Crime. Fear not: none of us was planning to break the law, with the possible exception of hate speech. Where that is concerned, how would one start? But we were more concerned with crime and literature, and a fascinating perennial question. What is the distinction between crime fiction and novels?
In the 1990s, I introduced one of the loveliest girls of the age to the delights of proper wine
Crime and Punishment: no problem. So what about The Moonstone? There are very many supposed novels which I would rather read. Moving nearer our own day, we have Dorothy Sayers or P.D. James. More recently, Reginald Hill, Susan Hill and Ian Rankin.
Victorian ladies were not supposed to read novels before lunchtime. I take a similar view of crime literature: not to be indulged in during what a hack might claim to be the hours of the working day. So I have not yet read the latest Rankin. In the most recent previous book, John Rebus looks as if he is about to be sent to prison for murder. I shall undoubtedly read the next instalment during the Christmas break. With one bound, will Rebus be free? Whatever, it will be a gripping narrative.
Cross the Atlantic: everyone has read Raymond Chandler. Dulwich College is an excellent school. I have met plenty of admirable alumni. But it is amusing to think that this academy for the tough-minded bourgeoisie produced Chandler and P.G. Wodehouse: both masters of the language.
In recent times, we have Michael Connolly and James Lee Burke. Powerful plots, lyrical prose – especially Burke – and engrossing social commentary: is that not a description of a novel’s attributes? Is it mere snobbery to refuse those authors the novelist’s accolade?
There was talk of putting Reginald Hill forward for the Booker.
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