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Edmund Crispin (pseudonym for Bruce Montgomery) wrote "The Case of the Gilded Fly" in 1944 while he was still an undergraduate at St. John's College, Oxford. It features the advent of Gervase Fen, Professor of English Language and Literature, and amateur detective extraordinaire. Another of my favorite characters, the deaf and possibly senile Professor Wilkes also appears for the first time and tells a ghost story right before the first murder occurs. A story within a story. A mystery within a mystery.

Fen solves both the mystery of the Gilded Fly, and the mystery within the ghost story.

Crispin specialized in creating 'impossible' murders for his Oxford don to investigate. A murder usually acquires the label 'impossible' at the death scene, when someone blurts out, "No one could have gotten past the gate keeper (or into the locked room or through the sky light). This is impossible!"

In "The Case of the Gilded Fly," we have:

"...Accident practically impossible. And murder, apparently, quite impossible. So the only conclusion is---

"The only conclusion is," put in the Inspector, "that the thing never happened at all."

Now Fen is off and running! A whole troupe of actors and actresses had motives for killing their colleague, and all of them (of course) have alibis.

The story begins when playwright Robert Warner mounts his latest experimental drama at the Oxford Repertory Theatre. His previous play bombed in London and he wants to try out "Metromania" in the provinces before opening it on the West End. His current mistress accompanies him to Oxford, and he unwisely gives his former mistress a role in his new play. Both ladies have other admirers. Their admirers have admirers. In fact, it's hard to keep track of who loves whom without a score card---or in this case, a playbill.

Although its characters sometimes sound frivolous and superficial (and very funny), 'Gilded Fly' also concerns itself with the gap between outward, conventional appearances and the inner turmoil that triggered a murder. All of the suspects have valid, psychological reasons for wanting the victim to die, but Fen is skeptical about crimes committed for hate or love:

"I don't believe in the 'crime passionel,' particularly when the passion appears, as in this case, to be chiefly frustration. Money, vengeance, security: there are your plausible motives, and I shall look for one of them."

If you agree with Fen, then you will be able to eliminate ninety percent of the suspects. If you're like me, you'll keep blundering off after red herrings until All is Explained at novel's end. The author doesn't cheat---you'll get all of the clues ahead of the final denouement.

'Gilded Fly' is both a tightly constructed mystery and a literate, witty, British comedy of manners.

NOTE: "The Case of the Gilded Fly" was also published under the title, "Obsequies at Oxford."

I aquired this book at a APA meeting a few weeks ago and it has been a great reference - although it is not as indepth as it could be - but for the range of topics and philosophers it is very good - don't worry it is not just analytic philosophy - it covers continental too - and some non-western philosophies but not many - the style of writing is very clear and easy to read - it's worth the money -

Ms. Jarman has written an extremely well researched book which details the events leading up to, the actual battle, and the aftermath of the engagement between the English and French at Agincourt during the Hundred Years War. This is but one of the three major defeats infilicted upon the French during the Hundred Years War. The book is highly readable and does not require an extensive foreknowledge of the historical period in order to be enjoyed. I highly recommend it to all students interested in the military history of the period.

Fourth in a series of mystery novels featuring Gervase Fen, the Oxford Don. "Dead and Dumb" which was published in 1947, embroils Fen in a murder epidemic among the members of a Wagnerian opera company.

NOTE: the alternate title (as published in the United States) is "Swan Song."

...and splice him with a pissed off anarchist teenager, the result would be something resembling Crispin Sartwell. I can't believe I'm the first person to review this book; so the pleasure is all mine, I guess.
End of Story takes the themes of Sartwell's last three books, "Act Like You Know," "Obscenity, Anarchy, Reality," and "The Art of Living," and juices them up for the final duel against the Academy. You have intelligent and novel interpretations of Pascal, the Book of Job, Kierkegaard, Thoreau, Epictetus---all pitted against the ever-present obsession with language and narrative that have plagued both modern and post-modern thought. The amazing thing about this book is not only the striking originality of some of Sartwell's arguments, but also his constant awareness of what it is he's doing. In a typical endeavor the latter may not be strictly necessary (at least, as much as it is in Sartwell's endeavor), since it's universally understood these days that if we're going to play ball, it will be inside the language-arena. Sartwell is writing a book that says we should try not writing books for a change--and furthermore, that we're not always "writing," so to speak. He's talking to you and telling you to learn how to shut up--and furthermore, that we are "shut up," a lot, whether we know it or not. And he's aware of the paradox, never taking it for granted (which of course makes his thesis less "radical" than some might be inclined to suppose, but more feasible for it). In short--he finds a middle way between language and silence and starkly proclaims that we're always already there, and moreover that we should "try and do whatever happens."
Final note: I may have given the impression that this is a book primarily concerned with language, and on the surface it is, but it steers clear of the lofty and ethereal discussions so Greek to us laypeople, and grounds itself first and foremost in life. It's practicality is stunning.
Beautifully written, interesting to the point of being criminal, and short enough to read in a night or two. Although, you'll probably spend a great deal more time with it-- willingly.
The finest academic work to come out in years: meaning: this book is the new monster for academics.

If I had to rank my favorite British mystery authors who produced their best work in the 1930s through the 1950s, my list would look like this:

(1) Edmund Crispin a.k.a. Bruce Montgomery (2) Michael Innes a.k.a. John Innes Mackintosh Stewart (3) Dorothy Sayers (4) Margery Allingham (5) Michael Innes a.k.a. John Innes Mackintosh Stewart (with a drop in rank for his mysteries that went off the surreal deep-end).

Out of my Fab Four Brits, Michael Innes and Edmund Crispin share the most similarities. They were both of Scots-Irish background, both wrote their mysteries under pseudonyms while teaching at college, and both were educated at Oxford -- Oriel College and St. John's College, respectively. They both wrote highly literate mysteries with frequent allusions to the classics (nine out of ten of which go zooming right over my head). Michael Innes has his detective, Sir John Appleby poke fun at this high-brow type of murder fiction in "Death at the Chase":

"That's why detective stories are of no interest to policemen. Their villains remain far too consistently cerebral."

Expect that even the most vicious murderer in an Edmund Crispin mystery will quote Dryden or Shakespeare at the drop of a garrote. "Frequent Hearses" is a fertile setting for this type of classical badinage, since its plot involves the making of a film based on the biography of Alexander Pope. Gervase Fen, Oxford don of English Language and Literature, and amateur detective extraordinaire is hired by the film company as a story consultant, and he is plagued throughout the book by a Scotland Yard detective who is an amateur classics scholar. Fen wants to discuss the murder. Chief Inspector Humbleby wants to talk about the Brontes and Dr. Johnson. Neither one will admit to a less than perfect understanding of either his profession or his hobby, and both despise amateurs. Their encounters keep "Frequent Hearses" sparkling along right up until its final page. Here is a sample of dialogue, wherein Inspector Humbleby deliberately misunderstands Fen's explanation of the film's subject:

"Based," Fen reiterated irritably, "on the life of Pope."

"The Pope?"

"Pope."

"Now which Pope would that be, I wonder?" said Humbleby, with the air of one who tries to take an intelligent interest in what is going forward. "Pius, or Clement, or--"

Fen stared at him. "Alexander, of course."

"You mean"---Humbleby spoke with something of an effort---"you mean the Borgia?"

All of Crispin's characters are carefully (one might say 'crisply') developed, and distinguished for the reader by a quirk or eccentric manner of speech (sometimes Crispin overplays the eccentricity at the expense of realism, especially with his main protagonist-- I do wish Fen would stop expostulating, "Oh, my fur and whiskers!"). Physical description is sketchy. If one of Crispin's characters walked past you in the street, you probably wouldn't recognize him. However, if you were to overhear his conversation with the postman---

And I don't mean to imply that "Frequent Hearses" is all dialogue and no action. There is one especially harrowing scene where a young woman chases the murderer into a maze in order to learn his identity and then (when reason returns) can't find her way back out again. By the time Fen rescues her, she has endured an experience right out of an M.R. James horror story (in fact, the young woman quotes M.R. James at length while she is traversing the maze - a typical Crispin characteristic).

The mystery surrounding the murderer's identity and motivation is as cleverly convoluted as the maze, and it is equally as hard to get to its heart. Crispin himself wrote and published at least one film script and composed music for several films, so "Frequent Hearses" is told with the knowledge of a movie industry insider.

If you like vintage British mysteries with a 'classical education' and haven't yet discovered the 'Professor Fen' novels, then you're in for a treat-- assuming you can find these out-of-print volumes. Here are all nine of the Fen mysteries plus two collections of short stories, in case you jump into 'Frequent Hearses' and want to keep going:

"The Case of the Gilded Fly" ("Obsequies at Oxford"), 1944; "Holy Disorders", 1945; "The Moving Toyshop", 1946; "Swan Song" ("Dead and Dumb"), 1947; "Love Lies Bleeding", 1948; "Buried for Pleasure", 1948; "Frequent Hearses", 1950; "The Long Divorce", 1952; "Beware of the Trains", 1953 (short stories); "The Glimpses of the Moon", 1978; "Fen Country", 1979 (short stories).

I think this is the best travelling guide of Greece I've ever seen! The pictures are brilliant, they really bring out the atmesphere of Greece, i can almost smell the air of kos while watching the pictures.... the text is interesting and easy to read, keep up the good work!

This book deals with the oldest copy of the Laozi (Dao De Jing) found to date (300 BCE). 33 scholars attended a conference to discuss this "new" text from around the world - most of them from China. The book deals with the details of the tomb it was found in, the methods of transcription and analysis used, examination of the text and all the various variations from other versions, the other "Confucian" texts found with it, a discussion of the Tai Yi Sheng Shui - a text attached to the Laozi - the earliest essay on the orgins of the universe, etc.

I found this book very interesting and informative, but would only recommend it to those who are as fanatical as I am! I would recommend readers to buy Robert Henrick's "Lao Tzu's Tao Te Ching: A Translation of the Startling New Documents Found at Guodian", who attended the conference and makes use of the opinions of the other scholars in his translation of the text. If U like that book and want to know more about the "Guodian Laozi", then buy this book - I wasn't disappointed.

enjoy!
~ BAO PU

For the second mystery in his series featuring Gervase Fen, Oxford don and amateur detective extraordinaire, Edmund Crispin finally treats World War II with more than just a passing reference to blackouts and tobacco substitutes.

Unlike other writers from the Golden Age of British Mystery such as Margery Allingham in "Traitor's Purse" (1941) or Michael Innes in "The Secret Vanguard" (1940), Crispin didn't weigh in against the Nazis with "Holy Disorders" until the war was almost over (1945).

Perhaps it was to be expected that a fictional professor of English Language and Literature would be less informed about current events (WWII!) than a fictional hereditary peer who performed secret missions for the Government (Allingham's Albert Campion) or a fictional chief of New Scotland Yard who performed secret missions for the Government (Innes's Sir John Appleby). Fen does run for office in one of Crispin's later books, but for reasons that have nothing to do with government, politics, or current events.

Incidentally, Sir John Appleby gets some air time in "Holy Disorders," as the local constabulary keeps threatening to call in the big shot from New Scotland Yard when their murders are not promptly solved. Fen manages to fend off Appleby as well as the Nazis.

Instead of a mere 'locked room' murder, "Holy Disorders" sports a pair of 'locked Cathedral' murders. There is also a tinge of the supernatural---collapsing tomb stones, witchcraft, the shadow of a hanged man. As one of the characters says about the first murder victim, "What was it he saw, when he walked alone about the Cathedral? What was it he found there, that no one else has found?"

"Holy Disorders" may not be the most tightly constructed of the Fen mysteries, but there is a full cast of eccentric ecclesiastics, many of them inclined to witty, religious debate and obscure literary allusions. In one of my favorite scenes in the book, Fen and his companion interview one of the murder suspects, a minor church canon, who is unfamiliar with the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe. The interview takes place in the suspect's study which is furnished with, "a pallid bust of Pallas-or more probably of some dead ecclesiastic, since both sex and features were indistinguishable in the crepuscular light---in a niche above the door. And there, great heavens---Geoffrey felt the sense of unreality which one has immediately on waking from a vivid dream---was a raven. It perambulated the desk with that peculiar gracelessness which walking birds have, ruffled its feathers, and stared malignantly at the intruders."

The minor canon also has a wife named Lenore. Once Fen and his friend, Geoffrey learn about Lenore, they are off and quoting:

"On its perch, the raven ruffled its feathers again. The branch of a tree growing outside of the window scraped against the panes. Fen succumbed suddenly to the obsessing temptation.

'Surely,' he said---surely that is someone at your window lattice?'"

The interview deteriorates into a morass of mangled Poe (a fen of finagled Poe?). Even without the evil Nazis and spooky witchcraft, this interview alone is worth the price of "Holy Disorders."

Especially if you were forced (as I was) to memorize "The Raven" at some point in your misspent youth.