Agatha Christie and my Love of Mystery Fiction
The semester is over. Spring is here. The long days of summer will soon be upon us.
I have been reading Agatha Christie novels--I've read three in the last two weeks. Each has been great. I read Nemesis, Crooked House, and By the Pricking of my Thumbs. The reference in the title of the last book is to Macbeth: "By the Pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes."
The premises in all of Christie's novels are stylized and end neatly, that is, in a satisfying albeit implausible way. (Some might argue that within the reality of the novels, there is a natural progression in the unfolding of events.) Some might criticize this as being unrealistic, not at all how Life tends to work out, being that many murders remain unsolved and there are always miscarriages of justice when a suspect is actually apprehended. Still, Christie's prose is elegant and precise, her characterizations are also interesting--you believe that her characters could exist, their individual idiosyncrasies combining to form believable persons--and underneath the veneer of the everyday, Christie reveals murderous menace and the hidden passions and obsessions that move her characters to do what they do. The gentility of her prose is so at odds with the violent passions that lurk beneath. This tension is what makes me want to keep reading, not just the pleasure of discovery: the danger that lurks at the margins of polite conversation strikes a deep chord...
In By the Pricking of my Thumbs, I was struck by three things. One is that that her characters seems to have meandering conversations that go nowhere, the mystery taking some time to unfold. A lot of banter, as well as introspective reflections, slow down the action. But this is precisely the point: mysteries develop within the banal occurences of the everyday. In this way, Christie's novels are realistic, insofar as they present boring domestic or work-related activities; slightly unusual occurences that are nonetheless within the realm of normality, and casual observations that will in time--and this is where the realism transitions into pure fiction--bloom into umistakable clues. Some readers have stated that Thumbs is boring, an effect due to the Late Christie's declining literary powers. But I disagree. I say that the novel's older slueths, Tuppence and Tommy (a married couple), take on a mystery that emanates from within the normal doings of their lives. It did end wildly, and to a degree, improbably, but it is a novel of mystery, after all, which requires a cathartic climax. The point is that what makes this and other Christie novels compelling is the integrated mixture of everyday common-ness and improbable, emotionally heightening events.
Another thing that stuck out to me was how much everyone in Tommy and Tupence's lives were inclined to sleuth. From Tommy's elderly aunt to their butler, everyone has their own unique personality that masks a tendency toward detecion. Tommy's aunt was sleuthing right before she died, though when we first meet her, she seems to be a senile, nasty woman. The butler appears to be ironically witty, a garden variety Jeeves-type valet. And, yet, he is something more, as revealed when Tuppence goes missing and he minutely examines the dead aunt's scroll desk and uncovers important documents. I'm not sure what to make of this innate predilection toward investigation found in multiple characters, especially those who are not by trade or temperament (apparently) inclined to solve mysteries in the disciplined manner of a detective. But this spirit of detection feels almost cosmic in some ways, a kind of internal core of the novel that energizes the unlikeliest of characters. I will have to think about this some more.
Finally, the dreamlike feeling of the climax--wherein Tuppence encounters the killer and is internally compelled to follow them into a cloistered space--is powerful, beautiful. The revelation is satisfying in itself, yet what makes this novel rise above others is how Christie creates a sense of hallucinatory beauty, as if the revelation is terrifyingly sublime and must be filtered through a dreamy gauze. Of course, from a narratological perspective, Tuppence can only experience this moment in this way because it is wholly unexpected, her perceptions rendered akin to those of a stunned child.
I think I am becoming a devotee of Christie's fiction. I actually look forward to bedtime so I can absorb those elegant sentences and satisfying unfoldings of mystery.
Soon, I want to write about the Dave Robicheaux P.I. novels. I'll here say that I absolutely love the descriptions of New Orleans and its culture, as well as the musical cadence of the bayou dialect. Its rythmn is so fine, lulls me into a dreamy happiness. When I read beautiful passages in James Lee Burke's novels (he is the author of the Dave Robicheaux series of books), I yearn for the ability to write such poetic words. I think of a clear stream of water upon which the sun shines and you can see the smooth stones and pebbles in the depths of the water. This image is metaphorical for how lucid and lyrical prose makes me feel.
I have been reading Agatha Christie novels--I've read three in the last two weeks. Each has been great. I read Nemesis, Crooked House, and By the Pricking of my Thumbs. The reference in the title of the last book is to Macbeth: "By the Pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes."
The premises in all of Christie's novels are stylized and end neatly, that is, in a satisfying albeit implausible way. (Some might argue that within the reality of the novels, there is a natural progression in the unfolding of events.) Some might criticize this as being unrealistic, not at all how Life tends to work out, being that many murders remain unsolved and there are always miscarriages of justice when a suspect is actually apprehended. Still, Christie's prose is elegant and precise, her characterizations are also interesting--you believe that her characters could exist, their individual idiosyncrasies combining to form believable persons--and underneath the veneer of the everyday, Christie reveals murderous menace and the hidden passions and obsessions that move her characters to do what they do. The gentility of her prose is so at odds with the violent passions that lurk beneath. This tension is what makes me want to keep reading, not just the pleasure of discovery: the danger that lurks at the margins of polite conversation strikes a deep chord...
In By the Pricking of my Thumbs, I was struck by three things. One is that that her characters seems to have meandering conversations that go nowhere, the mystery taking some time to unfold. A lot of banter, as well as introspective reflections, slow down the action. But this is precisely the point: mysteries develop within the banal occurences of the everyday. In this way, Christie's novels are realistic, insofar as they present boring domestic or work-related activities; slightly unusual occurences that are nonetheless within the realm of normality, and casual observations that will in time--and this is where the realism transitions into pure fiction--bloom into umistakable clues. Some readers have stated that Thumbs is boring, an effect due to the Late Christie's declining literary powers. But I disagree. I say that the novel's older slueths, Tuppence and Tommy (a married couple), take on a mystery that emanates from within the normal doings of their lives. It did end wildly, and to a degree, improbably, but it is a novel of mystery, after all, which requires a cathartic climax. The point is that what makes this and other Christie novels compelling is the integrated mixture of everyday common-ness and improbable, emotionally heightening events.
Another thing that stuck out to me was how much everyone in Tommy and Tupence's lives were inclined to sleuth. From Tommy's elderly aunt to their butler, everyone has their own unique personality that masks a tendency toward detecion. Tommy's aunt was sleuthing right before she died, though when we first meet her, she seems to be a senile, nasty woman. The butler appears to be ironically witty, a garden variety Jeeves-type valet. And, yet, he is something more, as revealed when Tuppence goes missing and he minutely examines the dead aunt's scroll desk and uncovers important documents. I'm not sure what to make of this innate predilection toward investigation found in multiple characters, especially those who are not by trade or temperament (apparently) inclined to solve mysteries in the disciplined manner of a detective. But this spirit of detection feels almost cosmic in some ways, a kind of internal core of the novel that energizes the unlikeliest of characters. I will have to think about this some more.
Finally, the dreamlike feeling of the climax--wherein Tuppence encounters the killer and is internally compelled to follow them into a cloistered space--is powerful, beautiful. The revelation is satisfying in itself, yet what makes this novel rise above others is how Christie creates a sense of hallucinatory beauty, as if the revelation is terrifyingly sublime and must be filtered through a dreamy gauze. Of course, from a narratological perspective, Tuppence can only experience this moment in this way because it is wholly unexpected, her perceptions rendered akin to those of a stunned child.
I think I am becoming a devotee of Christie's fiction. I actually look forward to bedtime so I can absorb those elegant sentences and satisfying unfoldings of mystery.
Soon, I want to write about the Dave Robicheaux P.I. novels. I'll here say that I absolutely love the descriptions of New Orleans and its culture, as well as the musical cadence of the bayou dialect. Its rythmn is so fine, lulls me into a dreamy happiness. When I read beautiful passages in James Lee Burke's novels (he is the author of the Dave Robicheaux series of books), I yearn for the ability to write such poetic words. I think of a clear stream of water upon which the sun shines and you can see the smooth stones and pebbles in the depths of the water. This image is metaphorical for how lucid and lyrical prose makes me feel.