Mystery Club #6
For this post, I will be peering into the dark corners of Cornell Woolrich’s writing, both his first published novel The Bride Wore Black (1940) and other work. Woolrich is a noir master, gritty and dark, with a spin to his tales that seems truly unique and which will get under your skin.
There is so much I want to talk about in this book that can’t be discussed without spoilers, so this writeup will be shorter and less complete than it could be. If you'd like to read along, you can order a copy of the book on my shop's website, or get it from a terrific bookseller or library near you!
https://greenhandbookshop.com/products/the-bride-wore-black-by-cornell-woolrichI peeled through
The Bride Wore Black in about a day, a rare occurrence in my reading life. Then I had to read it again to take notes, because it was a full throttle ride when I was in it first time ‘round! The edition I read was the current in-print edition from American Mystery Classics, which has a good introduction by Eddie Muller. He relates a quote from Woolrich, tossed off as a description of his writing goals: “All I was trying to do was cheat death.” And so he has.
Muller aptly describes Woolrich’s works, which “taken individually are nerve-jangling diversions; as a life’s work they added up to a towering wall of existential malevolence not even Sartre or Camus would dare scale.” He also recommends consuming Woolrich’s work “in a feverish rush,” as “that’s how you feel the undertow…” It’s certainly how I read
The Bride Wore Black, and “The Night Reveals,” a short story written under his most popular pseudonym, William Irish. The torrent of his words sweeps you before its tide, disbelieving yet unable to resist.
First of all, you must brace yourself for our detective’s name: Lew Wanger. Perhaps the prototype for today’s ever-present Jack Reacher and Harry Hole? Anyways, he’s a steady worker, and becomes an expert on this book’s killings, for all the good it does him. As off-the-cuff as our protagonist’s name is, he has a serious job ahead of him.
Second of all, you need to aware that these murders are done by killers who are determined, smart, and dedicated. As fast a read as the book is, the cases are spaced out over a couple of years. Are they even connected? Lew Wanger thinks so.
At our very first death scene, a blanching member of the public who sees too much is dismissed by an officer on-duty who says, “Well, what’d y’expect, violets?” Buckle up, everyone. The gloves are off already.
But that doesn't mean this is a page-turner with no literary flesh on its bones. Sunlight creeps between narrowly paced buildings, “at an angle that was enough to break its back.” We attend a mysterious, unnamed play. A word or phrase that someone hates, but which is never clarified, hangs in the background. The reader is given puzzles of their own that will never be unraveled.
Children observe adult foibles in their unique way. We are left knowing there are unseen clues, nothing more. And grateful that the child was spared.
The casualties left behind in the wake of this often-creative and always-brutal wave of destruction are many and random. Wanger observes the real-world effects on the victims left behind, the wives, girlfriends, and children: “The murder hadn’t been in the closet out there; it was in here on her face.” Some noir is cold and hammers like newstype, but while his delivery of events may seem staccato, Woolrich gives us a glimpse below the action that echoes the shift towards victim awareness we see today in better true crime podcasts, like Maine's
Murder She Told (
https://www.murdershetold.com/).
Our killers deal with brutal men in a wonderfully adept manner, dismissing them in myriad ways, all summed up in one line: “You have nothing that I want.” These men, discarded and lucky enough to survive, have no idea how to deal with their fate.
Women fare similarly. “Then what is she?” one acquaintance cries in frustration. Best you do not know.
While this book inspired Tarantino’s Kill Bill, it could just as easily have been Final Destination. You’ll never know until it hits you, though.
On Shorter Works:
I read some of Woolrich’s short stories (always a good idea for introducing yourself to a new author), including “The Night Reveals.” This tale is part of a short story collection, written under the pseudonym William Irish, titled
After-Dinner Story (1944). I was bowled over after reading it.
I will say just a little about “The Night Reveals” here, but it is serious proof of Woolrich’s creative skill in storytelling, and of the way he can draw you into the most innocuous life and remind you that we are all pieces of the puzzle.
The narrator, a hard-working and earnest fire insurance adjustor, takes us through this awful tragedy step by step, doubting his own eyes at every turn. As Woolrich says himself: “There was no melodrama in the way he said it…”
And that is how this story sneaks up on us, step by step, inch by inch, and forces us to bear its final, fatal blow with our eyes wide open.
Sprinkled through the story are heartbreaking moments of clarity. The narrator sees around him the perfect coziness of his own home, but in the world outside sees New York City in its late-WWII realness: “…decrepit, unprotected tenements, all crammed from basement to roof with helpless sleepers…” He sees the decay, but he also sees the vulnerable human lives stacked within it, as vacant buildings intersperse each packed block like zombies among the living homes. He is all too aware that some people must make their abodes in the deserted buildings, because life is hard.
Suffice it to say he lives in a world of contrasts. Teeming life vs. empty windows, black shadows and mold vs. the harsh light of destruction vs. the clean, civilized light of safe well-maintained buildings, like his own family's cozy apartment.
In his world, fire is an ungovernable devil, capable of any monstrosity even in its wild natural state – but in the hands of someone directing it? Just as crazy, but more satanic in its dance.
This story is in no way simple. It would sound basic if I summed it up, but the variety of human conditions embedded in it are rich fodder for the reader's observation and comprehension -- for viewing with compassion, knowing eventually you will be forced to glance back at it for fast clear decision-making. Woolrich makes nothing clearer than the fact that we are surrounded by gray areas, but that there will be critical moments when we must instead see everything in black and white. We are all flammable. There are flashpoints.
And also, as a very random sidenote, I now have to go look up the word “beanery,” because I feel like I’m missing out on a mid-century phenomena I’ve never heard of.
Thank you Cornell Woolrich, and good night!
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