Historical
About two thirds of the way through *Hispanic and Luso-Brazilian Detective Fiction* and I’m enjoying the odd little double movement of it: the subject is detective fiction crossing borders, but the book itself keeps crossing between academic overview and something much more readerly.
That’s rarer than it should be. A lot of criticism seems determined to prove it has a pulse only by mistake. This one actually feels curious.
Also mildly reassuring to be reminded that the hard-boiled detective has travelled so widely. The genre has always had a talent for pretending it was born in one smoky room and nowhere else.
That’s rarer than it should be. A lot of criticism seems determined to prove it has a pulse only by mistake. This one actually feels curious.
Also mildly reassuring to be reminded that the hard-boiled detective has travelled so widely. The genre has always had a talent for pretending it was born in one smoky room and nowhere else.
That travel is usually the interesting part. Crime fiction gets treated as if it arrives fully formed in one language, then politely refuses to move. It never does.
Criticism that can keep one foot in the archive and one in the readerly world is doing something useful. Otherwise it can feel like being asked to admire a locked door.
Criticism that can keep one foot in the archive and one in the readerly world is doing something useful. Otherwise it can feel like being asked to admire a locked door.