For one reason or another, possibly because I was reading something else at the time, I'd never read anything by Dick Francis. Nola thought this was wrong, she has all his books, and resolved that steps should be taken to remedy the situation. She put one in my hands Sunday evening.
I got to bed finally around six the next morning, having finished it off and another she'd left laying on the coffee table. The damn things are like peppermints. Formulaic, sure, but highly crafted formulae.
We talked a bit about the common elements: horseracing, hero usually a jockey or, at the least, closely connected with racing, emotionally contained, talent for amateur sleuthing, and the One Big Thing. Had I spotted the One Big Thing, Nola wanted to know. She asked earlier on Monday, but I'd only gotten another half-book done by then and wasn't sure. But later, knowing I was well into my fifth, she asked again.
"Does it have anything to do with the hero walking into some god-awful trap and getting the shit kicked out of him while he's tied up?"
"Pretty much. Though he's not always tied. Nor always beat up. Mostly, though."
"I was looking for something much more subtle when you first asked that, you know. On the order of class differences and like that."
"Silly of you. No, it's page one-thirty."
"Huh?"
"The serious ordeal always begins around page one-thirty in those editions."
She's right, too. This stuff is time-released candy.
10 Comments
Oh, but P — the writing, the awful awful writing! Ew. I confess to having gobbled the damn things by handfuls as a teenager, but they make me kinda queasy now.
But my usual junk media fix is detective fiction, so now I’m curious — what else do you read for mind candy?
I confess I’ve been a Dick Francis fan since I was a teenage groom at the racetrack. Reflex and a couple of others rate among my most favourite Fluff for Intelligent People books. In fact, I’ve even introduced Dickie to my partner, who was a DF virgin before I met her. But, like Wilbur Smith books, many of them a person shouldn’t waste their time on while others are brilliant for the genre.
A couple of interesting comments – the British class system always makes me shake my head. That’s one thing to say about good old Canada. It’s relatively easy to slip from one class to another. The other biggie is that a few years ago Dickie confessed his wife had been a “very major force” in the books – I translated this to mean “ghost writer” and it had always bothered him.
It is pretty bad, yeah, but whatthehell, I’ve gotten to the end of worse and had a decent enough time. Anyway, I’m waiting for amazon to send me some Aubrey/Maturin, and meanwhile work is slow and I’m still decompressing after all the planning and running around of the last three months. Other candybooks? Heinlein’s juvenile stuff, Grafton, those kinds of things. What do you like?
Judy- after thinking about it, I wouldn’t be surprised if his wife hadn’t churned out a fair number of chapters. All she’d need would’ve been an outline and a close familiarity with his style.
I’ve never been able to stomach Francis. now I like Kathy Reichs, Aaron Elkins and just for fun Elizabeth Peters for those writers that are still alive. However, as one of the original founding members of “The Stormy Petrels” Vancouver’s Sherlock Holmes group I will ultimately always have to defer to the master ACD. :-)
Tsk, Doug! Doyle’s work is much better than simple fluff. Most of it, anyway.
Back to Francis, something I just can’t figure out: his heros, these emotionally stunted, nay, voided, walking depression clouds are positively pursued by adoring girls and women. It’s just odd. Of course, I can barely remember the sixties. It may have all been required for constructing a Brooding Hero. I’d heard of Brooding Heros, but not run into them in such concentration before. I just thought they had a lot on their minds, not that they desperately needed meds.
Lemme see… if you like Grafton, Lawrence Block will probably appeal — I’d start (and finish) with the Bernie Rhodenbarr series. You might also like Sara Paretsky and Val McDermid, maybe even Janet Evanovich. For candy with at least a little nutritional value, I like Raymond Chandler, Walter Mosely, Reginald Hill, PD James, Stuart Kaminsky, Janwillem van de Wetering, Ian Rankin, Laurie King and RD Wingfield. Given our agreement re: Francis, I bet you’d enjoy any of those you haven’t read.
I’d be happy to send you a big ol’ box of books to read and post back when you’re done.
Oh, and since you like early Heinlein, have a look at Lois McMaster Bujold. Dreadful stuff really, but just the thing for a certain mood.
Yikes! I’ve read some of the authors you mention, and agree with you entirely, so the rest are likely to please as well. But no boxes just yet; I’m committed to finishing off the ones already on Nola’s shelves and I suspect there’s quite a lot of overlap.
(You didn’t mention Patricia Cornwall. I read five of hers once, while down with a lingering cold, and haven’t been able to re-read them since. Some characters one doesn’t want in one’s home.)
Oh yeah, I forgot about Patricia Cornwall. I read about half a dozen of the Scarpetta ones before I got sick of ‘em. They were among the books I jettisoned when I moved to the US.
Cornwall is apparently in the top ten list of authors whose books get binned when owners move house. Right up there with out of date computer manuals.
She’s certainly not alone; I just re-read Jack Chalker’s Well World series and they’re all now in the recycle box.