of both his logic and spear.

The Trojans took the monster as a sign of Athena’s anger at the spear being tossed at an offering to her—rather than of an effort on her part (remember, she was on the side of the Greeks) to silence one threatening to expose the Greeks’ plan.

Surprise, surprise the Trojans figured out a way to bring the horse within their walls, and while rejoicing in their good fortune missed Sinon freeing the soldiers inside it and opening Troy’s gates for the rest of the Greek army to enter the city.

We all know what happened next. Or at least we think we do.  Helen was returned to her husband.  But not until after the Greeks had engaged in a bloodlust rage of battle so unsettling and sacrilegious to gods that had once backed the Greeks that they turned on them, bringing Odysseus ten more years of trials and tribulations before reaching home (after all, it was a two-book deal for Homer) and far worse fates for far more.

Homer 850 BCE

Yes, that’s a plot line we’ve seen before and will see again. And though there were no real winners in the Trojan War, there sure have been a lot of modern day literary and box office triumphs.

Many thanks again to Lesley Bolton for the inspiration I found for this post in her The Everything Classical Mythology Book.

–Jeff