D.W. Buffa

D.W. Buffa's newest novel to be released is Evangeline, a courtroom drama about the murder trial of captain who is one of the few to survive the sinking of his ship.

Buffa is also the author of ten legal thrillers involving the defense attorney Joseph Antonelli. He has also published a series that attempts to trace the movement of western thought from ancient Athens, in Helen; the end of the Roman Empire, in Julian's Laughter; the Renaissance, in The Autobiography of Niccolo Machiavelli; and America in the twentieth century, in Neumann's Last Concert.

Here is Buffa's take on Lampedusa's The Leopard:

Don Fabrizio, the Prince of Salina, the dominant force in the Sicilian aristocracy of Palermo in 1860, made the floor shake by the “sudden movement of his huge frame,” and “a glint of pride flashed in his light blue eyes at this fleeting confirmation of his lordship over both human beings and their works.” There is a reason the Prince is known everywhere as The Leopard. Or so we would believe if we read in translation the marvelous novel by Giuseppi Tomasi di Lampedusa and did not know that the Italian title, ‘Gattopardo,’ is not ‘Leopard’ but the African ‘Serval,’ a wildcat hunted to extinction in Italy in the middle of the nineteenth century, the same fate that was to meet the Sicilian aristocracy at nearly the same time.

Lampedusa, the 11th Prince of Lampedusa, Duke of Palma, was born in 1896 and died in l957. The Leopard, the only novel he wrote, was published the year after his death. It had been rejected by the two publishers to whom he submitted it during his life, and, such is the occasional idiocy of publishers, one of them continued to defend its decision even after the novel had gone through fifty-two editions in less than six months, which, if it is not a record, must be close to it. Lampedusa spent several years writing The Leopard, but, it could be argued, spent most of his life in preparation. A voracious reader who owned eleven hundred books on French history alone, he read — and more than read, studied and made notes on — everything of importance in English literature, notes which were later published as a thousand page critical analysis beginning with the religious reflections of the Venerable Bede to the secular mysteries of Graham Greene. The original plan for The Leopard was to follow what James Joyce had done in Ulysses and tell the story as the events of a single day. He told it instead over eight days, or rather eight months, each a subject of a separate chapter, the first four in l860, the fifth and sixth in the following two years, the seventh a quarter century later in July of l898, and the final chapter twenty-three years after that, in May of 1910, nearly half a century after the central episode.

The Leopard is a novel about a place, Sicily, the “secret island” where “a known evil” is always preferred to “an untried good,” and where the memory of the past has destroyed any hope for the future. Fabrizio, considered an “eccentric” because of an interest in mathematics that was considered “almost a sinful perversion,” was still respected because he was Prince of Salina, “an excellent horseman, indefatigable shot, and tireless skirt chaser.” He watches with something close to indifference when Garibaldi lands with his red-shirted army to unite Sicily to Italy as part of the bourgeois revolution. Nothing will change. His nephew, Tancredi, an “aristocratic liberal,” wounded at the battle of Palermo, will marry his daughter, Concetta, who is madly in love with him. Tancredi will continue the line. There will always be Salinas, and the Salinas, whatever the form of government, will always rule.

The great novelty of the year 1860, as much as what Garibaldi was doing, is the rapid rise to fortune and importance of Calogeri Sedara whose income would soon equal, and perhaps eventually surpass, that of the Prince. When Sedara entered a room, his “quick eyes were…insensible to the charms, intent on its monetary value.” When he and his daughter are invited to dinner, the Prince begins to understand that things may begin to change after all. He sees in Don Calogero, climbing the stairs in his ill-fitting tail coat, everything that is wrong with the bourgeoisie revolution; he sees in the extraordinary beauty of his daughter, Angelica, the inevitable destruction of his daughter Concetta’s only hope for happiness. He knows from his own reaction what his nephew, Tancredi, will do; he knows by a sure instinct that Tanceredi will fall in love, and not just because of how the girl looks. Tancredi is “drawn along by the physical stimulation that a beautiful woman was to his fiery youth, and also by the (as it were) measurable excitement by a rich girl in the mind of a man both ambitious and poor.”

Tancredi’s choice is not difficult. Marry Concetta and eventually inherit a worthless title and the diminishing fortunes of a family that would soon be without power; marry Angelica and be assured of “an ephemeral carnal satisfaction and a perennial financial peace.” He makes his decision without hesitation or regret, or any sense of the injury to his cousin Concetta’s feelings. The Prince’s wife insists that, by his decision, Tancredi has proven himself a traitor: “Like all liberals of his kind, first he betrays his King, now he betrays us!” The Prince’s attitude toward Tancredi’s marriage to Angelica was, “as is proper to every man not yet decrepit, that of carnal jealousy.”

Tancredi wants to marry Angelica and Angelica wants to marry him. She is in love with him, but that does not mean she loves him, a distinction Lampedusa understands far better than most writers. Angelica, he explains, though capable of passion, was incapable of love because, “she had too much pride and too much ambition to be capable of that annihilation, however temporary, of one’s own personality, without which there is no love.” In Tancredi, she saw her chance of gaining a “fine position in the noble world of Sicily, a world which to her was full of marvels very different from those which it contained in reality; she also wanted him as a lively partner in bed.”

While they are engaged, Tancredit likes nothing so much as to take Angelica on long tours of the Prince’s palace, a palace that is as endless as the history of Sicily itself. With a short facade — just seven windows on the square — it “gave no hint of its vast size, which extended three hundred yards back.” The seven windows are what is seen from the outside; what is not seen takes time to discover. What is not seen goes back so far that there were places, “not even Don Fabrizio had ever set foot.” He used to say that “a place of which one knows every room wasn’t worth living in.” The palace is like the mystery of Sicily, the vast obscurity of the past that has made Sicily what it is.

The days meandering through the almost limitless building were the best days of their lives, the days “when desire was always present because it was always overcome…when the sexual urge, because restrained, had for one second been sublimated in renunciation, that is into real love. Those days were in preparation for a marriage which, even erotically, was no success; a preparation which, however, was in a way sufficient in itself, exquisite and brief; like those melodies which outlive the forgotten world they belong to and hint in their delicate and veiled gaiety themes which later in the finished work were to be developed without skill and fail.”

And then one suddenly remembers that Lampedusa had mentioned Nicias. A mention, that is all, a single word, a name that, forgotten everywhere except among those fortunate enough to have read Thucydides and his history of the Peloponnesian War, but a name still present in the mind of any Sicilian who had gone beyond the sixth grade in school. Nicias, the Athenian commander when the Athenian army was destroyed; Nicias, who had opposed the Sicilian Expedition but could not stop the Athenians from their dreams of conquest and empire. Everyone wanted Sicily and, after Nicias, after the Athenians, everyone who wanted her had her, for a while.

“We are old,” Fabrizo explains, “very old. For more than twenty-five centuries we’ve been bearing the weight of a suburb and heterogeneous civilization, all from outside, none made by ourselves, none that we could call our own…for two thousand and five hundred years we’ve been a colony. I don’t say that in complaint; it’s our fault. But even so we’re worn out and exhausted.”

Everywhere a Sicilian looks he sees the past, monuments, like the Greek ruins in the Valley of the Temples in Agrigento on the southern Sicilian coast, the oldest Greek ruins in the world, “magnificent yet incomprehensible because not built by us and yet standing around like lovely mute ghosts; all those rulers who landed by main force from every direction, who were at once obeyed, soon detested, and always misunderstood, their own expressions works of art we couldn’t understand and taxes which we understood only too well….” All this history, an endless chronicle of slavery and defeat, thousands of years the victim of “foreign domination and ill-assorted rapes,” has given Sicilians the very opposite of what we might expect, an exalted sense of pride. “We think we are gods,” insists Fabrizio, “having been trampled on by a dozen different peoples,” Sicilians “consider they have an imperial past which gives them the right to a grand funeral.”

The seventh chapter of The Leopard jumps twenty-six years ahead to July of 1898 when Fabrizio is dying. Summing up his life, he comes to the conclusion that out of his seventy-three years he has lived at most two or three. In a brief catalogue of happiness, he remembers the two weeks before his marriage, a half hour when his son was born, and a few hours of talks with his son before his son moved to another country. His only real, that is to say lasting, happiness had been the many hours he had spent in his observatory, “absorbed in abstract calculations and the pursuit of the unreachable.” His only happiness, in other words, had been when he was engaged in what, because Sicily is an ancient place, the ancients understood as the highest calling of a human being, the timeless contemplation of timeless things.

Fabrizio, the Prince, had always believed that his family would endure, that there would always be Salinas, but he was the last. Twenty-three years after his death, in May of 1910, his daughter, Concetta, who had lived a life of anguished disappointment after her cousin, Tancredi, abandoned her for the beautiful and rich Angelica, a woman who later became “one of the most venomous string pullers” in Italian politics, passed away. A nephew had often called her in private Catherine the Great, “an unsuitable name made innocent by the complete purity of Concetta’s life and her nephew’s total ignorance of Russian history.” Her furniture, which she had thought “antiquated and in very bad taste,” was sold at auction and “is today the pride of a rich shipping agent when his wife gives cocktails to envious friends.” The palace, that labyrinth of rooms as difficult to discover as the real truth about Sicily was partly, though not entirely, destroyed by an allied bombing raid in l943.

The Prince of Salina, The Leopard, who thought himself part of an “unfortunate generation, swung between the old world and the new,” had the good fortune to know the difference. The 11th Prince of Lampedusa, Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, had the good fortune to write a novel that explains, better than any history book every could, what being a Sicilian really means. It was, my father told me, the only book he ever read that made him begin to understand what his own Sicilian father had really been.

Visit D.W. Buffa's website.

Third reading: The Great Gatsby. 

Third reading: Brave New World.

Third reading: Lord Jim.

Third reading: Death in the Afternoon.

Third Reading: Parade's End.

Third Reading: The Idiot.

Third Reading: The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

Third Reading: The Scarlet Letter.

Third Reading: Justine.

Third Reading: Patriotic Gore.

Third reading: Anna Karenina.

Third reading: The Charterhouse of Parma.

Third Reading: Emile.

Third Reading: War and Peace.

Third Reading: The Sorrows of Young Werther.

Third Reading: Bread and Wine.

Third Reading: “The Crisis of the Mind” and A Man Without Qualities.

Third reading: Eugene Onegin.

Third Reading: The Collected Works of Thomas Babington Macaulay.

Third Reading: The Europeans.

Third Reading: The House of Mirth and The Writing of Fiction.

Third Reading: Doctor Faustus.

Third Reading: the reading list of John F. Kennedy.

Third Reading: Jorge Luis Borges.

Third Reading: History of the Peloponnesian War.

Third Reading: Mansfield Park.

Third Reading: To Each His Own.

Third Reading: A Passage To India.

Third Reading: Seven Pillars of Wisdom.

Third Reading: The Letters of T.E. Lawrence.

Third Reading: All The King’s Men.

Third Reading: The Roman History of Ammianus Marcellinus.

Third Reading: Naguib Mahfouz’s novels of ancient Egypt.

Third Reading: Main Street.

Third Reading: Theodore H. White's The Making of the President series, part I.

Third Reading: Theodore H. White's The Making of the President series, part II.

Third Reading: Thus Spoke Zarathustra.

Third Reading: Fiction's Failure.

Third Reading: Hermann Hesse's Demian.

Third Reading: Frederick Douglass, Slavery, and The Fourth of July.

Third Reading: Caesar’s Ghost.

Third reading: The American Constitution.

Third Reading: A Tale of Two Cities.

--Marshal Zeringue

Alex Kenna

Alex Kenna is a prosecutor, writer, and amateur painter. Before law school, Kenna studied painting and art history at Penn. She also worked as a freelance art critic and culture writer. Originally from Washington DC, Kenna lives in Los Angeles with her husband, son, and giant schnauzer, Zelda. When she’s not writing Kenna can be found nerding out in art museums, exploring flea markets, and playing string instruments badly. Her debut novel, What Meets the Eye, was nominated for a Shamus Award for best first PI novel.

Kenna’s new novel is Burn this Night.

Recently I asked the author about what she was reading. Kenna's reply:

I just finished No Visible Bruises by Rachel Louise Snyder, which is an in-depth exploration of domestic violence and familicide in our culture. As a crime fiction writer, I explore themes of good and evil, and how people are affected by tragedy and despicable acts. Right now, I’m working on a project that involves domestic violence, so I’ve been doing my homework.

This book is incredibly thorough and insightful. When writing about victims, Snyder treats them with the respect they deserve. She delves into the profoundly complex emotional and physical landscape that victims and survivors navigate – both before and after abuse. Most importantly, she explains how the question ‘why doesn’t she leave,’ greatly oversimplifies the situation that many women face.

Snyder also interviews and spends time with convicted batterers. Without skirting around or minimizing the horrifying acts they committed, she explores the psychological and sociological factors that can make men violent.

I highly recommend this book, which is extremely heartfelt and informative.

Lately, I was also treated to early previews of work by a couple of talented writers. I just finished reading a draft of the third book in James Queally’s Russell Avery series, which is a banger. It’s not out yet, so there’s plenty of time to catch up on the first two books. I’m also reading a not yet published novella by Terrence McCauley, which is terrific.

Visit Alex Kenna's website.

Q&A with Alex Kenna.

My Book, The Movie: What Meets the Eye.

--Marshal Zeringue

Andrew Welsh-Huggins

Andrew Welsh-Huggins is the Shamus, Derringer, and International Thriller Writers-award-nominated author of the Andy Hayes Private Eye series, featuring a former Ohio State and Cleveland Browns quarterback turned investigator, and editor of Columbus Noir. His stories have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Mystery Magazine, the 2022 anthology Paranoia Blues: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Songs of Paul Simon, and other magazines and anthologies.

Welsh-Huggins's newest novel, the eighth Andy Hayes mystery, is Sick to Death.

Recently I asked the author about what he was reading. His reply:

I read widely, from narrative nonfiction to celebrity memoirs, but most regularly crime fiction from a continuing ed standpoint.

My first selection is This is Why We Lied by Karin Slaughter, one of my favorite writers. Slaughter rotates between stand-alone novels and her series books about Georgia medical examiner Dr. Sara Linton and her now-husband, Georgia Bureau of Investigation agent Will Trent. Slaughter’s books are often dark, often with themes involving violence against women and children, to the point I’ve likened her style to Stephen King without the supernatural element. She also writes the most honest portrayals of policing, good, bad, and ugly, that I’ve encountered outside of Michael Connelly. Finally, she can be laugh-out-loud funny. All those traits are present in this new book, her version of a locked-room mystery as Linton and Trent interrupt their honeymoon at an isolated luxury tourist camp to solve a vicious murder and uncover horrific family secrets.

My second selection is The Last Good Kiss by James Crumley. I picked up this 1978 private eye classic mainly because I’d read the first line so often in collections of the best crime fiction openings: "When I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon." For me, the book bridged old and new gumshoe fiction in its dark tour of the American West, with twists I didn’t see coming. His protagonist, private eye C.W. Sughrue, is morally challenged to say the least, a conceit that doesn’t usually work for me but in this case kept me reading.

My third selection is Bluebird, Bluebird by Attica Locke, in which Locke introduces ethically compromised Texas Ranger Darren Mathews. Mathews’ unorthodox investigation of the seemingly unrelated deaths of a poor white woman and a well-off male Black attorney rips the lid off simmering issues of racism, class, and injustice in East Texas. Locke writes beautifully and movingly of the landscape and the dilemmas faced by Mathews, who is Black. Sadly, Locke is sticking to a trilogy; I thought the second book, Heaven, My Home, was good if not better, and am eagerly awaiting the conclusion, Guide Me Home.

Visit Andrew Welsh-Huggins's website.

My Book, The Movie: An Empty Grave.

Q&A with Andrew Welsh-Huggins.

The Page 69 Test: An Empty Grave.

Writers Read: Andrew Welsh-Huggins (April 2023).

My Book, The Movie: The End of the Road.

The Page 69 Test: The End of the Road.

--Marshal Zeringue

Nikki May

Born in Bristol and raised in Lagos, Nikki May is Anglo-Nigerian. Her critically acclaimed debut novel Wahala won the Comedy Women In Print New Voice Prize, was longlisted for the Goldsboro Glass Bell Award and the Diverse Books Award, and is being turned into a major BBC TV drama series. May lives in Dorset with her husband, two standard Schnauzers and way too many books. She should be working on her next book but is probably reading.

May's new novel is This Motherless Land.

Recently I asked the author about what she was reading. May's reply:

I’ve just finished Good Dirt by Charmaine Wilkerson. One of the best things about being a published author is you get to read books before they come out. So you’ll have to wait until January 2025 to enjoy this multi-generational epic tale that examines how the past informs our present. Charmaine is a master at the stories we inherit and in this one, she explores grief and the deep scars of slavery.

I inhaled The Wedding People by Alison Espach over two nights. I’m a sucker for books that feature beautiful people in beautiful locations and this million-dollar wedding delivers both in spades. It’s riotously funny but there’s surprising depth too. Phoebe’s candidness and vulnerability pulled me in, this is a story of hope and how chance encounters can change lives.

Liane Moriarty is an auto-buy author for me and I can’t wait to start her new one – Here One Moment. But I’m forcing myself to wait, this is a holiday book, I want no distractions, no emails and ideally I want to be reading this under a blue sky with my toes in warm blue water. Might be a long wait!

Visit Nikki May's website.

Coffee with a Canine: Nikki May & Fela and Lola.

The Page 69 Test: This Motherless Land.

--Marshal Zeringue

Sung J. Woo

Sung J. Woo's short stories and essays have appeared in The New York Times, PEN/Guernica, and Vox. He has written five novels, Lines (2024), Deep Roots (2023), Skin Deep (2020), Love Love (2015), and Everything Asian (2009), which won the 2010 Asian Pacific American Librarians Association Literature Award. In 2022, his Modern Love essay from The New York Times was adapted by Amazon Studios for episodic television. A graduate of Cornell University with an MFA from New York University, he lives in Washington, New Jersey.

Recently I asked Woo about what he was reading. His reply:

Right now I'm more than halfway through the writing of my sixth novel, and it's been a bit of a bear. More than the usual bear, that is -- the creation of fiction has never been easy for me, but this one has had additional unexpected difficulty. I knew going in that I would be writing about a pair of unpleasant men (one is way worse than the other, but neither are boy scouts), but I did not expect to feel so unpleasant myself while doing so! Naive, I suppose -- it should've been obvious that stepping into the shoes of unsavory characters would bring me down, but it's too late now. I'm in it and that's all there's to it.

So what am I reading now to make myself feel better? Don't laugh, but I'm very much into two novels related to Bret Easton Ellis. One is his most infamous, American Psycho, starring Patrick Bateman -- the most well-dressed serial murderer in literary history. Contrary to what you might believe, I'm not a glutton for punishment. I'm genuinely curious how Ellis writes his evil protagonist. The other novel is one recommended by Ellis, We're So Famous, written by Jaime Clarke, about three fame-obsessed teenage girls who form a rock band but then become suspects in a pair of murders, which of course catapults them to fame.

I may be reading these books as a form of empathy, too. I imagine both Ellis and Clarke went through what I'm going through now. Misery loves company?

Visit Sung J. Woo's website.

Coffee with a Canine: Sung J. Woo & Koda.

The Page 69 Test: Everything Asian.

My Book, The Movie: Skin Deep.

Q&A with Sung J. Woo.

The Page 69 Test: Skin Deep.

My Book, The Movie: Deep Roots.

The Page 69 Test: Deep Roots.

Writers Read: Sung J. Woo (September 2023).

The Page 69 Test: Lines.

My Book, The Movie: Lines.

--Marshal Zeringue

Timothy Jay Smith

From a young age, Timothy Jay Smith developed a ceaseless wanderlust that has taken him around the world many times. En route, he’s found the characters that people his work. Polish cops and Greek fishermen, mercenaries and arms dealers, child prostitutes and wannabe terrorists, Indian Chiefs and Indian tailors: he hung with them all in an unparalleled international career that had him smuggle banned plays from behind the Iron Curtain, maneuver through Occupied Territories, and stowaway aboard a ‘devil’s barge’ for a three-day crossing from Cape Verde that landed him in an African jail.

Smith has won top honors for his novels, screenplays and stage plays in numerous prestigious competitions. Fire on the Island won the Gold Medal in the Faulkner-Wisdom Competition for the Novel, and his screenplay adaptation of it was named Best Indie Script by WriteMovies. Another novel, The Fourth Courier, was a finalist for Best Gay Mystery in the 2020 Lambda Literary Awards. Previously, he won the Paris Prize for Fiction (now the de Groot Prize) for his novel, Checkpoint (later published as A Vision of Angels). Kirkus Reviews called Cooper’s Promise “literary dynamite” and selected it as one of the Best Books of 2012.

Smith's latest novel is Istanbul Crossing.

One novel on his recent reading list:

Rabih Alameddine is no stranger to the LGBTQ literary community. In 2017, his novel, The Angel of History, won the Lammy Award for Best Gay Novel, and he’s a frequent essayist-cum- philosopher on subjects ranging from HIV/AIDS to the emerging status of gay writers and the role we play in world literature.

Somewhat belatedly, I learned about his book, The Wrong End of the Telescope, published in 2021. In it, a trans Lebanese doctor (living in Chicago with her wife) travels to the Greek island of Lesbos for a short stay to help refugees – primarily Syrian – who arrive by crossing a narrow but treacherous channel from Turkey.

The setting intrigued me for more than the obvious reason that it’s set in Greece. For over twenty years, I’ve gone every year to Lesbos and know exactly where Alameddine has set his novel. At the height the refugee crisis (2015-2017), I assisted the relief efforts in many capacities, so I was especially curious how he would describe and characterize the situation.

Alameddine’s portrayal of the place, people, and situation is perfect. For anyone who wants to know how the refugee crisis played out in terms of the interactions between volunteers, international aid agencies, and local villagers, Telescope captures it – including cringe-worthy moments when volunteers take selfies with refugees who’ve barely had a chance to find their footing on solid land.

Alameddine has always used his writing to bear witness to social injustice and Telescope is no exception. The refugee crisis swamping Europe was of such magnitude that it was almost easier for people to ignore it than conceive of any way that they could help. (Over one twelve-month period, 500,000 refugees arrived on Lesbos’s northern rocky coast adjacent to villages of no more than a few hundred people.) Alameddine was determined that people viscerally recognize the human tragedy in the crisis.

He traveled to Lesbos to find his story and characters. As soon as he gives them names, for his readers, they become real people. Mina, the trans doctor from Chicago, befriends Sumaiya, a gravely ill refugee. Together, they struggle with issues of survival and death that are repeated thousands-fold all around them. Alameddine, though, begins to question his right to tell the refugees’ story, and increasingly relies on Mina to tell it for him. In an odd twist, she becomes a first-person narrator who describes to the author what he is experiencing and how he should convey it to his readers. Mina’s story, too, is eventually revealed, and is only one of many LGBTQ threads woven into Alameddine’s beautifully written and crafted novel.

Visit Timothy Jay Smith's website.

Writers Read: Timothy Jay Smith (May 2019).

My Book, The Movie: The Fourth Courier.

The Page 69 Test: The Fourth Courier.

Q&A with Timothy Jay Smith.

The Page 69 Test: Fire on the Island.

The Page 69 Test: Istanbul Crossing.

Writers Read: Timothy Jay Smith (October 2024).

--Marshal Zeringue

Robert Dugoni

Robert Dugoni is a critically acclaimed New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Washington Post and #1 Amazon bestselling author, reaching over 9 million readers worldwide. He is best known for his Tracy Crosswhite police series set in Seattle. He is also the author of the Charles Jenkins espionage series, the David Sloane legal thriller series, and several stand-alone novels including The 7th Canon, Damage Control, The World Played Chess, and Her Deadly Game. His novel The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell received Suspense Magazine’s 2018 Book of the Year, and Dugoni’s narration won an AudioFile Earphones Award. The Washington Post named his nonfiction exposé The Cyanide Canary a Best Book of the Year.

Dugoni's new novel is Beyond Reasonable Doubt.

Recently I asked the author about what he was reading. Dugoni's reply:

At present I’m reading Barbed Wire Heart by Martha Salinas, a writing student of The Novel Writing Intensive. It’s a coming of age story of a poor girl who is a piano prodigy in the oil fields of Texas. Her father is abusive to his wife and his four kids and her mother takes off to get help with drug and alcohol addiction leaving Starlene to care for her and her three younger siblings. The voice in this story is so authentic and real, it just breaks my heart. It is a tremendous story by a soon to be published author.

I’m also reading Bad Liar by Tami Hoag. It's a masterful mystery of a murder victim found at the end of a country road in the Bayou, hands and face missing from gunshot. The sheriff-detective, Annie Broussard is back on the job and this mystery turns out to be nothing she expects. It’s taut and tense.

Visit Robert Dugoni's website and Facebook page.

The Page 69 Test: Wrongful Death.

The Page 69 Test: Bodily Harm.

My Book, The Movie: Bodily Harm.

The Page 69 Test: Murder One.

My Book, The Movie: Murder One.

My Book, The Movie: The Eighth Sister.

The Page 69 Test: The Eighth Sister.

My Book, The Movie: A Cold Trail.

The Page 69 Test: A Cold Trail.

The Page 69 Test: The Last Agent.

My Book, The Movie: The Last Agent.

Q&A with Robert Dugoni.

The Page 69 Test: In Her Tracks.

Writers Read: Robert Dugoni (March 2024).

The Page 69 Test: A Killing on the Hill.

My Book, The Movie: A Killing on the Hill.

The Page 69 Test: Beyond Reasonable Doubt.

My Book, The Movie: Beyond Reasonable Doubt.

--Marshal Zeringue

D.W. Buffa

D.W. Buffa's newest novel to be released is Evangeline, a courtroom drama about the murder trial of captain who is one of the few to survive the sinking of his ship.

Buffa is also the author of ten legal thrillers involving the defense attorney Joseph Antonelli. He has also published a series that attempts to trace the movement of western thought from ancient Athens, in Helen; the end of the Roman Empire, in Julian's Laughter; the Renaissance, in The Autobiography of Niccolo Machiavelli; and America in the twentieth century, in Neumann's Last Concert.

Here is Buffa's take on Charles Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities:

Two of the most famous lines Charles Dickens wrote, two of the most famous lines in the English language, are the first and the last sentences of A Tale of Two Cities: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” And, “It is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done.” Both lines are connected to the the events of the French Revolution, which, along with the American Revolution, changed the world forever, a revolution which is now celebrated as a new birth of freedom, but which, at the time, and for a great many years after, was seen as the end of civilized life. Charles Dickens saw it as both.

The opening line, that remarkable first sentence, is not the kind of sentence taught today in writing classes; the first sentence is a whole paragraph:

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epic of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present, that some of the noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

In this, the “year of Our Lord 1775,” while Louis XVI was safely on the throne of France, a young boy was sentenced to have his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with pincers and his body burned alive, “because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honor to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards.” Death was a remedy for crime, or rather for criminals; “not that it did the least good in the way of prevention…but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each particular case….” It was also a popular form of entertainment, and not just in France. In England, Dickens explains, people paid to see “the play at the Old Bailey.” Someone is asked what was coming at the next court trial. He is told that the defendant would “be drawn on a hurdle to be half hanged, and then he’ll be taken down and sliced before his face, and then his inside will be taken out and burned while he looks on, and then his head will be chopped off, and he’ll be cut into quarters. That’s the sentence.”

When I was still practicing law, a judge once told me during a pre-trial conference that if my client pled guilty he would get probation, but if he went to trial he would go to prison. “Even if he’s acquitted?” I asked, trying not to laugh. The English were more direct, and more brutal. “If he’s found Guilty, you mean to say?” “Oh, they’ll find him guilty,” said the other. “Don’t you be afraid of that.”

This brief conversation takes place while the prisoner, Charles Darnay, charged with being an enemy of England and a friend to the United States, stands there, “being mentally hanged, beheaded, and quartered, by everybody there.” But Darnay “neither flinched from the situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it.” That Darnay was able to maintain his composure in such circumstances was unusual, but more unusual still, he was acquitted by the jury. Part of the reason was that he bore such a striking resemblance to one of the lawyers, Sydney Carton, that the witness for the prosecution was forced to admit that he could not be absolutely certain that his identification of Darnay was correct.

Charles Darnay is a French aristocrat who had come to believe that the French aristocracy was doomed. His uncle, Monseigneur, on the other hand, thought his nephew part of the cause: “We have lost many privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode.” Darnay thought too many privileges were left. “I believe our name to be more detested than any name in France.” This, to the uncle, is a source of pride. “Let us hope so. Detestation of the high is the involuntary homage of the low.”

Unlike those members of the French aristocracy who, reading Rousseau, became so enamored of the rights of man that they were willing to join in the movement for equality, Monseigneur never doubted his God-given right to have everything his own way, from having four different servants involved in making and serving his hot chocolate in the morning - he would have been humiliated had there been only three, and “must have died of two” - to killing anyone, including a child, who became a nuisance. When his carriage rode over and killed an infant, he shouted, “It is extraordinary to me that you people cannot take care of yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is for ever in the way. How do I know what injury you have done my horses?” Proving his humanity, he threw out a gold coin, and when someone threw it back at him, he exclaimed: “I would ride over any of you very willingly and exterminate you from the earth.”

Among the others who saw this was a woman who the whole time kept knitting, and “still knitted on with the steadfastness of Fate,” the unforgettable Madame Defarge. Later, when someone murders the Monseigneur and the killer is executed, Defarge promises the destruction of the “chateau and all the race.” She only had to wait until 1789, when the Bastille was attacked. An axe in her hand, and carrying both a pistol and a knife, Madame Defarge led the mob, shouting to the other women, “We can kill as well as the men when the place is taken.” She cuts off the head of one man, and then puts her foot on the body of the governor of the prison “to steady it for mutilation.”

The revolution has started. The nobility flee France any way they can. No one pities them. Madame Defarge has seen “our sister-women suffer, in themselves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst, sickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds.” Everyone thought to have played any part in this is put in prison where they are brought before “a self-appointed Tribunal…by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth to be massacred or to be released, or (in a few cases) to be sent back to their cells.”

The figure that stands out in all this is “the sharp female called La Guillotine,” which became, not just an efficient method of decapitation, but “the sign of the regeneration of the human race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on the breasts from which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and believed in where the Cross was denied.” Every day the tumbrils ‘jolted heavily, filled with the condemned.” The Guillotine was sometimes called ‘the barber,’ shaving more than sixty heads in a day. One of those heads was supposed to belong to Charles Darnay.

While everyone was fleeing France, Charles Darnay returned, keeping a promise to help someone in need. He is brought to trial as an emigrant, whose life, according to the prosecutor, “was forfeit to the Republic, under the decree which banished all emigrants on pain of Death.” Darnay, however, is married to the daughter of Dr. Manette who had for years been a prisoner in the Bastille and was, for that reason, thought a hero of the Revolution. When he testifies that his son-in-law had stood trial as a “foe of England and a friend of the United States,” the crowd cheers and the jury acquits. Darnay knows that the same people now cheering would, “carried by another current,” have torn him to pieces in the street.

His freedom does not last. Denounced by Madame Defarge and her husband as “one of a family of tyrants, one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished privileges to the infamous oppression of the people,” he is again imprisoned and put on trial. When Dr. Manette tries to testify again on his son-in-law’s behalf, he is told by the Court that, “If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child herself, you will have no duty but to sacrifice her.” Darnay is condemned to die.

A story about the rage and oppression of men and women driven mad by the sudden acquisition of the power to do to others what had been done to them - the extermination of an entire class - requires someone willing to do something noble and heroic, someone who can recite with credibility that famous last line: “It is a far, far better thing I do, than I have ever done.” In a classic use of double identity, Sydney Carton, the lawyer who looked just like Charles Darnay when Darnay was on trial in England, and who, like Darnay, had fallen in love with the daughter of Dr. Manette, keeps a promise he had made when he told her, after she rejected his offer of marriage, to “think now and then that there is a man who would give his life to keep a life you love beside you.” Carton visits Darnay in prison the night before Darnay’s scheduled execution, and over prisoner’s objection, changes clothes with him and, undetected, takes his place. If this seems more than a shade too melodramatic, Charles Dickens might well ask whether the real question is whether we have all become far too unromantic.

The last line comes after what, Dickens tells us, would have been Carton’s last thoughts. He sees “the long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of the old, perishing by the retributive instrument, before it shall cease out of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long long years to come, I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.”

But why, exactly, did the French Revolution happen? Dickens paints a picture of an arrogant, and brutal, aristocracy at best indifferent, and at worse, celebrating, the oppressions of the poor, which meant the great majority of the people of France, and with Madame Defarge he creates a character that almost defines the word ‘revenge.’ But what, suddenly, set everything on fire. Writing twenty-five years earlier, another British writer, Thomas Macaulay, suggested that it was the addition of “new theories” to “ancient abuses” that made it all happen.

The people, having no constitutional means of checking even the most flagitious misgovernment were indemnified for oppression by being suffered to luxuriate in anarchical speculation, and to deny or ridicule every principle on which the institution of the State reposed. Neither those who attribute the downfall of the old French institutions to the public grievances, nor those who attribute it to the doctrine of the philosophers, appear to us to have taken into their view more than half the subject.

The French Revolution, like the American Revolution, depended, ultimately, on the thought that had come to dominate the way people thought about their condition. The French read Rousseau; the Americans read John Locke. The French Revolution ended with Napoleon, an emperor; the American Revolution ended with George Washington, an elected president of an elected federal government. It is our misfortune that Charles Dickens did not write a novel about that.

Visit D.W. Buffa's website.

Third reading: The Great Gatsby. 

Third reading: Brave New World.

Third reading: Lord Jim.

Third reading: Death in the Afternoon.

Third Reading: Parade's End.

Third Reading: The Idiot.

Third Reading: The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

Third Reading: The Scarlet Letter.

Third Reading: Justine.

Third Reading: Patriotic Gore.

Third reading: Anna Karenina.

Third reading: The Charterhouse of Parma.

Third Reading: Emile.

Third Reading: War and Peace.

Third Reading: The Sorrows of Young Werther.

Third Reading: Bread and Wine.

Third Reading: “The Crisis of the Mind” and A Man Without Qualities.

Third reading: Eugene Onegin.

Third Reading: The Collected Works of Thomas Babington Macaulay.

Third Reading: The Europeans.

Third Reading: The House of Mirth and The Writing of Fiction.

Third Reading: Doctor Faustus.

Third Reading: the reading list of John F. Kennedy.

Third Reading: Jorge Luis Borges.

Third Reading: History of the Peloponnesian War.

Third Reading: Mansfield Park.

Third Reading: To Each His Own.

Third Reading: A Passage To India.

Third Reading: Seven Pillars of Wisdom.

Third Reading: The Letters of T.E. Lawrence.

Third Reading: All The King’s Men.

Third Reading: The Roman History of Ammianus Marcellinus.

Third Reading: Naguib Mahfouz’s novels of ancient Egypt.

Third Reading: Main Street.

Third Reading: Theodore H. White's The Making of the President series, part I.

Third Reading: Theodore H. White's The Making of the President series, part II.

Third Reading: Thus Spoke Zarathustra.

Third Reading: Fiction's Failure.

Third Reading: Hermann Hesse's Demian.

Third Reading: Frederick Douglass, Slavery, and The Fourth of July.

Third Reading: Caesar’s Ghost.

Third reading: The American Constitution.

--Marshal Zeringue

Timothy Jay Smith

From a young age, Timothy Jay Smith developed a ceaseless wanderlust that has taken him around the world many times. En route, he’s found the characters that people his work. Polish cops and Greek fishermen, mercenaries and arms dealers, child prostitutes and wannabe terrorists, Indian Chiefs and Indian tailors: he hung with them all in an unparalleled international career that had him smuggle banned plays from behind the Iron Curtain, maneuver through Occupied Territories, and stowaway aboard a ‘devil’s barge’ for a three-day crossing from Cape Verde that landed him in an African jail.

Smith has won top honors for his novels, screenplays and stage plays in numerous prestigious competitions. Fire on the Island won the Gold Medal in the Faulkner-Wisdom Competition for the Novel, and his screenplay adaptation of it was named Best Indie Script by WriteMovies. Another novel, The Fourth Courier, was a finalist for Best Gay Mystery in the 2020 Lambda Literary Awards. Previously, he won the Paris Prize for Fiction (now the de Groot Prize) for his novel, Checkpoint (later published as A Vision of Angels). Kirkus Reviews called Cooper’s Promise “literary dynamite” and selected it as one of the Best Books of 2012.

Smith's latest novel is Istanbul Crossing.

One novel on his recent reading list:

Hall of Mirrors by John Copenhaver.

In Hall of Mirrors, the second novel in his Nightingale Trilogy, John Copenhaver once again seduces his readers with false but believable leads, characters uncertain about their own motives, and a surprise ending that makes perfect sense when the clouds lift enough to reveal it. If ‘tricky mysteries’ were a genre, Copenhaver would be its king.

When the novel opens, two lesbian amateur sleuths, Judy and Philippa, stand on the street with their new friend, Lionel, as they watch his upper floor apartment belch fire and smoke. Where is his lover, Roger, if they dare even use that word? It’s the early 1950s, McCarthyism is at its peak, as is the nation’s tolerance for homophobia and racism.

Roger had recently lost his job at the State Department when a lie detector test revealed him to be a homosexual. The police instantly assume he’s committed suicide. They are even less little interested in pursuing an investigation when they realize that Roger had been shacking up with mixed-race Lionel.

Judy and Philippa are convinced it wasn’t suicide. In the first novel of Copenhaver’s trilogy, The Savage Kind, they teamed up to identify a serial killer of young girls, who was never arrested. Bogdan had been an invaluable spy for the U.S., so deemed untouchable. He’d started his distinctive killings again: young girls, by waterways, with writing on their bodies. Intent on stopping Bogdan, Judy and Philippa had anonymously sent out their investigation’s conclusions to journalists and police; and Roger who, as a part-time crime writer, might hopefully reveal the true story of the serial murders. Had they brought Bogdan to him?

Hall of Mirrors it titled for a passage in the novel where a room of mirrors forces everyone to find themselves in others’ reflections; not unlike the ‘instant of recognition’ inside the Magic Theatre in Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf when Harry Haller recognizes the many aspects of himself in the broken chards of a mirror and finally overcomes his self-loathing. In their relationship, Philippa struggles with her relationship with Judy; she’s not as confident about her sexuality. That tension feeds the plot all along. In Philippa’s own Magic Theatre moment, she has her own epiphany. They’ll both be back.

And so will many of Copenhaver’s readers!

Visit Timothy Jay Smith's website.

Writers Read: Timothy Jay Smith.

My Book, The Movie: The Fourth Courier.

The Page 69 Test: The Fourth Courier.

Q&A with Timothy Jay Smith.

The Page 69 Test: Fire on the Island.

The Page 69 Test: Istanbul Crossing.

--Marshal Zeringue

Jenny Milchman

Jenny Milchman is the Mary Higgins Clark award winning and USA Today bestselling author of five novels. Her work has been praised by the New York Times, New York Journal of Books, San Francisco Journal of Books and more; earned spots on Best Of lists including PureWow, POPSUGAR, the Strand, Suspense, and Big Thrill magazines; and received starred reviews from Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, Booklist, and Shelf Awareness. Four of her novels have been Indie Next Picks. Milchman's short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies as well as Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, and a recent piece on touring appeared in the Agatha award winning collection Promophobia. Milchman's new series with Thomas & Mercer features psychologist Arles Shepherd, who has the power to save the most troubled and vulnerable children, but must battle demons of her own to do it. Milchman is a member of the Rogue Women Writers and lives in the Hudson Valley with her family.

Her new novel is The Usual Silence.

Recently I asked Milchman about what she was reading. The author's reply:

Getting lost in a book with nothing else to do besides read it is a unique joy that got me through childhood, but is now pretty much relegated to taking a rare—like, as in a hundred year storm rare—vacation, my birthday, and those fleeting bits of summer when time suddenly and fleetingly expands.

So I am juggling three books right now.

One is a novel called You Will Never Be Me by Jesse Q. Sutanto. I’m reading this as research to inform an aspect of my forthcoming novel, which has a subplot concerning influencer culture. Sultano captures the more outrageous details of being an influencer—purchasing organic carrots at a farmers market, then burying them in your own fallow garden so you can dig them up for a TikTok—which she wraps in a novel that’s less of a whodunnit than a will-she-get-away-with-it?

Next is Red River Road by Anna Downes, which concerns van life and a woman traveling alone. Since there’s little I find more compelling than a wilderness thriller, reading about Phoebe who vanishes from the remote Australian coast rises both hairs and hackles for me.

Finally, as I prepare to launch myself with arms spread as wide as wings into the pages of a new novel, I look to books on craft, which lend inspiration as well as concrete guidance. My choice this time is The Technique of the Mystery Story by Carolyn Wells, a lesser known counterpart to such mystery grande dames as Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers.

Learn more about the book and author at Jenny Milchman's website.

My Book, The Movie: Cover of Snow.

The Page 69 Test: Cover of Snow.

The Page 69 Test: Ruin Falls.

My Book, The Movie: Ruin Falls.

My Book, The Movie: The Second Mother.

The Page 69 Test: The Second Mother.

Q&A with Jenny Milchman.

My Book, The Movie: The Usual Silence.

The Page 69 Test: The Usual Silence.

--Marshal Zeringue