A few years ago it became somewhat fashionable for like a month or two to talk about how Stephen King deserved to win literary awards. Because I'm lazy I'm not going to look it up, but I think he was even given some kind of lifetime achievement award from the folks who provide us with the National Book Award. It was around the same time that McSweeney's and Michael Chabon were flaunting their genre fiction cred and releasing the pretty much unreadble anthology of adventure stories. It's been longer than some of the people I'm 'friends' with here on goodreads have been alive since I've read a Stephen King novel (that wasn't the fairly unimpressive Colorado Kid), so I don't really know what the literary merits of his novels are (and I don't trust my teenage self to have any opinion worth having, since this same person thought that Motley Crue was the height of musical excellence), but I don't have the feeling that his novels were that good, I could be wrong though. If I were going to lead a campaign for a popular genre writer deserving of mainstream literary accolades I don't think I'd use the mega-best-selling Stephen King as the person to rally around. Personally, I'd go for someone like Lawrence Block or James Ellroy. Lawrence Block is surprisingly pretty amazing. This is the sixth novel in his Matthew Scudder series of novels. Who likes the sixth of anything in a series? By that point the author should just be phoning in stories, working the tried and true formulas and selling his books to the ever dimininsing group of readers who are still along for the ride. Generally no one is going to pick up a sixth book in a series and start reading from there. Right?Who would think that the sixth book in a series would rival the first one for being up there with the series best? The first one the is like a first date with someone that you are trying to impress, you know where you do whatever it is that people who date do to impress someone. By the sixth you're in a routine, maybe falling asleep in front of the TV at some point. This one doesn't start off all that strong. It kind of feels like other Scudder novels. There's a problem or two, some people need some help so they get a favor out of Scudder in exchange for some money that he gives a tenth of to some church that he passes by. He works on the problems, eventually figures out to some degree a solution and the book wraps up. This one starts like that, but slowly turns into a bitter melancholy love story of the past. Scudder doesn't really give a shit about the cases he's working. He drinks a lot and spends days wandering through parts of New York that no longer existed in the late Mayor Koch era that the novel was written in, and are now like ancient history to the present cartography of New York City.The novel takes place in the mid-70's, when New York was a much shittier place than it is now (or better depending on your outlook, but shittier in terms of seedier, poorer, more dangerous). You can't really walk the streets that Scudder moves about in and feel like you are walking in the same world. Hell's Kitchen today is not exactly a place where dive bars and drunks make up the dominant landscape. The novel comes in between (what I'm guessing, I haven't read the next book in the series yet) the moment when Scudder decides that he has to quit drinking and the first present day novel where he makes his way through his day to day activities without many coups of coffee with a liberal shots of bourbon in it. It's a flashback to ten years earlier, a time when he was drinking too much, not caring about much at all, and most likely on the verge of drinking even more after the events that take place in this book. Like the first novel in the series, the book doesn't start to shine until the last third or so, and as it moves towards the last pages it just gets darker and better with each chapter. Most of the city portrayed in this novel no longer exists. The neighborhoods are cleaner. Certain big buildings have collapsed, even smaller insignificant scenes, like the place in Sunnyside where Scudder and some friends go to see a few fights on a Thursday night is only remembered by a small plaque in front of a Wendy's fast food restaurant now. Like other Scudder novels, Woodside is home to a seedier element than I can imagine being here when I walk around doing my day to day chores. The book is partly a melancholy send off of the good old days, which maybe weren't so good, or good at all, and which maybe it's for all the best that they are gone, but which still sometimes hurt to to see gone. I'm not sure why I did, but I jotted this passage down while I was reading the book, so I'll share it:She extended a painted nail, touched my chin. "You don't want a man that's too cute, you know?"It was an overture, and one I somehow knew I didn't want to follow up on. The realization brought a wave of sadness rolling in on me out of nowhere. I had nothing for this woman and she had nothing for me. I didn't even know her name; if we'd introduced ourselves I couldn't remember it. And I didn't think we had. The only names mentioned had been Miguelito Cruz and Mickey Mouse.I mentioned another, Angel Herrera's. She didn't want to talk about Herrera. He was nice, she said. He was not so cute and maybe not so smart, but maybe that was better. But she didn't want to talk about Herrera. I told her I had to go. I put a bill on the bar and instructed the bartender to keep her glass full. She laughed, either mocking me or enjoying the humor of the situation, I don't know which. Her laughter sounded like someone pouring a sack of broken glass down a staircase. It followed me to the door and out.
When the Sacred Windmill Closes is a much more complex and involved tale then the previous books in Lawrence Block’s popular detective series. While in previous books amateur gumshoe and professional drunk Matthew Scudder would hammer at one single case relentlessly, battering and bludgeoning it until the ugly truth lay exposed, whimpering on the concrete in a mess of blood and viscera, this sixth installment juggles multiple investigations. The events all take place as Scudder recalls, “a long time ago,” back in the summer of 1975. Scudder is reminiscing about that summer—it was when Morrissey’s (the afterhours taproom run by IRA goons) was held-up a gunpoint. It was when drinking pal Tommy Tillary spent the night in the city with his girlfriend only to discover the next morning that someone had broken into his house out on the island and knifed his wife to death. It was the summer that Scudder’s buddy Skip Devoe, co-owner of the saloon Miss Kitty’s, had his accounting ledger stolen—the one that showed how he and his partner were skimming off the top from Uncle Sam. Now Devoe was being blackmailed for their return. In other words a busy time.The book kicks off in present times. Scudder is now sober. He remarks in a great passage, “now I don’t drink at all. I don’t regret a single one of the drinks I took, and I hope to God I never take another. Because that, you see is the less traveled road on which I find myself these days, and it has made all the difference. Oh, yes. All the difference.” But in 1975 he did not have this tranquility—he was drinking like a fish, getting clobbered nightly and suffering blackouts. In between pickling his liver, Scudder (at the requests of his drinking buddies) was investigating all three crimes. Oddly, the details Scudder unearths seem to show links between the cases—are they connected in some way? Everything that was great in the previous volumes of the Scudder series is on display here. When the Sacred Ginmill Closes is populated with terrific characters. The frequently soused Scudder is-- as always-- awesome. And his surrounding cast is likewise riveting. These are the guys inhabiting dank, ratty dives at eight in the morning. They are dicey, rough, and angry, while secretly nursing a bruised and sensitive nucleolus. Even the cops are stained with a rancid cynicism that makes them drink their lunches and stagger to their cars reeking of booze several hours after their shifts have ended. These guys are not caricatures—they are 100% (uncomfortably) real. And engrossing.Lawrence Block’s writing has never been better, taut and compelling. I feel this is the best of the series to date—New York City is a lawn where the raccoons have ripped into the trash bags. Garbage is strewn everywhere. The scavengers are wolfing down their carrion. Yet there is virtue and integrity here as well. An outstanding novel. And as a side note--how great is the internet in this day and age where a reader (such as moi) can Youtube Dave Van Ronk's song "Last Call" and hear the music that is affecting the characters in this story so deeply!
Do You like book When The Sacred Ginmill Closes (2015)?
"When the sacred Ginmill closes" ("Nach der Sperrstunde) ist eine Rückschau in den Sommer 1975. Detektiv Matt Scudder hat zwei Fälle zu lösen oder, wie er es lieber nennt, Freunden gefällig zu sein. Die Fälle nehmen im Buch jedoch wenig Raum ein, weshalb es schwierig ist, den Roman als reinen Krimi zu bewerten. Es ist eine Kneipentour mit herrlich trunkenen Dialoge... Eine Variante von Barfly, nur nicht so dreckig oder die nie endende Reise nach Petuschki.Nur dass die Fälle am Ende doch noch gelöst sind, irgendwie. Eine Methode fürs Entwirren der verschiedenen Knoten, kann Matt selbst nicht klar beschreiben. Für den Leser sind Hinweise zur Lösung gestreut. Last Call: Weniger ein Kriminalroman als die letzten Tage, die das Ende einer Ära einläuten... "And so we've had another night Of poetry and poses And each man knows he'll be alone When the sacred ginmill closes." (Dave Van Ronk)
—Esme
Yup yup...another super Scudder book. Once started, I CAN NOT PUT DOWN!!!Lawrence Block has a good formula going, writing these books. He’s also a master at shocking me. Even though Scudder is a wonderfully developed character in this 6th book in the series, he’s also continuously doing things to keep me on my toes.“And so we've had another nightOf poetry and posesAnd each man knows he'll be aloneWhen the sacred ginmill closes.And so we'll drink the final glassEach to his joy and sorrowAnd hope the numbing drunk will lastTill opening tomorrow.”...Dave Van Ronk
—Monica
This is the latest installment in my journey into Lawrence Block's stunning Matthew Scudder crime series. This one comes on the heels of the showstopping Eight Million Ways to Die, and I was wondering if it was possible for this book to be as good. I was pleased to see that it comes pretty damn close! Block keeps it fresh by showing us a different side of Scudder, flashing back to events from Matt's past that occurred even before the first novel. Here, Matt tells the story of when he and his hard-drinking saloon homies got in and out of trouble during a hot, eventful New York summer in '75.This book felt totally different from the previous Scudder novels. Matt seems less of a loner here and more connected with his buddies. I felt like he was a lot less interested in his cases, more aloof, which is understandable as I was reading about a slightly younger Scudder than I was used to. Even the writing itself fits into this tone. This one is very nostalgic as well; it's a love letter to a throwback New York City that doesn't exist anymore, and to a simpler, more innocent time for Matt (who at this point hasn't even begun to consider himself an alcoholic). This book also has a first-rate, bittersweet ending where, like most of the great crime novels, the mystery is solved not in the way you expected or even wanted, but in a way that is undeniably satisfying. This ending took my expected four star rating and turned it into a solid five.
—Richard Vialet
