Author: Anders Monsen (Page 11 of 81)

The paperback edition of Robert McCammon’s novel, The Queen of Bedlam, checks in at a hefty 645 pages. As the sequel to Speaks the Nightbird, it picks up the thread of Matthew Corbett’s life in the summer of 1702, three years after the event of the earlier novel, and in a different locale. Having returned to the metropolis of New York (population ca. five thousand), Matthew Corbett is employed as a clerk for a magistrate, not much different from his profession in his Carolina adventures.

Having read some of the later books before I acquired this novel, I knew outlines of some of his adventures therein. The nature of the title wasn’t clear from summaries in those other books, however, and not what I expected when it became clear. This is also the novel that introduces the fiendish Professor Fell, Corbett’s arch-enemy in later books, although only indirectly. Fell doesn’t make a direct appearance until The Providence Rider, the fourth book in the series. In the meantime, we encounter various associates, a slow build up to the puppeteer behind the lesser evils.

In 1702, New York City only was a city as far north as Wall Street. An actual wall existed along that street from 1685 to 1699, and slowly was dismantled in the early years of the 18th century. Beyond Wall Street lay the outer ward, primarily an area of farms, Indians (though by then much depleted due to illnesses brought over by the Europeans), and the long road to Boston. From McCammon’s book, the center of New York are the taverns and the docks. The populace is rude, in a hurry, and ready to form mobs at the drop of a pin. There are bordellos, churches, depraved people, sanctimonious people, and some good people. It’s not much different from today, the main difference being that New York today has a population of over 10 million, not 5,000.

It’s in New York that Corbett begins his new life. Two events thrust him into adventure. First is a killer, nicknamed “the Masker” who slays several prominent people. Corbett is hired by the widow of the second victim to find this killer. The other event is his recruitment into a detective agency, or problem solvers as they call themselves; Corbett calls himself a detective at some point, a name lost on those he’s addressing. Here he meets Hudson Greathouse and Katherine Herrald, two names that figure in the later novels, especially Greathouse. He also draws the attention of Professor Fell’s associates, and in a final climactic battle works to save his life that of a young woman, from a death that might have been concocted by any Bond villain.

The book’s length and scope means that multiple threads weave through its pages. They’re all connected, somehow, and the Queen of Bedlam is at the center. She’s not the villain of the novel, as I expected from the title. Corbett’s role here is to find her identity, and it leads him directly to the other connections, from the Masker to Fell’s associates.

I recently bought a paperback copy of the book and read it over the span of three days. My edition is the 6th printing, of a book originally published in 2007. The hardcover edition, from Subterranean Press, appeared in two formats. One, with 374 signed numbered copies, housed in a custom slipcase. The other, 26 signed lettered copies, housed in a custom traycase. Per the publisher, “[t]here is no trade edition of The Queen of Bedlam.” No wonder, then, that the hardcover edition rarely appears on the market, and no doubt fetches far more than its original price of $125 or $500, respectively. For the life of me, I cannot fathom paying $500 for a book, but then, I’m not that rabid collector. And so, the paperback edition will sit amid the other hardcovers I have in that series.

As to whether the book is worth reading, I’d say it’s one of the better ones I’ve read so far, maybe the best one. In a fair world, McCammon’s series would be a raging success in the publishing world, a Netflix series in the works, and mass market editions of his other books readily available. As it stands, I hope he keeps writing books in the series, and if I’m ever lucky enough to find copies of his other novels (at reasonable prices), I hope I get the opportunity to acquire and read them.

There are quite a few cats at the Hemingway House in Key West. Some sleep on the bed, others on bookshelves in the small book/gift store. Others lounge around outside, seeking shelter from the heat in various shaded areas. Signs tell you that you can pet the cats at your own risk Many of them have six digits, but I didn’t quite feel brave enough to deal with six claws. Cats are notoriously fickle creatures, one minute friendly, the next a furry killing machine.

A couple of weeks ago I had two hours to kill in Key West. Seems like a strange thing to say, considering it’s a three and half hour drive from Miami along the coastal highway at reduced speeds. But, my son and I were on the road early Sunday morning, hoping to spend a few hours there sightseeing before heading to a Boy Scout camp on Islamorada. Apparently the first thing to do in Key West is to stand in line to get your photo taken next to a buoy proclaiming it the southernmost place in the continental US. Having spent 30 minutes on this venture we speed-walked along Whitehead Street over to the Hemingway House. Although they offered tours, as we were pressed for time as merely walked through all the rooms, then over to the gift shop. If I had more time and room in my luggage I probably would have spent more money, so I’ll have to save that for another time. Unfortunately I wasn’t familiar enough with the area to find a decent restaurant, so that’s another item on my list for a future trip.

It’s not hard to imagine Ernest Hemingway living there, across the street from the lighthouse, a short walk away from where he likely kept his boat, the Pilar. How he ended up in remote areas like Key West and Idaho are mysteries to me, considering his Chicago origins and many years in Paris. But the locale he picked and the house itself are remarkable, and probably were more remarkable almost a hundred years ago.

I consider myself a qualified fan of his writing. The Sun Also Rises and For Whom the Bell Tolls are classics in American literature, even though neither takes place in America. His later novels I find disinteresting. His personal life overshadowed his fiction after the Spanish Civil War, and his political leanings were jejune and ignorant. His rift with John Dos Passos and his snippy treatment of his former friend I find abhorrent. Still, Hemingway is unique, and unlike the prevailing trend to cancel anything or anyone who has a scintilla of bad history, I sift through writers like Hemingway to keep what I like and ignore the rest.

As I write this, I have in front of me am ink drawing of the facade of the Hemingway House, a solitary cat in the foreground. A notebook from the gift shop sits beside me on the desk, yet I wonder if I’ll ever write in it, as it’s a memento, a souvenir, and maybe has more of a sentimental value if kept blank. Or not.

Key West and the keys are unique, much like Hemingway. These days most of the houses there are likely overpriced vacation homes. They’re used only part of the year, owned by people who can afford to keep multi-million dollar homes and not live there most of the time. It’s a risky place to live, with hurricanes an annual threat. With water all around, the people who live in the Keys likely also own boats. In some cases they own large boats.

I spent a week on and off a dive boat. Inside the shallow bay you need to know the channels and shallow areas, and out on the ocean you need to travel for miles before the water deepens. As a land-locked Texan, it felt strange to spend so much time on the ocean, as well as under the surface. There’s plenty of fish, yet also coral graveyards. There’s so much to see in the Keys. And, the Everglades are just a short distance away, yet from what little I know about the Everglades, it seems like a different world, with alligators, snakes, swamps, and a river of grass. And yet, my first thought when I returned home, was that I really needed to re-read Hemingway’s stories set in the Keys and Cuba. Having finally been in that area, would they read any differently from when I first read them? Does visiting a place that created those stories impart any other meaning? Maybe, maybe not. After all, Hemingway’s characters play as much a role in his stories as the settings, if not more. The characters in Sloppy Joe’s could exist in any place in the world, but there’s only one Florida Keys.

Ever since I bought the fourth book in Fritz Leiber’s Fafhrd and Gray Mouser series in the new edition from Centipede Press, I’ve been eagerly awaiting the fifth one. Anticipation is a cruel mistress. I already had all the books in paperback, plus the final one in hardcover, but nothing beats the gorgeous editions produced by Centipede Press.

I learned just recently that the fifth book might be available to purchase in the next week or so, which only serves to heighten my expectations. Not only are the stories exciting to read again, but the bonus material is always a treat. This is one case where maybe I’m not a haphazard collector, although I stay with the unsigned versions, hoping to convince myself that this is a sane budgetary decision.

My copy of Robert McCammon’s novel, Mister Slaughter, arrived today. I read his first book in the series, Speaks the Nightbird, in 2019 or 2020 – the pandemic and its lockdown messed with my sense of time. Next, and just this year, I read the latest novel, Cardinal Black, which I think is the seventh in his series of books set around 1700, from America to England and elsewhere. Between those two books there are five other novels, all long out of print, and also mostly from small press publishers in limited numbers. This means they now far exceed their original published price. Now, I have two of those five “in-between” novels and, naturally, as with many series I’ve stumbled across “late to the party,” I’ve read them out of order. I lack books two, five, and six. Number two is my main goal, I think, as I’d like to know how McCammon continued his series after the first book. The others, while intriguing, merely flesh out the story.

Of those three books that remain in the middle which I don’t have (and I’m not sure if I should add the word, “yet” to that sentence), I wonder where’s my threshold? Do I pay whatever price I find on the collector’s market? Do I try to wait and see, hoping for new editions? I do like the fact that I have them in their original editions (though not all are firsts, and at some point the publishers changed).

This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. I sometimes wonder when I pick up books in series, whether I should wait until I have the right sequence, and then start from the beginning. Or, should I just jump right in and read them, and the order be damned?

Then again, I’ve read many series in the right order, because I was able to buy the first book first, found it enthralling enough to continue, and that made the experience richer. Jack Vance’s Lyonesse books come to mind, as his Cadwal chronicles and Planet of Adventure novels. (Although, his five Demon Prince novels I likely ready out of order, but I found it didn’t matter as much.) There’s also F. Paul Wilson’s Repairman Jack series, which spans more that a dozen books, and probably a few trilogies here and there.

Usually the first scenario happens; I read what I have at that moment, in sequence or not. That was the case with Julian May’s Adversary cycle, years ago. It was the case with Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novels, several mystery series (Billy Boyle, Inspector Montalbano, Wahloo and Sjovall’s Swedish mystery novels, Jørn Lier Horst’s novels, Gunar Staalensen’s books, and many more), plus a few SF series and other interconnected novels. It’s also happened with TV shows, so I guess I’m just an impatient person. Today I finally watched the first episode of the Murdoch Mysteries, a TV show where I’ve seen almost all episodes from seasons one through eight. Did it seem like the first episode? Not really. Not like Castle, another TV show I liked for a few years.

Books often give a brief summary of what happened in earlier stories, although a few paragraphs as a summary never feels like the real thing. Now that I have Mister Slaughter, which is referenced in a later book that I already read, The Providence Rider, there’s a heightened sense of awareness, I think, which probably clouds my enjoyment of the novel. I just can’t help it, I guess, as I want to read the books that I have, regardless of where they fit into a series. After all, it’s not like I can order the earlier once from online book sellers at retail prices, or hop down to the nearest bookstore. Books are limited, and should be taken advantage of the moment one has them, unless you either have patience, or get in on the ground floor.

Maybe, I should delay my gratification. I could, with certain books like the Montalbano series, or Billy Boyle, have done just that, but as I’m a haphazard collector, I’m also a haphazard reader. Life is short; read what you have.

I’m sure there’s some long German word for when you’re eagerly awaiting a new book from a certain small press publisher, and checking their website each week you see nothing in the forthcoming books section from that publisher.

Around this time each year I’ve come to expect announcements of the latest installment in a certain series of books by a certain author, from a certain publisher. These are replacing my old and treasures paperback editions, but it looks like I need to wait a little longer.

I really hate buying books online. Even if I order from a major eCommerce site named after a river in South America, I don’t know what I’m getting. Is the book damaged? Is it scratched, or the cover bent? If I order from other online sites, such as auction places, is the book a first edition, or a second printing? The description is rarely clear on this.

When shopping in bookstores, the best bet is one that sells new books. Where I live we now only have one or two such books, at least ones that carry a decent amount of books. Otherwise, it’s used book stores. I never know what to say when cashiers at used book stores ask me whether I found what I was looking for. The easy answer is, “No.” I rarely find specific books in used book stores. I take a list with me of books I own, and check against this list if I find something of interest, but rarely will there be a book in the shelves there that match what I’m really looking for. But, at least I can hold the book in my hand and decide there and then whether I want to hand over money for that item. I’ve made a few mistakes, yes, missed remainder marks, or writing inside books, or thought I was getting a different edition. But, for the most part, if the book looks off, even though it’s one I don’t have, I’ll put it back in the shelf without a second thought.

When it comes to new book stores, I often as not walk out empty handed, for even the big stores don’t have the books I want. The exception is speciality stores. I was in Houston earlier this year, and stopped by Murder by the Book. I’d never been there, but I walked out with 10-15 books, and could easily have doubled or tripled that number, but I had to stop somewhere. On occasions where I visit San Francisco – over every few years – I’ll drop by Borderlands Books and find stuff that I like. Still, it’s as much the act of being in a book store, browsing the aisles, that makes it interesting. Online purchases aren’t quite as fun.

In Austin, when I lived there, I’d make regular trip to a corner of 6th Street and spend hours in Adventures in Crime and Space (Rest in Peace). Back then I couldn’t afford many books, but I always found books from new authors and old favorites. It felt like a community.

Here in the town where I live, there used to be a book store that specialized in mysteries – Remember the Alibi. This was before I really got back into mysteries, and it’s now long gone. A book store opened in my neighborhood last year, during COVID. Well, it didn’t really open, as you can’t go inside. This makes me sad, if not a little bitter. I’d read about the new place before COVID, and was excited that a book store would exist one mile from where I lived. I could walk there, browse, buy, and maybe get a snack or drink. In fact, I often walk past the closed doors. But, it remains closed to the public. Other bookstores in many cities are open. I visited one in Durango last summer. Mysterious Books in New York City is open, as are the ones that weren’t burned down in Minneapolis. I’ve been in a few others since the panic and lockdowns. Will this one near me ever open? I don’t know. I know that I miss visiting stores and reading the covers of books, or discovering new authors. I’d even planned to take a few hundred dollar bills I’d saved up over the years and plonk them down on the counter, then walk off with a bag full of books.

Instead, I bought a guitar.