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I could not put this book down. A historical fiction thriller about a group of people trying to find a serial killer in New York City in 1896, The Alienist does a wonderful job imagining how early detectives did their work while painting a graphic picture of life at that time. I got deep satisfaction following the various characters as they learned what they could from the crime scenes and did what Poirot would suggest: think about the psychology of the crime. At that time, psychology was a new, mistrusted, and controversial field, and the psychologist of the title is on the cutting edge. He instructs his colleagues in theory and case histories, and together they build a picture of a man who would commit such crimes, intending to use it to find the killer.
Carr doesn’t waste a moment – almost everything that happens helps move the story forward. Evidence and psychology are used logically to solve the crime, making it a 19th-century procedural with lots of instructional material provided along the way. And the political, economic, and social setting of the novel are all part of the story, which includes Theodore Roosevelt, who was a police commissioner at the time, and John Pierpont Morgan, one of the great financiers of that century.
The only weakness in the book was the occasional slip that every historical novel I’ve ever read falls prey to – inclusion of details that do not serve the story. The most grievous was a short scene at Roosevelt’s house in which every child who is old enough to has his or her moment in the spotlight being memorable. Otherwise, it mainly showed up as the occasional paragraph listing streets and buildings passed as characters traveled from one point in the city to another. By the end of the book, these particular passages didn’t bother me as much because New York is an important part of the story and having a real sense of the city as it was then gives the novel a firm foundation. And overall, Carr had a good understanding of the heart of his story and kept the historical elements from overwhelming it.
The other thing this book made me realize is why I find fiction so much more compelling than nonfiction – fiction provides the details I long for, and things make sense. Not long ago, I read The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson, which tells the true story of the serial killer H. H. Holmes in tandem with the events surrounding the 1893 World’s Fair. Despite the excellent research he did, Larson could not answer the questions I wanted answered. Why Holmes did the things he did is not really known, and that left me wanting more from the book. The Alienist completely scratched that itch. And having done his homework in order to create a believable killer, Carr gave Holmes his due. Holmes was in Philadelphia awaiting execution during the spring of 1986, and though he is only mentioned a few times, he is well used.
An engrossing read for those interested in the era and who love mysteries.
On May 18th, I attended a talk by Jeannette Walls, who wrote a memoir called The Glass Castle. I had not heard of her or read her book, but I am always interested in other writers and their experiences, so I went. I decided to read her book beforehand; I devoured it in under 24 hours.
The book is well-written and noticeably devoid of judgments, despite the fact this woman’s story is one of crazy family interactions, abject poverty, and child-rearing that consists of neglect and abuse. One of the many miracles in this book is that Jeannette and her three siblings grew up to be successful adults despite the irresponsible role models they had in their alcoholic father and self-centered mother.
Over and over, the children take care of themselves as well as their parents, in extreme and horrible circumstances. When their parents’ arguments were loud enough to be heard in the street, the children played in the yard, hoping to convince the gathering neighbors that nothing was wrong. The children asked their parents for basic things – stop drinking; get a job; why don’t you sell that old jewelry/ring/land so we can eat? – and got nowhere. They were much clearer on what was happening in the house than the adults were; they knew what was needed but were unable to bring about the changes themselves. They found ways to survive, but they were difficult ways, and their core needs were never met by their parents.
Despite their beginnings, all the children worked their way out of the dead-end West Virginia town they lived in and made the move to New York City. They got apartments, jobs, and educations all on their own. The only real help they had was from one another. All of them became successful professionally, except for the youngest, who had a breakdown and is apparently still in a place her sister is not comfortable talking about.
Their parents followed them to New York and continued to live the marginal, hand-to-mouth existence they always had. They slept under bridges and in abandoned buildings. They dug Christmas presents out of dumpsters. They thought nothing was wrong with their lifestyle and it was clearly a choice. While he was homeless and unemployed, their father made $950 gambling so his daughter could finish her college degree.
Jeannette and her siblings were in the awkward position of being better off than their parents and unable to help them despite a laudable desire to do so. The siblings tried in many ways, but in the end, their parents were who they were. Nothing Jeannette or the others did or said ever changed that. Even the one thing Jeannette said that affected her father drastically (“please stop drinking”) only had a temporary effect.
Jeannette Walls herself is amazing. She is positive, optimistic, and sees that her difficult childhood has given her the ability to deal well with adversity and obstacles as an adult. She knows the difference between want and need. She still marvels at some of the things she has today (like a thermostat and the ability to buy anything in the grocery store), and yet she thinks everything is – and has been – great. She has pulled the gem out of every dismal situation she has survived and made herself a crown of glory. Her message is full of hope: you too can overcome your difficulties. Life is worth living, even though it may at times be less than pleasant. We are all equal, complex, interesting, gifted, compassionate, and flawed beings. Everything is a blessing and a curse; you choose how to perceive it.
I stood in line a long time to get my book signed. When I got to the table, I complimented Jeannette on the book and her writing, and asked if it was traumatic to write. She said it was. She got the draft done in 6 weeks, but it took five more years to get honest. She said initially everything was written at a journalist’s distance and she really had to work to get to her own feelings about her childhood. I wasn’t at all surprised by her answer and it was clear she felt it was all worth the effort. Not only did she learn while she was writing the book, but the discussions she has had since with her many readers have taught her even more. It’s heartening to think that her readers daily confirm what she believes – that we are all compassionate and understanding beings, so there is nothing for us to fear or hide.
This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived
As freezing persons recollect
The snow -
First chill, then stupor, then
The letting go.
–Emily Dickinson
Research is good for me. It’s leading me to books I would never even look at normally and Hour of Gold, Hour of Lead is one of these. In this case I feel like I’ve found a treasure, or rather, met an extraordinary person.
First: why this book? I’ve got a character in a novel whose wife is kidnapped and killed about ten years before the book starts. I wanted to find out what it is like for the survivors of such a tragedy, and checked out of the library a variety of crime books, most of which were too violent for me to read. Then I had a brain storm. The famous kidnapping of the Lindbergh’s baby in 1932 is the kind of event I’m interested in, and also a story that isn’t too horrific for me to deal with. I found out that Anne Morrow Lindbergh published her letters and diaries in a series of books that included the key years – leading up to the kidnapping, covering the kidnapping and discovery of her son’s body, and the prosecution and conviction of the criminal. So I started with Hour of Gold, Hour of Lead, which covers the years 1929-1932. I wanted to have a sense of who this woman was before I got to the events I am interested in, so I started at the beginning of the book. Am I ever glad I did.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh was a charming young woman who lived an extraordinary life. She traveled with her husband, the famous pilot Charles Lindbergh, all over the world, mapping potential flight routes and promoting commerical air travel when it was in its infancy. Anne loved flying. She was both a pilot and a radio operator. She was also enchanted by the many places they visited on their long tours; included in this book are descriptions of a tour of South America and another of the Orient.
Not everything was wonderful, however. The Lindberghs were news, big news, and the American press hounded them constantly. They could not go out into public without being accosted and the press would often follow them to the retreats they had hoped would stay private. Charles schooled Anne in how to evade questions and give noncommital answers, and she complained more than once of having to be reserved even in her writing for secrecy’s sake. This fame would lead to the kidnapping of their baby.
In 1930, Anne bore their first son. Charles, Jr. was often on Anne’s mind, even when they were on opposite sides of the world from each other. Knowing that her son was taken from her, I was sensitive to her concerns about him. More than once, she begged a trusted relative to stay with Charles, Jr., because she was afraid the press would take advantage of the Lindberghs’ absence and of their staff’s inexperience with reporters. Six months before her son disappeared, Anne quoted a poem she heard in China, written by a mother about her dead son. If thus was fiction, these little touches would seem like artistic foreshadowing. Unfortunately, they are real, and they make the reader aware just how much Anne loved her son and feared for him. When tragedy finally strikes, her tortured hopes and loss of faith in the world are all the more poignant to the reader.
Anne’s diary entries and letters from the disappearance of her baby on March 1, 1932 to the end of that year expose the full range of emotions she experienced, and the many conflicting thoughts. Their second son, Jon, was born on August 15th and Anne experienced a wonderful, though brief, return of her faith in the world. She realized even before his birth that Jon could never erase her memories of Charlie, but that he would give her new experiences as a mother. She respected Jon as an individual even in his earliest days. Whenever memories of Charlie caused Anne to panic about keeping Jon safe, she always reminded herself she must not let her terror negatively affect Jon’s life.
The next book is Locked Rooms and Open Doors (1933-35) which will include the capture and trial of the man who killed Charlie Lindbergh, which is the rest of the reading I need to do for my novel. I’ve decided to go back and read Bring Me a Unicorn (1922-28) as well. My interest in Anne is now much more than academic and I can’t wait to read her observations and thoughts about meeting and falling in love with Charles Lindbergh. It’s not on my official list of topics to research, but she is too special to abandon without hearing her whole story.
More research reading, this time with a broader historical perspective. A World Lit Only By Fire was recommended to me by a friend of my husband’s, and I am grateful he pointed it out to me. The earliest chapters of the book describe life in the Middle Ages in detail, most of which underscores either the illogical or the cruel, both of which were prevalent at the time. Next it shows the unfolding Renaissance, the people and ideas that led to an entirely new way of living and thinking. The crowning story is that of Ferdinand Magellan, the man who went against king, country, his fellow captains, and his own crew, and managed to find his way around the southern tip of South America and across the Pacific ocean to the Philippines, proving that the world was round. Manchester makes a compelling case that if anything brought about the end of life as it was lived in the Middle Ages, it was this single fact and that we owe Magellan much for this world-changing discovery.
History has never been my strong point, but I am finding myself more and more willing to read about it thanks to books like this one. Who knew that reading history could be fun? The more I learned about the people who shaped the times – bishops, priests, popes, kings, knights, scientists, philosophers, artists, and reformists – the more I wanted to know. I learned about people with names I recognized (the Borgias, Martin Luther, Magellan, for starters) and names I didn’t (like Erasmus), learned things that were wonderful, amazing, shocking, and occasionally funny.
I was fascinated to learn that Robin Hood existed (there’s a grave stone in Yorkshire), as did the Pied Piper of Hamelin, although Robin kept the money and the Piper was a mass murderer of children. Girls were legal to wed at 12, boys at 14, and an engaged couple could have sex as long as the banns had been read (i.e., the intention of the two to marry had been announced to the public at church). Life expectancy for men was 30, for women, 24, which explains at least in part the need to marry so young. Some religious pilgrims were actually criminals who were sent on their long and difficult journey in lieu of serving a term in prison. The book is full of compelling and intriguing details such as these, but it also steps back to give a picture of an era. It makes the famous figures it discusses live and breathe. Indeed, that we are all just human is evident in every story told, from that of the most corrupt and decadent popes, who had wives, mistresses, children, held orgies, and even had sex with their siblings, to the relatively righteous, like Martin Luther, who protested against the excesses of the clergy but in the end was just as ruthless and violent in pursuing change as the popes were in maintaining the status quo.
The last section is devoted to Magellan, and the book is worth reading for this alone. How he arranged for the voyage, managed his mutinous peers, refused to turn back despite continual disappointments and hardships, and lost all sense of proportion when he finally succeeded is a remarkable tale. Magellan died in the Philippines (a bizarre story in itself) but one of his captains made it home again, following the known trade routes past the Cape of Good Hope, with the 18 men who survived from the original 265 that set out with Magellan three years earlier. At the time, due to politics, the captain (whom we no longer remember) got all the credit for the successful circumnavigation of the world. Eventually, however, credit was given to Magellan, once documents pertaining to the voyage began to come to light. Manchester is determined to make sure Magellan does get the credit he deserves, and that he can entertain us and achieve his goal simultaneously is noteworthy.
A World Lit Only By Fire: The Medieval Mind and the Renaissance, Portrait of an Age by William Manchester, Little Brown and Co., 1992.
As a Jane Austen fan, I’m always interested in the film versions of her books. I’ve loved some (the TV-series of Pride and Prejudice; the movie version of Sense and Sensibility written by Emma Thompson; and the TV-version of Persuasion; all three from 1995) and disliked others (the 2005 movie version of Pride and Prejudice; the 1999 movie version of Mansfield Park). What I like best are the scripts that are as true to the book as they can be despite the fact that they have had to condense characters and trim the plot. Of all of Austen’s books, Mansfield Park is probably the hardest for a modern audience to relate to because so much of the plot hinges on a moral system we cannot understand. The 2007 TV-version of the book finds a good middle ground, staying true to the book while making the characters and situations appealing to the modern viewer.
As a young girl, Fanny Price, poor cousin to the Bertrams, is taken into their home out of charity to Lady Bertram’s sister, who is saddled with a large family and little income. As an adult, Fanny (Billie Piper) is both proper and sensitive. She feels the harsh words her unthinking uncle and aunts speak and tries hard to be as inoffensive as possible. She has to watch as her beloved cousin Edmund (Blake Ritson) pursues Mary Crenshaw (Hayley Atwell), a woman determined to marry the eldest son for his money, but who finds herself attracted to Edmund instead. Mary’s brother Henry (Joseph Beattie) is cut of the same cloth and woos both Maria and Julia Bertram, even though Maria is already engaged.
When her uncle is away, Fanny’s cousins, with the help of the Crenshaws, plan to put on a play about lovers, and Fanny knows that Sir Thomas will disapprove. The assumption that play-acting is immoral is the biggest pitfall in portraying Mansfield Park to a modern audience. The impropriety of performing the play is central to the plot, as it gives several characters a chance to be intimate with one another in a way their society would not normally allow. But, two hundred years later, acting has lost the social stigma it had in the 1800s, and Sir Thomas comes across as a tyrant to a modern audience. By emphasizing the use both Mary and Henry make of the situation, Iain B. MacDonald’s version gives us at least a hint of why the society of the time disapproved.
What I love about this version is the portrayal of Fanny. In the book, she is incredibly reserved and proper as a result of her low status in the family, but the movie allows her to be young and lively life as well. She is shown running through the house at moments of great joy, and at one point, she enthusiastically plays hide-and-seek with a young girl. She is also wise, seeing through the pretenses of Mary’s brother, Henry, and refusing to marry him, despite the favors he does her and her uncle’s anger at “her selfishness”. The relationship between Edmund and Fanny is key to the story, and both Piper and Ritson make us well aware of the characters’ feelings for one another even when the characters themselves do not speak.
The movie was shot entirely at Newby Hall in Yorkshire and has a lovely look as a result. I found the production like Fanny – charming and straightforward – and I was impressed by the decision not to try to modernize Fanny or the story (as was done in the 1999 Mansfield Park). To keep the film at 90 minutes, many scenes from the book were removed or reduced, but not with severe cost. I would love to see what this crew would have done with the movie if they had been allowed more time and a broader scope of locations.
