Y is for Yawny Yancy and Young at Heart Youngson

What I read: The Highly Effective Detective by Richard Yancey.

As stated in an earlier post, the books on this list are not (always) books I have finished. This is one I didn't finish even though I got it out of the library twice plus it is reasonably well-written with clever dialog, clearly established characters, and humorous situations. I would probably try to keep going if it wasn't due Monday [in 2010].

I'm just as happy to send it back; it bores me. After some thought, I've decided that this is because it is detective rather than mystery fiction.

I enjoy mysteries, and I enjoy cop/lawyer shows, but I have never cared for American P.I. fiction. One reason is that I am partial to the "cozy" (though I am a fan of Law & Order, specifically Seasons 1-4 when it still felt gritty and focused on the evidence).

In addition, despite my high opinion of both Humphrey Bogart and Patrick Stewart, I've never cared much for Bogart's Raymond Chandler-type movies or for Star Trek TNG's Dixon Hill episodes. P.I. plots are almost always gangster-oriented, and gang stories (with the exception of The Freshmen with Matthew Boderick and Marlon Brando) don't grab me. The moment I see the word "gang" or "Mafia" in a book or film summary, my brain goes to sleep. I've never seen The Godfather and can't imagine a circumstance where I would--voluntarily at least. (I even skip Law & Order gang-related episodes.)

As for why gangs fail to interest me, I think it is because the collective doesn't interest me. Gang stuff always seems to be about the P.I. or gang member versus THE GROUP or SOCIETY: environmental determinism to the max. Even with Star Trek, my interest in the Borg has always been in the ex-Borg, not the Borg itself [and the Borg, by its very existence, bring up the question of the individual]. Collective history doesn't interest me either. I need an individual to latch onto. Even if we are all products of collective DNA or collective social pressures...who cares? [In any case, as I get older, I buy into collectiveness as an explanation less and less. Every person is born into the world as an individual and dies as an individual, even conjoined twins. Collective narratives are just that: narratives.]

Which isn't to say that The Highly Effective Detective is about gangs. It doesn't appear to be. But there is that "P.I. investigating the world" aspect. I need an individual body and an individual setting--and if the latter is a manor house or library, all the better!

2023: I randomly selected Meet Me at the Museum by Anne Youngson. I will say--before I get into thoughts on epistolary literature--that it is very much the story of two individuals!  

Meet Me at the Museum is letters between an English farmwife and a Danish museum curator who begin corresponding about the Tollund Man and develop a close and sustaining relationship. I chose it mostly because I wasn't interested in any of the other books on the shelves (rather sadly, Yancy wasn't available for me to try again: there is a lesson here about the rise and fall of author popularity). 

I was hesitant because I generally don't read epistolary fiction, and I'm not entirely sure why. When I do, I am always engaged. I find the reading fairly effortless. And if it is well-done (which it is here), I come away with a satisfied feeling. 

I think, however, that I harbor the suspicion that letters as fiction is cheating. Not really story. Not complete. Taking the easy way out. Too off-the-cuff. I can't describe my reaction, only I'm wary of the form.

I recommend this epistolary book too!

Such literature can be poorly done: ordinary people who just happen to bring up profound ideas at the drop of a hat. Way too much explanation in cases when people would not explain. Letters that say things like, "I'll tell you the rest of the story in my next letter" (people never do this--not truly), just so the author can create a new chapter. Sudden fulsome descriptions of the protagonists, which again they would never do ("I guess I should describe myself to you"). 

But the truth is, good versions of this form don't do the above. Meet Me at the Museum is written by two fairly well-spoken people who enjoy the act of writing, yet the letters don't feel belabored. They sound like two people talking about whatever comes into their heads without delivering a plethora of names and details that wouldn't matter to anyone. (My mother used to write letters containing completely mysterious details in utterly undecipherable handwriting: Yesterday, I went to the store on Western Ave and bought two screws for the pictures I bought from Leslie for $3.99 each, and I stopped to talk to Mr. Hansen and then dropped by Mrs. Ferguson's. Who? Who, Mom? Who are these people? Why are you telling me about them?). 

It helps that the characters in Meet Me at the Museum are primarily interested in talking about things and ideas. When their families enter the picture, the details are entirely within context. The world behind the letters is a full one, so much so, I imagined some fan fiction in my head for one of the sons.

Most importantly, relying almost entirely on show-don't-tell, the  characterizations of the principle characters in Meet Me at the Museum are impressively clear even though the female writer, Tina, doesn't describe herself  until several letters in (in reference to her daughter and then to another woman). The tone is consistent. And the letters are surprisingly poignant and human. And they bring up history and archaeology, which I always appreciate. 

Despite my lack of warmth towards the form in general, I do recommend the book!