Having fallen to pondering titles yesterday after being reminded of Black Is the Color of My True Love’s Heart, I wrote a little here about what makes a good one.
This morning, I was directed to Mysterious Matters, where the undercover editor blogger considers the matter of titles at greater length and in much more depth and lists his/her 10 favorite mystery titles. The Bride Wore Black may be the greatest of all.
I envy writers who come up with book titles that grab you and tell you exactly what the book is about without revealing the whole story. Ellis Peters was great at it. A Nice Derangement of Epitaphs (1965), about a tomb that yields one more body that it should. Black Is the Color of My True Love’s Heart (1967), a song lyric for a story set at a folk music festival. A Morbid Taste for Bones (1978), a Brother Cadfael mystery involving a saint’s relic.
One of my all-time favorites is Dame Agatha’s And Then There Were None (1939), which some consider the greatest mystery novel ever. If memory serves me correctly, the British title was Ten Little Indians. Maybe it’s the other way around, but either way, it works. Ten strangers lured to an island and picked off one by one. Not all Agatha Christie’s titles were inspired, but this one is.
I’m rather partial to the title of the thriller I now have in the works, Unholy. It takes place during the Holy Week celebrations in Antigua, Guatemala. I hope one day, someone will pick it up at the bookstore and think, “Cool title.”
I couldn’t post about my cat’s feet last night and not post about one of the great moments in history today.
Midday today, Barack Obama took the oath of office as president of the United States. Watching the inauguration from the comfort of my sofa, more than once I was moved to tears of joy and gratitude. I might as well have been among the 1 million or so people on the Mall, cheering and laughing and crying. I could feel the 5 billion said to be watching around the world.
So many others have written eloquently on the significance of our first black president, and I’m old enough to understand it. But it’s more. It’s knowing the world will get through the frightening times we live in now. It’s being comforted that an intelligent, accomplished, wise, decent man who understands the importance of being a citizen of the world will lead us. It’s feeling hope again for the first time in years. Barack Obama may not be FDR, but I’ll take him.
My baby names book tells me that Barack means blessing or blessed. I don’t what “Obama” means in Kenya, but here in America, it means “hope.” I think it means the same thing for the rest of the world, too.
“The price of parenthood,” my mother likes to say, “is great.” What she doesn’t add is that it extends to human and animal children alike. When I was growing up, Mama saved more than one sickly foal with fluids through an IV. She even put a cast on one filly’s leg when she broke it at age 3 days. The leg healed beautifully.
I haven’t had to set a cat’s leg yet, but I have cleaned up their vomit and wiped off their poopy bottoms when they were sick. I’ve just finished digging balled-up cat litter from between the toes of Fang, our cantankerous senior cat. We thought she’d hurt herself when she hobbled away from the chuck wagon after her dinner. I picked her up to examine her feet and discovered the chunks of congealed litter jamming her toes apart and gouging the pads. I think we’ll be shopping for a different litter.
A 10-minute soak in the sink, several growls of protest, and a couple of scratches on my hand and arm later, and Fang’s feet are litter free. I’m not sure she appreciated my work on her behalf, but I felt better.
I didn’t think about one day being called on to scoop urp, clean bottoms, and de-litter feet when we got Fang and Cornelia at the shelter, but as cat parents learn, it goes with the territory. Considering the joy our furry children bring us and how much we love them, the price isn’t so great after all.
Two posts in the same week? Can you stand it?
So, today I went to see “Last Chance Harvey” because I think Emma Thompson is amazing in everything and a romantic comedy about people who aren’t 20-something or even 30-something is always welcome. Yes, Virginia, there is love after 40, and sometimes it’s better.
Anyway, “Harvey” has its charm. A decent script and winning performances from Emma, who is always wonderful, and Dustin Hoffman, who reminded me how affecting he can be with the right material. Great cinema? No. Profound? No. This story doesn’t try to be more than it is–a sweet little movie about people who find each other after both had given up on having love in their lives. There are some laughs, and it’s a pleasant way to spend an hour and half.
Go see it.
I’m taking William Petersen’s departure from “CSI” hard, really hard. Since it started nine years ago, “CSI” had been my show, my must-watch, my primary reason for getting TiVo. Even its not-great episodes were pretty fabulous, and the best ones have been perfection. What am I going to do now?
Last night at the end of Petersen’s farewell episode, I cried when Gil Grissom found Sarah Sidle in the Costa Rican jungle, and that was only partly because she is SO not right for him. SO. NOT. RIGHT. It’s not that I think Laurence Fishburne’s Dr. Raymond Langston won’t be good. I’m willing to give him a chance. He just won’t be Gil Grissom, the core, the brain trust, the very soul of a fantastic ensemble cast.
I’ve never been able to get into “CSI:Miami” or “CSI:NY”, and that’s because I can’t seem to make myself care about any of the characters on the two spinoffs. Catherine and Nick and Doc Robbins and Greg and all the other wonderful members of the real CSI team, I love you guys! I hope for the sake of quality television and America as a great country that the ensemble holds together even without Petersen. But the show can never be the same for me. Not ever.
Billy, you broke my heart, but thank you for the good times.
PHOTOGRAPH BY MICHAEL MULLER
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