An Officer and A Spy - Thrilling!

I read.  A lot.  Well, not as much as my wife, who downs romance novels like a starving woman with a bag of potato chips. Weak characters?  Limp plot?  Doesn’t matter.  On she slogs to the final page.

For my taste, a book has to grab me from page one and not let go.  The harder it grabs, the better I like it.  An Officer and A Spy, by Robert Harris is such a book.  Once I started, my life was no longer my own.  Thrown back into the Paris of La Belle Époque and the maelstrom of the Alfred Dreyfus case, I could not escape.  Food went uneaten.  Sleep came when I passed out and the book collapsed on my chest.  I was in Paris, smelling the horse manure in the steamy streets, sitting in the back rooms of the powerful, drinking coffee in the cafes, all the while being pulled along by the uncomfortable feeling that a deeply sinister wrong could never be righted.

You’ve no doubt heard of Robert Harris, the English author of historical novels.  Fatherland ring any bells?

Harris’ latest effort is a novel constructed around a societal monster. It is 1895. The protagonist, Major Georges Picquart stands in the boisterous crowd of onlookers as Captain Dreyfus is publically stripped of rank and honor.  He’s a spy.  He’s a Jew. Suspected.  Convicted of crimes against France.

No one, including Major Picquart, has the least bit of sympathy.  This betrayer of his country is getting what he deserves.  Shame.  Dishonor.  Imprisonment, and not just any prison, Devil’s Island.

You surely know from your high school history the short version of the story.  The beginning, and the end perhaps.  But even with that knowledge, this thriller is no less thrilling.  History, in the form of a novel, lays bare the conspiracies, the obstinacy, the espionage, the treason, and the suffering. Reaching inside the French Army and Government, you’ll find the filthy, tangled details.  The soul of a twisted story.

This tale of fighting the good fight, of revelations that turn enemies to friends, and friends to co-conspirators will hold you spellbound, while it strips the packaging off terms like goodness, justice, duty, and loyalty.

Robert Harris, whether writing of imagined monsters, or monstrous situations is a powerful literary force.  In An Officer and A Spy, his words grab you by your senses and sweep you along in the whirlwind of history.   You’ll swear, you’ll sweat.  Awake or asleep, this tale won’t let you rest.

From Flat Page to Flat Screen

Today, you hopeless TV addicts and myopic book lovers, let’s look at a couple of my favorite TV shows, Monk and Dexter, and their eponymous books.  Love those TV shows, even though Monk’s run is over.  But, if you’re a morbidly depressed Monk fan, don’t roll up those sleeves and open those pulsing veins just yet. It ain’t over ‘til the Inca is dry on the calendar.  The Monk books are keeping the very peculiar detective alive.

Monk and Dexter are not the only ones to crisscross media.  Lots of TV shows and movies have book connections.  Some are odd enough to twist your mind in knots.  The TV series Castle, for example.  The main character, Richard Castle is a writer, who writes about a fictional character, based on another fictional character.  Now there are a series of books about the second fictional character, purportedly written by Richard Castle, himself a fictional character.  See what I mean?  You need a flow chart and the mind of Rainman’s math teacher.  Also, the Castle books, in my ungrateful opinion, do not live up to the excitement and cutting edge characters on TV.  Hooked one book.  Threw it back.

The Monk and Dexter books, on the other hand, shine. They’re true to the personalities and follow the rhythm (if not the letter) of their TV partners.  There is a notable difference, however.  The Monk novels, written by Lee Goldberg, are based on the TV series.  The TV series came first. 

With Dexter, it was the other way around.  First the novels, by Jeff Lindsay, then the TV series.  As we all know, TV and movies, because of the time element, and because audiences’ concentration limits approach absolute zero, things compress and skip.  Since the Dexter books came first, the books and TV series get completely out of synch.  No matter.  I watch the TV in one universe and read the books in an alternate universe. My magical Jim Beam transporter allows me to do this.

I hate those instances when the character who lives in the happy mist of memory is not the character you see on the screen.  Is there anyone besides yours truly, and still young enough to feed himself, who has read the James Bond novels, by Ian Fleming?   If so, you know the James Bond of the books is cold blooded and ruthless, compared to the flicks, although lately the film Bond seems to have grown a couple. 

Oh, how I digress.  In the plots of TV Dexter and in the books, the character remains a fascinating psycho.  Ain’t it nice when an author so skillfully makes you root for the murderer? Dexter likes to kill and yours truly is grateful he only likes to kill truly bad people, instead of run-of-the-mill sinners.  Whew!  Close one!

Monk is also a steady performer on TV and in books.  He’s always the obsessive-compulsive guy you’d like to invite to clean your house, and who tracks down killers with a singularly twisted glance.

So, which books do I like best?  Dexter?  Monk?  Gotta be an invertebrate fence sitter on that question.  Love ‘em both.  I watch and I read.  The characters are real and true to themselves.  The plots are gripping on film and in print.  I call them potato chip books.  And I say, “Pass the bag, please.”

Extract from my novel Cassavora County

    Published by Waldport Press, Cassavora County is a novel set in the small town south.  Riotous humor, mystery, sex, and nefarious characters creep off every page.  Take a look on Amazon.com, where you'll find reviews and a synopsis.  Meanwhile, here's a taste of what you're in for.  Don't turn your back, and be careful whom you trust if you live in Cassavora County.

         

        .....   The door to the United States Post Office was locked. Sheriff Goddard rapped his knuckles on the glass. Wilma, her light, blue-gray uniform shirt bright and starched, dark blue slacks covering a middle-aged middle, walked over and gave him a pinch-faced stare through the thick pane. “Sheriff’s Department, open the door please.”

            “I’m not allowed to open the door until eight thirty. We open at eight thirty.” She said it as a closing statement.

            A deputy came over at a half jog and stood behind Goddard. “The Doc’s on his way, but he wasn’t too pleased about it.”  Goddard let the remark pass.

            “Ma’am, I’m conducting an investigation and I need to talk to you.” The Sheriff, like everyone else who has visited a Post Office, felt impatience creeping resolutely into his voice.

            “This is federal property.”

            “I know what the hell it is,” Goddard commented, “Now open up.” The deputy adjusted his wide brimmed hat and stared down at his black, highly polished shoes.

            “You’ll have to wait until the Post Office is open,” Wilma countered, obviously irritated. “These people all think they’re special,” she muttered and frowned. “This is a Post Office and we have regulations!” She said the last part out loud, then turned to walk away.

            Goddard’s face changed color. “If you don’t open this door, right now, I’m going to book you as an accessory.” Wilma kept on walking. She had things to finish and except for double-parking six years ago, she’d never done anything she could be arrested for. Anyway, it wasn’t as if she could just turn the key and start the day. Wilma lived her routine according to Postal Regulations. The clerks that worked for her did too. They’d better. She hadn’t spent twenty-seven years working hard just so she could jump around at every customer’s little whim. There was a procedure for everything and forms to sign and stamps and money that needed to be counted. The union rules made it clear she didn’t have to jump just because somebody yelled grasshopper. “Why is it people are always so thoughtless and demanding?”

            Goddard wanted to smash the door and slap cuffs on this irritating, jackass of a Postal worker, but instead he turned to his deputy. “Go back to the car. Call the Postmaster and tell him we found a body in his parking lot and one of his stupid, overpaid clerks.... did you get a look at her name tag?” He paused.

            “Cook.”

           “Okay, Cook. Tell him Emperor-in-charge Cook is interfering with our investigation and saying it’s on his orders.”

         Five minutes later, a peevish looking Wilma Cook opened the door and started answering questions. Other Postal clerks hovered in the background, going about their daily chores, all ears trained on Wilma, the sheriff, and the deputy.

            Did she see anything? Only the usual. What time did she get to work? Seven thirty, like always. Was there anybody else in the Post Office when she heard the shot? Just her fellow clerks. Anybody in the parking lot? Not that she saw. The questions came like a pack of angry yellow jackets, but she stuck to her story. Nobody was there. Everything was normal. She hadn’t seen anybody else outside or inside. By now, however, she was sure she had heard a shot. As her interrogators walked out the door, she overheard the deputy asked the Sheriff if a thirty-eight would make the same sound as a backfire.

Ok, you've had a taste; now belly up for the full meal:  http://www.amazon.com/Cassavora-County-William-Stroud/dp/098205341X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1328373487&sr=8-1

Goshawk Squadron - a novel of breakneck flying in WW I

SE5a

If you’re an aviation enthusiast, and especially if you’re a fighter pilot or wantta be, and if you’re drawn to the broken wood and torn fabric flying of World War I, you can’t do better than Derek Robinson’s magnificent novel, Goshawk Squadron.  Written in 1971, it’s a timeless tale of men fighting the un-fightable, smothering in the smell of cordite and castor oil, while being led by a man who is either going to kill them, or make them suffer and then kill them.

           As the author writes in another of his novels, “Up there the world is divided into bastards and suckers. Make your choice.”  The leader of Goshawk Squadron, Stanley Wooley, has made his.  He’s no beauty, and at twenty-three he’s an old timer in a war where the life expectancy of pilots is measured in weeks.  Hardbitten and older than his years, Wooley is determined to kick his squadron into good enough shape to keep them flying just one more day.  Often he’s unsuccessful.  How could he be anything else when youngsters arrive with sometimes eight or twelve hours of total flying time and never having seen an SE5a, let alone flown one.  A week later they’re in combat, trying to kill, but most likely trying only to survive.  They come with light hearts and high ideals.  Soon both are soiled forever by what they see and what they do.

             But, any fighter squadron is not without it’s lighter moments, even if they are almost unspeakably noir.  Some scenes made he laugh out loud.  Being in a fighter squadron is like that. Others made me ache to go back a few years, strap myself into a fighter and once again feel the magic exhilaration that only aviators know.

Goshawk Squadron is a quick read of a little over 200 pages, but it’s not the length of the book that makes it streak by like the bullets from a Folker DIII.  In Goshawk squadron you’re there.  Living in the mud.  Drinking to avoid the reality of knowing that you’re going to die, that it’s going to be wretched…and that it’s going to be soon.  And all for nothing, or so it seems.

Grab a copy of Goshawk Squadron, by Derek Robinson.  You’re in for the shrieking, whirling, terrifying ride of your life.  Available on Amazon.