by Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde’s first published story, The Canterville Ghost, tells the tale of an American family that, upon purchasing an ancient English estate, learns that the house also comes with a nettlesome ghost.

Much to its dismay and despite its best efforts, the ghost more than meets its match in the Otis family.  This is especially true of a pair of mischievous twin boys.

Unlike Wilde’s novel The Picture of Dorian Gray and his plays, Canterville seems to be aimed primarily at children. The trademark Wilde wit is on display, but unlike his later works (yet in keeping with the titular spirit) the story doesn’t have much meat on its bones.

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by Frances Hodgson Burnett

Plot:  Ten-year-old orphan Mary moves from India to England, where she discovers the titular garden and some “magical” neighbors who greatly improve her outlook on life.

I’m not exactly in the target demo for this book, which is presumably children. But it’s easy to see why Burnett’s 1911 novel is considered a classic, with its vivid depiction of sour-faced Mary and the life lessons — the power of positive thinking; the healing effects of nature — that she and another child absorb at a mysterious mansion in Yorkshire.

Pros:  The fun is in witnessing the gradual transformations of grumpy Mary and an even haughtier boy from spoiled brats to good kids. The Yorkshire dialect is quite amusing, as are the cantankerous dispositions of certain locals.

Cons:  I could do with less of Burnett’s horticultural infatuation, which reminded me of the endless descriptions of masts and decks penned by Herman Melville in Moby Dick (of all books). I get that some authors love to wax rhapsodic about chrysanthemums and poppies and vines but … good grief, enough is enough.

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by Merryn Allingham

The Bookshop Murder finds amateur sleuth Flora Steele investigating a mysterious death in 1950s Sussex. She also finds romance with a reclusive, handsome writer in their picturesque small town.

This is the kind of book that doesn’t just employ cliches — thematically and literally — but seems to embrace them. The best word to describe the tone is mild. It is mildly intriguing, mildly dramatic. It’s basically Nancy Drew for adults who never outgrew Nancy Drew.

When I was a kid, I was a big fan of the Hardy Boys. But as an adult, I prefer a bit less innocence (or “coziness”) — and heaps more spice.

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by Anthony Gilbert

If you’ve never heard of Anthony Gilbert, don’t feel bad; neither had I. Gilbert was just one of scores of writers contributing to the “golden age of detective fiction” a century ago. I am of course familiar with Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers and Mary Roberts Rinehart and a handful of other members of the murder-mystery movement, but like so many writers of that era, Anthony Gilbert has faded into obscurity.

The Tragedy at Freyne is typical of its genre. A celebrated artist apparently commits suicide at his secluded British estate, and there are murder suspects galore. If you read old mysteries, you can predict most of what follows.

Gilbert’s story does have someone filling the usual protagonist role, a la Poirot or Sherlock Holmes, but he’s not particularly memorable. Where Gilbert shines is in the portrayal of female characters — particularly women with dark secrets.

That shouldn’t be too surprising. “Anthony Gilbert” was, in fact, a pen name used by Lucy Beatrice Malleson, a prolific English writer responsible for more than 60 crime novels.

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by Ethel Lina White

Possibly because this was White’s first published mystery novel, Put Out the Light isn’t quite on par with her later, more-polished works like The Lady Vanishes and The Spiral Staircase (my reviews of them here and here).

But White does create one truly memorable villain in “Anthea Vine.” Vain, scornful, and sharp as a tack, the wealthy spinster (White’s word, not mine) personifies a 1930s career woman who evokes either empathy or disdain — depending on your perspective, I suppose.

The plot: Anthea rules stately Jamaica Court, where cohabitating relatives and visiting sycophants all kiss her butt in hopes of finding favor in her will.

But someone doesn’t want to wait for Anthea to die of natural causes. And then … whodunit?

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by Lucy Foley

Foley sets up her murder mystery in classic style: A group of suspects gathers on an isolated, stormy island off the coast of Ireland, each of them harboring dark secrets and motives for murder.

What works:

Using the first-person, present tense, Foley immerses us in the innermost thoughts and feelings of her collection of (mostly) wealthy, privileged characters. They are all very flawed and, well, suspicious.

The setting — a wedding at an ancient castle on the cliffs of a barren island — is suitably atmospheric.

The narrative flow, hopping back and forth in time, adds to the tension rather than being a distraction.

What doesn’t work:

With one exception (the “best man”), Foley’s male characters are more one-dimensional than are the females. They say it’s difficult for male writers to create believable females. Apparently, it is also true that female writers struggle with the psychology of male characters.

The killer reveal is not exactly shocking. When everyone in the story has the means and motive for murder, the person whodunit should probably come as more of a surprise.

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by Michael Kimmel

Synopsis — Liberal sociologist Kimmel analyzes the phenomenon of America’s “angry white men.” He attributes most of this troublesome development to the decline of their privilege and the emergence of what he calls “aggrieved entitlement.”

It’s a tall order to write a short review of a book dealing with such a complex issue, so I’m summarizing my impressions:

The Bad

The book, published in 2013, is badly outdated. Not Kimmel’s fault, of course. But it was written before the election of Trump, before the emergence of workplace “equity,” before transgender women dominating women’s sports, etcetera. Some of Kimmel’s 2013 conclusions suffer when viewed from the perspective of today’s political climate.

The author tries to have it both ways. Kimmel insists that he can empathize with so-called angry white men because he himself shared — in some cases still does — many of their views. He then spends the rest of his book debunking (almost) all those views.

The lumping-together effect. There isn’t much of an attempt to distinguish the typical, disgruntled conservative male from far-right extremists. My impression is that Kimmel considers them all a “problem” to be solved.

Tens of millions of white men voted for Donald Trump. Does anyone believe that they are all Ku Klux Klan wannabes? Much of this book deals with fringe-group animosity; not enough with regular men. What many ordinary men crave isn’t entitlement; it’s respect.

Language tricks. In a discussion of domestic violence, Kimmel criticizes a researcher who is “careful even to put the word [battered] in quotations when discussing men but not when discussing women.” That’s a grammatical trick that Kimmel himself is not above using. Often.

Also, in his “explanations” of angry males’ complaints (see what I did there?), he invalidates those complaints by using words like “claim,” or “allege.” For example, men don’t simply “say” they suffer discrimination in family courts; they “allege” or “claim” discrimination. In other words, what they are saying is questionable — at best.

To give the appearance of fairness, concede a point or two, generally minor, to the angry white men. But immediately follow up with your contention that any possible legitimate complaint is vastly outweighed by the societal privilege that white men enjoy (or enjoyed).

The Good

A funny thing happens about two-thirds into the book, in a chapter titled “Mad Men.”  Kimmel briefly suspends his use of the annoying term “aggrieved entitlement” (i.e., so many societal ills could be remedied if these spoiled men would simply eat some humble pie and adjust to their new reality) and acknowledges that many of their complaints are (gasp!), in fact justified. In short, Kimmel appears to finally “get it.”

The book’s final chapters. Rather than tribes fighting each other over economic crumbs, the “angry white men” need to join forces with women and minorities to demand change. They share a common enemy: the economic elite. Angry White Men would have been a more convincing book if Kimmel had stuck with this theme.

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by Charles Dickens

How do you write one of the most famous murder mysteries of all time? Here’s one way: You die before your novel is completed, leaving readers to speculate about whodunit to poor Edwin Drood, the titular character who goes missing and is presumed dead.

That was the case with Charles Dickens’ serialized last novel, which was just 50 percent complete when the celebrated author expired in 1870.

Actually, it seems fairly obvious who Drood’s killer is. Clues within the novel and from Dickens’s own notes and conversations with contemporaries point to one likely suspect. Or is the solution so obvious? Is it possible that the mystery of Edwin Drood is the fact that he wasn’t murdered, after all? Could Dickens have been about to pull off a Rod Serling-like twist?

Regardless, it’s a Charles Dickens story. That means most of a reader’s enjoyment derives from the colorful characters and the author’s amusing way with words.

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by Edith Wharton

Lord knows I’m no Edith Wharton scholar, but after reading her classic novel House of Mirth, I am certainly an admirer. Wharton, herself no stranger to the world of 1905 upper-class society, tells the tragic tale of Lily Bart, a young New Yorker who thrives on beauty and charm … until she doesn’t.

The bulk of the novel is a chronicle of Lily’s thoughts — about wealth, privilege, the lower classes and, in the end, what really matters in life. In other words, there is not a whole lot of conventional “action” in the story. But Lily’s observations are endlessly fascinating and, ultimately, moving.

Today’s readers (especially progressive feminists, I presume) may be horrified by the state of society in early 20th-century New York as depicted in this book. But despite all the progress of the ensuing years, Wharton’s final message is this: Some things never change.

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by Emile Gaboriau

I can hear it now: Monsieur Who?

Edgar Allan Poe is often cited as the father of the modern detective novel, and everyone is familiar with Arthur Conan Doyle’s legendary sleuth Sherlock Holmes. But I’m guessing that few readers are aware of the link between Poe and Doyle: French author Emile Gaboriau, who penned detective novels clearly influenced by Poe’s C. Auguste Dupin and in turn a major inspiration for Doyle’s Holmes.

I suspect Gaboriau’s novels have slipped into relative obscurity because they lack Poe’s mastery of mood and Doyle’s strong characterizations. Monsieur Lecoq, a young, ambitious policeman whose chief attributes seem to be self-doubt and confusion, isn’t particularly memorable, and Gaboriau’s prose can be a bit wordy and dense.

Still, if you’re a fan of 19th-century crime fiction, Lecoq’s investigation of an enigmatic man accused of a triple murder is an entertaining read.

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