That Uncertain Feeling by Kingsley Amis

First published in Great Britain in 1955

Is an employee ever promoted on his or her own merit, or is upward mobility always a function of friendship or politics? Kingsley Amis provides a sly, silly, and perceptive answer to that question in his second novel, That Uncertain Feeling.

John Lewis would like to be elevated to the position of sub-Librarian, but it is lust rather than ambition that leads him to pursue Elizabeth Gruffydd-Williams, the village socialite, whose husband is on the committee that will make the selection. That Lewis is married with children causes him to feel some guilt, albeit only when he is in his wife's presence, particularly when she is telling him to have whatever fling he desires so long as he does not burden her with knowledge of his infidelity (a reaction he should know better than to believe). Lewis is much too ineffectual to have a successful affair, but his attempts to woo (and bed) Elizabeth provide ample fodder for the sort of domestic comedy at which Amis excelled.

Poking fun at all things Welsh was a Kingsley Amis specialty. The cast of That Uncertain Feeling includes the sort of eccentric Welsh characters that Amis created masterfully: an arrogant poet, a "nut-faced" clergyman, busybody neighbors, know-it-all committee members, and a wide variety of drunks. Amis also made a career of skewering the pretentious class -- those with a little more money who look down on those with a little less -- although the relatively well-to-do in That Uncertain Feeling are roasted over a low flame. None of the novel's characters are evil or truly unlikable. Even the badly behaving Lewis is endearing, all the more so by the novel's end, when he seems to have learned something from the consequences of his error-prone life.

I don't know if Amis was capable of writing an unfunny sentence. Employing modes of humor that range from dry wit to slapstick, Amis placed his hapless librarian into one awkward situation after another. Amis' ability to write comedy that is simultaneously low key and outrageous has rarely been matched. That Uncertain Feeling is filled with the sort of humor for which Brits are famous: self-effacing commentary; insults exchanged in unfailingly polite language; even a bit of gratuitous cross-dressing.

The ending has the feel of an epilogue -- everything that has gone before suddenly changes, as if Amis didn't know where else to go with the story and decided to abandon it -- but that's a minor complaint. There's probably a serious point buried amidst all the lunacy but I didn't strain myself to search for it. The sustained laughter is quite enough reason for modern readers to search out this 1955 novel.

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Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death by James Runcie

Published by Bloomsbury USA on April 24, 2012

Sidney Chambers is an unlikely detective. As the vicar of the Church of St. Andrew and St. Mary in Grantshire, he is more comfortable hearing confessions than seeking them out, but crime seems to have a way of chasing him. The first volume in a projected series of six collectively known as "The Grantchester Mysteries," Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death is really a series of connected stories, each with its own title, rather than a typical novel. Recurring characters include Sidney's good friend Inspector Keating, his sister Jennifer, the close female friend, Amanda Kendall, with whom he dances around the topic of romance, his surly housekeeper and his pious curate. The stories are these:

"The Shadow of Death" - Shortly after Sidney presides over Stephen Staunton's funeral following Staunton's suicide in 1953, Pamela Morton takes Sidney aside and declares her belief that Staunton, with whom she had been having an affair, had been murdered. All the while wondering why he's getting involved, Chambers chats with various suspects. Along the way Chambers manages to tipple a bit of whiskey despite everyone's assumption that he would prefer sherry. This proves to be fortuitous as whiskey furnishes the first significant clue to the best mystery in the book.

"A Question of Trust" - An engagement ring presented at a New Year's Eve dinner party disappears. The mystery makes for pleasant but unexciting reading.

"First, Do No Harm" - A woman promises her mother that she will not marry while her mother is still alive. When the mother's death coincides with the woman's engagement, Sidney suspects foul play while finding time to ponder the ethics of euthanasia. There is very little mystery in this one.

"A Matter of Time" - When Sidney goes to a jazz club, a friend's sister is strangled during the drum solo. The murderer, like everyone else in these stories, turns out to be quite well mannered.

"The Lost Holbein" - A rare portrait has been stolen and replaced with a forgery. This story puts Amanda in the forefront of tracking down the wrongdoer, leaving Sidney to come to her rescue. A predictable yarn and again, not much of a mystery.

"Honourable Men" - Sidney takes a minor role in Julius Caesar. On opening night, the actor playing Caesar is actually stabbed to death. The story strives for social relevance but Sidney's attitudes, far ahead of their time, seem artificial. Despite its preposterous set-up, the story at least presents a mystery, albeit one that is easily solved.

This is a gentle, civilized book, filled with conversation and thought rather than gun battles and thrilling escapes. Sidney spends as much time fretting about being a better priest as he does solving mysteries. Perhaps a more religiously observant reader will relate to Sidney's internal struggles, but he seems like such a squeaky clean guy that I had difficulty understanding his anxiety. I agree with much of Sidney's overriding philosophy -- his respect for privacy, his belief that "we must think the best of people" -- but a pleasant state of mind does not suffice to make a character interesting.

The stories may appeal to fans of cozy mysteries; Sidney is likable and the text is free of profanity. For my taste, the stories are a bit dull. Perhaps the characters, including most of those who are supposed to be sinister, are just too nice. Instead of a police procedural we're given a clergyman procedural detailing the life of a determinedly unexciting vicar. His work, his love of jazz, and his chaste admiration of Amanda Kendall might be enough to fill his life but they do little to ward off the reader's drowsiness. More problematic is that most of the stories fail to meet the test of a good mystery; they are just too easy to solve.

James Runcie writes in a low-key style that is fluid, sometimes elegant, occasionally stuffy, and too often long-winded. He doesn't quite know when a story should end, or he feels the need to give Sidney yet another chance to sermonize. Given my admiration of Runcie's prose, I am sorry that I cannot give Sidney Chambers my wholehearted recommendation. The stories simply lack the kind of tension that a mystery should deliver, and they don't succeed as character-driven literature, although they try to be both.

RECOMMENDED WITH RESERVATIONS 

Ménage by Alix Kates Shulman

Published by Other Press on May 15, 2012 

Zoltan Barbu, former dissident and dried-up writer who, in his better days, was lovingly reviewed by Susan Sontag, meets Allerton "Mack" McKay at the funeral of Maja Stern. Maja was Zoltan's lover before she committed suicide, an act that thwarted Mack's plan to seduce her. Mack and Zoltan go to dinner together and the confrontational Zoltan quickly exposes Mack's innermost secret: his fear that he is a fraud, an imposter undeserving of the success he has achieved. Hoping that Zoltan will show him "how to live honestly," Mack invites Zoltan, who is on the verge of homelessness, to live with him. Mack also believes that bringing home a writer will be "a major coup" in his ongoing struggle to impress his wife and improve his marriage. He hopes that Zoltan's presence will "fill the void" in his wife's life while he is gone from home.

Mack's wife Heather suspects Mack is having an affair with Maja ... or if not Maja, with someone. Heather's many resentments include her decision to quit her position as an assistant editor to become a stay-at-home mom (with the help of a nanny and maid), thus diminishing her "power" as Mack's increased. She wants to write but she can't summon "the will to work." Heather initially welcomes the arrival of Zoltan (like the death of Maja) as a needed boost to revitalize her marriage, or her writing career, or at least her sex life. She quickly enough comes to regret Mack's decision to invite Zoltan into her house.

Zoltan's promise to teach Mack and Heather the secrets of life is arguably fulfilled by the novel's end, although not in ways that Mack and Heather anticipate. Therein lies the charm of this character-driven novel. Zoltan is something of a fraud, ill-equipped to teach anything to anyone, while Mack and Heather are incapable of recognizing the lessons they should have learned.

The characters in Ménage are not particularly sympathetic although Zoltan is likable enough in a roguish way. Zoltan, the self-defined exile, spends most of his time feeling sorry for himself instead of writing. He has a low opinion of women (all of whom, he thinks, are conspiring against him), but fails to consider whether he might be responsible for their reaction to him. Heather is a rather demanding drama queen. Mack is utterly self-absorbed.

Alix Kates Shulman's biting characterizations of Zoltan and Mack a bit heavy-handed. It is difficult to believe that Zoltan, who seems comfortable in the progressive environs of LA and New York, would regard women as property, as if he were a throwback to an earlier generation ... or century. Even more problematic is Mack, a wealthy philanderer with an enormous ego, the kind of smug, deliberately shallow character who makes an easy target. Shulman failed to convince me that Mack was a real person rather than a foil for Heather, although as a foil he is a useful character.

While Shulman's portrayal of the relationship between Mack and Heather is uninspired, the dynamic between Zoltan and Heather is more interesting. Zoltan is not well positioned to fill the void in Heather's life. He is convinced of an "irreconcilable difference" between men and women: Zoltan needs solitude, women need company; what Zoltan sees as intrusiveness women regard as sharing. That conviction is sharpened by Heather's clinginess. Moreover, Zoltan is confused by American women -- they "routinely objected to being valued for their sex yet shamelessly put themselves forward" -- and by the American husbands who "allow themselves to be led around by the nose by their outrageous wives." Zoltan is reflexively flirtatious with all women and Heather is something of a literary groupie, so it comes as no surprise when Heather puts herself forward to Zoltan. Nor is it surprising when she becomes suspicious and jealous, ultimately reacting to Zoltan as she does to her husband. Although Zoltan is an entertaining caricature, Heather felt very real to me.

I admire Shulman's prose style, particularly her precise attention to word choice. Her good-natured mocking of New York's literary scene and of the pretentious class is priceless. She pokes fun at writers who, like Zoltan and Heather, don't really write, who succumb to (or invent) distractions rather than practicing their craft. More importantly, her skillful depiction of a husband and wife as manipulators who use a third party to jockey for a better position in their marriage is deliciously acerbic. Despite my reservations about the cartoonish depictions of Mack and Zoltan, their three-way interaction with Heather is sufficiently entertaining, and Shulman's prose sufficiently keen, to make it easy for me to recommend this novel.

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As the Crow Flies by Craig Johnson

Published by Viking on May 15, 2012

Sheriff Walt Longmire is on a reservation in Montana scouting a potential location for his daughter's wedding when a woman plummets to her death from a nearby cliff. Rather miraculously, a baby she is holding survives the fall. Unless the woman committed suicide (and nobody believes she would take her baby with her), the woman's no-good drunken husband is the obvious murder suspect, but Walt isn't so sure. Longmire is outside of his jurisdiction, so the crime will be investigated either by the tribal Chief of Police, Lolo Long, or the FBI. That doesn't stop Longmire from playing an active role. Another murder removes its victim from his list of suspects, deepening the mystery of the killer's identity.

Despite (or because of) her beauty, Lolo has a seriously large buffalo chip on her shoulder, a fact that contributes about half of the story's considerable comic relief. Longmire takes it upon himself to give Lolo some (mostly unwelcome) professional advice and on-the-job training. At the same time, everything that can go wrong does as Longmire tries to make arrangements for his daughter's wedding, providing another source of amusement. Laughs aside, Craig Johnson writes scenes of family dynamics that are sweet and touching without ever becoming melodramatic.

As the Crow Flies is a better-than-average mystery written in an easy, breezy style that mixes mild intrigue with gentle humor. Johnson doesn't rely on chase scenes or machismo-laden heroes to carry the story. Longmire doesn't provoke confrontations to prove his toughness, nor does he have the mindless "zero tolerance" attitude toward crime that too often characterizes fictional law enforcement officers. He is, in fact, more likely to tell someone to stop being stupid than he is to arrest them for foolish behavior. His self-deprecating remarks and laid-back attitude make him a likable character. The other series regular who plays a large role in As the Crow Flies, Henry Standing Bear, is equally likable. All the characters have unique personalities; even minor characters are believable.

The story's many plot threads all tie together nicely at the end. I wasn't able to identify the killer although a more astute reader might have better luck. Longmire's experiences as he pursues the investigation are as engaging as the mystery itself. The novel's most interesting section involves a Cheyenne religious ceremony in which Longmire is invited to participate. It is rare in a suspense novel for an upright hero to ingest peyote. Johnson's description of Longmire's hallucinatory experience is both respectful and fascinating. Longmire's vision, of course, helps him solve the crime, and if that's a bit farfetched, it is no less entertaining.

In short, As the Crow Flies provides a thoroughly pleasurable reading experience. It isn't necessary to read the earlier books in the Longmire series to appreciate this one, but reading this one might prompt readers to search out the previous installments.

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Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye by Horace McCoy

First published in 1948; digital edition published by Open Road Media on April 17, 2012

Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye begins with an escape from a chain gang and ends with an escape of a different sort. Ralph Cotter's violent departure from the chain gang is orchestrated by a "dame" named Holiday. Freed from his chains, Cotter quickly pulls off a robbery but, thanks to an untrustworthy accomplice and a dishonest cop, ends up penniless. It doesn't take him long to invent a new scheme to take opportunistic advantage of his desperate situation, although his plan doesn't feature the "rich rounded satisfactory nuances" that he prefers. Soon enough Cotter is in a position to take on the whole town without worrying about the police.

One of the characters aptly describes Cotter as "cocky." He's also intelligent, violent, and aloof. In his self-analysis, he is brutally honest. With others, he's merely brutal, although he exudes charm when the situation calls for social grace. Although Cotter is a tough guy killer with a James Cagney attitude, Horace McCoy imbued him with additional dimensions that set Cotter apart from other noir characters of his era. Cotter has a Phi Beta Kappa key, a degree, a "passion for the minor snobberies of life," and -- he explains with some pride -- an impressive "collection of psychoses." Included among the latter are an inferiority complex (when he moves among the elite) combined with a vast sense of superiority (when he moves among the criminal cohorts he regards as "mere passers of food"). At the same time he's capable of sentimental feelings -- not for people, necessarily, but for the cherry phosphate he orders at a soda fountain.

Among the peculiar characters Cotter encounters are a physician who is also a Zen master (he has forsaken the healing of bodies in favor of healing minds), a shady lawyer, a nervous hood named Jinx, and a well-connected, liberated woman named Margaret Dobson who, like Holiday, might be more than he can handle. In sharp, penetrating, insightful paragraphs, McCoy gives life to the novel's characters.

The story follows a course that takes more turns than the Tour de France, but the plot isn't complex. Rather, it follows an aimless life as Cotter reacts to the changing and seemingly arbitrary circumstances that confront him. The novel is as much a psychological profile of Cotter as it is a crime story. Cotter expects the worst from people -- betrayal is the aspect of human nature he always anticipates and he stands ready to betray in return. He regards women with a mixture of awe, jealousy, and contempt. His response to the two women in his life is complicated and contradictory. Much to his displeasure, it is his involvement with women rather than crime that determines his path. Through it all, he remains true to his nature. McCoy makes it clear that Cotter had no choice but to be the man he has become.

McCoy tells the story in mesmerizing prose ("the room was bitter with the feculence of imprisoned air that had been exhausted by a thousand usings"). While steeped in the language of its time ("this babe's full of vinegar"), the narrative incorporates enough literary references to make English majors gleeful. There is a certain poetic justice in the novel's final moments, the kind of irony that the educated Cotter is well-positioned to appreciate.

The story works just as well now as it did when it was first published in 1948. In fact, it may have been ahead of its time. Most modern readers will probably be more accepting of Cotter's social commentary than readers of an earlier generation would have been.

Readers who only desire to read about morally stalwart, likeable heroes should stay away from Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye. On the other hand, noir fans who appreciate complicated characters, strong writing, and unorthodox plotting will find much to admire in this nearly forgotten treasure.

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