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Instead of the next Brother Cadfael, I chose to read Sneeze on Sunday, a collaborative effort by Andre Norton and Grace Allen Hogarth, both of whom I sincerely hope are no longer inflicting their scribblings upon the world. This mystery, composed in 1952, was only published in the U.S. in 1992, and for good reason. First, it displays a determinedly unenlightened attitude. The hired man, Chris, a "tall negro," talks in a sort of ridiculous patois: "Fixin' to come yist'dy . . . Mail don't go nohow this forenoon . . . I could jes' ax him to come by . . ." and, my personal favorite, "Did reckon to come along here afterwards, but they wasn't no time lef', time I got done." Bear in mind that this novel is set in Massachusetts, not Georgia. The authors' apparent ignorance can eventually be explained away as simple racism; Chris, in addition to talking like some booze-addled hack's idea of Uncle Remus, is superstitious AND lazy. Welcome to the Amos'n'Andy show.
The title of the work is taken from an irritating little rhyme quoted by the "heroine" when she sneezes on a Sunday. The relevant portion of the rhyme runs as follows: "Sneeze on Sunday/shelter seek, the Devil will have you/the rest of the week." Sadly for Norton and Hogarth, it would be INCONVENIENT for a murder to actually HAPPEN during the prescribed timespan, so the first murder occurs one week AFTER the sneeze. Further adding to everyone's annoyance, this woman cannot remember the rhyme, and must be reminded of it by the ENIGMATIC HUNK with a MYSTERIOUS PAST. He refuses to tell her the REST of the rhyme, which is withheld until the last few pages of the novel in a pathetic attempt at creating suspense.
Sneeze on Sunday attempts to establish a Gothick atmosphere by having the characters PLAN A MURDER in THEIR VERY OWN HOMETOWN as an ELEGANT and SUBTLE use of FORESHADOWING. This is hardly original, of course, but becomes even more trite when one man quotes an extended passage (at least three hundred words) from The Hound of the Baskervilles. He does so from memory with no effort--inexplicable in context except as a vain effort to contribute some sort of legitimacy to this derivative drivel. Apparently copyright laws are different in CLICHÉLAND where quoting AN ENTIRE CHAPTER from SOMEONE ELSE'S BOOK does not count as PLAGARISM. Frankly, the novel would have been improved if it had simply been The Hound of the Baskervilles published as I Sneeze on Conan Doyle's Grave.
The ostensible heroine of this "book" is obnoxious and incompetent. The improbably named "Fredericka Wing" is established as a pitiable wretch from the beginning owing to "what happened to well brought up New England women when they got into their thirties and hadn't married"--both an excellent example of prose and a well-thought-out explanation of why Fredericka is a stone-cold bitch. She is a "scholar" who earns her living as a librarian. Her "scholarship" is a proposed biography of women who wrote STUPID TRASHY GOTHICK NOVELS in the previous century. Fredericka manages to alienate the entire town through being BITCHY and STUPID. The only people willing to tolerate her by the end of the book are proved to be either a)dumber than she is (exception: ENIGMATIC HUNK who has an inexplicable attraction to IDIOCY) or b)murderers. At the critical peak of the mystery, when it has become obvious to all but the very dimmest of lichens that she is conversing with a murderess, Fredericka not only GOES OUTSIDE IN THE DARK with said murderess--the equally improbably named "Philippine"--but allows Philippine to WALK BEHIND HER carrying A HEAVY FLASHLIGHT. Upon waking, it takes her more than twenty pages to realize that, when someone walking behind you says "I've dropped the torch!," it is IMPOSSIBLE for someone ELSE to pick up the flashlight and IMMEDIATELY conk you on the head. After smacking Fredricka (as the reader has been itching to do for 194 pages), Philippine, who at this point has accomplished two cold-blooded and near-perfect murders, throws her unconcious victim DOWN A DRY WELL rather than simply BASHING HER HEAD IN as any HALFWAY COMPETENT murderess would do. Fredericka survives to contribute ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to the dénouement, as she is confined to a hospital bed suffering from CRIMINAL STUPIDITY. The solution of the mystery is thus left to her HANDSOME and SUPERSMART QUASI-BOYFRIEND, who is, incredibly, both a college professor AND a professional "spycatcher." "The Colonel" narrowly escapes death himself when he and his police chief buddy attempt to arrest Philippine WITHOUT HANDCUFFS OR BACKUP. She pulls a gun on them! (Wow, a prepared villain. Will wonders never cease). Fortunately, in the most hackneyed ending since "Speed," Philippine CRASHES HER GETAWAY CAR into ANOTHER CAR that is PARKED IN THE DRIVEWAY because she is GOING TOO FAST. She does not survive. Having been spared the unpleasantness of dealing with an icky murderess, the "steely-eyed" Colonel (sadly, I am not making this up) visits Fredericka in hospital to scold her about the dangers of turning her back on anyone for a second (nowithstanding his encounter with Philippine). Together, they conclude that Philippine was such a successful murderer because she was so LIKEABLE. Thus suitably chastened and rendered feeble, Fredericka will become an IDEAL MATE, give up her pretensions to SCHOLARSHIP, and settle down to POP OUT BABIES.
I could go on in this vein forever; suffice it to say that this novel is all that is wrong with America.
The title of the work is taken from an irritating little rhyme quoted by the "heroine" when she sneezes on a Sunday. The relevant portion of the rhyme runs as follows: "Sneeze on Sunday/shelter seek, the Devil will have you/the rest of the week." Sadly for Norton and Hogarth, it would be INCONVENIENT for a murder to actually HAPPEN during the prescribed timespan, so the first murder occurs one week AFTER the sneeze. Further adding to everyone's annoyance, this woman cannot remember the rhyme, and must be reminded of it by the ENIGMATIC HUNK with a MYSTERIOUS PAST. He refuses to tell her the REST of the rhyme, which is withheld until the last few pages of the novel in a pathetic attempt at creating suspense.
Sneeze on Sunday attempts to establish a Gothick atmosphere by having the characters PLAN A MURDER in THEIR VERY OWN HOMETOWN as an ELEGANT and SUBTLE use of FORESHADOWING. This is hardly original, of course, but becomes even more trite when one man quotes an extended passage (at least three hundred words) from The Hound of the Baskervilles. He does so from memory with no effort--inexplicable in context except as a vain effort to contribute some sort of legitimacy to this derivative drivel. Apparently copyright laws are different in CLICHÉLAND where quoting AN ENTIRE CHAPTER from SOMEONE ELSE'S BOOK does not count as PLAGARISM. Frankly, the novel would have been improved if it had simply been The Hound of the Baskervilles published as I Sneeze on Conan Doyle's Grave.
The ostensible heroine of this "book" is obnoxious and incompetent. The improbably named "Fredericka Wing" is established as a pitiable wretch from the beginning owing to "what happened to well brought up New England women when they got into their thirties and hadn't married"--both an excellent example of prose and a well-thought-out explanation of why Fredericka is a stone-cold bitch. She is a "scholar" who earns her living as a librarian. Her "scholarship" is a proposed biography of women who wrote STUPID TRASHY GOTHICK NOVELS in the previous century. Fredericka manages to alienate the entire town through being BITCHY and STUPID. The only people willing to tolerate her by the end of the book are proved to be either a)dumber than she is (exception: ENIGMATIC HUNK who has an inexplicable attraction to IDIOCY) or b)murderers. At the critical peak of the mystery, when it has become obvious to all but the very dimmest of lichens that she is conversing with a murderess, Fredericka not only GOES OUTSIDE IN THE DARK with said murderess--the equally improbably named "Philippine"--but allows Philippine to WALK BEHIND HER carrying A HEAVY FLASHLIGHT. Upon waking, it takes her more than twenty pages to realize that, when someone walking behind you says "I've dropped the torch!," it is IMPOSSIBLE for someone ELSE to pick up the flashlight and IMMEDIATELY conk you on the head. After smacking Fredricka (as the reader has been itching to do for 194 pages), Philippine, who at this point has accomplished two cold-blooded and near-perfect murders, throws her unconcious victim DOWN A DRY WELL rather than simply BASHING HER HEAD IN as any HALFWAY COMPETENT murderess would do. Fredericka survives to contribute ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to the dénouement, as she is confined to a hospital bed suffering from CRIMINAL STUPIDITY. The solution of the mystery is thus left to her HANDSOME and SUPERSMART QUASI-BOYFRIEND, who is, incredibly, both a college professor AND a professional "spycatcher." "The Colonel" narrowly escapes death himself when he and his police chief buddy attempt to arrest Philippine WITHOUT HANDCUFFS OR BACKUP. She pulls a gun on them! (Wow, a prepared villain. Will wonders never cease). Fortunately, in the most hackneyed ending since "Speed," Philippine CRASHES HER GETAWAY CAR into ANOTHER CAR that is PARKED IN THE DRIVEWAY because she is GOING TOO FAST. She does not survive. Having been spared the unpleasantness of dealing with an icky murderess, the "steely-eyed" Colonel (sadly, I am not making this up) visits Fredericka in hospital to scold her about the dangers of turning her back on anyone for a second (nowithstanding his encounter with Philippine). Together, they conclude that Philippine was such a successful murderer because she was so LIKEABLE. Thus suitably chastened and rendered feeble, Fredericka will become an IDEAL MATE, give up her pretensions to SCHOLARSHIP, and settle down to POP OUT BABIES.
I could go on in this vein forever; suffice it to say that this novel is all that is wrong with America.
