Philip Larkin: Everyday Life Without Illusions

 

At first glance, Philip Larkin’s poetry appears simple, almost modest. There are no grand myths, no dramatic twists, no “big themes” in the usual sense. Yet it is precisely in this simplicity that its strength lies: Larkin writes about what is most ordinary, and what is rarely observed with honesty.

In his poems, everyday life is not idealized. Love is not a promise of salvation, but often something limited, uncertain, or missed. Time does not bring wisdom, but rather a sense of loss and of something that could have been but never happened. Even ordinary scenes—flats, trains, streets, hospitals—carry within them a quiet weight of transience.

What sets Larkin apart is his ability to avoid illusion. He does not try to convince the reader that life has a hidden, elevated meaning. Instead, he shows it as it is: limited, often monotonous, but precisely for that reason real.

There is a particular honesty in this. His poetry does not seek to “lift” the reader, but to make them recognize what they already know, even if they may not want to see it. Because of this, his poems often leave a sense of quiet discomfort, but also a strange clarity.

Interestingly, Larkin can also be read outside the framework of poetry alone. His worldview carries something reminiscent of the atmosphere of noir fiction: a lack of illusion, a sense of constrained choices, and the quiet melancholy of everyday life. As in good crime fiction, there is no false consolation—only confrontation with reality, without excess explanation.

Perhaps this is why Larkin remains relevant today. In a world that often insists on optimism and spectacle, his poetry reminds us of something more modest but more enduring: that life mostly happens in ordinary moments, between expectations and what actually occurs.

And in that, paradoxically, there is a particular kind of beauty—not as comfort, but as recognition.

Charles Baudelaire

Charles Baudelaire remains one of the defining figures of modern literature, so influential that for decades writers across europe were casually described as “baudelairean” whenever their work contained decadence, melancholy, eroticism or fascination with urban corruption.

His collection les fleurs du mal transformed poetry into something darker and more psychologically unsettling, mixing beauty with decay, sensuality with death and spiritual longing with degradation. Unlike romantic idealists before him, Baudelaire seemed fascinated by evil, boredom and sickness of modern city life.

Baudelaire also played crucial role in introducing Edgar Allan Poe to european readers, translating his stories and poems into french with extraordinary devotion. In many ways, Baudelaire recognized in Poe another doomed artist obsessed with madness, beauty and death. Through these translations poe gained enormous influence on european symbolism and decadent literature.

His own life was marked by debt, scandal and drug addiction, experiences reflected in his essay artificial paradises, meditation on hashish, opium and human desire to escape ordinary consciousness. Despite his self-destructive tendencies, Baudelaire’s influence on modern poetry, symbolism and dark aesthetics remains immense.

Alexander Pushkin

Alexander Pushkin remains central figure of russian literature not only because of his influence but because of the strange myth surrounding his life. Aristocratic, rebellious and passionate, Pushkin lived with restless energy that often bordered on self-destruction. His involvement in scandals, gambling and duels created image of poet unable to adapt to calm bourgeois existence.

His death in duel at only thirty seven transformed him into almost romantic martyr of literature, figure consumed by honor, jealousy and impulsive temperament. This tragic aura still surrounds his work today.

Perhaps his greatest achievement remains Eugene Onegin, unique “novel in verse” balancing irony, melancholy and psychological insight with extraordinary elegance. Despite its lightness and wit, the book slowly reveals sadness of wasted possibilities, emotional emptiness and inability of characters to understand their own feelings until it is too late.

While later russian literature often became heavy and philosophical, Pushkin possesses clarity, grace and musicality that make him feel surprisingly modern even today.

Algernon Swinburne

Reading Algernon Charles Swinburne often feels less like reading poetry and more like being submerged into hypnotic waves of sound, sensuality and decay. His poems are overflowing with musical language, repetition and strange erotic melancholy that sometimes almost dissolves meaning itself.

Unlike colder and more intellectual poets, Swinburne writes with feverish intensity, creating atmosphere of exhaustion, beauty and self-destruction. There is something decadent in his work that later influenced not only symbolists and decadents but also modern dark aesthetics.

His poem “The Garden Of Proserpine” perhaps best captures this mood, presenting sleep, death and oblivion not as horror but as seductive release from suffering and noise of existence.

At his worst, Swinburne can become excessive and overwrought, drowning in his own verbal music, but at his best he achieves haunting rhythm unlike almost any other english poet of the nineteenth century.

Arthur Rimbaud

Arthur Rimbaud remains one of the strangest figures in literature, writing his visionary and often chaotic poetry while still practically a teenager. Reading him today still creates unsettling atmosphere of fever dreams, rebellion and spiritual decay. Unlike polished classical poets, Rimbaud often sounds fragmented, hallucinatory and violent, but beneath that there is strange melancholy and desire to escape ordinary reality.

Perhaps what makes him still modern is that his poetry feels dangerous and unstable, almost like psychological noir. After abandoning literature completely, becoming traveller and trader in africa, rimbaud turned himself into myth as much as poet.

While some later writers imitated only his chaos and self-destruction, his best poetry still possesses haunting beauty and dreamlike imagery difficult to forget.

Georg Trakl

Georg Trakl remains one of the strangest and most haunting poets of the early twentieth century. His poetry leaves a deep impression that seems to sink directly into the subconscious.

Collections such as Melancholy and Land of Dreams create an atmosphere of unreality, decay and profound sadness mixed with moments of almost feverish transcendence. Trakl’s world is filled with twilight streets, silence, autumnal colors, abandoned figures and dreamlike visions that often feel suspended between beauty and psychological collapse.

Before dedicating himself entirely to poetry, Trakl studied pharmacy and worked as an apothecary. His life was marked by psychological instability and drug dependence, particularly cocaine, which intensified the dark atmosphere surrounding both his life and work.

Critics and biographers have often discussed the unusually intense emotional bond between Trakl and his sister Grete, a relationship that continues to give his poetry an unsettling emotional undertone.

What makes Trakl unique is that his poems rarely function as direct statements or narratives. Instead, they work through mood, repetition and imagery, creating a hypnotic feeling closer to dreams or half-forgotten memories than conventional poetry.

Charles Williams - A Touch Of Death

A Touch of Death, much like The Hot Spot, revolves around a man driven by greed and a fatal woman who gradually pulls him deeper into destruction.

Perhaps this is a worn-out noir cliché, but Charles Williams uses his storytelling skill to create a powerful noir atmosphere and a dark psychological struggle between desire and doom. His prose is direct and economical, yet capable of building constant tension beneath seemingly ordinary scenes.

What makes the novel particularly memorable is its ending.
(Spoiler ahead.)

As the protagonist waits for the woman to return from the bank with the money, he notices a girl passing beside the car and continuing down the street. At that moment, reality itself begins to collapse for him. Arrested by the police and abandoned by everyone around him, he starts wondering whether the woman even existed at all, and why nobody believes she was real.

The final pages create an almost hallucinatory sense of paranoia and emotional disintegration, elevating the novel above routine pulp material.

Hard Case Crime also deserves praise for reissuing the novel in an attractive edition with a fittingly evocative cover design.

Paul Cain - Fast One

Fast One is a maelstrom of hard-boiled violence, written in such a dense and stripped-down style that at certain points it becomes difficult to follow exactly what is happening. Evidently assembled from previously published short stories, the novel follows the gangster Kells and the woman around him through a brutal underworld where virtually every character seems devoid of redeeming qualities.

The constant betrayals, shootings and rapid-fire dialogue create an atmosphere resembling a vicious dogfight, and the novel’s overwhelming nihilism occasionally verges on self-parody, almost like an extreme variation of Red Harvest by Dashiell Hammett.

Paul Cain himself remains a mysterious literary figure. Apart from this novel and a small collection of stories, little is known about him, which only adds to the strange aura surrounding his work.

No Exit Press did a fine job of designing this book with an attractive cover artwork.

The Best American Noir Of The Century - ed. Otto Penzler & James Ellroy

The Best American Noir of the Century is a strong anthology of noir crime fiction, with an insightful introduction by Otto Penzler and James Ellroy.

The selection brings together both the “old school” noir tradition and more contemporary voices.

Among the classic authors, the standout stories include:

• James M. Cain – Pastorale
• Steve Fisher – You’ll Always Remember Me
• Day Keene – Nothing to Worry About
• Howard Browne - Man In The Dark (chandleresque little noir gem)
• David Goodis –  Professional Man (a melancholic, restrained piece)
• Dorothy B. Hughes – The Homecoming
• Gil Brewer – The Gesture
• Cornell Woolrich – For the Rest of Her Life (famously adapted by Rainer Werner Fassbinder as Martha)
• Patricia Highsmith – Slowly, Slowly in the Wind

The “new blood” section also contains interesting and diverse interpretations of noir, including:

• James Lee Burke – Texas City, 1947
• Harlan Ellison - Mephisto in Onyx (a strange blend of noir and supernatural)
• Jeffrey Deaver – The Weekender
• Lawrence Block – Like a Bone in the Throat
• James W. Hall – Crack
• F. X. Toole – Midnight Emissions (boxing-themed noir)
• Elmore Leonard – When the Women Come Out to Dance
• Scott Wolven – Controlled Burn
• Thomas H. Cook – What She Offered
• Andrew Klavan – Her Lord and Master

Overall, I enjoyed reading this anthology. However, its length (around 600 pages) and softcover format, combined with relatively small print, sometimes made it physically uncomfortable to read for long periods.

The original hardcover edition published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt is probably more comfortable and better designed, but the Windmill Books edition I own still offers a strong reading experience.

Hard Boiled : An Anthology Of American Crime Stories - ed. Bill Pronzini & Jack Adrian

Hard-Boiled: An Anthology of American Crime Stories, edited by Bill Pronzini, is a solid selection of American hard-boiled stories, accompanied by a good and informative introduction in which Pronzini emphasizes the specifically American spirit of the genre—individualism, lone wolves, mavericks, gunmen, and small-time criminals drifting through urban landscapes.

Like any large anthology, the book is uneven, but it offers enough quality stories to justify the reading. Among the highlights are works by Raoul Whitfield, Paul Cain, and Norbert Davis, who capture the essence of the hard-boiled style through fast pacing and sharp dialogue.

Particularly notable are “Mistral,” “Trouble Chaser,” and “Who Said I Was Dead?”, while “Black Pudding” by David Goodis brings a characteristic sense of melancholy and doom. “So Pale, So Cold, So Fair” by Leigh Brackett and “A Piece of Ground” by Helen Nielsen further broaden the range, showing how the genre can function beyond its hardest edges.

However, as the anthology moves toward more recent authors, a certain decline in quality becomes noticeable—these stories feel less focused and lack the raw energy and clarity of early hard-boiled writing.

One minor disappointment is the presentation itself: small print, plain formatting and lack of illustrations make the anthology feel somewhat sterile. Hard-boiled fiction thrives on atmosphere, and one is reminded of McLuhan’s idea that “the medium is the message.” Compared to beautifully designed noir editions such as Centipede Press’s Woolrich collections, this volume often feels more archival than immersive.

Bloody Murder -From The Detective Story To The Crime Novel - Julian Symons

Bloody Murder is a useful reference book, but Julian Symons often comes across as rambling, jumping from one topic to another. What stands out most is his clear preference for puzzle novels and the classic British tradition, while writers such as Cornell Woolrich, Jim Thompson, and David Goodis are largely dismissed or marginalized, and Lionel White is not even mentioned. Despite these flaws, Bloody Murder remains a useful book for more advanced students of crime fiction.

Cornell Woolrich - Speak To Me Of Death

Another writer known for his short stories aside from novels is Cornell Woolrich, a reclusive and somewhat elusive figure whose paranoid fiction helped shape the noir tradition as we know it today.

There are many collections of Cornell Woolrich’s stories, as he was a prolific writer, but I chose this particular volume from Centipede Press — a high-quality edition with striking illustrations by Mat Mahurin and an insightful introduction by Thomas C. Renzi, author of Cornell Woolrich: From Pulp Noir to Film Noir. The book contains fifteen stories, the most famous of which is Rear Window, famously adapted into a film by Alfred Hitchcock.

The introduction provides a useful entry point into Woolrich’s world, characterising his stories as “momentum narratives,” where a single mistake sets off an irreversible chain of events leading to ruin. It also highlights key aspects of his prose: a fatalistic sense of destiny from which the protagonist cannot escape, the instability of perception, and the use of ironic, double-reversal twists in the tradition of O. Henry.

Two of the stories in this collection I had already encountered in various anthologies — Dusk to Dawn and Wardrobe Trunk. Among the remaining pieces, several stand out. Rear Window is of course the most famous, later adapted by Alfred Hitchcock into a classic film. Marihuana is a striking story about a man who becomes psychologically unhinged under the influence of the drug, culminating in a strong twist ending. Post Mortem is another effective piece, while The Death of Me is an excellent identity-switch narrative in which a killer assumes the identity of a dead man.

The Night Reveals is a solid entry, and Three O’Clock is particularly strong — a tightly constructed story of a man planning to murder his wife, only to fall into a trap of his own making. Finger of Doom and The Corpse Next Door are more modest, but still engaging. The strongest story in the collection, however, is Speak to Me of Death: a hallucinatory nightmare that was later reworked into the novel Night Has a Thousand Eyes and adapted into a notable noir film.

What stands out across these stories is a distinctly pulpy style — less concerned with the detailed character work found in writers like Stanley Ellin, and more focused on momentum, situation, and suspense. Yet despite that relative lack of psychological depth, the stories remain highly engaging, tightly constructed, and often genuinely thrilling.

Overall, this is an excellent collection — though perhaps not one to be read late at night.

Stanley Ellin - The Specialty Of The House

Crime fiction is generally better suited to the novel than to the short story, which is why it’s always refreshing to come across those rare writers who built their reputation primarily on short fiction. That is certainly the case with Stanley Ellin and his collection The Specialty of the House.

I had already encountered some of his work in various anthologies — You Can’t Be a Little Girl All Your Life, The Nine to Five Man, and The Question. The stories collected here are often quite strange. For example, The Orderly World of Mr. Appleby follows a man obsessed with his antique shop, while Broker’s Special is another standout, along with The Blessington Method, Day of the Bullet, and several others.

As H. R. F. Keating noted, Ellin’s stories are “enormously varied in plot and setting, linked first by clarity of style, and second by a fascinatingly bizarre view of the world and its people.”

But while these stories are generally well written, they seem to lack the kind of passion and obsession that reveal the writer’s soul.

The Crime Masterworks edition is well produced in hardcover, with an attractive dust jacket and an introduction written by Ellin himself.

Peter Lovesey - The False Inspector Dew

I like good classic English whodunits, although there are very few of them. This 1983 novel was a pleasant surprise.

Although it’s written in the style of the 1920s, it actually plays with the genre itself. It is based on the real-life case of Dr. Crippen, but the story follows Baranov, a dentist, and his wife Lydia, who plans to travel to America to try her luck in films. Things become complicated when Baranov meets Alma, a somewhat eccentric girl who sees the world through the lens of romantic novels. She falls in love with him, and together they devise a plan to kill Lydia and throw her into the river.

However, another murder occurs on the ship. Baranov, traveling under the false name Walter Dew, is mistakenly taken for the famous inspector. The ship’s captain accepts him as an authority and asks him to lead the investigation.

This is where the novel becomes truly interesting—not because of the question “who is the killer,” but because of how a man, simply through his behavior and confidence, manages to convince everyone around him that he is someone else.

One Deadly Summer - Sebastian Japrisot

I watched the French film One Deadly Summer starring Isabelle Adjani and it stayed with me. There’s something about that story that doesn’t let go, a quiet unease that lingers long after it ends.

So I looked up the novel of the same name by Sébastien Japrisot.

As you may have known, it's a story of a young girl Elle who seeks revenge on three men that raped her mother years ago in one winter day.

The first half of the novel is very good. The atmosphere is dense, the characters feel real, and the story moves in a direction that promises a lot. There’s that slow, summery feeling with something dark underneath.

But as the novel goes on, it becomes strange. As if it starts to fall apart from within.

It increasingly feels like this is not just a story about one girl, but about a tragedy passed down from generation to generation. Something that cannot be avoided, only repeated.

The saddest part is what happens to Elle. It’s as if she retreats back into childhood, losing touch with reality, until she eventually ends up in a mental institution.

In the end, it feels like everything was predetermined.

James Ellroy - White Jazz

With White Jazz, the final entry in the L.A. Quartet, James Ellroy pushes his experimental style to the extreme.

The fragmented prose, already present in the earlier books, becomes almost overwhelming here. Sentences are cut, thoughts are compressed, and the narrative often feels chaotic and disjointed. At times, it works. At other times, it feels forced and unnecessarily psychedelic.

The plot revolves around Dave Klein investigating a break-in connected to a deeply disturbed family. The father is a major drug dealer, the daughter is a prostitute, and the son appears to be obsessively attached to her. This alone creates a sense of moral decay that is typical of Ellroy, but the novel doesn’t stop there.

Another subplot follows a runaway actress connected to Howard Hughes, portrayed here as a deeply unwell figure. She ends up acting in a low-budget film produced by Mickey Cohen, who is depicted as a fallen man reduced to working with alcoholics and fringe figures. These elements add to the sense of a collapsing world, where everyone is compromised and nothing feels stable.

As the novel progresses, the narrative becomes increasingly difficult to follow. Characters blur together, motivations become unclear, and it often feels like no one fully understands what they are doing — including the reader. The story turns into a kind of fever dream, driven more by sensation than by logic.

This is Ellroy at his most extreme: dirty, chaotic, and completely unrestrained. For some readers, this will be the ultimate expression of his style. For others, it may feel like excess without control.

In the end, White Jazz is less a traditional crime novel and more a descent into narrative breakdown — a book where structure collapses under the weight of its own intensity.

James Ellroy - The Big Nowhere

Out of all the novels in L.A. Quartet, The Big Nowhere is the one that impressed me the most.

The novel opens with a notorious wave of anti-communist witch hunting in America. This storyline, investigated by Malcolm Considine, is interesting in itself, especially once Buzz Meeks enters the picture. Still, for me, this is not the true core of the novel.

The heart of the book lies in the investigation of a serial killer, followed by Danny Upshaw. His character stood out the most. Not only because of the disturbing and brutal nature of the murders, but also because of the way his personal life slowly collapses as he becomes entangled in both the homicide case and the anti-communist purge.

Upshaw is a tragic figure. His involvement in the investigation of communist organizations only deepens his internal conflict, leading to an inevitable and devastating end. Ellroy builds his character with a sense of doom that feels unavoidable from the very beginning.

Reading James Ellroy is like stepping into a filthy bar late at night — a place filled with outcasts, criminals, corrupt policemen, and constant noise. There is no comfort, no elegance, only decay and tension. The prose is fragmented, aggressive, and relentless, pulling the reader deeper into a world where morality is blurred and violence is everywhere.

What makes The Big Nowhere effective is not just its plot, but its atmosphere. Ellroy doesn’t suggest darkness — he throws you into it. The novel is crowded with characters and subplots, but at its best, it delivers moments of pure noir intensity, especially through Upshaw’s storyline.

Even if Ellroy’s style can become exhausting, this novel shows him at his strongest: obsessive, chaotic, and completely uncompromising.

Lioner White - Too Young To Die/The Time Of Terror

I grew accustomed to reading Lionel White as a writer of heist novels about doomed men. His characters are usually trapped in situations where everything is carefully planned, yet there is always a sense that things will fall apart. Still, as a reader, I keep hoping that their schemes will somehow prevail.

Too Young to Die offers an interesting variation on this formula. At its center is a heist mastermind who unexpectedly falls in love with a young girl. This emotional element gives the novel a different tone and, at times, it reminded me of those paranoid crime stories from the 1970s, where relationships are fragile and constantly threatened by violence and distrust.

To cut the story short, the plan inevitably collapses. During a shootout, the girl is wounded and later dies in a remote hideaway, while the protagonist ends up surrounded by relentless, almost western-like lawmen. The final act has a fatalistic quality that feels both inevitable and fitting, reinforcing White’s recurring theme: no matter how clever the plan, the outcome is already sealed.

The second novel, The Time of Terror, is also strong, though in a different way. It follows a man who has lost everything — his job, his family — and decides to kidnap a young boy. The premise is simple, but effective, driven more by desperation than calculation. As in many of White’s works, the tension comes not from elaborate plotting but from watching a man unravel under pressure.

What makes White stand out is his ability to combine straightforward prose with a persistent sense of doom. Unlike more stylistically ambitious writers, he doesn’t rely on atmosphere or psychological introspection as much, but he understands structure and pacing. His novels move quickly, yet always toward the same destination: failure.

In that sense, White delivers exactly what I expect from him — stories about men who plan, hope, and act, only to discover that their fate was decided long before the first move.

Harry Whittington - A Ticket To Hell/Hell Can Wait

When I first heard about Harry Whittington, he was often mentioned alongside the great pulp and noir writers of the 1950s. His name appeared in Stark House reprints and in discussions about forgotten crime fiction authors who supposedly deserved rediscovery. Naturally, I expected something raw, atmospheric, maybe in the tradition of David Goodis or Charles Willeford.

After reading the Stark House edition containing Ticket to Hell and Hell Can Wait, I was surprised – and not in a good way.

Ticket to Hell starts with an intriguing premise: a drifter arrives at a remote motel and saves a young woman from her violent boyfriend who seems ready to kill her. This setup suggests a tense, morally ambiguous noir story. However, the novel quickly shifts into something much more conventional when it is revealed that the protagonist is actually working for the FBI and is on a mission to rescue a kidnapped boy. What begins as a potentially gritty, personal story turns into a predictable crime thriller filled with clichés and familiar plot turns.

The second novel, Hell Can Wait, follows a man who plans revenge against the driver responsible for a car accident that killed his wife. Revenge stories are a staple of crime fiction, but here the execution feels mechanical and uninspired. The characters lack psychological depth, and the plot unfolds in the most expected way possible, without the moral complexity or stylistic flair that defines the best noir fiction.

What disappointed me most was not just the use of clichés, but the overall flatness of the prose. Where writers like Goodis or Woolrich create atmosphere through mood, desperation, and poetic bleakness, Whittington’s writing in these two novels feels functional and rushed, as if produced to meet a deadline rather than to tell a compelling story. The dialogue is serviceable but rarely memorable, and the emotional stakes never feel fully real.

This is not to say that Whittington had no talent or that all of his work is without merit. Like many pulp writers of his era, he wrote quickly and prolifically, often under pressure from publishers. In that sense, he can be seen more as a professional craftsman than an artist. Still, based on Ticket to Hell and Hell Can Wait, it is difficult to place him in the same category as the truly distinctive voices of mid-century crime fiction.

Stark House deserves credit for keeping these books in print, as they provide a window into the vast landscape of mid-century pulp publishing. But as literature, these two novels serve more as historical curiosities than as forgotten masterpieces waiting to be rediscovered.

For readers exploring classic noir today, Whittington might be of interest for completists or for those curious about the broader pulp ecosystem. However, those looking for the emotional intensity of Goodis, the psychological precision of Highsmith, or the stylistic elegance of Chandler may find these novels surprisingly hollow.

In the end, reading Ticket to Hell and Hell Can Wait was a useful reminder that not every rediscovered pulp author is an overlooked genius. Sometimes, a hack is simply a hack – and even that has its place in the history of crime fiction.

Charles Willeford - Hoke Moseley Omnibus

Charles Willeford is often described as a kind of “Philip K. Dick of crime fiction.” Just as Philip K. Dick created strange, off-kilter worlds in science fiction, Willeford brings bizarre situations and unusual characters into the crime novel, often subverting the expectations of the genre.

The series about detective Hoke Moseley is particularly interesting in that respect.

Miami Blues is perhaps the best-known novel in the series, largely because of the unforgettable villain Frederick Junior Frenger. He is one of those criminals who seems completely unpredictable and dangerous, which gives the novel both energy and dark humor.

New Hope for the Dead was somewhat less interesting to me. Much of the plot revolves around old unsolved cases that Moseley has to reopen, and the pace therefore feels slower than in the first novel.

I liked Sideswipe the most. The premise itself is unusual: Moseley suddenly decides to move into a hotel run by his father in order to get away from everything for a while. At the same time another storyline unfolds involving a bizarre group of characters planning a supermarket robbery: a psychopathic small-time criminal, a confused retiree who no longer knows what to do with his life, a prostitute with a disfigured face, and a Black painter. This strange combination of characters gives the novel an almost grotesque tone.

The Way We Die Now is also good, particularly because of Moseley’s undercover assignment and the interesting character of a former convict who, after being released from prison, moves into a house across the street from him.

What I would criticize is Willeford’s somewhat dry writing style. Also, the edition I read from Orion Books is a paperback, which is not ideal for a book of more than 800 pages—something of that length would have been much better in hardcover.

Andrew Spicer - European Film Noir

I had high expectations from European Film Noir by Andrew Spicer, hoping for a broad and illuminating exploration of noir across the continent. Instead, the book mostly confirmed something I was already aware of: outside France, the European noir landscape is relatively limited.

The chapters on Germany, Spain, and Italy underline how few fully realized noir films emerged from those countries. While this may be historically accurate, it makes the study feel somewhat thin. The section on French noir is solid, but for anyone already familiar with the major films and critical discussions, it offers little that feels new or revelatory.

Another drawback is the book’s visual presentation. For a study devoted to a highly stylized cinematic form, it contains surprisingly few photographs. The overall design is rather plain and unattractive, which is disappointing in a book about a visually driven genre.

In the end, European Film Noir works better as an introductory academic survey than as a visually rich or groundbreaking reassessment of the genre. For readers already immersed in noir history, it may feel more dutiful than exciting.

Amanda Cross - Death In A Tenured Position

Death in a Tenured Position is a crime novel written by Amanda Cross, the pseudonym of literature professor Carolyn Heilbrun.

The novel tells the story of the first woman to receive a tenured position at a formerly all-male college. Instead of triumph, she is met with indifference, passive aggression, and institutional coldness. The mystery element is present, but atmosphere dominates — a pervasive sense of isolation, academic vanity, and quiet cruelty. In the end, it is revealed that her death was not a murder but a suicide, which casts the entire narrative in a darker and more unsettling light.

Heilbrun herself was a distinguished scholar and feminist critic who taught for many years at Columbia University. Throughout her academic career, she spoke openly about the subtle and overt discrimination women faced within universities, particularly in elite institutions that were slow to accept women as intellectual equals. Under the name Amanda Cross, she used detective fiction not only as entertainment but as a vehicle to explore gender politics, professional exclusion, and the emotional cost of institutional resistance.

Late in life, Heilbrun chose to end her own life at the age of seventy-seven. While it would be simplistic to read the novel as autobiographical, the themes of isolation, aging, autonomy, and the pressures placed upon accomplished women inevitably resonate more strongly in light of her personal history.