Rich's August Book Reviews Tuesday, 08.04.2009, 04:29pm (GMT-6)
A
FINE AND PRIVATE PLACE.
Peter
S. Beagle. 1960; 2007 printing. Ballantine Books. Trade Paperback. 296 pages.
$14.95.
When this book came out in 1960, 19-year-old Peter Beagle
was critically hailed all over the literary map and mentioned in the same sentence
with names like John Updike and Phillip Roth. When he followed it with I See
by My Outfit, a travelogue of a cross-country trip made with a buddy on a
scooter, he was patted on the back again, and called a genius. Then he
published The Last Unicorn (amazing book, lousy – and I mean absolutely
lousy – movie), and the same people who hailed his genius wrote him off as
merely a fantasy writer. Fortunately for everyone, he ignored idiotic critics
and kept writing, becoming one of our best writers and fabulists.
This book is about Jonathan Rebeck who has been living in
the Yorkchester Cemetery for the past 19 years. He inhabits an abandoned
mausoleum and relies on a raven to bring him food and the occasional game of
chess. Rebeck also makes it a point to meet the newcomers to the cemetery and
give them company until they all fade away. But two things happen to change it
all: two new ghosts arrive who just can’t quite get the dead thing (they fight
it for all they’re worth), and he meets a woman – Mrs. Klapper – who comes to
visit the grave of her deceased husband. These two events change his whole
world and his whole way of looking at it.
(I keep asking myself how critics could not consider this a
fantasy, hailing his literary genius, and then writing off the equally
well-written and evocative The Last Unicorn .)
As you can guess, the themes here are life, death, love,
forgiving yourself, hiding from yourself, and the meaning of life. There are
times when it sounds like many of the other books that came out of the 1960s,
but Beagle pulls it off with such grace, style, wit and humor, it’s impossible
to be bothered for long.
There are graceful, gentle and moving passages, all mixed in
with wry and gut-busting humor. The raven’s smart-ass observations are well worth
the purchase price alone. He also captures the sound and rhythm of the
Bronx/New York City Jewish community and the Jewish/Yiddish speech patterns
with a solid ear. (At least to the ear and eye of this guy who’s never been to
New York City.) Beagle’s deft handling of humor, sadness, love and life – especially
for such a young man at the time – combine to make this a true classic (next
year will be its 50th anniversary).
If you saw the last film version of this book, then you know
the plot. I was surprised at how faithful the scriptwriters were to the book.
Some changes had to be made for the sake of a different geopolitical climate
and map, and a few action scenes were added to up the pace of the film, but
other than that, the movie is faithful to the entire plot of the book. (And,
just the for the record, the other film version with David Niven was a
hysterical spoof of what the Bond movie franchise had become, and well worth
anyone owning it.)
A quick recap, though, if some of you haven’t seen the
movie: This is the first Bond novel, and it has Bond ordered to engage in a
high-stakes poker game with a Soviet agent – Le Chiffre – who appears to have
lost money given to him by organized crime. The British Secret Service wants
Bond to publicly humiliate Le Chiffre and publicly destroy him, but not
necessarily kill him.
Fleming, a BSS operative himself, gets the reality of real
world espionage – a chess match, slow and often thoughtful – down pat. He
simultaneously keeps tension high.
As most anyone knows, Bond is a ladies’ man – love ‘em and
leave ‘em – and in this book, Fleming sets up how Bond becomes who he is.
I first read a couple James Bond books back in high school,
and they really didn’t catch my attention. But I have to say with this one, I
have developed a better appreciation for Fleming as a writer, and I think I’m
going to have to read a few more now. If you want the movie, don’t read this.
It will bore you. But if you want something more intelligent than you might
expect, give it a shot.
And finally for this month, a belated farewell to an old and
trusted friend. Two weeks ago, I learned that Gregory McDonald, creator of
Fletch, died in September 2008 of cancer. Regular readers of this column will
remember that I touched on Fletch a few months ago – one of the books I turned
to for comfort in coming to grips with the sudden death of my father. So rather
than rehash what I wrote then, I’d like to introduce you to another of
McDonald’s creations.
McDonald pulled the character of Boston Police Inspector
Francis Xavier Flynn from his second Fletch novel – Confess, Fletch, and
gave him his very own novel and four book series. (I always wished for more
Flynn books.)
Flynn suspects that the explosion of the Boeing 707 that
sent it crashing into Boston Harbor is more than an accident, and his boss has
asked him to look into it. However, there are a couple irregularities here – the
Boston Police Department has no such rank as Inspector, and the boss is the
head of an unnamed government agency.
That’s right. His job is just a cover, complete with a
personal assistant nicknamed Grover.
As a mystery, for me, this is on par with the best of the
Fletch novels. McDonald’s trademark humor and wisecracks permeate this book as
well. McDonald always said he was never sure if he was writing comedies that
were also mysteries or mysteries that were also comedies. Either way, the
result was always hilarious and delightful.
One of the things that I enjoyed about the character of
Flynn is that he was an atypical spy. Instead of the single guy, with the love
‘em and leave ‘em attitude, Flynn is a happily married man, faithful to his
wife and five children who he goes home to every night. His twin sons provide
much of the humor in the book, and much of that is aimed at the hapless Grover.
Flynn was a refreshing change in the spy world.
I always turned to McDonald to give me a good time, an
intelligent mystery laced with realism and humor. McDonald was the first writer
I ever read who could make me laugh as I read. For that I owe him boatloads.
I’m sad to lose a man who became a friend to me through his writing. I wish you
the same wonder and joy I had when I first discovered Gregory McDonald. Fletch
or Flynn...either way, you can’t lose.
Rich welcomes questions and comments. You can reach
him through this paper, or by email at 62rich@gmail.com.
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