strange and random happenstance: Rudyard Kipling

Enola Holmes and the Mark of the Mongoose by Nancy Springer
Published by: Wednesday Books
Publication Date: September 5th, 2023
Format: Hardcover, 304 Pages
Rating: ★★★★★
To Buy

Enola Holmes has never been one to take no for an answer or to back down from a mystery. Although these days she's spending more time with her own studies and enjoying a peaceful life not having to hide from her bothers than working as a perditorian. That doesn't mean she isn't occasionally to be found at the offices of one Dr. Lesley T. Ragostin PhD, her clever ruse to hide her own identity and sex. She's at the office one day when a rather rude man bursts in. He demands to see Dr. Ragostin. His best friend, Wolcott Balestier, hasn't returned home and both he and Wolcott's sister Caroline are mad with worry. Wanting to help contain the man's hysteria she offers to take down all the details and embark on the case herself. This angers the man. A young girl could not possibly do the work of a man and he departs in a huff. Most likely off to hire Sherlock thinks Enola darkly. And even though this mystery man didn't bother to introduce himself she was able to get enough information to search out Wolcott's sister, Caroline. Yes, at first it's outrage that drove her to seek out Caroline, but the poor woman is standing on the street corner asking if anyone has seen her brother and Enola's heart breaks. Enola feels for the woman and decides that she will bring Wolcott back to his sister no matter that the angry man thought that she wasn't up to the case. It really is just about helping Caroline. Being able to gloat a little at the end of the day won't hurt though. But the deeper she gets in the case the more dire things seem for Wolcott Balestier. The neighborhood he was last seen in is known for a gang that doesn't take kindly to strangers. What's more there are rumors that a man matching Balestier's description was attracted by a rabid dog. If this is true perhaps Balestier took himself off to die somewhere away from his family and friends. The disease has no cure and the death is a painful one. But as Enola dons various disguises, helped out by her fellow lodgers at the Professional Woman's Club, to get into Caroline's house, to find out more about rabies, and to attend a literary soiree, she worries if they will just not find Balestier, or, if they do and he's been bitten, not find some way to save him. With her brother's help and the hindrance of the angry man, who turns out to be author Ruyard Kipling, they might just crack the case. Ruyard Kipling might be rude and underestimates women, but he sure can write and seems to care about the Balestiers. Plus, it would really piss him off if Enola saved the day. And she does like to thwart people's expectations.

I had planned for my review to start out by talking about how much delight I take in this series and hoped to enjoy it for years to come. Especially the way that Enola messes with the masculine establishment and in this volume in particular takes great glee in messing with Rudyard Kipling, which Nancy Springer took great glee in as well. It has become a birthday week tradition for me the last three years to read the latest adventures of Enola and then I learned that tradition would be no more. Nancy Springer, rather causally stated on Twitter leading up to the release of Enola Holmes and the Mark of the Mongoose that "the next, and last, Enola Holmes novel will be published in a few days." I couldn't believe it's the last. It appears to be because she's not writing at all anymore due to age, but I mean age is really just a number? I'd be willing to take one book every two to three years if that would be a satisfactory arrangement. I just can't not have Enola in my life. She entered it when I really needed someone who, despite all the windmills tilting against them, just got on with it. She knows what is right and she always fights for it. Plus, Nancy Springer builds her books around obscure yet fascinating history. In this instance it's rabies. I find it interesting that a lot of people in this day and age don't know about the dangers of rabies. I remember in one of the Amelia Peabody books she has a close call with rabies and it's literally as if she's been diagnosed with an incurable disease. Because for so long that's what it was. You got rabies and you died. Horribly. And while the number of shots needed to survive rabies has declined since Wolcott Balestier underwent his treatment, when I was a child the treatment was identical to that undergone by Balestier. How do I know this you might ask? Well, thankfully it's not from direct personal experience, but still, personal experience nonetheless. And made me learn at a young age not to mess with rabies or racoons. In second grade one of my classmates was involved in an altercation with a rabid racoon. Given his history I'd lay the blame firmly on him and not the trash panda. Anyway, he had to undergo weeks and weeks of painful shots. I envisioned it as that wall of needles coming towards Han Solo in The Empire Strikes Back. And it gave me joy. He really was a little shit. But reading this book I was fascinated to learn the origins of the vaccine and also blown away that in almost a hundred years the vaccine remained relatively unchanged. I will miss these insights into history. I will miss Enola. I know, you might comfort me that there could be more movies. You know what? It's not the same. That's not my Enola. This is.

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 0 comments

Labels: Caroline Balestier Kipling, Enola Holmes, Enola Holmes and the Mark of the Mongoose, Murder Most Foul, Perditorian, Rabies, Racoon, Rudyard Kipling, Sherlock Holmes, The Empire Strikes Back, Wolcott Balestier

Arthur and George by Julian Barnes
Published by: Alfred A. Knopf
Publication Date: July 7th, 2005
Format: Hardcover, 385 Pages
Rating: ★★
To Buy (different edition than one reviewed)

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes and the second greatest writer of his age after Rudyard Kipling, and George Edalji, a half-caste solicitor from Birmingham whose Parsi father became a vicar in a small Staffordshire village, would unexpectedly change English law and bring about the court of appeal in England. As Arthur rose to fame, taking his family out of the gentle poverty of Edinburgh, getting married, having children, establishing his career, George had far smaller ambitions. He wanted to be a solicitor. He kept his head down and studied, being a decent, not excellent, student. Yet his life was full of strife. His family received hateful and horrible anonymous letters. The local police did nothing, and in fact suspected George of persecuting his own family. Yet George kept his life on track, going to college and then working for a firm in Birmingham, finally setting up his practice and even publishing a guide on railway law. The persecution eventually stopped and life seemed ready to go on as normal. Until the animal rippings started. Animals were attacked so viciously that they had to be euthanized due to their wounds. The local police decided that George was behind these crimes. They had no evidence, no logic, and yet George ended up spending three years of his life in prison. All he wanted was to be pardoned and for his simple life to begin again. Yet it wouldn't. Therefore George took the only drastic measure he ever did in his whole life, he wrote to the creator of Sherlock Holmes asking for his help. Arthur had just suffered the loss of his wife while also feeling guilty that during the past ten years he had loved another and was just waiting for propriety's sake till the day he could make Jean his bride. He was at the end of his rope with waiting and here came George with something to distract him. Arthur was willing to play the detective for the first time in his life, and hopefully George would get his name cleared when they were done.

Arthur and George is one of those books that have been sitting on my shelf for ages. Every time I reorganize my books I pick it up and think that now will be the time I read it, and it inevitably gets hidden in the back behind Barrie and Baum until the next reorganization. It might have taken me a decade, but I finally got around to Arthur and George, a book that I think is better in the abstract. There's lyrical and evocative prose, there's eventually a plot you connect to, but in the end I was more than a little dissatisfied. The book starts with little vignettes of Arthur Conan Doyle and George Edalji growing up. Quickly cutting back and forth between the two in a way that at first is interesting but almost a hundred pages in gets on your nerves for it's gimmickry. You're reading and reading and the one thought that keeps going through your head is "when is it going to start?" Because these little glimpses, no matter how many are piled on top of each other, do not a narrative make. When we finally move into the second part of the book you have had your fill of exposition and when you realize that Arthur and George have yet to meet you start to wonder why bother? There was even a part of me thinking Julian Barnes was using Conan Doyle as a lure and it's going to be a bait and switch all over again like P.D. James and Death Comes to Pemberley. I sincerely thought about just setting aside this book because I couldn't take another story supposedly about one thing and then being forced to endure something else. Luckily the historical record proves that these two men met, so I was willing to hold onto that and push through. And meet they did, and that part was good, that part was something, that part was an all too brief 122 pages that could still have used some editing. So in here, there is a story. It's short, there's too much fluff, but that little bit might just be worth it. Maybe.

Besides this constant tease of a plot hopefully emerging the writing has another serious flaw. It might be beautiful, but it is also flat. It's like the book is on a slow and even keel on every single page. There is nothing pushing the narrative forward and nothing to elicit interest, it just is. One reason I fear is this lack of focus. Barnes is so busy showing us just little glimpses of these two men's lives that he loses the ability to know what is and isn't important. There is no drama, no crescendo. George being set to prison is about as dramatic as his daily commute to work. Barnes dwells on weird and unnecessary details instead of those points which could build the story. For example, you'd think he'd spend time on the ripping of the animals, it is after all the major crime in the book. He might talk about the fear this infuses in the community, the importance of livestock in these people's lives, or the docility of pit ponies in particular, but he doesn't. Instead we get a far more detailed description of Arthur Conan Doyle getting an erection and having premature ejaculation issues the first time he kisses the woman who is to become his second wife. So in the context of this book the heinous crime of animal ripping is second to Arthur Conan Doyle's dick. So why did you write this book Julian Barnes? Because to me it seems that a miscarriage of justice wasn't as important as dragging down the legacy of a writer second only to Kipling in his time.

This flatness carries over into the characterization of these two men making me have problems with both. Firstly there's the problem with George. George Edalji is supposed to be the victim here. The man who lost years of his life for a miscarriage of justice. We should like him. We should feel his plight. We shouldn't be hoping that they just keep him locked up because he is an annoying pretentious ass. So the problem with George is that you don't like him. You're hoping that there's some twist, that he has a split personality, that he has some animus to him that doesn't make the highlight of his life writing a book on railway law! That he's freakin' Jekyll and Hyding us all and IS a cold blooded animal killers. But no. He is a shell of a person. And not in the, he endured great tragedy and there was only a shell left. No, he isn't a full person. He does his work, he gets decent grades, he blindly goes through life as a nobody. If it wasn't for someone taking against him he would have been born and died and no one would have noticed. I can't decide if making George this nonentity was a way in which Barnes is showcasing that the crime George was charged with needed to be judged on the evidence not on the man. But we still need to have some connection to this man. We have to care about his fate, not focusing on the criminal procedures of the day, and yes I'm experiencing some P.D. James flashbacks right now. But the worst characteristic, the ONLY characteristic of George is his naivety. He doesn't think that he will be convicted because he's innocent, he doesn't think he was persecuted because he's half-caste, because people aren't like that. Where did this blind optimism come from? Gaw, you're an idiot George, and for that you paid the price.

Yet the ignoramus that is George is nothing to how Barnes portrayed Conan Doyle. So now we're onto the Arthur problem if you're keeping score. If you know a bit about Conan Doyle a lot of his life story here will be repetitive. In order to break out of this Barnes makes the odd decision that he will tear down this legend. He will make Arthur human and fallible and the butt of jokes, re the premature ejaculation mentioned above. Arthur is obsessed with his image and Jean, the woman who will become his second wife. He comes across as three things, girl crazy, sports crazy, and honor crazy. Here's the thing though, Barnes stresses the crazy. He spends hundreds and hundreds of pages stressing the crazy, which, OK, if you have some weird vendetta against Conan Doyle, I can see doing that. But then in the final section of the book he then does a 180 and builds Conan Doyle back up. That he was a great writer, humanitarian, etc. etc. I just don't know what the point of the book was I guess. If it was insight into these two men, it's a fail. If it's insight into miscarriages of justice, well, it's a fail also. Why, ugh, I just don't get it. My mind is literally rebelling wanting to know the why of it. This could have been a cute and insightful book on the author of Sherlock Holmes taking up the mantle of detective and saving a man's reputation. Instead it's an overwritten mess about the author of Sherlock Holmes misguidedly playing detective to distract himself from the fact that he can't yet marry and fuck the woman he's lusted after for a decade. Crime solving as prophylactic! I really don't think Holmes would approve.

There is so much that could be forgiven though if Barnes had been willing to tie up loose ends. In particular, the hate mail and the ripping. But instead we get 40 pages of George's shallow reflections on the death of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. In his brief afterward, Barnes states that there's a man never mentioned in this book who later claimed responsibility for the letters, no reason given, no analysis, nothing. Just a man years later who did this. Um, a little more please? Secondly, as for the ripping... we are given a very good idea of what could have happened with the Sharp boys, but no real answer. As George himself points out it's the same kind of circumstantial evidence that got him locked up. So yes, in life we have unresolved endings. Nothing is tied up nice and neat with a bow. But here's the thing about Arthur and George... it's FICTION! Barnes felt perfectly fine taking liberties with Arthur's dick, yet couldn't give us an ending worthy of Holmes? Instead we are left with this nebulous morass we have read that has left no real impression other then ew to the ejaculation. Was this some arty post-modern experiment to mimic the spiritualist belief of knowledge only after passing through the veil? Seriously, I could sit here all day making up reasons why this book is as it is. I could justify it, I could throw harsh vitriol on it, I could read so much into the text that it would make your head spin, because the book's narrative just lies there doing nothing that you could read whatever you want into it. But you know what? I've wasted enough time on this book and it wasn't worth it, so in the end, writing one more word...