MERCY - Book review - ADULT CONTENT

David Lindsey’s ‘sexually charged thriller’ Mercy was published in 1990 and runs to 673 pages and covers a harrowing series of murders in seven days.

Houston, Texas. Homicide detective Carmen Palma is dedicated and tenacious. She needs to be in a homicide department packed with men. Her older and vastly experienced fellow detective partner Birley is coming to the end of his career; he’s supportive and trustworthy. They’re both called out for the murder of Dorothy Ann Samerov – a grisly corpse with sexual overtones. It’s highly likely that this could be the second murder committed by a serial killer: the first was only a week ago: Sandra Moser.

Both deaths involved sadomasochism. The book title is the safe word used by a participant – called out to stop the pain when it gets too much. Each subject might have a different agreed safe word. Though in the case of Sandra, the safe word was ignored, and she became the first victim...

It soon becomes obvious that there’s an underground network of wealthy Houston women living secret double lives. Some of them are connected to the psychotherapist Broussard, yet he has a solid alibi...

FBI Profiler Sander Grant is called in to assist Palma, and he proves to be a fascinating character, almost as strong as Palma herself.

This is a police procedural that leaves little to the imagination in either gore or sex.

The high page-count can be partly attributed to the detail Lindsey provides in the description of every item of clothing, every tree, and the car routes taken by Palma in her investigations. It’s immersive narrative, often employed in non-fiction work such as David Simon’s ground-breaking Homicide.

Apart from the in-depth treatment of psychology of serial killers, psychosexual villains and psychiatry in general, Lindsey has a gripping often humane style, as these two examples might indicate:

‘Life was gradually taken away what it had gradually given. It was the nature of things, but few people understood their tentative ownership of their gifts until they saw them being taken away from someone they loved. If you were lucky life allowed you that, a preview of the way it was going to be’ (p219).

‘We only know people to the extent they want us to know them’ (p252).

And despite the graphic murder and sex scenes, his other visuals are also effective too:

‘rain glittering through the beans of her headlights like shattered glass falling out of the black sky’ (p331).

 However, if you think you’ll be offended by the subject matter, then avoid. 

The book was adapted into a movie with the same title in 2000.

THE WORLD IS MADE OF GLASS - Book review - ADULT CONTENT

 

Morris West’s novel The World is Made of Glass was published in 1983. I was studying psychology in the early 1980s (Open University) and bought this since it was a fictional account of one of Carl Gustav Jung’s case histories. I’ve only now got round to reading it!

West was inspired by a very brief and incomplete record of a case in Jung’s autobiographical work Memories, Dreams , Reflections. As West states in his Note: ‘every novelist is a myth-maker. He quotes Jung: ‘I can only make direct statements, only “tell stories”, whether or not the stories are “true” is not the problem. The only question is whether what I tell is my fable, my truth”.’ [Maybe Meghan Markle has read this…!]

The story is told from two viewpoints: Magda Liliane Kardross von Gamsfeld, a beautiful, rich and intelligent woman of dubious morals, and Jung, her psychiatrist.

Jung is married to Emma who is thirty at this time and carrying their fifth child. Jung met her when she was sixteen and wanted to marry her. ‘I loved her then; I love her now; but love is a chameleon word and we humans change colour more quickly than the words we speak’ (p70). These guilt-ridden thoughts relate to his attractive assistant, Antonia Wolff (Toni), who happens to be his mistress.

One of Jung’s beliefs was that synchronicity has psychic foundations. ‘… coincidence, synchronicity, things happening at the same moment in time, without causal connection, but still closely related in nature… in the context of psychic experience’ (p90).

Jung is aware that what he practices is not scientific, ‘Because this sciences of ours, this medicine of the mind, is still in its infancy. The methods are tentative. The procedures are incomplete’ (p127). He’s quite honest with himself some of the time: ‘I lie, too, when it serves my purposes; but then we all lie in one fashion or another because we are not scientists always; we are soothsayers – dealing with arcane symbols and the stuff of dreams’ (p104). ‘My real exploration will be in the undiscovered country of the mind’ (p154).

At this time, 1913, Jung and Freud were at loggerheads and quarrelled professionally, notoriously. It is also when Jung was approaching the beginning of a protracted breakdown. ‘I’m like a leaf tossed in the wind. So, I have no choice but to let myself be swept along by these storms of the subconscious and see where, finally, they drive me’ (p127).

Most of the book is reported speech, either Magda or Jung reminiscing on their troubled past: Jung was raped as a young boy by a family friend; Magda was initiated into sex at an early age, notably incestuously with her father.

There is a battle of wills between the pair – and collateral damage is felt by both Emma and Toni. Symbolism of dreams is paramount to much of Jung’s exploration. Gradually, he learns about a terrible truth that Magda had concealed. This Magda is a figment of West’s imagination and conveyed with great empathy and skill. Inevitably, there are revelations of a sexual nature and sexual obsession and also murder and guilt.

The author’s ability to get into the minds of two disparate yet complementary individuals is a remarkable feat.

West first wrote a play about this relationship, and then followed it with this novel.

The book title is from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Essays: ‘Commit a crime, and the earth is made of glass. Some damning circumstance always transpires.’

THE WANTING SEED - Book review - Adult content

 ADULT CONTENT

Anthony Burgess’s future fictional dystopia The Wanting Seed was published in 1962, the same year as his famous A Clockwork Orange.

In his 1982 Foreword Burgess states: ‘The Wanting Seed tries to show … that the response to the prospect of overcrowding and starvation might well be a culture which favoured sterility by promoting homosexuality and rewarding self-castration. But, my instinct argued, nature might respond to human sterility with sterile patterns of its own, and the solution to the population problem could be more ruthless and more logical… I cannot foresee the highly schematic world of (the book) as ever coming to birth, but I think some aspects of it – the glorification of the homosexual, for instance – are already with us.’

No date is given for the world we enter. Certainly, overpopulation has become a global problem in this world of Burgess’s future. Harry Harrison’s novel Make room! Make room! on the same subject (and filmed as Soylent Green) was published in 1966. Interestingly, Burgess uses a similar phrase on p164: ‘ “No room, no room” fluted a thin donnish person…’

‘…planetary survival dependent on the balance of population and a scientifically calculated minimal food supply; tighten belts; win through; evil things they would be fighting; long live the King’ (p53).

It was ‘a near-vegetarian world, non-smoking, teetotal except for ale’ (p38). Later, there is a revolt against this restrictive life-style: ‘Man is a carnivore, just as man is a breeder. The two are cognate and the two have been suppressed’ (p165).

Religion is side-lined, taboo, even, the Pope’s ‘an old, old man on St Helena’ (p40): ‘We were right to throw God out and install Mr Livedog in his place. God’s a tragic conception’ (p42). They use odd phrases, such as Dognose for ‘God knows’… [This is a darkly comic novel, after all!]

Great Britain as we know it has altered radically: ‘Greater London had eaten further into Northern Province and Western Province; the new northern limit was a line running from Lowestoft to Birmingham… the old designations of Wales and Scotland no longer had any precise significance’ (p8). Their trains are nuclear-propelled (p95) – another reason to stop HS2?

The culinary arts are grim: ‘served him with a cutlet of reconstituted vegetable dehydrate cold… A nut was a ‘nutrition-unit, creation of the Ministry of Synthetic Food’ (p51). Tristram was trying to ‘eat a sort of paper cereal moistened with synthelac and… he found it very difficult to spoon down the wet fibrous horror: it was somehow like having to eat one’s words’ (p57). It isn’t just food that is compliant with the dictates of the authorities: ‘Bless their little cotton-substitute socks, the darlings…’ (p153).

The main protagonists are Beatrice-Joanna, her husband Tristram Foxe and his brother Derek. Recently the State Health Service had sent her dead child to the agriculture department for decomposition – ‘useful to the State as phosphorous’ (p4).

Derek is Beatrice’s secret lover, even though he pretends to be homosexual. Homos get priority for all the prime jobs in the Establishment. Tristram is informed that his expected promotion has been blocked in favour of ‘a castrato, a pretty strong candidate’ (p32). ‘… being homo, do you see, wipes out all other sins…’ (p77).

‘For generations people had lain on their backs in the darkness of their bedrooms, their eyes on  the blue watery square on the ceiling: mechanical stories about good people not having children and bad people having them, homos in love with each other, Origen-like heroes castrating themselves for the sake of global stability’ (p184).

And a new corps has been formed: Population Police; Peppol. Dressed in a black uniform, cap with shiny peak, badge and collar-dogs ashine with bursting bomb, which proved on closer inspection, to be a breaking egg’ (p60). And its first Metropolitan Commissioner is Derek – ‘brother, betrayer, lover’.

Assisting the Peppol were the auxiliaries, greys. There are certain telling scenes that send a chill, bearing in mind the prevalent gender activist issues: ‘ “Mind your own business. Woman,”’ (the grey) added with scorn… Very much a woman, mind her own business, socially and biologically, she shrugged…’ (p65).

Beatrice’s sister is married to Sonny, an outspoken God-fearing man living in the countryside, well away from the Peppol patrols. His wife says of him: ‘He may be sane, but sanity’s a handicap and a disability if you’re living in a mad world’ (p151).

By Part Four, things are not going well. ‘Electricity, like other public utilities seemed to have failed’ (p163). Maybe there is hope, however, as someone observes: ‘When the State withers, humanity flowers’ (p167).

Towards the end of the novel, Tristram is conscripted into the army. Annexe Island B6 was a ‘limited area anchored in the East Atlantic, intended originally to accommodate population overflow, now compactly holding a brigade’ (p227). Burgess’s time in the army seems reflected in many observations here. ‘Nobody sang, though. The fixed bayonets looked like a Birnam Wood of spikes’ (p251).

In conclusion, stating nothing that can’t be found in the book blurb: ‘We in Aylesbury are at least civilised cannibals. It makes all the difference if you get it out of a tin’ (172).  Even if the tins are supplied by China…

In this world there is no social media and no smartphones; they use wrist micro-radios (p44). ‘The new books were full of sex and death, perhaps the only materials for a writer’ (p270). Indeed, there is sex and death in this book – but, despite all, there is hope also.

The book’s title is a play on The Wanton Seed, a refrain from the folk-song of that name; Burgess states that the ambiguity is appropriate.

Editorial comment:

Burgess has a tendency to name-drop, possibly by scanning his book-shelves: there’s Linklater, Wilson (his real surname), Adler, Westcott, Asimov, Heinlein, Evans, Ross, Meldrum – and the playful Ann Onymous! A good number of them were science fiction writers: ‘what the old SF writers called a time-warp’ (p241). He was using the then accepted abbreviation, rather than the trendy sci-fi which superseded ‘SF’.

Leslie Thomas called Burgess a ‘writer’s writer’ and I can see why. Certainly, his vocabulary is vast – and dotted with four or five words I’d never before encountered!

Book review - Upstairs Girls

*** ADULT CONTENT ***

This non-fiction history of prostitution in the American West by Michael Rutter (2005) is fascinating and illuminating in its many revelations. Known as the ‘oldest profession’, prostitution is sadly with us even today in Europe, notably due to mass immigration and open borders that allow free transit of criminal gangs and people traffickers. It’s not only in Europe, of course; every culture has prostitution.

The Hollywood myth of the harlot with a heart of gold has some truth in it, judging by a handful of profiles related here. But for the majority of working girls, their lives were miserable, tragic, and short-lived.

The Victorian sensibilities had been transferred to the Old West. There were ‘decent’ women and there were ‘sporting’ women. And the latter were not welcome in polite society or even in that part of town. Inevitably, red-light districts sprang up almost as soon as any new town was created.

A wide range of distressing circumstances could contribute to a woman joining ‘the sisterhood’. There were the ‘camp followers’ who went where the gold strikes offered easy pickings, where the railroads offered plenty of eager men with money to spend. There were those women who were abandoned, widowed, or even escaping abusive relationships, or perhaps destitute and starving. Their recourse was to enter a bawdy house. Maybe it was considered a temporary measure, but often it became permanent.

The book is a frank appreciation of Western women for hire. Possibly this profession above all others has the biggest vocabulary to describe its work-force: alley cat, bawd, belladonna, black-eyed susan, celestial, crib girl, cyprian, daughter of joy, demi-monde, dove, ebony Jezebel, fair sister, fallen angel, haute couture, hooker, lady of the night, nymph de prairie, prairie flower, shady lady, soiled dove, streetwalker, and upstairs girl, among many others.

There were different sorts of bordellos. Usually run by a madam, they might have the backing of a local wealthy businessman, a silent partner. Top of the scale were parlor houses, the elite of their kind, such as the Cheyenne Social Club (Cheyenne, Wyoming) and The Brick House (Virginia City, Nevada). The girls in these establishments kept half their ‘earnings’ and were well fed and clothed in the finest dresses, even wearing garments from France. They had to be young and retain their appeal, however, or they might have to move to the next lower rung in the pleasure ladder, the high-end brothels. Most of these places were still desirable with decent furnishing but not as fine. ‘The fallen angels weren’t old, but they might look slightly worn. The food in the bordello was good, the liquor was acceptable, but the wine list wasn’t as deep.’ (p19)

The so-called common brothel was the working man’s whorehouse. Those of less attractive countenance, who had started to lose their charm or youth, might find themselves here. These brothels were often located in dancehalls, saloons, gambling halls or apartment buildings.

Next, the low-end brothels were shabby, where the women were not in their prime. ‘In smaller towns they might be friendly and personable, though in cities they tended to be drab.’ (p21)

A cottage girl was an independent contractor, who had no madam or pimp. This was a precarious route for many, yet a few were very successful and made their fortunes.

‘At the bottom of the prostitution hierarchy was the crib girl, who worked out of a crib house.’ (p22)  A crib girl had somewhere to trade, at least. Streetwalkers plied their business outdoors in the main, and in winter a good number would freeze to death.

The trade in California was diabolical, most especially for Chinese women and girls. Some of them were sold to pay family debts; when they were too old to be attractive to men they would serve as cook, maid or field worker. The notorious madam Ah Toy tricked or bought unsuspecting girls cheaply, most not yet in their teens. She was brutal and a cruel taskmaster. The tongs, corrupt police and officials made their fortunes off Chinatown’s prostitution, gambling and opium. Many members of charitable groups in San Francisco risked life and limb to steal girls from brothels and given them a proper education.

Historian Rutter doesn’t flinch from writing about the occupational hazards faced by the upstairs girls – physical abuse, pregnancy, drug and alcohol addiction, sexual diseases and, not surprisingly, murder and suicide.

Another group of women sometimes linked with the profession were not usually on the game at all, but simply danced and entertained. These were the hurdy gurdy girls, the dancehall and saloon girls. They’d either entertain on stage or charge men for a dance. Miners fresh from the fields would pay a small fortune simply to hold a woman and dance with her. Despite their ostensibly innocent occupation, these women were condemned by the local communities. Gradually, as towns became established, moral purity movements fought against the trade, effectively pushing it underground.

A significant part of the book relates the stories of significant ladies of the night, among them Fanny Porter, the madam with a heart of gold, Laura Bullion, a Wild Bunch camp follower, Mattie Silks, Big Nose Kate, who was Doc Holliday’s lover, Poker Alice, and Mary Ellen Pleasant, the mother of the civil rights movement. They’re heart-breaking tales, most of them, and yet a good number of these women used their dubious profession to gain rank and importance and even own property and wield considerable power in their communities, despite having no such thing as ‘women’s rights’.