Category: Other

Mystery Stories

Many people think that mystery stories are driven by plot and the belief that murder will out. A mystery prepares the reader for the revelation of the villain. This is the kind of story that requires “spoiler” warnings, something that I always take as a warning that the story may not be worth the trouble to read. In the preface to a collection of long short stories, Trouble Is My Business, Raymond Chandler said “The ideal mystery was one that you would read if the end was missing.” The corollary is that an ideal mystery is one that you would read even if you knew the end beforehand. After all, we all know that murder will out, so who cares about the details? The way the murder outs is what counts.

Heroes

Chandler’s stories are about the detective not the plot. Chandler’s detective, Phillip Marlowe, is special. He owes the heroes of the cowboy westerns and the heroes of the romances of Chretien de Troyes and the Mabinogion. Marlow’s chowderhead is a big as Gawain’s, chasing off to establish honor in a corrupt world where the cops are on the take, the heroines cheat, and Marlowe’s best friend will always betray him in the end. Murder may out, but in the outing, it will drag down more than stands. Why read this dismal schmaltz? Is the attraction the hot pepper remarks?

Chandler said in the same preface “As to the emotional basis of the hard-boiled story, obviously it does not believe that murder will out and justice will be done– unless some very determined individual makes it his business to see that justice is done. The stories were about the men who made that happen.”

Structuralism

A structuralist analysis of the hard-boiled detective looks at the overall structure. A society is structured. Then something happens, like a murder, that throws the structure into chaos. The hard-boiled detective restores order, but in his restoration of order, he adds his own measure of disorder. His disorder carries the potential to transform the society to a higher order where the ideals of the detective prevail. Except the detective seldom prevails. The mean streets stay mean, and Marlowe settles back with another glass of whiskey and waits for the next phone call, a paladin or messiah, ready to transform the world, waiting for the next good chance.

In keeping with my new interest in short stories, I posted another.The Lady With The Dog, by Anton Chekhov.

I have to confess that I have never studied Russian literature systematically. My sole exposure was an undergraduate class on War and Peace.

The anti-climax to the class was a showing of the soviet movie version in gothic Mandel Hall on the University of Chicago campus. The old screen was not wide enough for Sovoscope 70; so the student group showing the film hung white dormitory bed sheets to extend the width. The results were not entirely visually satisfactory. An SDS faction wanted the movie shown soviet style– eight straight hours with no bathroom breaks, but the group showing the film decided on two 3 hour segments, which was the way the film was originally released to the US. All I remember was the remarkable resemblance of the soviet Natasha to Audrey Hepburn.

At the same time, I have harbored a secret belief that all the best novels and short stories all come from Russia. Of course, this is cultural stereotyping and sheer hogwash.

The Lady With The Dog is said to be one of Chekhov’s best stories. I like it. It is austere and very sad. Two lovers, forever apart. Trapped into unrequited and unrequitable love by lust and boredom. Told with economy and grace.

Read it here.

I used to read a lot of short stories, but at some point, I noticed that as soon as I was nicely settled into a short story, it would end, so I decided to avoid them. But now, brochures for hearing aids and bathtubs with doors in the side have begun to appear in my mail and I have started to appreciate anything I live long enough to finish. Consequently, a taste for short stories has returned.

A Forgotten Favorite Pops To Mind

Last week, I was put on the spot to name my favorite short story, and out popped Bartleby, The Scrivener. To explain why, I mumbled something incoherent about shifting perceptions, although I could scarcely remember what the story was about, not having read it for many years.
I reread Bartleby this week, and I now have some idea why I like it.

Herman Melville

Hermann Melville wrote Bartleby in 1853 when his career has on a downward slope. Moby Dick had been published but was not nearly as well received as his earlier and now nearly forgotten travelogues like Omoo and Typee.

The Story

The Bartleby story is simple and absurd. The narrator, an ageing lawyer, has two scriveners (clerks). His first clerk, Turkey, is drunk every afternoon, and his second clerk, Nippers, can’t settle down to work until after noon. The narrator has been appointed to a remunerative new official position and he hires Bartleby to handle the extra load. Bartleby is an excellent scrivener, but soon he begins to utter his tag line “I prefer not to.” The old lawyer can’t deal with Bartleby any more effectively than he deals with his first two clerks. Bartleby refuses more and more work and the lawyer discovers that Bartleby has set up housekeeping in the office and prefers not to leave. The lawyer moves his firm out of the office. When Bartleby prefers not to leave for the new tenant, the landlord has him jailed. The narrator attempts to have special food supplied to Bartleby in jail, but Bartleby prefers not to eat and dies.

Themes

What is the story about? Is Bartleby clinically depressed? Is the lawyer a silly old pushover and codependent enabler of Bartleby’s affliction? Or is this an indictment of a social system and mindless employment?
The lawyer’s life is barren. He is esteemed for being steady and methodical but we have no hint that he has a satisfying family life or pastimes, his office is gloomy and shabby. Turkey and Nippers may be defective, but they seem livelier and happier than their boss. Bartleby is a pale wraith, reminiscent of the white whale, whose entire personality is condensed into his utterance “I prefer not to”, a contrast to the steady and methodical lawyer who does what is expected without recourse to preference.
The story ends with a rumor that Bartleby worked in the dead letter office, stripping letters of objects of value when the addressee could not be found. Could Bartleby have preferred not to prepare lawyer’s documents for addressees who could be found? Does the narrator secretly wish to step away from life? Or has life become defective?

I find the story haunting and enigmatic.  I admit that since I reread the story, Bartleby sometimes slips into my day dreams, softly asserting that “I prefer not to” when I have a disagreeable meeting to attend.

Read Bartleby For Yourself

Read it for yourself. I’ve posted Bartleby the Scrivener here.