The Analyst
“In the year he fully expected to die, he spent the majority of his fifty-third birthday as he did most other days, listening to people complain about their mothers.”
That’s the interesting introduction to John Katzenbach’s novel The Analyst.
It’s a fast-paced thriller, hard to put down, tantalising, probing and full of twists. For a $12 buy from Big W it was great value.
It follows the story of a very boring and predictable man who has his life turned upside down by a curious letter. The letter’s opening paragraph gives a taste of the mystery to come:
“Happy fifty-third birthday, Doctor. Welcome to the first day of your death.”
Dr Ricky Starks is a psychoanalyst who listens to the troubles of wealthy New Yorkers. His life follows a routine that borders on ritual. He’s a widower whose one highlight in life is a summer holiday every year at Cape Cod. He’s about to embark on that holiday when the strange letter arrives.
It transpires that he once had a patient who committed suicide. The puzzle Ricky has to solve is who was the patient? And who were the patient’s children? If he can’t name the letter writer within 15 days he has to commit suicide, according to the rules of the “game”. If he doesn’t take his own life then one of his young relatives will be murdered.
The blackmailer proves skilful and serious. Ricky’s left in no doubt of the outcome. He eventually learns that the patient was a young woman he saw while working as a psychiatric intern at a busy public hospital. He discovers she had three children, but as they were adopted he fails to learn their names.
He does learn though, that other people who wronged the woman, had already been killed or had their lives destroyed. He decides that he has no choice but to commit suicide or see one of his innocent relatives murdered.
That’s where the first twist occurs. Ricky frames his suicide cleverly enough to escape scrutiny. He starts a new life in a small town as a janitor with a false identity. From this humble station he plots revenge against the man who has only ever described himself as Rumplestiltskin or Mr R.
He identifies Mr R’s brother and sister as two of his tormentors in the final 15 days of his real life. From there he closes in on the man, who he comes to know is a professional assassin. It’s a game of chance and both players know that only one will survive.
Adding tension is a revelation that Ricky’s former mentor in the world of psychoanalysis had adopted the three children who were now trying to kill him for the second time.
What happens? You’ll have to read the book to find out. I’m sufficiently impressed to hunt down some more of Katzenbach’s work.
The Treasure of Montsegur
I have eclectic tastes when it comes to non-fiction reading. My special interests are history and biography. I tended to focus mainly on Australia and Southern Africa, but I’ve deliberately broadened the geographic spread in recent years.
Books that I’m currently reading cover the early Christian Gnostic Gospels and Eleanor of Aquitaine’s biography.
Eleanor was a remarkable woman and probably would have been great in any era. She was married to the King of France, but they obtained (purchased) a divorce on the grounds of being cousins despite already having a daughter. Eleanor was a prize catch, commanding in her own right the affluent Duchy of Aquitaine. She married Henry II of England, who was also the Duke of Normandy, and between them they were tremendously powerful.
Her Duchy included the Languedoc region in the south of France, where a Christian sect called the Cathars flourished. After Eleanor’s time the Cathars were branded heretics and a brutal Crusade waged against them. I have a non-fiction book on this period waiting to be read.
My last Robert Goddard fiction included a brief reference to the Cathars in relation to the Knights Templar. There’s a myth that the Knights smuggled great holy relics from Jerusalem and these were held by the Cathars, who were effectively exterminated after the siege of Montsegur in 1244. The treasure has never been found.
While browsing a bookshop recently I came across a novel by Sophie Burnham called the Treasure of Montsegur. It claimed to be “a novel of the Cathars” and pricked my interest.
Having just finished that book I’m sorry to say I don’t know much more about the Cathar faith than I did before, or no more than any reader could learn from a good encyclopaedia.
As literature the book was well written, albeit meandering in style. It’s written in the first person as the account of a Cathar woman named Jeanne who survived the siege and helped hide the treasure. It crosses between her past and present, which is sometimes confusing.
The Cathars believed that Satan created the world and that humans were fallen angels striving to regain God’s grace. They were vegetarian and had different levels of faith, similar to the caste system we know today in the Hindu and Buddhist religions.
They espoused equality for women and were basically a gentle people. Followers of the highest level were called “perfects” and their supporters were “Good Christians”. During the Crusade and subsequent Inquisition their greatest weakness proved an inability to lie. They admitted their heresy and were promptly burnt at the stake.
If Catharism existed today it would be regarded as a curious exotic sect.
Jeanne’s story follows her flight from Montsegur with three perfects. She was meant to lead them to the cave where the relics and gold were hidden so they might escape to Lombardy and carry on the faith.
She unbelievably gets distracted and leaves the gentle monks to their fate. She then runs and hides, narrowly escaping Inquisitors, before meeting a widowed farmer named Jerome, who takes her in.
Jerome knows her background, but like many common people is ambivalent about the heresy and has no personal objection to the Good Christians. He’s also aware that people are tortured and burnt by association. He grapples with desire for the treasure, his sense of right and his Catholic faith.
Jeanne, meanwhile, first comes to the conclusion that the perfects she helped escape from Montsegur were the real “treasure” rather than gold and relics. Later, as she fears for her life, she receives the Cathar sacrament of the light of God and knows that the “treasure” is her immortal soul.
Jeanne dies on the rack before she can be burnt at the stake.
This book was a total change of pace for me, and it may be I’m unfairly critical because of this.
As an historical novel, I felt it didn’t transport me effectively to the 13th century. Well researched, the author may have erred on the side of caution in wanting to be historically accurate. Her descriptions could have been more vivid.
Some parts of the story were simply incredible, such as Jeanne’s disappearance from the perfects, and a futuristic prophecy that foreshadowed today’s world.
Don’t be dissuaded from reading this book. Just don’t expect to be illuminated upon completion.
It’s a boy … and a girl!
Juliet had her mid-term ultrasound today, and after due suspense the doctor told us to expect a boy and a girl.
We’re delighted, and especially pleased to know that both babies are developing as they should be.
The kids were thrilled as well. Kathleen was worried it would be two boys and Dude was worried it would be two girls!
I don’t know if Dude will be as happy in five years time, aged 12, when he has to share a room with his baby brother. There’s plenty of water to pass under the bridge before then though.
It’s now looking more likely that we can stay here, and if so we have the option of converting the back room of my office into a teenager’s bedroom.
There’s also a second living area that could be used as a bedroom if we wanted to, but preferably not.
If we do stay here the babies will start upstairs with us in a sort of study area that adjoins the main bedroom. When they’re about 18 months old they can shift to the spare ensuite bedroom downstairs.
We’re fortunate for space in this house and the dilemma would be much greater if we shifted.
The doctor is hoping for delivery on December 31.
Malcolm Fraser
Malcolm Fraser continues to impress with his ability to be so unimpressive. It’s long past the time he should have been confined to a secure room in the dementia ward of an appropriate institution.
Fraser is the Jimmy Carter of Australian politics: A man who could have and should have achieved so much, but actually did so little that he is now searching for a legacy.
Poor Malcolm. His self-proclaimed diplomatic triumph and reservation of a place in history has dissolved before his eyes. He seems to have trouble believing it though, like a drowning man who dies of thirst.
I’m referring to Fraser’s role in dismantling white minority rule in Rhodesia. Fraser strutted the Commonwealth stage and helped negotiate Robert Mugabe’s ascension. It was a cameo and largely insignificant, rating not even an index entry in Ian Smith’s excellent account “The Great Betrayal”.
Fraser sees it differently, promoting himself as the statesman who engineered democracy from tyranny. The facts, of course, should never interfere with a good story.
Poor Malcolm. I was so angry after reading an interview with him in the Border Mail yesterday that I needed a day to cool off before posting this blog.
And I preface these remarks by saying I missed the previous part(s) in the series. It’s remotely possible, but unlikely, that Fraser confessed to his inadequacy.
What annoyed me so terribly was Fraser’s sign-off that helping end white rule in Rhodesia was one of his greatest achievements. There was no mention of the ensuing chaos and slide to dictatorship.
Let’s look at the facts. White minority rule in Rhodesia was always going to end; the question was when.
Australia played a tiny role in the final chapter. The catalyst was, ironically, economic pressure from South Africa.
Ian Smith saw the end coming and tried to negotiate the best possible outcome for the country’s future. The world should have welcomed and supported the election of a multi-racial government under Bishop Muzorewa.
Robert Mugabe and Joshua Nkomo refused to participate in that election because they said it was not free and fair.
We now know that comrade Mugabe is an authority on free and fair elections. We also know there was widespread intimidation in the poll that brought him to power, which Fraser supported and helped supervise.
I could actually forgive Fraser if today he acknowledged, with hindsight, the mistake he made, or even if he categorically denounced Mugabe.
Fraser should apologise for his albeit minor role in turning the breadbasket of Africa into a basket case. He should express regret that Mugabe became like Idi Amin rather than Nelson Mandela. He should convey sorrow for the massacre of thousands of Matabale and the wrecking of a once strong economy.
Poor Malcolm. These facts challenge his claim to a place in history, so it’s easier to pretend they didn’t happen and hope that nobody else notices, like putting a mat over the blood stain on the carpet.
James Lee Burke
Most people will probably give a different answer to the question of why they read particular books.
I read fiction to experience places and feelings that I’m otherwise unlikely to encounter. That’s why I like foreign books and historical novels. I generally don’t read Australian novels unless they’re historical.
Sometimes I read to see how a writer interprets something I’m familiar with. Today though, I’m writing about James Lee Burke and he definitely fits into the first category of providing a travel experience.
His web site gives this condensed biography:
“James Lee Burke was born in Houston, Texas, in 1936 and grew up on the Texas-Louisiana gulf coast. He attended Southwestern Louisiana Institute and later received a BA Degree in English and an MA from the University of Missouri in 1958 and 1960 respectively. Over the years he worked as a landman for Sinclair Oil Company, pipeliner, land surveyor, newspaper reporter, college English professor, social worker on Skid Row in Los Angeles, clerk for the Louisiana Employment Service, and instructor in the US Job Corps.”
I’ve read six of his books so far and they’re all set in Louisiana, mainly around New Orleans and a place called New Iberia.
It’s possible I may visit there one day, but it’s unlikely. If I do get the chance I almost certainly won’t get to experience the unique French and Cajun culture in the intimate way that Burke enables me to.
He’s an evocative writer. I feel that he is the main character in his books and I presume they are at least semi-autobiographical.
I was introduced to his work through a positive review in The Age for his latest novel “White Doves at Morning”.
I’m pleased I started with this book rather than his detective series, because it showed me that Burke is a diverse and powerful writer, economic in prose, tantalising, descriptive and educative. He leaves an indelible impression without having to moralise.
These traits are evident in his crime novels, but sometimes a writer can be stereotyped according to genre. Burke is more than just a crime writer.
White Doves at Morning is a novel of the American Civil War. It tells the story of Burke’s ancestor, a Confederate soldier named Willie Burke.
Willie is a reluctant hero. He fights not to support the cause, but because he identifies with his state and people.
This book isn’t a history of the war. Great battles and generals rate only a passing mention. It’s people that Burke writes about: a half-caste slave woman Flower Jamison who learns to read, a Quaker abolitionist Abigail Dowling who has union sympathies, Willie’s noble gentleman friend Robert Perry, a corrupt landowner Ira Jamison and his henchmen.
All characters are brought to life in a sensitive and graphic way. While reading I believed that I was in 1860s Louisiana.
My enjoyment of this novel led me to try the Dave Robicheaux detective series. I’ve read four of these: Heaven’s Prisoners, Dixie City Jam, In the Mist with the Confederate Dead and Purple Cane Road. I’ve also read Burke’s first book “Half of Paradise”.
Robicheaux is a reforming alcoholic. His father was a knockabout Frenchman who enjoyed bars and brawls, but loved and protected his family. He died in an offshore rig disaster when Dave was young. Dave’s mother struggled to get by and, as he discovers in Purple Cane Road, was killed by dodgy police because she witnessed a murder.
Robicheaux works as a police officer in New Orleans. He escapes the city stress to run a boat hire business at New Iberia, but circumstances return him to law enforcement in his local backwater.
His first wife left him while he was drinking and his second wife was murdered. I haven’t yet read the book where he meets his third wife Bootsie.
I’ve just finished Heaven’s Prisoners. It’s the second in the series and I should have started there, or with the first book Neon Rain, which I haven’t yet read. Burke doesn’t have to be read chronologically, but it probably would help to do so.
In Heaven’s Prisoners, Robicheaux rescues a little Spanish-speaking girl Alafair from a plane wreck at sea. He adopts her and loves her as a real father.
Robicheaux lives on the edge of vice and crime. He doesn’t mind using strong methods to get results, but he has a sort of moral code that separates him from the scum he puts away.
A constant theme is how police in this environment can easily cross the line and become as bad as the lowlifes they’re dealing with. Robicheaux manages to retain honor and decency in the face of decadence. Heaven’s Prisoners is the only book I’ve read where he succumbs again to alcohol.
There is underlying humor in these books too. Robicheaux’s private detective friend Clete Purcel is a lot of fun. His running feud with an underworld figure finishes in Dixie City Jam with Purcel ripping a bulldozer through the man’s house.
In Heaven’s Prisoners I enjoyed the irony in which Robicheaux, needing love and support, finished up caring for a scared orphan and a hooker on the run.
Burke awakened me to southern Louisiana’s French heritage. I’ve read since that French was the dominant language there until after the Civil War and survives in dialect form today in rural areas.
Burke’s characters identify with this heritage. It comes across too that Robicheaux and Willie Burke have no empathy with the darker racist side of Southern society. They respect the colored people in their lives and earn respect in return.
These books took me inside the culture of Louisiana and inside the minds of the characters. I enjoyed the experience and I’ll be returning for more.
If this inspires anyone to read James Lee Burke I suggest starting with White Doves at Morning, or beginning the Robicheaux series in chronological order with Neon Rain or Heaven’s Prisoners.
Burke’s web site is at http://www.jamesleeburke.com/
Robert Goddard
I’ve become a big fan of English writer Robert Goddard over the past 12 months. In fact I’ve read all his books, including the latest “Days Without Number”.
Goddard isn’t as celebrated or well known as other mystery writers, but I like his style.
He generally has a main character who follows a series of linked coincidences to a suspenseful outcome. Many of the novels are historical fiction and the locations vary throughout Europe and much of the world.
Goddard displays enormous personal knowledge of places and languages, ranging from Denmark and the Netherlands to Cornish and Italian.
Days Without Number traces the family turmoil among descendants of the last Byzantine Emperors living, strangely enough, in rural Cornwall.
The main character, Nick Paleologus, must overcome self doubt and shyness to solve a riddle that dates back to the time of Christ.
The story skates along at a cracking pace through murder, greed and intrigue. Nick proves a likeable fellow and his eccentric brother Basil, who spent 20 years in a monastery, plays brilliantly in the support cast.
As Goddard relies on coincidence to build suspense he runs the risk of either giving the plot away too soon, developing an implausible scenario or testing credibility, which if it occurs can distract from the concise and fluid writing.
I found this novel entirely plausible except for the penultimate scenes involving a long-lost Venetian cousin. This corrupt character appears from nowhere.
His cameo features kidnapping and a triple murder before he disappears just as quickly as he arrived. A private investigator’s similar brief appearance didn’t work for me either.
That said I enjoyed the reflective ending. I had trouble putting the book down and looked forward to picking it up again. Try any of Goddard’s novels if you haven’t read one before.
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