Showing posts with label Helene Hanff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Helene Hanff. Show all posts

04 June 2025

In Pod We Trust


 I enjoy podcasts, a fact that I have written about before.  I want to tell you about some of my recent discoveries, related to our field of study.


Empire City.
   Chenjerai Kumanyika takes us on a tour of the history of the New York City Police Department from the days of slave-catchers to the trial of Eric Adams.  Spoiler alert: His thesis is that there aren't just a few bad apples but the whole barrel is rotten.  9 parts.


The Lion, The Witch, and the Wonder.
 Fantasy writer Katherine Rundell looks at the history and purposes of children's literature.  It's full of fascinating reflections on the writing process and writers. 
"It's easier to trust a writer who writes good food. They are a person who has  paid attention to the world." Did you know that J.R.R. Tolkien intentionally made his lectures difficult to listen to, in the hopes that his students would drop out and he could go back to writing? 5 parts.

 Underfoot in Show Business.  Helene Hanff is best remembered for 84 Charing Cross Road, her book about a 20-year correspondence with a London bookseller.  It was made into a movie.  But before that she wrote Underfoot in Show Business, about her attempt to become a Broadway playwright. The BBC recently dramatized it and it's all charming but I point it out here mostly because she talks about breaking into television - by writing for The Adventures of Ellery Queen.  


The Blackburn Files. 
The BBC created this lighthearted private eye series in the 1980s.  It is northern England at the time that Thatcher is closing down the coal mines.  Stephen Blackburn is a young ex-pitman who lives with his mother and takes over a PI business.  The result is comic, sometimes slipping into farce, usually because of our hero's ability to misunderstand people.  (When his intern/secretary mentions Nietzsche he replies "Gesundheit.") 5 parts.


Main Justice. 
This award-winning podcast is hosted  by Andrew Weissmann, and Mary McCord, both former high-ranking DOJ attorneys, now legal commentators for MSNBC.  The show began as Prosecuting Donald Trump but following his re-election the focus shifted to analyzing the actions of the Justice Department.  Fascinating and infuriating stuff.


The Mystery Hour.
  Have we mentioned this one on the blog before?  Prize-winning podcaster Rabia Chaudry grew up on Alfred Hitchcock's and Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazines and each week she reads a story from one of those fine journals aloud. Among those whose works have been honored here are R.T. Lawton, Joseph S. Walker,  and myself. There are probably more SleuthSayers in here but one flaw in this podcast is that Chaudry only lists titles. You have to listen to find out who the author is.  Maybe some kind soul will create an index?



Taxonomy of the Modern Mystery Story.
  Big-brained Canadian Malcolm Gladwell is a fan of our genre and  wants to understand it.  He is especially interested in the link between detective stories and our view of real-life cops.


06 May 2012

Finer than Fiction


How to Lose a Reader

Reading for pure pleasure seems to have slipped by the wayside in recent years, but a common cold– natures' way of telling me to slow the hell down– waylaid me. I relaxed with a friend. It's good when another's bookshelf looks at least as interesting as my own, so there I am facing Jeffrey Deaver, James North Patterson, and a host of others. Literary historicals like The Name of the Rose and The Rule of Four intrigue me, so I pluck up a book that compares itself to these along with Possession and A Case of Curiosities.

Sixty-some pages later, I toss the book aside. It isn't a bad book and if I find myself cast away on a desert island with a trunkful of National Enquirers, I'll certainly read it.

I don't name the title in question, partly because it isn't a bad book– it simply didn't engage me. Moreover, I didn't finish it– It might burst into excitement mere pages after I abandoned it. Besides, I don't like the idea of criticizing another writer, a practice that might come back to haunt one.

The problem is nothing happens. It's like Waiting for Godot set in New York and London. To illustrate chapter-by-chapter,

  1. Edward, bored and boring options trader, is asked to uncrate ancient books.
  2. He's invited to a party, but falls asleep.
  3. He plays a video game, then falls asleep.
  4. He returns to unpack books and the reader falls asleep.

Sure, the writing is clever. I can see what looks like setups for future plot points. But worse than the lack of forward motion, I feel no bond with the main character. Burdened with a Kerouac-like lack of direction, the guy's not particularly likable. I'm well aware the book could suddenly take off but reading time is precious. Instead of plucking another book off the shelf, I seek a recommendation.

My hostess hands me two books, non-fiction. She tells me there's an unlikely link between them.

84 Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff

Literary Crossroad

The first is 84 Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff. It's a series of actual letters between the author and a London bookshop between 1949 and 1969.

Wait, stay with me here. Within a handful of pages, this little book does what the novel above failed to do– it captures the intellect and the emotions.

The book isn't about the war, but it quickly capsulizes post-war America and Britain. Rationing in the US ended in 1946, but while North America poured millions into rebuilding Germany and Japan, British citizens were starving, subsisting on two ounces of meat a week and one egg a month. Stiff upper lip, they soldiered on with the importance of maintaining an ordinary life. That's only background… the real story is yet to come.

How does this relate to crime writing? In the early 1950s, Helene Hanff wrote for Ellery Queen. I don't mean the magazine, I mean E-l-l-e-r-y Q-u-e-e-n. More than once I thought of Dale Andrews. While he'll appreciate that special history, anyone can admire this fast read.

Marks of Excellence

The other book is Between Silk and Cyanide by Leo Marks. I don't like war novels; I don't like them at all. Lose a friend or two and war doesn't seem entertaining. But I appreciate tales of espionage from Erskine Childers' classic The Riddle of the Sands to Alistair MacLean's brilliant novels.

Between Silk and Cyanide is fact, not fiction, told wryly with a self-deprecating charisma. It's about code-breaking and as those with deep computer backgrounds know, the British led when it came to codes and cracking them.

See, after World War I, Secretary of State Henry Stimson shut down the military code-breaking department, MI-8, famously saying "Gentlemen don't read other gentlemen's mail." He took steps to punish cryptologist Herbert Yardley, who considered monitoring coded messages vital.

Franklin Roosevelt recognized the need for intelligence and worked with former classmate William 'Wild Bill' Donovan and famed Canadian spymaster William 'Little Bill' Stephenson, a man considered the inspiration for fictional spies such as James Bond. However, the OSS found itself lagging far behind its allies.

I Spy with my Little Eye

Between Silk and Cyanide by Leo Marks

In the 1970s, whenever a television series ran thin on plots, the writers suddenly revealed their hero(ine) secretly worked for the CIA. Thus we found the likes of Jessica Fletcher conspiring with British Intelligence against the KGB, a ghastly plot device that burdens lackluster television today.

I promised to connect 84 Charing Cross Road with a book about spies. The London address happened to be that of Helene Hanff's bookshop, Marks & Co, and their son, 22-year-old Leo Marks, turned out to have a gift with cryptography and wrote the book Between Silk and Cyanide.

For young Marks' initial interview, his superiors devised a sort of test. They handed him a coded message and a key and left him to his devices. An hour later, they looked in on him and again an hour after that. With dismay, they said, "Our code girls decrypt these in twenty minutes."

Marks persisted and just before closing handed them the decoded message. His superiors sighed, obviously disappointed. As Marks turned to leave, they asked him to return the key.

"What key?" he asked.

"The cypher key. Surely we gave you the key for it?" they said.

Er, no, they hadn't. Marks hadn't decoded the message given the key, he'd actually cracked the code as if he'd been a foreign spy.

Marks asked, "You don't actually use this code, do you?"

"Not any more."

And thus Marks went on to rattle SOE, the Special Operations Executive, and battle its entrenched 'good enough for us' director who detested innovation, even when lives were lost.

Since Marks wasn't permitted to tell anyone where he worked, speculation spread among neighbors he was avoiding military service. His family endured white feathers in their mailbox– the insidious shaming device the British used to call others cowards.

I haven't reached the halfway point, but my hostess gave it the greatest compliment when she said she hadn't wanted it to end.

The Bottom Line

So, when nothing on the bestseller list appeals to you, consider a pair of books, Helene Hanff's 84 Charing Cross Road and Leo Marks' Between Silk and Cyanide.

They may be non-fiction, but they're damn fine storytelling.