Other Books

The Books We Love And What They Say About Us

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franklin-libraryIt’s February 14th, and love is in the air! — or so Hallmark would have us believe. So, for those of you who are curling up with a book you love this Valentine’s Day instead of, or in addition to, a more conventional partner, I thought this might be a good opportunity to spend some time talking about the books we love, and in particular to address the question of what those books say about us. This topic was prompted by a recent post on Book Riot where a contributor discussed a conundrum they recently faced in preparing to attend a book event for Valentine’s Day in which attendees were to asked to bring a copy of their favourite book to exchange with other book lovers. Specifically, the contributor couldn’t decide which book they should bring. As they explained, “I have many favourite books, but if a favourite book says something about you, I have to choose wisely.” Elaborating, they went on to say:

Plath’s The Bell Jar might not be the best message I want to send. I don’t know if The Catcher in the Rye is too cliché, or too much of a “guy’s” book. I love anything and everything Flannery O’Connor, but I’m not quite sure what that message would be. Gone With the Wind? Might send a confusing message without my explanation of why I love it, and who wants to carry around such a hulking book, anyway? Little Women? I mean, come on – ask most writers, we love Jo March. But it seems a little quaint for me.

Reading this, I couldn’t help wondering with some amusement what the contributor of that Book Riot post would think if someone such as myself were to turn up to such an event carrying a book with a storyline that included, to quote Stevie Taggert, “slaughtered boy-whores, cannibalism, and eyeballs in a jar”? Of course, strictly speaking, if I were to turn up to that kind of event with an Alienist book, it would be more likely to be The Angel of Darkness which is actually my favourite of the two novels. But is it really much of an improvement to turn up with a book containing a storyline that features, to quote John Moore, “kidnapping, murdered infants, grave robbing—and we did the grave robbing, for God’s sake—”?

Of course, for those of you who have read last year’s special three-part series on The Alienist, you will know that my reasons for loving the Alienist books extend far beyond “slaughtered boy-whores, cannibalism, and eyeballs in a jar.” Nevertheless, to all the other readers of the Alienist books, I find myself curious. What does your love of the Alienist books say about you? And if you weren’t going to take an Alienist book to represent “you” at a book exchange event, what novel would you take and why?

Now Closed

For those of you who might be curious, if I wasn’t going to take an Alienist book to represent “me” at a book exchange event, you would most likely find me with a copy of The House of Mirth or The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton (impossible to choose between them), Mansfield Park, Emma, or Persuasion by Jane Austen (another impossible choice), The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins, Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, or The Meaning of Night by Michael Cox instead. All are among my favourite novels (the full list is, of course, much longer), all were written by psychologically insightful authors, and all explore similar themes in different ways; but none, it’s worth pointing out, have plots that revolve around serial killers (with the possible exception of The Meaning of Night depending on how you want to define “serial killer”).

Perhaps this will come as a surprise to many 17th Street visitors, but as a general rule I’m not a reader of horror or grisly crime fiction. Instead, my favourite novels—that is, the novels I re-read rather than those I read just once—tend to be classics or literary fiction that tackle the eternal questions, especially the question of what makes us who we are. William Nicholson gave C. S. Lewis a now famous line in Shadowlands: “We read to know we’re not alone.” I absolutely agree. In my own case, there is something comforting in the knowledge that there were, and continue to be, others out there—the Edith Whartons, Jane Austens, Leo Tolstoys, and Caleb Carrs of the world—who have, throughout history, seen human nature in much the same way that I do.

The Leavenworth Case by Anna Katharine Green

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Changing pace from the last few 17th Street book blogs, I have decided to revisit The Alienist’s roots in nineteenth century sensation and detective fiction for February’s book blog. As we discovered in last year’s special three-part series overviewing The Alienist’s themes, one of Caleb Carr’s inspirations while writing the novel was the work of sensation novelist Wilkie Collins, with the Detective Sergeants Marcus and Lucius Isaacson even being described as having been inspired to become detectives after reading Collins’ work as boys. Although not mentioned in the Alienist novels, another author the Isaacson brothers might have enjoyed reading alongside Wilkie Collins was a New York local, Anna Katharine Green, whose first full length detective novel, The Leavenworth Case, quickly became a best-seller when it was published in 1878.

What’s it about?

Set in 1876, The Leavenworth Case opens with narrator, Mr. Everett Raymond of Veeley, Carr & Raymond, attorneys and counsellors at law, being the only partner present in his firm’s office on the morning that one of their most notable clients, Mr. Horatio Leavenworth, was found murdered in his Fifth Avenue mansion. Upon being summoned to the Leavenworth residence to provide legal assistance to the deceased’s nieces during the coroner’s inquest, Mr. Raymond finds himself embroiled in an atmospheric “locked room mystery,” with a house full of suspects, the key to the crime scene missing, stolen papers, a missing lady’s maid, unreliable witnesses, and a beautiful heiress with a mysterious secret. Add the “tireless, rheumatic, and sardonic” Mr. Ebenezer Gryce, the brilliant yet eccentric police detective who plays Sherlock to Mr. Raymond’s Watson, and you have a gripping murder mystery that takes you from streets and mansions of 1870s Manhattan all the way to quiet cottages in the villages of upstate New York.

My thoughts

While reading The Leavenworth Case I found it easy to imagine the Isaacson brothers poring over the novel as boys, bickering about who the most likely suspects might be along with learning as much as possible about the fascinating field of criminal detection and, in Marcus’ case, the law. Indeed, as Michael Sims notes in his excellent Introduction to the novel’s 2010 Penguin edition, The Leavenworth Case was acclaimed by contemporary critics for its accuracy in portraying the legalities surrounding criminal investigation, and was even assigned to law students at Yale shortly after its publication to illustrate the dangers associated with circumstantial evidence. The daughter of a Manhattan attorney, Anna Katharine Green’s careful observations of her father throughout his career clearly influenced her work; Michael Sims goes on to note that even after her father insisted that she show the manuscript to a judge before it went to print, the judge was unable to find fault with the text except for the use of a single word (equity) that she had used in “a colloquial rather than a precise legal sense.”

Anna Katharine Green

However, more than just an accurate portrayal of the legalities of criminal investigation in the nineteenth century, Michael Sims notes that The Leavenworth Case is also acclaimed as a genre defining piece of detective fiction. Although the influence of sensation novelists such as Wilkie Collins are readily apparent in the similarities the novel holds to works like The Woman in White (e.g., its inclusion of two young women at the center of the mystery, one of whom the narrator is drawn to for purposes other than the investigation), it is fascinating to see how Anna Katharine Green built upon and established genre conventions that would go on to influence other giants of detective fiction, including such luminaries as Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie. Beyond elements such as the inclusion of crime scene diagrams and the interaction between the narrator and detective (prototypical of what we have come to associate with Holmes and Watson), Green is also credited as the first major detective novelist who had over three dozen mystery books to her name at the end of her forty-five year career, while her creation Ebenezer Gryce is credited as the first series detective; Sherlock Holmes would not appear in print for another nine years.

From my own perspective, the greatest draw of The Leavenworth Case has to be—as in all good detective fiction—the detective himself, Ebenezer Gryce. Although he bears little resemblance to the fictional detectives who came before or after him, he is no less brilliant, eccentric, or amusing, as we discover from the very first scene in which he appears.

The Leavenworth Case, Book 1: Chapter 1

Mr. Gryce, the detective, was not the thin, wiry individual with a shrewd eye that seems to plunge into the core of your being and pounce at once upon its hidden secret that you are doubtless expecting to see. Mr. Gryce was a portly, comfortable personage with an eye that never pounced, that did not even rest—on you. If it rested anywhere, it was always on some insignificant object in your vicinity, some vase, inkstand, book or button. These things he would seem to take into his confidence, make the repositories of his conclusions, but you—you might as well be the steeple on Trinity Church, for all the connection you ever appeared to have with him or his thoughts. At present, then, Mr. Gryce was, as I have already suggested, on intimate terms with the door-knob.

Gryce also has a wry and appealing sense of humour, as we see further in the novel.

The Leavenworth Case, Book 2: Chapter 13

“Hannah found?”

“So we have reason to think.”

“When? Where? By Whom?”

Drawing up a chair in a flurry of hope and fear, I sat down by Mr. Gryce’s side.

“She is not in the cupboard,” that personage exclaimed, observing without doubt how my eyes went traveling about the room in my anxiety and impatience.

However, in the interests of an honest review, the novel is not without its flaws. Despite kicking off at a rollicking pace, I found the introduction of Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces midway through Book 1 (the novel is divided into four “Books”) to be, at first, off-putting; to say that their introduction also initiates a series of melodramatic exclamations, accusations, and weeping would be, well, something of an understatement. Even so, my advice would be to persist, at least until you’re a few chapters into Book 2 when the melodrama diminishes and the Sherlock and Watson interaction between Gryce and Raymond increases. If you do manage to persist, by the time you reach the end of Book 2 and are well into Book 3, you should find yourself thoroughly hooked, and will begin to understand why Arthur Conan Doyle took the trouble to request a meeting with Green when he made his 1890s tour of the United States, and why Wilkie Collins wrote of Green:

Her powers of invention are so remarkable—she has so much imagination and so much belief (a most important qualification for our art) in which she says… Dozens of times reading the story I have stopped to admire the fertility of invention, the delicate treatment of incident—and the fine perception of event on the personages of the story.

So, if you like detective fiction, sensation novels, or just a good mystery set in New York, it is certainly worth giving The Leavenworth Case a go. Perhaps you too will enjoy it as much as I suspect the Isaacson brothers would have.

The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton

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To follow up 17th Street’s special book blog series on The Alienist, I have decided to present one of my favourite classics by another renowned New York author, Edith Wharton, as the first 17th Street book blog for 2015 given that it also explores several of The Alienist’s central themes. Even though I have never seen any interviews in which Caleb Carr has commented on Edith Wharton’s work, Edith is unquestionably one of the masters of social commentary and psychological insight when it comes to the world of gilded age New York, and The House of Mirth is an excellent starting point for any readers of the Alienist books who might be unfamiliar with her work, with its themes ranging from the role of women in society to psychological determinism.

What’s it about?

It is the turn of the twentieth century, and the beautiful Miss Lily Bart, one of the darlings of New York society, is 29, unmarried, and in need of a husband in order to keep living the luxurious life to which she became accustomed prior to her family’s financial ruin several years earlier. Through Lily’s story, as well as those of the characters who surround her, we witness first-hand the moral, social, fiscal, and psychological implications of one woman’s desire for personal freedom and independence in a cut-throat world where debts—both financial and societal—must be paid, or the consequences suffered.

My thoughts

In his Introduction to Edith Wharton’s autobiography, A Backward Glance, Louis Achincloss wrote:

It was said of Edith Wharton that she and Theodore Roosevelt were self-made men, and the saying pleased her. She and the president, contemporaries and good friends, had grown up together and escaped from the kind of society that was the hardest of all to escape from: the secure, complacent haute bourgeoisie of the late nineteenth century that found politics too dirty for gentlemen and letters too inky for ladies.

Not surprisingly, the concept of personal freedom and what it meant for women and men in the late nineteenth century runs deep in Edith’s 1905 novel, and is evident as early as The House of Mirth’s opening scene. In this scene, Lily Bart is passing time in her friend Lawrence Selden’s bachelor flat while she awaits a train to take her upstate for the summer. While the pair take tea together in Selden’s flat, we are presented with the contrast of an intelligent young woman who feels that she must marry in order maintain her position in society with that of a similarly aged young man who is more than capable of maintaining his position whilst also retaining his independence.

Book 1, Chapter 1:

“But do you mind [having to work] enough—to marry to get out of it?”

Selden broke into a laugh. “God forbid!” he declared.

She rose with a sigh, tossing her cigarette into the grate.

“Ah, there’s the difference—a girl must [marry], a man may if he chooses.” She surveyed him critically. “Your coat’s a little shabby—but who cares? It doesn’t keep people from asking you to dine. If I were shabby no one would have me: a woman is asked out as much for her clothes as for herself. The clothes are the background, the frame, if you like: they don’t make success, but they are a part of it. Who wants a dingy woman? We are expected to be pretty and well-dressed till we drop—and if we can’t keep it up alone; we have to go into partnership.”

Of course, as we have recently seen in The Alienist book blog series, as well as in the Education of Sara Howard history blog series, there was also a growing movement among middle and upper class women in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries to push back against the prevailing view that the only respectable occupation for women in society was as a doting wife and mother in the home. We see such women represented in the Alienist books by Sara Howard, and Edith Wharton did not fail to represent these women in The House of Mirth either given her inclusion in the novel of Selden’s cousin, Gertrude Farish. However, in typical Wharton style, Edith pulled no punches in describing how independent women like Gerty were viewed in society, even by those women who might have envied their level of personal freedom.

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Washington Square by Henry James

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We take a break from non-fiction, tenements, and vice this month to venture out of the slums and into the world of old New York gentility. When Caleb Carr was asked during last year’s New York Times web chat to name the key pieces of New York literature he has most admired, he included Henry James’ New York stories on his list, making particular mention of Washington Square which he described as, “one of the most punch-in-the-face stories about polite society ever written”. In consequence of this, we will be visiting the “decorous neighbourhood” of Washington Square—to borrow John Moore’s description of nearby Gramercy Park in The Alienist—this month in order to take a peek behind the respectable facade of Dr. Austin Sloper’s stately early nineteenth century home to examine the sometimes sad, sometimes cruel melodrama that took place within.

What’s it about?

Dr. Austin Sloper, a prominent New York physician, was fortunate to hold among his patients the cream of old New York society. At the age of twenty-seven, he added to his fortunes by marrying the love of his life: a “graceful”, “accomplished”, and “elegant” woman whom he saw as the “bright exception” to the other women of his acquaintance, and who brought to his household the added blessing of ten thousand dollars income. Tragically, misfortune struck only a few years into their happy union. First, Dr. Sloper lost his pride and joy, a three year old son, before he was forced to endure the greater loss of his wife as a result of childbirth two years later. The product of this tragic series of events was Dr. Sloper’s sole surviving heir, a daughter named Catherine, who would go on to become the unexpected heroine in this novel of manners and society.

Washington Square follows the story of the plain-faced, kindhearted, and dutiful Catherine as she traverses her perilous journey to independence. Faced with a charming, handsome suitor whose mercenary motives masquerade behind the facade of a devoted lover; a meddlesome aunt who masquerades as a reliable confidant; and a sharp, detached father who masquerades as a loving, devoted parent, Catherine must learn to see the key players in her life for who they really are if she is to make the right choice between her inheritance and her fiancé.

My thoughts

Even though Henry James would dismiss Washington Square as an “unhappy accident” later in his life, the novel is generally considered by modern audiences to be James’ most accessible work. However, within Washington Square’s simple form—we only follow one main plot within its approximately 250 pages—a social commentary is concealed that is far more complex than it first appears. Novelist Cynthia Ozick summarised the main themes of the novel succinctly in her Introduction to the 2002 Modern Library Classics edition:

Washington Square is a novel about the abuse of imagination, the abuse of trust, the abuse of propriety and form; about, above all, the absence of pity … Though it may be a bad thing to break the rules of a fixed society (disinheritance of a child is such a breach, jilting is such a breach), it is a worse thing to break a heart.

After my recent re-read of the novel for 17th Street, I found myself agreeing with Ms. Ozick; however, I am prepared to go further than Ms. Ozick to suggest that perhaps the theme that sits at the very heart of Washington Square is, in actual fact, that of betrayal. Not necessarily the betrayal that results from a meddlesome aunt manipulating her niece for her own interests, or even the betrayal produced by an opportunistic suitor (although neither of these parties is, in any way, innocent), but the ultimate betrayal—and consequent damage—produced by a father who was not only unable to love his daughter, but actively resented her, going so far as to claim that his only comfort in the loss of his wife was his “satisfaction in the thought that [she] had not lived to find [their daughter] out”. And what was Catherine’s crime? The brilliant doctor was disappointed that he had fathered a “commonplace” daughter. Within the first fifteen pages of the novel, Dr. Sloper’s feelings about his daughter, with her “plain, dull, gentle countenance”, are made brutally clear:

“When Catherine is about seventeen,” he said to himself, “Lavinia [Catherine’s aunt] will try and persuade her that some young man with a moustache is in love with her. It will be quite untrue; no young man, with a moustache or without, will ever be in love with Catherine.”

Although never outwardly cruel toward his daughter, it was Dr. Sloper’s fundamental inability to feel any genuine love or affection toward Catherine that ultimately resulted in his daughter falling victim to the opportunistic overtures of the mercenary suitor Morris Townsend, much to the doctor’s vexation. It was the illusion of love, after all, that comprised the entire attraction Morris held for Catherine, as Ms. Ozick explains in her Introduction to the novel:

Morris is a work of art; he is also an artist. Like a painter or a novelist, he can create a young woman who never before existed. He can transform Catherine, to whom no one has ever shown honest affection, into a woman who for the first time feels herself to be worthy of love.

Of course, the real tragedy of Washington Square is that Catherine is not unlovable. We learn of others in the story who can see Catherine’s virtues for what they really are; but Catherine, having been betrayed by the person she has always held most dear, is unable to see what fairer and unbiased members of society do plainly see.

So, what was it about Washington Square that might have prompted Caleb Carr to describe the novel as “one of the most punch-in-the-face stories about polite society ever written”? After all, the novel is mostly a family drama, and when it comes to “punch-in-the-face stories” about old New York society, one’s mind might first turn to an author like Edith Wharton instead.

Well, aside from the novel bringing the rules of the fixed society in which it was set sharply into focus, perhaps it might also relate to the aforementioned theme, at least in part. Nothing is quite so damaging, so heartbreaking, or so cruel as a parent’s betrayal of their child; a theme that is also at the very heart of the Alienist books. As Washington Square amply demonstrates, betrayal is not a cruelty reserved for the poor, the slums, or even the middle class. It hides behind the stately, respectable facades of neighbourhoods like Washington Square just as readily as it does the tenements of the Lower East Side, and its damage is just as great.

A “punch-in-the-face” story about polite society, indeed.