This is no vicarage

I think I get it now. This fascination for Nordic crime. People like Adèle Geras, who can’t have enough of the gritty crime from our cold and dark countries. And me, who shudders at the mere thought of some of the bleak grittiness.

I’m currently reading a much talked about Swedish crime novel, which can remain anonymous for the time being. Started it on Friday night and read solidly for an hour, or about 100 pages. Then I thought to myself that it was so unpleasant that I might as well give up and save myself the remaining 500 pages. Ghastly crime (I know they all are, really) and not a single likeable character.

Then for good measure I continued yesterday. It’s scary and off-putting and I still can’t stand the characters. I don’t like the Stockholm setting, because although I don’t live there, I feel I could do. In which case I do not want that sort of stuff happening on my home ground. I can see myself leading that kind of drab life and I feel vaguely sick.

But that’s what you like, isn’t it? If it’s grim and it’s grim in a different place, for people not living your kind of life, then it’s just ‘nice’ to watch from the safe distance of your armchair. While I can see myself there, I’m scared.

I used to have this theory that readers with ‘cosy’ British lives enjoy the murderous Ikea life style in the glow of the Aurora and all that. You’re safe in your semidetached lives. And I used to think that I adore cosy English crime because it’s different. Set in charming surroundings, with interestingly different characters, and totally unattainable.

Now though, I find crime like Stephen Booth’s – for instance – a little bit too close to home. But still quite enjoyable, as the Peak District is still a few miles down the road.

And isn’t that why we like Agatha Christie? Most of us can’t aspire to that kind of life (partly because it’s now in the past), and feel secure in the knowledge that we won’t be murdered in any mansions or vicarages anytime soon.

Having come to this brilliant conclusion I had to try and decide what type of crime writing I do like and feel comfortable with. Irish fantasy. Quite safe. V I Warshawski, safely far away in Chicago. Mma Ramotswe. Very far away. And yes, Stieg Larsson. Because for some reason I can’t see myself living in his settings. Anything with humour, really. Like Donna Moore’s mad capers. Not real. A reflection on society, but not my life.

I yearn for more Ngaio Marsh and Margery Allingham. Safe time, safe class. Yes, I want safe crime. Something that is unlikely to reach me.

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2 responses to “This is no vicarage

  1. Crime (fictional) in your own back yard rocks!! You can imagine, Oh what if it was me, because I know about the victim, I can tell you what type of dog she has and if she read her newspaper this morning, or just threw it out.

    It’s like medicine for your brain. It calms you and reminds you that crime is everywhere and you can’t kid yourself, that you’re always safe. Because you’re not.

  2. There are some crime novels I wouldn’t touch with a barge pole…anything where the writer has clearly used up tons of imagination to devise more and more baroque ways of disposing of people…horrible. But Nordic noir doesn’t do this nearly as much as some Anglo Saxon writers I could name. But I must confess to reading The Snowman by Jo Nesbo (even the cover has got rid of his accent, I see!) and although it’s very clever, I’m not immediately hunting out more by him. Unlike my favourites, Indridasson and Theorin. And Fossum. And some others here and there. But not, oddly Wallander. Lovely on the television but could never get on with the books. Maybe I ought to try again…..

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