David Thayer

I’m afraid yesterday’s contretemps in Torquay has rendered my ueber agent search a failure. Even after my release from police custody there was the unfortunate business of my clinging to Johnny’s pant leg as he strode with a purpose toward British Rail’s capacious fisrt class lounge; we were separated by an assortment of minions of the state, a publicist, an obscure Royal, and the chairwoman of Exeter University’s Literature Department. At the most inappropriate of times, I attempted to deliver my mansuscript, disheveled in the struggle, crying from the depths of desperation that if Johnny returned my work unread, I would know because Page 456 is missing! That’s the crucial scene where Rugglesby emerges as an agent of MI5 and is revealed to be a woman.

Fortunately, though, hopes springs eternal. My ‘critique group’ includes the Web savvy Dutchess of Wey and her cousin, Ursula Unsinn-Von Hapsburg. They emailed me a link to Miss Snark. Snarklings themselves, they assured me that several of her posts spoke to them directly. The Dutchess, for example, released her household staff on an uncustomary Tuesday, to finish what she calls ‘a letter of inquiry.’

My Dear and Beloved Miss Snark, Warm greetings from the Lake District, where, ensconsed in a Windermere cottage with a view compromised somewhat by prized Rhododendrons and assorted garden thingies, I pen this missive. My novel, She Works Alone, features Abigail Snodgrass-Colt, heiress, bon vivant, botanist, historian, aviatrix, MP, OBE, KBE, GC. After the Emperor Hadrian appears to her a dream, Abigail journeys to Tibet. Having just won The British Open, Abigail is seized by cultists and taken to the Seychelles, where the mad Frenchman, Henri, demands the sort of satisfaction one can only hint at in polite company. Abigail destroys the French fleet, seizes Madagascar in the name of the Crown, discovers a lost treasure, and finally comes to realize that her boyfriend, Sea Lord Greenaway, is insufferably dull.

She confronts Lord Greenaway in Harrods ( during the January sale!) as he tussles with a dimunitive yet determined hussy from The Continent. At two hundred and ninety thousand carefully chosen words, my task is compleat.
Your Servant,
The Forty Third Earl of Watership Down

Safe in Torquay. I’m staying at a quaint seacoast hotel. Our chopper landed on the beach creating something of a stir. The Cornwall Constabulary detained Barry, our pilot, and only my engraved invitation from Prudentia Chalfont-Smythe of the Torquay Garden and Book Society saved me from the hoosegow. Chalfont-Smythe dispatched a fleet of Minis to whisk me and my entourage to the Chez Matisse where I am to address a luncheon assemblage of the TG & BS. There is no time for a change of clothing, so I must face the membership in my grouse hunting togs. I think Prudentia is secretly pleased with my rakish appearance, puffy vest full of shotgun shells, knee high Wellingtons, cross hatched Herringbone trousers and Cosmo Orsini ascot; my Purdies have been borne away by Haskell, the dour running footman, the dogsbody, the essential but unpleasant aide de camp.

My speech will address the disgraceful influence of popular culture in current literature. The venue is pleasant enough, a broad veranda dotted with tables, a marquee erected to keep the persistent drizzle out of our eyes. The menu is the sort of thing one expects…Good God, Grouse au poivre! I’m still shaken from my pitched battle with these creatures over the skies of Devon! Still, I must gather my wits. Prudentia is introducing me to Zadie Smith. I read several pages of White Teeth without understanding a word of the text…charming in person, though, with that insufferable poetic fellow at her side.

Ian Rankin is asking me if I arrived by helicopter. He’s a Scot, perhaps still seething over past perfidies, but we discuss golf, always a safe topic with the Scots. He’s ordering grouse. Haskell is procuring his autograph, sparing me the embarrassment. Perhaps a bit of blanc de blanc will steady my nerves before I shake hands with the ueber agent whose considering my tome, The Meaninglessness of Thought Originating in France. Johnny is air kissing Zadie, pumping Rankin’s hand. Johhny is talking about Mark Bellingham, Denise Mina, Simon Kernick, my head is spinning. What evil fate put grouse on the menu?

Prudentia is signaling. Johnny is air kissing Kate Moss. I wave. Haskell produces my speech from its three ringed binder. It’s the same speech I gave in Bath, but Johnny was not there. Now the stakes are enormous…he’s still occupied with that model. I nod to Haskell. As I approach the podium I see police cars arriving… the coppers are holding dead grouse. I flee across the lawn. Prudentia is screaming. Johnny, the ueber agent, is shaking his head. My time in Torquay is cut short.

Hello from Watership Down! I having to shout this fine day as we are swooping across the Salisbury Plain in a modified Hind gunship. There are three assault helicopters in our group, Friends of All Birds. Leading the formation is an Alouette, an extremely inferior craft developed by the French. The Alouette will dive when the grouse are spotted; the birds will find our approach disturbing and fly off. Our door gunner is prepared for that eventuality with a .50 calibre machine gun. Needless to say, all precautions have been taken to avoid traffic on the M-4 and ancillary roads. Think of the hue and the cry from the inky remnants of failed socialism should we ‘hose’ commuters! Endless bother.

I was quite appalled by Thayer’s Pigs on Trial post of the twelth ultimo. First of all, Thayer is a former Catholic seminarian, having spent three years in a Benedictine school of medieval repute. He was not poking fun at the Roman Church, but in a more sinister twist, he was implying that under Conservative Rule, we are entering a New Inquisition. My read is thus: his post was a thinly veiled critique of the trend away from the separation of church and state. Church and State! Twin pillars of hope, beacons of a new enlightment….

We’re fleeing toward the coast. The grouse are returning fire. My on line diary reflects our collective horror in real time. Lunch in Torquay should we survive! Anon.

I’ve read many of the Harry Bosch novels, enjoying some more than others, enjoying a few a great deal. I avoided The Poet, not out of any aversion to the author, but to avoid disappointment. Writers like Connelly are painted into a corner over the years by the success of their franchise characters. No Bosch? No way.

The discussion of series characters has been done to death, but I’m fearless and will add this thought before moving on: all readers need a little reassurance when wrangling a book. Picture a rodeo rider. he knows horses, he knows steers, don’t ask the guy to ride an alpaca. Odds are the alpaca would stand perfectly still long enough that the rider would fall to the ground just for something to do. So when Michael Connelly goes outside his series, we don’t have Harry, his mangled house, his crime scene acumen, his humanity to coax us through the Opening Pages.

Connelly delivers with The Lincoln Lawyer, with Mickey Haller as his first person lead character. First person is not my favorite, but Connelly resists the urge to overwrite and allows access to his story while the reader is still in complaint mode, still seated on the alpaca waiting for it to buck or throw its head back, expose its yellow teeth. Before you know it, you’re reading page one hundred, and you’re not missing Harry, you’re learning about Mickey.

Connelly tells his story in straightforward, readable prose. Mickey is a solid character, avoiding radical alterations in personality for theatrical effect, staying straight and true as the story unfolds. The foregoing is not faint praise; it is damned hard to write prose that doesn’t distract from a story, prose that fits the mood and underscores the theme. This is a novel that draws strength from the author’s direct approach, an honest story that carries the reader through Mickey’s days and nights until the end.

In the long history of the Catholic Church nothing is more intriguing than The Inquisition. The stated purpose of the Inquisition was to root out the devil as it manifested in ordinary form. Cervantes had to look over his shoulder at the minions of the Inq. Their Most Catholic Majesties were avid readers. Teams of priests under the supervision of bishops were avid readers as well. Words for scrutinized for satanic influences and Cervantes’ sense of humor drifted toward satire. Without separation of church and state an insult against any institution revealed the underlying heretic.

In France the trial of barnyard animals was common. Pigs possessed by demons were subjected to ecclesiastical trial. The accused received counsel by a Church appointed lawyer whose task it was to Mirandize the porker, speak on its behalf, offer an apologia. Witnesses were summoned to establish the pig’s unusual behavior, to wit: the pig was heard to speak, the pig was critical of farm policy, the pig wore undergarments of fallen women. His attorney, mindful of the risks of becoming too zealous in defense, would cross examine a witness along these lines: the amount of spirits the witness may have consumed on the day he heard the speaking pig. Efforts were made by the prosecution to induce the pig into a courtroom outburst. Yeah, I can talk, so what?

Writers of today need not fear such illogic. There is no Inquisition. Writers are protected by the Constitution with explicit freedom of speech. If a pig were put on trial today, it would not be for heresy. Sure, he might have been reading Judy Bloom, but this is not enough to incarcerate, insufficient grounds to deny that pig its right to assemble, to seek food and shelter, hang with his friends. No court in the land would try a pig for reading a banned book. Pigs can’t read. And, very few of them are liberals.

Dizzying deluge of book related stuff has to be relegated for a moment in digression. I’m sure other lit bloggers will have more to say about the National Book Awards than I. Why? They actually study literature whereas I do not. Coming so soon on the platform heels of the Man-Booker Prize, my head spins with the vast array of worthy titles I’ve not read. Besides, no sooner is Tom DeLay indicted for money-laundering, we have this mysterious candidate for the Supreme Court emerging from the raw assuring us with references to her deeply held beliefs. Born a Catholic, she converted to Evangelical Christianity. What a process that must have been. There’s a novel in there somewhere.

My area of expertise is the business of publishing, the nuts and bolts, the long hours of anguish. My fondness is for writers, although I do not study literature in the academic sense, I do revel in the sturm and drang of this doomed enterprise. Literature lacks some of the star power we associate with other forms of collective madness, yet the vernacular of glamor is seeping into the book world, gushing through the breaks here and there, sweeping us all toward a more elegant future, less tweed, certainly no pipe or cigar smoking, more dazzle, more glitz. If this were still a monarchy, does anyone doubt that many contemporary authors would be selected as peers of the realm? Lord Michael Chabon. Sir Dom DeLillo. Dame Pamela Anderson.

While it might present a challenge or two, I think the deliberations for the National Book Award should be televised. The judges sequestered, solemnly reading. Every twitch and scratch of the nose recorded for the viewing audience; there is no doubt in my mind that televising the award would lead to a broader spectrum of choice. And the winner is….Dame Pamela Anderson!

If you know anything about Mark Sarvas he’s been on the John Banville bandwagon since the beginning of his blog The Elegant Variation. Banville won the Booker Prize for his novel, The Sea, and Mark went beserk with joy. In fact, he was interviewing Banville when the big news arrived, so both men find themselves in altered circumstances. Banville defeated a very talented field at the intercession of the prize committee’s chairman, a tie breaker, and the rest is history. The Forty Third Earl of Watership Down had this to say: “Mark Sarvas was a dark horse. My money was on Zadie.”

Mike Lupica has a list of ten reasons to explain the Yankees failure in the playoffs. Here are my ten reasons: The Angels won more games. The weather in Southern Califronia is better than the Bronx. Jet lag works westbound differently than east bound. The Angels used to be from California but have narrowed their search to Anaheim. Benjie Molina. They left Mike Mussina on the coast so he wouldn’t have to fly. What is he, the charter pilot? Four days in California and the normally tense Mussina looked like his biggest worry was valet parking. Yankees need to be tense. Judith Regan couldn’t make the games. The Yanks were focused on the Booker Prize. The trip gave them sun affect disorder. We wuz robbed. Is that ten?

Kids blow bubbles. They like bubble baths, bubble gum, and the gizmos that they wave to make more bubbles. Adults like bubbles too. They like speculative froth, irrational exuberance, the wealth effect, bull markets and disposable income. We enjoy condo flipping, although be warned that the pasttime involves inherent risk. Alan Greenspan is worried about inflation, core inflation, not the other kind, the kind that includes fuel and stuff. The nuclear family doesn’t have to worry about fuel, although the thermonuclear family does. The Fed has reached for the Farmers Almanac in order to divine the full depth and texture of bubbles yet to come.

According to the Almanac, this winter will be cold in some places, really cold in others, mild through the desert southwest, chilly in the Bay Area, breezy in Oklahoma, dire in Northern Michigan. Los Angeles will experience episodes of rain but many of those episodes have been cancelled. Portland Oregon can expect severe chills unless Birkenstocks are winterized at any Les Schwab outlet. Seattle squirrels have already made reservations for Maui; the cost of pine nuts is through the roof.

The result? The Fed paid almost thirty dollars for its copy of the Almanac believing wrongly that Michael Chabon had written an essay and that David Foster Wallace was the author who covered the weather in New England. Thirty dollars is inflationary, so interest rates must rise as the economy slows, and book sales will suffer. Remember though that it’s our civic duty to pay the heating bills. Read a book about the Enron scandal. That will keep you warm.

Well, near me anyway. The plan as I see it is this: even though Mariyln Vos Savant is in town that week, I plan to be at the Mystery Book Store in Seattle at noon sharp for a Lee and Tod Goldberg extravaganza. Later the fellas will be at U Village for a Three O’ Clock. Students get free admission! No, wait, they don’t buy books, just textbooks. Still, that’s forty five thousand students blowing off class.

While Ms. Vos Savant’s schedule is still fluid, and a Fifth Avenue parade was scotched by the City Council, her fans can only hold their breath in anticipation. In her honor, the Washington State ferry system announced winter rates effective today. It’ll be three dollars cheaper to go to Bainbridge Island although fewer boats will service Port Townsend. The waves will be bigger, though, and the wind in your hair makes the experience all the more memorable. Sometimes a floating bridge will sink.

Karen Junker of Scarletmuse and Writers Weekend is holding a conference Nov.12, 2005, in Bellevue, Wa. Anna Genoese from TOR will be on hand and there are openings, seven openings as of yesterday. I’ve met Anna Genoese, to shake hands with, and she’s a nice, approachable editor who likes fantasy and what I call sci-fi. If I were writing fantasy I’d be very tempted to attend the conference myself, despite a possible Vos Savant conflict.

What does the Man-Booker award have to do with the earthquake that struck Pakistan? Timing. Too soon after Katrina we have the quake. By we I mean that part of all of us that feels community with everyone else. The great literary prize is an elitist exercise. Oh, don’t get excited. The ability to read and write puts us in an elite category, the ability to read and write like Zadie Smith or Julian Barnes puts them in a very tiny club with all the bickering, annoyance, deck shuffling tiny clubs create.

I’m in a tiny club too, so no one’s getting a free pass. My club has a president. The Treasurer has long since fled prosecution for the crime of barratry, and no one has stepped forward to take her place. Elwina dropped a note from Patagonia to say her choice for the Man Booker Prize will be revealed in a full page ad in the LA Times Food Section later today. The earthquake in Pakistan is the top news story where she lives, a few miles from the sea. She is banned from sea travel by order of The Admiralty for her malfeasance aboard the cruise ship MV Sublime Indifference. As a bursar aboard the Sublime, she did willfully and knowingly convert sums of money to her own use before being assailed by angry passengers and crue (sic). No one mentions the sly machinations of the ship’s master, a Portugese fellow traveling under a false name. Her attorney, the Honorable Guy Forget L’Argent, gave an impassioned speech before the Justice Junta although many felt the impact of his words muted by his refusal to remove his dark glasses. Others were put off by his cape. Elwina wore a burgundy shift that certain members of the club found ‘intolerably smart.’ The trial became a farce.

Her note went on to say that the death toll in Southwest Asia will exceed twenty thousand, but she urges us all to soldier on. It is the only recourse, she says.