Writing fiction, hard boiled or
otherwise, is such difficult work that we should probably not
come down too hard on the efforts of any "tested by time"
author. For each of us, there are folks who light our candles
and folks who don't, writers who speak to us and others who
don't. I like some of Pronzini's stories, but whether I do or
I don't should have nothing to do with my opinion of his
announcement that "HB is dead," and I don't need to claim
that he's a lousy writer to insist that's he's made an error
of fact probably born of hubris.
Every year or so, somebody is telling
us that "the novel is dead" or "the theater is dead" or "the
short story is dead" or "jazz is dead." Often the claim seems
to come from someone who is angry at the then current
behavior of the alleged corpse, or who has nothing more to
contribute themselves, or who has moved on to other
things.
There's little reason to take any of
that stuff seriously. As frustrated as I get with George
Pelacanos at times, I have but to look at what he is doing to
know that the HB detective story ain't dead, i.e., no longer
mutating, advancing, speaking in new tongues.
In fact, with all this dead stuff
around, it's amazing any of us can find anything worthwhile
to see, or read, or listen to. Life goes on and so does art
of all stripes, despite claims and wishes to the
contrary.
Jim
Blue
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