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Lawrence Block, A Ticket to the Boneyard

An diesen Band erinnerte ich mich noch ziemlich gut, vielleicht weil der Mörder es hier auf Scudder selbst abgesehen hat. Und Block es versteht, das Gefühl von Ohnmacht und Ausgeliefert sein so erschreckend gut zu beschreiben. Und vielleicht auch weil Elaine mit diesem Band endgültig zu einem Hauptcharakter der Serie wird.

Life, I'd heard someone say, is a comedy for those who think and a tragedy for those who feel. It seemed to me that it was both at once, even for those of us who don't do much of either.

(Lawrence Block, A Ticket to the Boneyard, 1990)

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Lawrence Block, Out on the Cutting Edge

Ich fing erst mit dem Taschenbuch an, das aber dann leider ziemlich lädiert wurde, als ich in einen Regenschauer ohne Schirm geriet, und las es dann auf dem Paperwhite zuende während das Taschenbuch trocknete. Auch bei diesem Band hatte ich komplett vergessen wer die Mörder in den beiden ineinander verzweigten Handlungssträngen waren, und dass Mick Ballou hier sein Debut hat.

It was Friday night, which meant a step meeting, and this week we were on the sixth step, in the course of which one becomes ready on some inner level to hae one's defects of character removed. As far as I can tell, there's nothing in particular that you do to bring this about. It's just supposed to happen to you. It hasn't happened to me.

(Lawrence Block, Out on the Cutting Edge, 1989)

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Lawrence Block, A Drop of the Hard Stuff

Als ich schon mit "Out on the Cutting Edge" weitermachen wollte, fiel mir ein, dass dieser nachträglich geschriebene Band chronologisch noch zwischen "Eight Million Ways to Die" und dem ursprünglich nächsten Band angesiedelt ist. Hier kann Scudder gerade sein erstes Jubiläum als trockener Alkoholiker feiern - auch wenn ihm nach Feiern kaum zumute ist.

I dialed it now, and the machine picked up. I listened to a dead man's voice. I hung up, wondering how long it would be before someone unplugged the machine, how long before the telephone company cut off the phone service.
You don't die all at once. Not anymore. These days you die a little at a time.
.
It was getting dark out when I left the library. I'd lost all track of time, and when I checked my watch I saw that it was past five. It wasn't fully dark, but the sun was down, and a gray day was drawing to a close. Every day the sun disappeared a little earlier than the day before. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that, it happened every year, but there were times when I felt there was a sadness attached to it, that the poor old year was dying a day at a time.
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(Lawrence Block, A Drop of the Hard Stuff, 2011)

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Lawrence Block, The Night and the Music, Matthew Scudder Short Stories

In 'The Night and the Music' gibt es am Schluß noch ein paar neuere Stories, die in den Collected Mystery Stories nicht enthalten sind, und so las ich sie parallel, wie es sich gerade ergab. Stories wie "Out the Window" oder "A Candle for the Bag Lady" könnte ich immer wieder lesen ohne sie überzubekommen.
.
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Maybe she caught her own killer. Maybe he caught himself, as everyone does. Maybe no man's an island and maybe everybody is.
All I know is I lit a candle for the woman, and I suspect I'm not the only one who did.

(Lawrence Block, A Candle for the Bag Lady, 1977)

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Lawrence Block, Eight Million Ways to Die

Obwohl Scudder am Ende die Kurve kriegt und es gerade so schafft, der einen letzten Versuchung zu widerstehen, erscheint mir dieser Band als einer der bittersten und hoffnungslosesten Teile der Serie. Und nach wie vor einer der besten, wenn nicht der Beste.
.
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After the meeting I walked for awhile in Central Park. The sun was out for a change and it was the first good day all week. I took a good long walk and watched the kids and the runners and the cyclists and the roller skaters and tried to reconcile all that wholesome innocent energy with the dark face of the city that showed itself every morning in the newspaper.
The two worlds overlap. Some of these riders would be robbed of their bicycles. Some of these strolling lovers would return home to burglarized apartments. Some of these laughing kids would pull holdups, and shoot or stab, and some would be held up or shot or stabbed, and a person could give himself a headache trying to make sense out of it.
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He was visibly drunk now, but only if you knew where to look. The eyes had a glaze on them, and there was a matching glaze on his whole manner. He was holding up his end of a typical alcoholic conversation, wherein two drunks take polite turns talking aloud to their own selves.
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'Those are cowry shells. Primitive societies all over the world use the cowry shell as a medium of exchange, it's the Swiss franc of the tribal world. You see how it's shaped?'
I went and had a look.
'Like the female genitalia,' she said. 'So men automatically use it to buy and sell.'
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(Lawrence Block, Eight Million Ways to Die, 1981)

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Jodi Picoult, Picture Perfect

Ich versuche mir die bisher noch nicht gelesenen Picoults einzuteilen, nicht nur weil die meisten mir einfach noch zu teuer sind, oder so schnell keine neuen zu erwarten sind (für "A Spark of Light" hat sie ja schon fast drei Jahre gebraucht), sondern mir die Geschichten einfach zu sehr unter die Haut gehen. Bei diesem im Hollywood der 90er und Pre-Internet angesiedelten Beziehungsdrama fragte ich mich zudem noch ständig, ob und wie sich die Story auf heutige Zeit übertragen lassen könnte. Zumindest Cassie's Verschwinden im Lakota-Reservat wäre wohl etwas problematischer zu bewerkstelligen. Aber es war auch fast erschreckend zu erkennen, wie viele Sachen sich nicht geändert haben.
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'You know that after the accident, Zack let go because of you,' Dorothea said aloud. 'He wouldn't have lived without you.' She knew it would be that way with herself and Cyrus, too - once one of them joined the spirit world, the other would die quickly so they would be together again. It had taken Dorothea years to understand, but now she was a firm believer: love was that way. You could not render it in black or white. It always came down to the strange, blended shades of gray.
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Alex's voice dropped dangerously low. 'You people lie in wait like animals and make rumors fester until they take precedence over the truth. Did you ever think about the lives of the people you're ruining? Did you ever think about the kind of damage you're doing when, in order to guarantee privacy, you force someone to take their family away? My career already makes me a public figure. You don't have to.' Alex took a step toward the silent group of reporters. 'Before you go pleading the first amendment, think about the rest of us who are pleading the fifth.'

(Jodi Picoult, Picture Perfect, 1995)

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Stephen King, Four Past Midnight

Während 'The Langoliers', dicht gefolgt von 'The Library Policeman' ganz oben in meiner Rangliste von Stephen King-Geschichten rangiert, habe ich die beiden anderen Novellen in dieser Anthologie, 'Secret Window, Secret Garden' und 'The Sun Dog' ein- oder höchstens zweimal wiedergelesen. Als Amazon kürzlich versuchte mir die einzelne Neuveröffentlichung von 'The Sun Dog' zum mehr als dem doppeltem Preis von dieser Anthologie anzudrehen, holte ich mir stattdessen diesen Band als E-Book und bereute es nicht. Überraschend fand ich vor allem wie zeitlos die Stories wirken, obwohl sie schon fast 30 (!) Jahre alt sind, selbst die Beschreibung der Technik in 'The Langoliers' hält einen Vergleich mit heutigen Verhältnissen durchaus stand. Ganz nebenbei mutete es in dem Vorwort von King, in dem er auf 15 Jahre als Autor zurückblickt, etwas amüsant und fast seltsam an, wie er durchblicken lässt, dass er den Höhepunkt seiner Laufbahn schon erreicht hat, nichtsahnend, dass noch mindestens zweimal soviel Jahre und mehr als doppelt so viele Bücher folgen werden.

'That was very brave and very foolish, my boy,' Bob Jenkins said. His face was dead white and he looked as if he might pass out himself in another few moments. 'Never believe a writer. Listen to them, by all means, but never believe them. My God, what if I'd been wrong?'

(Aus 'The Langoliers')

'I still don't understand that part,' Sam said, but he thought part of him did. It was as if his mind was some deep, dark body of water and there was a boat sunk at the bottom of it - but not just any boat. No - this was a pirate schooner, full of loot and dead bodies, and now it had begun to shift in the muck which had held it so long. Soon, he feared, this ghostly, glaring wreck would surface again, its blasted masts draped with black seaweed and a skeleton with a million-dollar grin still lashed to the rotting remais of the wheel.

(Aus 'The Library Policeman')

Stephen King, Four Past Midnight, 1990