Dave's Fiction Warehouse

M y daughter once asked me why I read so much crime fiction. I forget what I told her, but the correct answer came to me today: It’s not the genre I love so much, but the certain favorite authors who work so well within it. More importantly, it’s the certain recurring characters who have come to seem like old friends. Which is why I’m reading Tatiana, Martin Cruz Smith’s latest novel featuring the laconic Russian investigator Arkady Renko. When I saw some weeks ago that Smith had written another Renko novel, I actually preordered it. For the record, I never preorder anything. I first met Arkady Renko in Gorky Park, in 1982 or so. I still consider it among the finest crime novels ever written. More than 30 years later, Renko is still in Moscow, which is no longer Soviet but just as brutal and corrupt as ever. Maybe more so, what with Putin’s Kremlin on one side and desperate billionaires on the other. He’s investigating the supposed suicide of a crusading journalist. Of course it’s not ...

"T enth of December]," by George Saunders, might be the best book I’ve read this year. And this year I’ve read quite a few. A few caveats: It’s a collection of short stories, so it might not be for everybody. And some of the stories have an oddball, almost science-fiction feel, so it might not even be for most people. It’s running about 3½ stars on Amazon’s reviews. But trust me: this is pretty good writing. These are not the obtuse and unremittingly bleak little yarns that so often pass for literature and get nominated for obscure prizes. Some are funny, some are sad, but most are both. I’ll just say this: when I laugh on one page and get teary-eyed on the next, I believe I’m in the presence of a master. I’m embarrassed to say I’d never heard of George Saunders until this book was mentioned as a finalist for the National Book Award. Maybe it’ll win and maybe it won’t (the winners are announced next week), but this is one nomination I can agree with. My favorite stories are t...

B efore I forget, Happy Halloween. I’ll be happy when it’s over. We have about a bushel of candy ready to go, and I guarantee you it will be gone before the kids quit coming. Something about this Springfield neighborhood, the big porches and the wide sidewalks. A holiday like this, maybe it is a little too pedestrian friendly. Still, the wife gets a kick out of it and the weather here is always mild enough to sit in a rocking chair in one’s shorts. I drink a little wine and ponder the Halloweens of my youth, when all the costumes were homemade. Not that it mattered. Usually nobody saw the costume anyway because you had to wear a parka and mittens to ply the streets of Somers, Mont., at that time of year. Anyway, if you like that photo above, here are a few more from back in the day. They’re referred to as “creepy” and “disturbing,” but really, they capture the old-time essence of Halloween, before every kid could afford a store-bought costume based on a movie character or a video game....

W hen the subject comes up, which is often, I always remind people that Florida is not necessarily the weirdest state in the union. I’ve lived in quite a few states and they are all weird in their own way. But lately, I’m starting to wonder if Florida might not deserve some special distinction. Not just because it’s the home of rogue pythons, bugs the size of parrots and Rep. Ted Yoho. I’ve been reading T.D. Allman’s Finding Florida : The True History of the Sunshine State. Even if you toss out half of what he says as hyperbole and screed — which might be wise — it’s hard not to conclude that rational people should probably seek their fortunes elsewhere. The history of Florida is bleak indeed. It’s a long yarn involving geology, climate and human rapaciousness. Allman sums it up thusly: “People are constantly ruining Florida; Florida is constantly ruining them back.” According to Allman, it started with the Spaniards, who came ashore 500 years ago looking for gold in the only area in N...

T he zombies of " The Walking Dead " have the reflexes of Play-Doh, zero tactical awareness, and a top speed of 1.2 miles per hour. Yet somehow they are able to take down major characters week after week. That’s just one of the problems I have with this show. I’m coming up on the end of Season Three via Netflix and there are so many new faces it’s beginning to feel like Saturday Night Live. Longtime cast members keep exiting the show in entirely foreseeable ways — nearly always involving the snapping dentures of the undead. In a zombie-rich environment, is it really so difficult to remain alert for zombies shuffling up behind? These are not ninjas, creeping stealthily from tree to tree. Walkers grunt and moan and tend to trip over discarded items. But even after dozens of episodes, the living still tend to become so dreamily preoccupied that the undead can easily get within eviscerating distance. Or, if our seasoned veterans do take flight in a timely manner, they run straigh...