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Riddle of the Travelling Skull
The Collins Library is proud to present the triumphant return of Harry Stephen Keeler — to some, an overlooked genius; to others, the Ed Wood of detective fiction. The Riddle of the Traveling Skull is perhaps his best-loved work. The adventure begins when a poem and a mysterious handbag lead a man to the grave of Legga, the Human Spider — and things just get stranger from there.
Hardcover
First published January 1, 1934
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About the author
Harry Stephen Keeler
167 books55 followersBorn in Chicago in 1890, Keeler spent his childhood exclusively in this city, which was so beloved by the author that a large number of his works took place in and around it. In many of his novels, Keeler refers to Chicago as "the London of the west." The expression is explained in the opening of Thieves' Nights (1929):
"Here ... were seemingly the same hawkers ... selling the same goods ... here too was the confusion, the babble of tongues of many lands, the restless, shoving throng containing faces and features of a thousand racial castes, and last but not least, here on Halsted and Maxwell streets, Chicago, were the same dirt, flying bits of torn paper, and confusion that graced the junction of Middlesex and Whitechapel High streets far across the globe."
Other locales for Keeler novels include New Orleans and New York. In his later works, Keeler's settings are often more generic settings such as Big River, or a city in which all buildings and streets are either nameless or fictional. Keeler is known to have visited London at least once, but his occasional depictions of British characters are consistently implausible.
"Here ... were seemingly the same hawkers ... selling the same goods ... here too was the confusion, the babble of tongues of many lands, the restless, shoving throng containing faces and features of a thousand racial castes, and last but not least, here on Halsted and Maxwell streets, Chicago, were the same dirt, flying bits of torn paper, and confusion that graced the junction of Middlesex and Whitechapel High streets far across the globe."
Other locales for Keeler novels include New Orleans and New York. In his later works, Keeler's settings are often more generic settings such as Big River, or a city in which all buildings and streets are either nameless or fictional. Keeler is known to have visited London at least once, but his occasional depictions of British characters are consistently implausible.
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January 16, 2025
The Riddle of the Traveling Skull (1934) is an incredible book and my sixth favorite novel of all time.* At the beginning of this story, the protagonist comes upon an oddly adorned human skull in a travel bag, and what follows is the wildly twisting investigation of the aforementioned cranial artifact.
After reading eighty pages of this work, I ordered a couple of other books by Harry Stephen Keeler, and before I had reached the end of the novel, three (not inexpensive) first editions where en route to my apartment. (The last time I was so enormously impressed by an author was when I discovered the impassioned and unhinged works of the versatile lunatic Norvell W. Page.)
The midnight fever dream that Keeler builds in this novel is a confluence of magnificent coincidences, passionate asides, heaped minutiae, idiosyncratic characters, and blindsiding twists, where shocking plot revelations are followed by amazingly complex explanations.
The author's aptitude at setting expectations, inverting them, and then twisting them again and again (and yet again) is worthy of accolades, and what is most commonly discussed about his work, though he has other serious talents besides his notably convoluted plotting. The Riddle of the Traveling Skull often proves to be exceptionally moody-- Chapter XXIII is absolutely masterful in this regard. And in addition to his abilities with atmospherics, Keeler's humor is terrific and sharp, reminding me a bit of Mervyn Peake-- surprising exclamation points and odd diatribes burst from mouths of many of the characters of this richly realized world.
This book is recommended to people who savor creativity, humor, oddity, and invention, and it is not recommended to pretentious/insecure people who use horrible phrases like "so bad, it's good" or "guilty pleasure" to defend liking something that is dated or unrealistic or perhaps not deemed "sophisticated" by the intellectual elite. Really, don't people have better things to do with their lives than read things that they think are genuinely bad? And if the book succeeds at what it's trying to do--as this one does spectacularly--then it isn't "bad" or "cheesy" and readers should enjoy the eccentric success, without such pretentious qualifications.
The Riddle of the Traveling Skull is from another era and is not an attempt at realism, but a wild, engaging and brilliantly implausible crazy mystery told by an exceptionally distinct craftsman who has no known peers. The Sharkskin Book by Keeler is just as good, and the best twist I've ever read in my life can be found in his book The Case of the Two Strange Ladies.
*My Top 20 novels
20. The Spider: King of the Red Killers (Norvell W. Page)
19. The Rat on Fire (George V. Higgins)
18. Shoot the Piano Player (David Goodis)
17. The Children of Húrin (J.R.R. Tolkien)
16. The Big Sky (A.B. Guthrie Jr.)
15. Tigana (Guy Gavriel Kay)
14. Island (Richard Laymon)
13. The Human Stain (Philip Roth)
12. Permutation City (Greg Egan)
11. The Ox-Bow Incident (Walter Van Tilburg Clark)
10. The Damnation of Adam Blessing (Marijane Meaker aka Vin Packer)
9. The Dreamquest of Unknown Kadath (H.P. Lovecraft)
8. Childhood's End (Arthur C. Clarke)
7. The Sharkskin Book (Harry Stephen Keeler)
6. The Riddle of the Traveling Skull (Harry Stephen Keeler)
5. The Three Imposters (Arthur Machen)
4. Diaspora (Greg Egan)
3. Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)
2. Gormenghast (Mervyn Peake)
1. Titus Groan (Mervyn Peake)
After reading eighty pages of this work, I ordered a couple of other books by Harry Stephen Keeler, and before I had reached the end of the novel, three (not inexpensive) first editions where en route to my apartment. (The last time I was so enormously impressed by an author was when I discovered the impassioned and unhinged works of the versatile lunatic Norvell W. Page.)
The midnight fever dream that Keeler builds in this novel is a confluence of magnificent coincidences, passionate asides, heaped minutiae, idiosyncratic characters, and blindsiding twists, where shocking plot revelations are followed by amazingly complex explanations.
The author's aptitude at setting expectations, inverting them, and then twisting them again and again (and yet again) is worthy of accolades, and what is most commonly discussed about his work, though he has other serious talents besides his notably convoluted plotting. The Riddle of the Traveling Skull often proves to be exceptionally moody-- Chapter XXIII is absolutely masterful in this regard. And in addition to his abilities with atmospherics, Keeler's humor is terrific and sharp, reminding me a bit of Mervyn Peake-- surprising exclamation points and odd diatribes burst from mouths of many of the characters of this richly realized world.
This book is recommended to people who savor creativity, humor, oddity, and invention, and it is not recommended to pretentious/insecure people who use horrible phrases like "so bad, it's good" or "guilty pleasure" to defend liking something that is dated or unrealistic or perhaps not deemed "sophisticated" by the intellectual elite. Really, don't people have better things to do with their lives than read things that they think are genuinely bad? And if the book succeeds at what it's trying to do--as this one does spectacularly--then it isn't "bad" or "cheesy" and readers should enjoy the eccentric success, without such pretentious qualifications.
The Riddle of the Traveling Skull is from another era and is not an attempt at realism, but a wild, engaging and brilliantly implausible crazy mystery told by an exceptionally distinct craftsman who has no known peers. The Sharkskin Book by Keeler is just as good, and the best twist I've ever read in my life can be found in his book The Case of the Two Strange Ladies.
*My Top 20 novels
20. The Spider: King of the Red Killers (Norvell W. Page)
19. The Rat on Fire (George V. Higgins)
18. Shoot the Piano Player (David Goodis)
17. The Children of Húrin (J.R.R. Tolkien)
16. The Big Sky (A.B. Guthrie Jr.)
15. Tigana (Guy Gavriel Kay)
14. Island (Richard Laymon)
13. The Human Stain (Philip Roth)
12. Permutation City (Greg Egan)
11. The Ox-Bow Incident (Walter Van Tilburg Clark)
10. The Damnation of Adam Blessing (Marijane Meaker aka Vin Packer)
9. The Dreamquest of Unknown Kadath (H.P. Lovecraft)
8. Childhood's End (Arthur C. Clarke)
7. The Sharkskin Book (Harry Stephen Keeler)
6. The Riddle of the Traveling Skull (Harry Stephen Keeler)
5. The Three Imposters (Arthur Machen)
4. Diaspora (Greg Egan)
3. Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)
2. Gormenghast (Mervyn Peake)
1. Titus Groan (Mervyn Peake)
July 26, 2007
Two-thirds of the way through this crazy whodunnit I encountered a page inserted by the book's original publishers, claiming that all characters had been revealed, all clues presented, and the reader should now be able to guess the culprit. This sort of thing might have been plausible in an Agatha Christie, but in this book it was essentially a cruel joke -- the reader is guaranteed to be in the dark until the final page.
"The riddle of the traveling skull", republished by McSweeney's, is apparently one of Harry Stephen Keeler's more accessible and better books. Ostensibly a mystery centring around a human skull that the protagonist finds in a travelling bag, the plot grows to involve mistaken identities, a six-legged, four-armed circus performer, a confectionery magnate with a shadowy past, San Do Mar, and poetry written by a most surprising author. Unfortunately Keeler, writing in the 30s, comes across as incredibly racist (and rather sexist) to modern eyes. This is quite confronting, but if you can manage to overlook it the book is very enjoyable regardless.
The writing is somewhat amazing: always incredibly creative, but sometimes stilted and difficult to follow. The plot is impossible to predict, because every few pages Keeler invents some new twist to keep things moving (and maybe to write himself out of corners). It's difficult to tell whether he's making fun of the genre or is deadly serious, but it's hard not to like the book. Take this passage, where the main character (who works in the confectionery company) describes his beloved:
"Sweet that kiss, like our butter-cream center bar. And blonde she was, like our Crispo Taffy. With eyes as blue as jelly bean No. 18 -- which goes in the jelly bean mixture No. 9. Dressed all in pink silk, as pink and as crisp as our Silko-Spun Crunch.
But I'm talking in crude trade terms -- about something too fine to compare with mere candy."
Fortunately, the rest of the book isn't that zany, but passages like that keep the interest up: I was genuinely, rather than ironically, interested in solving the mystery by the end of the book: and, of course, did not do so until the final sentence.
Recommended!
"The riddle of the traveling skull", republished by McSweeney's, is apparently one of Harry Stephen Keeler's more accessible and better books. Ostensibly a mystery centring around a human skull that the protagonist finds in a travelling bag, the plot grows to involve mistaken identities, a six-legged, four-armed circus performer, a confectionery magnate with a shadowy past, San Do Mar, and poetry written by a most surprising author. Unfortunately Keeler, writing in the 30s, comes across as incredibly racist (and rather sexist) to modern eyes. This is quite confronting, but if you can manage to overlook it the book is very enjoyable regardless.
The writing is somewhat amazing: always incredibly creative, but sometimes stilted and difficult to follow. The plot is impossible to predict, because every few pages Keeler invents some new twist to keep things moving (and maybe to write himself out of corners). It's difficult to tell whether he's making fun of the genre or is deadly serious, but it's hard not to like the book. Take this passage, where the main character (who works in the confectionery company) describes his beloved:
"Sweet that kiss, like our butter-cream center bar. And blonde she was, like our Crispo Taffy. With eyes as blue as jelly bean No. 18 -- which goes in the jelly bean mixture No. 9. Dressed all in pink silk, as pink and as crisp as our Silko-Spun Crunch.
But I'm talking in crude trade terms -- about something too fine to compare with mere candy."
Fortunately, the rest of the book isn't that zany, but passages like that keep the interest up: I was genuinely, rather than ironically, interested in solving the mystery by the end of the book: and, of course, did not do so until the final sentence.
Recommended!
December 7, 2014
Desde las primeras páginas queda claro lo que vas a leer: ”Porque hay que tener en cuenta que, a la sazón, yo no sabía absolutamente nada, como es natural, de Milo Payne, el misterioso inglés de habla típicamente londinense, que llevaba la gorra a cuadros, de larga visera, que popularizara Sherlock Holmes; ni sabía del “Maletín Barr”, tan parecido al mío como una salchicha vienesa de Milwaukee a otra; ni de Legga, la Araña Humana, con sus cuatro piernas y seis brazos; ni del ex presidiario Ichabod Chang, hijo de Dong Chang; ni de la fugaz poetisa Abigail Sprigge; ni del Gran Simón, con sus 2.163 botones de perlas; ni de… En resumidas cuentas, yo entonces no sabía nada de nada, ni de nadie que estuviera relacionado con el asunto del cual yo había ahora llegado a formar parte, a no ser que fuera, por casualidad, mi Némesis, Sophie Kratzenschneiderwümpel…, ¡o Sophie la Pleitista!” Es decir, puro Harry Stephen Keeler.
‘El enigma del cráneo viajero’ está lleno de giros inesperados y casualidades imposibles, y de un sentido del humor un tanto extravagante, como la trama misma. Estamos ante una novela de misterio, donde el protagonista, Clay Calthorpe, se ve involucrado en un equívoco que involucra un cráneo. Pero esto no es más que la trama principal, ya que la historia está llena de mcguffins, tramas y subtramas varias, sin importar si llevan a algún sitio o no: el amor de una pareja que peligra, un asesinato, conversaciones sobre cirugía, fenómenos de feria, etc. Lo me que encanta cuando leo a Keeler son las sorpresas en su trama y sus locos argumentos. Keeler es adictivo.
‘El enigma del cráneo viajero’ está lleno de giros inesperados y casualidades imposibles, y de un sentido del humor un tanto extravagante, como la trama misma. Estamos ante una novela de misterio, donde el protagonista, Clay Calthorpe, se ve involucrado en un equívoco que involucra un cráneo. Pero esto no es más que la trama principal, ya que la historia está llena de mcguffins, tramas y subtramas varias, sin importar si llevan a algún sitio o no: el amor de una pareja que peligra, un asesinato, conversaciones sobre cirugía, fenómenos de feria, etc. Lo me que encanta cuando leo a Keeler son las sorpresas en su trama y sus locos argumentos. Keeler es adictivo.
August 13, 2009
This book is terrible! The press sheet and foreword lead me to believe Keeler was some kind of overlooked pulp genius, or crazed modernist innovator, but he is only weakly either of those things. Rarely have I been so non-entertained by a mystery novel. The absurdist touches are there, and were perhaps surprising for their time, but they're largely tossed off and abandoned. I can just hear Keeler stalling and repeating himself as he attempts to make word quota on his 5th book of 1934. Mostly the book consists of an uninteresting protagonist explaining the uninteresting story so far to various other uninteresting characters in hopes of acquiring a new clue. But often not!
The best part is probably the way almost every chapter ends with a (misleading) suggestion of the shock and drama awaiting in the next, and usually with an exclamation point, like Goosebumps .
Maybe he has better books, but if so, why reprint this one? Augh.
(I still have about 60 pages to go, so maybe the ending will change my mind)
...
In fact, it did a little. The ostentatious implausibility of the finale redeemed an entire star. Still a fairly terrible book, but I can see why Keeler interests people so.
The best part is probably the way almost every chapter ends with a (misleading) suggestion of the shock and drama awaiting in the next, and usually with an exclamation point, like Goosebumps .
Maybe he has better books, but if so, why reprint this one? Augh.
(I still have about 60 pages to go, so maybe the ending will change my mind)
...
In fact, it did a little. The ostentatious implausibility of the finale redeemed an entire star. Still a fairly terrible book, but I can see why Keeler interests people so.
August 14, 2007
Long out of print or relegated to small presses, the work of Harry Stephen Keeler has faded into obscurity. This is the triumphant return of the silliest, the most convoluted, the best godawful writer of pulp mysteries the world has ever seen. Someone who liked Keeler once said that all of his books read as if they were translated from the original Choctaw. Screamo the Clown. Legga the Human Spider. I couldn’t make this stuff up – it has to be seen to be believed.
May 28, 2015
Una novela genial, adictiva, repleta de situaciones extravagantes que se van hilvanando de la forma en la que sólo Harry Stephen Keeler sabía hacerlo. La traducción deja bastante que desear, pero sigue resultando curiosa, a pesar de todo. Después de tanto tiempo sin leer al autor, recuperarlo con una novela así ha resultado todo un acierto.
Van cinco estrellas, no a la calidad literaria, no a la profundidad psicológica de los personales, pero sí al entretenimiento.
Van cinco estrellas, no a la calidad literaria, no a la profundidad psicológica de los personales, pero sí al entretenimiento.
February 9, 2012
This book came endorsed by McSweeneys, not necessarily a point in its favor. But the introduction by Paul Collins was reassuring - I had read and enjoyed two of his books. And who could resist trying an author described in the introduction as "the best worst writer ever"?
I think the standard euphemism for the kind of stuff Keeler gets up to in "The Riddle of the Traveling Skull" is "pushing against the boundaries of the genre". He appears to be making up his own rules as he goes along. The result is an extended shaggy dog story with a ridiculously convoluted plot that is barely patched together by a remarkable series of truly amazing coincidences. You roll your eyes in disbelief at least once a chapter. But it's not a bad yarn, and - unless you place a high value on narrative plausibility - you will likely read it all the way through, just to see what he will come up with next.
It doesn't quite achieve "so appallingly bad that it's great" status, however. In many ways it reminded me of G.K. Chesterton's "The Man Who Was Thursday", but without all the metaphysical baggage.
I quite enjoyed it, though not to the point of recommending it to others. 2.5 stars, rounding up to 3 if I'm being charitable.
I think the standard euphemism for the kind of stuff Keeler gets up to in "The Riddle of the Traveling Skull" is "pushing against the boundaries of the genre". He appears to be making up his own rules as he goes along. The result is an extended shaggy dog story with a ridiculously convoluted plot that is barely patched together by a remarkable series of truly amazing coincidences. You roll your eyes in disbelief at least once a chapter. But it's not a bad yarn, and - unless you place a high value on narrative plausibility - you will likely read it all the way through, just to see what he will come up with next.
It doesn't quite achieve "so appallingly bad that it's great" status, however. In many ways it reminded me of G.K. Chesterton's "The Man Who Was Thursday", but without all the metaphysical baggage.
I quite enjoyed it, though not to the point of recommending it to others. 2.5 stars, rounding up to 3 if I'm being charitable.
January 19, 2018
Thanks for the recommendation McSweeneys. I'm usually a sucker for strange things, regardless of the level of quality. But this was just so bad, I could not get through it. Poor grammar and sentence structure; stupid, bland narration. Each of the paragraphs in the first chapter have so much strange, useless information that does nothing but confuse. I read up on this author, and his reputation has been bolstered as a sort of crazy literary genius; breaking all the rules of modern mystery stories. I even read an article where he was compared to Thomas Pynchon. Whoever wrote that article never read Thomas Pynchon. This reads like a junior high school student was given an assignment with a minimum word count and he is doing everything within his power to reach that magic number. Why should anyone ever have to read this? Oh, I don't have to read it? OK, then, I think I will put this one down.
July 14, 2007
Keeler's often hailed as being an absurdist genius. He's known for his "webwork" mysteries, which start with multiple threads that tie together by the end. One reviewer claims that Keeler is the epitome of the mystery genre writer-- that the bizarro coincidences are what define mystery fiction, as opposed to the plain-jane, mundane way that most nonfictional crimes take place. This book was completely bizarre and unfathomable-- but highly entertaining. I plan to read more Keeler in the future.
March 14, 2009
Dutton should've re-titled this: "The Riddle of the Holyshitwhatthefuck"
August 9, 2024
Page 187 of the hardback printing I have tells the reader that they have all the clues they'll need to solve the mystery for themselves. There is something slightly adorable about the fact that this proves to be untrue, but the charm wears thin during nearly 80 pages of explanation and a series of unmaskings that's nearly on par in absurdity with the Family Guy bit about Jerry Springer.
Our hero is Clay Calthorpe, a Chicago man who works for a candy company and is just back from a trip to Asia. Then a Chinese guy on the street asks him for a light and he's instantly suspicious. He finds he has the wrong bag, having switched with a priest on a streetcar. The bag he has now has a human skull with a metal plate in it with some identifying information, it's also filled with some stuffing and has a bullet inside. The “riddle” begins.
The prologue by the publisher explains that Keeler is a somewhat infamous voice in the world of mystery stories, having been dropped by a number of publishers. I think I bought and read this book because I read that Keeler's work was outlandish, and so I pictured giddy entertaining excess. What I got was outlandish in its way, and excessive in certain things, but it was not quite an entertainment.
Bad writers tend to be bad in that they have a crutch, some device they will overuse to compensate, to fill the time. Keeler's crutch is huge puffy cushions of expository dialogue that run on like the end of “Ulysses”.
Clay talks on the phone to the conductor of the streetcar, and we endure the man's excessive accent for over a page. He visits a doctor, he is very very German and very very chatty. He talks for page after page with an Englishman with a Cockney accent, and Clay makes fun of his accent back to him, and so invented British-isms fly back and forth as two men run out the time on a lightless park bench. Calthorpe seems to talk at length to everybody except for his fiancee, but he'll talk like the dickens with her father. No action, no murder, no mayhem, not even anybody following one another, just tons and tons of talk... and the talk contains very little event in itself, since much of it is glossed-over personal histories.
We hear early on that while Calthorpe is sailing home, he meets a woman named “Suing Sophie”, a missionary who imagines male passengers are falling in love with her and then sues them for not marrying her. This is mentioned several times along with other plot threads about a poet named Abigail Sprigge, and a deceased circus freak. There is quite a sideshow of things that we don't see.
Clay Calthrope plays amateur detective, yet he jumps to a lot of conclusions and what is revealed in the end doesn't make any sense anyway.
We don't get a whole lot. We have the hero followed early on, him getting knocked out later, then he interviews some people, walks around a graveyard, talks to more people, and meets a blackmailer. Clay's friend, John Barr, manufactures a type of bag, and Clay relates a story of being in a shop in San Francisco and demanding the staff sell him one. Clay also seeths with rage about the Chinese man who followed him and a German man he was told about, and he does all shades of racist on each... not to mention some tacky talk about Cockneys. In fact, the narrator's personality infusing everything is another issue, an actual excess of voice.
Our hero/narrator tells us more than once that Chicago is “the London of the West” and that “anything can happen there”. Well, very little happens!
Our hero is Clay Calthorpe, a Chicago man who works for a candy company and is just back from a trip to Asia. Then a Chinese guy on the street asks him for a light and he's instantly suspicious. He finds he has the wrong bag, having switched with a priest on a streetcar. The bag he has now has a human skull with a metal plate in it with some identifying information, it's also filled with some stuffing and has a bullet inside. The “riddle” begins.
The prologue by the publisher explains that Keeler is a somewhat infamous voice in the world of mystery stories, having been dropped by a number of publishers. I think I bought and read this book because I read that Keeler's work was outlandish, and so I pictured giddy entertaining excess. What I got was outlandish in its way, and excessive in certain things, but it was not quite an entertainment.
Bad writers tend to be bad in that they have a crutch, some device they will overuse to compensate, to fill the time. Keeler's crutch is huge puffy cushions of expository dialogue that run on like the end of “Ulysses”.
Clay talks on the phone to the conductor of the streetcar, and we endure the man's excessive accent for over a page. He visits a doctor, he is very very German and very very chatty. He talks for page after page with an Englishman with a Cockney accent, and Clay makes fun of his accent back to him, and so invented British-isms fly back and forth as two men run out the time on a lightless park bench. Calthorpe seems to talk at length to everybody except for his fiancee, but he'll talk like the dickens with her father. No action, no murder, no mayhem, not even anybody following one another, just tons and tons of talk... and the talk contains very little event in itself, since much of it is glossed-over personal histories.
We hear early on that while Calthorpe is sailing home, he meets a woman named “Suing Sophie”, a missionary who imagines male passengers are falling in love with her and then sues them for not marrying her. This is mentioned several times along with other plot threads about a poet named Abigail Sprigge, and a deceased circus freak. There is quite a sideshow of things that we don't see.
Clay Calthrope plays amateur detective, yet he jumps to a lot of conclusions and what is revealed in the end doesn't make any sense anyway.
We don't get a whole lot. We have the hero followed early on, him getting knocked out later, then he interviews some people, walks around a graveyard, talks to more people, and meets a blackmailer. Clay's friend, John Barr, manufactures a type of bag, and Clay relates a story of being in a shop in San Francisco and demanding the staff sell him one. Clay also seeths with rage about the Chinese man who followed him and a German man he was told about, and he does all shades of racist on each... not to mention some tacky talk about Cockneys. In fact, the narrator's personality infusing everything is another issue, an actual excess of voice.
Our hero/narrator tells us more than once that Chicago is “the London of the West” and that “anything can happen there”. Well, very little happens!
December 10, 2021
The Riddle of the Traveling Skull is the one book by this maniac, Harry Stephen Keeler, that I could find in a local store—it’s a nice reprint—though it would be exciting to find an original copy of one of his many books, most of which were published in the Thirties and Forties. This is supposed to be one of the better ones, I guess. He’s famous for his bizarre storylines and ridiculously convoluted plots, and as far as that goes, I was not disappointed. And for as strange and outlandish as the story twists are, you can actually follow them, all the way around the Chicago locations to the reveal in the last sentence. The book is also very funny—the exception being, far too many jokes based on racial stereotypes and the main character’s derision of pretty much everyone who is not in his small circle. Looking over the book now, which I read very recently, I couldn’t begin to attempt to put the entire mess back together. The whole thing kind of resembles a house of cards which only held up due to the forward movement of the narrative, but if you go back and try to reconstruct it based on memory, watch out!
December 3, 2023
The reputation of Keeler is the Ed Wood of mystery fiction, so bad it's good, and all that - but armed with that opinion I find a genre mystery thriller, albeit one with some baroque language, unlikely coincidences, weird characters and long sentences. Also, it's supposed to be funny. That Keeler did anything experimental at all seems to mark him out in this genre as beyond the pale - if it had been literary fiction nobody would have been surprised at the things he does.
Neil Gaiman's take on Keeler is a better one - "not 'so bad it's good', but 'it shouldn't be good, but it is'."
This may be his most 'accessible' novel - apart from the turns of baroque phrase and the alarming multi-coincidence pileup at the end, it is really a straightforward (well...) detective story. Besides, Robert Rankin exists to make Harry S. Keeler look sane.
Neil Gaiman's take on Keeler is a better one - "not 'so bad it's good', but 'it shouldn't be good, but it is'."
This may be his most 'accessible' novel - apart from the turns of baroque phrase and the alarming multi-coincidence pileup at the end, it is really a straightforward (well...) detective story. Besides, Robert Rankin exists to make Harry S. Keeler look sane.
March 24, 2020
A hilariously strange 1934 detective book based in Chicago with one of the coolest gimmicks ever, about 200 pages in there is a page that asks you to STOP and deduce the mystery on your own. It informs you that all the clues and characters have been revealed. After reading the solution, I'm convinced you would've have to had written the book yourself to guess that one.
The descriptions and dialogue, the point of view, seems more like something that would come from a Fletch book than a 30's gumshoe. The case itself is absurdly convoluted, with characters and threats thrown out the window left and right. Still the ending is still very satisfying and just plain fun. A very good, diverting, mystery that was hard as hell to track down.
The descriptions and dialogue, the point of view, seems more like something that would come from a Fletch book than a 30's gumshoe. The case itself is absurdly convoluted, with characters and threats thrown out the window left and right. Still the ending is still very satisfying and just plain fun. A very good, diverting, mystery that was hard as hell to track down.
April 12, 2021
A truly wild ride that, at the end, pulls together just enough of its disparate threads to not feel like a waste of time (to me, anyway), but in doing so raises about a hundred more questions which will never be answered. I loved it, cooled on it, and then loved it again by the end, although I can’t fault anyone for outright hating it.
To what extent was Keeler purposefully playing with his audience, and to what extent was he some "outsider artist" with no idea how to construct a plot? Was he trying to undermine and interrogate the mystery genre, or did he just like putting one ridiculous sentence after another? I think the answers matter about as much as the solution to his mystery.
(Minus one star for making me read a certain racial slur FAR too many times.)
To what extent was Keeler purposefully playing with his audience, and to what extent was he some "outsider artist" with no idea how to construct a plot? Was he trying to undermine and interrogate the mystery genre, or did he just like putting one ridiculous sentence after another? I think the answers matter about as much as the solution to his mystery.
(Minus one star for making me read a certain racial slur FAR too many times.)
Read
May 15, 2022I was laughing out loud a lot but had a difficult time becoming invested in the ostensible plot. I found myself picking it up and reading a chapter or two then putting it down, and I suspect that many of us pick up ‘mystery’ stories with the hope of being swept up in a page turner. I think my time was better spent diving down the insane rabbit hole of Keeler lore than actually reading him but I had a lot of fun
June 6, 2022
Well, that was as convoluted as advertised. Especially the ending, which climaxed in at about 1 major twist per page.
Why is this in print, still? Why did I (or anyone else) read it? I guess because Keeler is a lovable crackpot and it's supposedly so bad that it's good. The thing is, it wasn't *that* bad and, therefore, not as good as I was hoping, I guess. Don't regret buying it, but won't be seeking out any more from the author!
Why is this in print, still? Why did I (or anyone else) read it? I guess because Keeler is a lovable crackpot and it's supposedly so bad that it's good. The thing is, it wasn't *that* bad and, therefore, not as good as I was hoping, I guess. Don't regret buying it, but won't be seeking out any more from the author!
Read
February 23, 2021My mind is still reeling from this novel. A whirlwind of pulp inventiveness, infodumps, red herrings and twists. I think it reprogrammed my brain. Hilarious and wonderful, for those who like hot trash, which I do.
November 29, 2020
I heard that this was a book so bad it was good, so I picked it as my choice in a book club. It's pretty good-bad.
January 26, 2023
So bad it’s good. Definitely a fun book club discussion, if for no other reason that’s to marvel at all the inconsistencies and plot holes.
August 8, 2023
I enjoyed the twisting logic of this one. Language used, particularly when describing people, is reflective of when it was written.
June 27, 2015
For it must be remembered that at the time I knew quite nothing, naturally, concerning Milo Payne, the mysterious Cockney talking Englishman with the checkered long-beaked Sherlock-holmsian cap; nor of the latter’s “Barr-Bag” which was as like my own bag as one Milwaukee wienerwurst is like another; nor of Legga, the Human Spider, with her four legs and her six arms; nor of Ichabod Chang, ex-convict, and son of Dong Chang; nor of the elusive poetess, Abigail Sprigge; nor of the Great Simon, with his 2163 pearl buttons; nor of–in short, I then knew quite nothing about anything or anybody involved in the affair of which I had now become a part, unless perchance it were my Nemesis, Sophie Kratzenschneiderwumpel–or Suing Sophie! (p. 13)
As you might gather from the excerpt above, Harry Stephen Keeler's The Riddle of the Traveling Skull (1934) pretty much has it all--jammed in every which way. This is one of the craziest concoctions I've ever read. Keeler seems to have no regard for the standard storytelling method and definitely doesn't subscribe to any of the "rules of detection fiction" that were bumping around in the Golden Age. He'll bring in Chinamen, have all sorts of coincidences, make you suspect the butler (valet)...and according to rumor even wrote a book where he introduced the murderer on the very last page. The only thing that's missing is the secret passage.
And yet...his style is compelling. It attracts the attention and the curiosity much the way those cliff-hanger serials in the movies (Perils of Pauline, anyone?) kept folks on the edge of the seat. Every chapter ends in such a way to leave the reader breathless and flipping the page as quickly as possible to see what new and unlikely twist Keeler is going to spring on his unsuspecting hero, Clay Calthorpe.
Poor Clay. All he wants is to return from his travels (in search of the rights to the rare Julu berry for use by his boss, Roger Pelton, in his wondrous wholesale candies), hand over the signed Julu berry papers, hide from Suing Sophie (who may try to sue him for breach of promise) and get down to the business of making the boss's daughter his wife. He hops off his train and catches a street car to his boarding house. At some point in the journey, his bag gets mixed with that of a harmless-looking clerical fellow and when he reaches his room and opens "his" bag he finds not his very own purple pajamas (!) but a polished, grinning skull. The skull has a silver name plate affixed to it, a bullet inside it and, in the wads of paper that keep the bullet from rattling around, he finds bits of carbon paper with snatches of phrases on them.
At first this oddity seems no more than the beginning of a curious adventure. But then he's lured to a deserted house (supposedly to exchange bags with the clerical gentleman), bashed over the head and robbed of the bag containing the skull. He later shares his adventures with his friend John Barr (inventor the famous Barr Bag--the kind he had) and his fiancee's family. As soon as Roger Pelton hears the story, he faints dead away. The next thing Clay knows he's no longer scheduled to marry the fair Doris Pelton--her father won't allow it. As far as Clay can tell it's all because of that dratted skull and so he determines to find the bag and get to the bottom of the skull story if it's the last thing he does.
There are so many twists and turns and surprises to this narrative that it would be difficult to give any more of a synopsis. Just know that in addition to those gems described in the quotation above, we also have a love triangle that inspires a murderous attack, a large sum of money embezzled from a bank, a ventriloquist's dummy, a pilfered safe, a train wreck, and the fictional country of San Do Mar, where no one can be extradited for a crime--any crime from stealing $100 from the till to cold-blooded murder.
I have to confess, when I got to the end of the story and All Was Revealed--I still couldn't tell you what really happened. I mean...I know what Keeler says happened. But the way he tells us--I don't know if I'm supposed to believe him. But you know what? I don't care. It was a wild and wacky ride and so much fun that it doesn't matter. This isn't necessarily the kind of mystery I'd want as a steady diet, but for an occasional flight of fancy it works very well.
First posted on my blog My Reader's Block. Please request permission before reposting. Thanks.
As you might gather from the excerpt above, Harry Stephen Keeler's The Riddle of the Traveling Skull (1934) pretty much has it all--jammed in every which way. This is one of the craziest concoctions I've ever read. Keeler seems to have no regard for the standard storytelling method and definitely doesn't subscribe to any of the "rules of detection fiction" that were bumping around in the Golden Age. He'll bring in Chinamen, have all sorts of coincidences, make you suspect the butler (valet)...and according to rumor even wrote a book where he introduced the murderer on the very last page. The only thing that's missing is the secret passage.
And yet...his style is compelling. It attracts the attention and the curiosity much the way those cliff-hanger serials in the movies (Perils of Pauline, anyone?) kept folks on the edge of the seat. Every chapter ends in such a way to leave the reader breathless and flipping the page as quickly as possible to see what new and unlikely twist Keeler is going to spring on his unsuspecting hero, Clay Calthorpe.
Poor Clay. All he wants is to return from his travels (in search of the rights to the rare Julu berry for use by his boss, Roger Pelton, in his wondrous wholesale candies), hand over the signed Julu berry papers, hide from Suing Sophie (who may try to sue him for breach of promise) and get down to the business of making the boss's daughter his wife. He hops off his train and catches a street car to his boarding house. At some point in the journey, his bag gets mixed with that of a harmless-looking clerical fellow and when he reaches his room and opens "his" bag he finds not his very own purple pajamas (!) but a polished, grinning skull. The skull has a silver name plate affixed to it, a bullet inside it and, in the wads of paper that keep the bullet from rattling around, he finds bits of carbon paper with snatches of phrases on them.
At first this oddity seems no more than the beginning of a curious adventure. But then he's lured to a deserted house (supposedly to exchange bags with the clerical gentleman), bashed over the head and robbed of the bag containing the skull. He later shares his adventures with his friend John Barr (inventor the famous Barr Bag--the kind he had) and his fiancee's family. As soon as Roger Pelton hears the story, he faints dead away. The next thing Clay knows he's no longer scheduled to marry the fair Doris Pelton--her father won't allow it. As far as Clay can tell it's all because of that dratted skull and so he determines to find the bag and get to the bottom of the skull story if it's the last thing he does.
There are so many twists and turns and surprises to this narrative that it would be difficult to give any more of a synopsis. Just know that in addition to those gems described in the quotation above, we also have a love triangle that inspires a murderous attack, a large sum of money embezzled from a bank, a ventriloquist's dummy, a pilfered safe, a train wreck, and the fictional country of San Do Mar, where no one can be extradited for a crime--any crime from stealing $100 from the till to cold-blooded murder.
I have to confess, when I got to the end of the story and All Was Revealed--I still couldn't tell you what really happened. I mean...I know what Keeler says happened. But the way he tells us--I don't know if I'm supposed to believe him. But you know what? I don't care. It was a wild and wacky ride and so much fun that it doesn't matter. This isn't necessarily the kind of mystery I'd want as a steady diet, but for an occasional flight of fancy it works very well.
First posted on my blog My Reader's Block. Please request permission before reposting. Thanks.
July 12, 2014
What the hell did I just read?!
I received this book as a gag gift. After reading a bit about Harry Stephen Keeler's reputation as an author, I went into it expecting something truly bizarre and outré. But what I got instead appeared—at first—to be a fairly run-of-the-mill pulp mystery, which I enjoyed immensely even though (or, if I'm honest, exactly because) it was wildly overplotted, peppered with absurd twists and propped up on a precarious tower of improbable coincidences.
It was indeed bizarre, but not in the grandiose way I was expecting. Instead, the weirdness was in the details. The many, many details. For some reason, the book was set six years in the future (published in 1934, the action takes place in 1940), but that is in no way relevant to the plot. When a character visits a cemetery, it's not just any cemetery, but one expressly for circus freaks (Legga, the Human Spider!). Dialogue is strangely rendered, either as impenetrable "accented" dialects or oddly broken phrases bogged down by em-dashes and tangents. There is a mini-discourse on brain surgery and a fifty-page conversation that increases the complexity of the story by about 400%. Whole subplots seemed to go nowhere.
But then I got to the final chapters. My wife reports that in the last hour of reading, I said "WHAT?!" aloud seventeen times. SEVENTEEN. And three times more after I finished. She said I looked utterly confused. And I'm still not sure the ending makes any sense whatsoever.
But I LOVED IT.
Is this just another badly written pulp novel or an extremely clever one, with a heavy dollop of self-parody? Was Keeler making a joke or just a punchline? It's hard to say, but I suspect he knew EXACTLY what he was doing. The funny bits seem too deliberately funny to be happy accidents, and the confusing bits seem to revel in their confusion. Whatever the answer, I'm hooked, and I will definitely seek out more Keeler.
I received this book as a gag gift. After reading a bit about Harry Stephen Keeler's reputation as an author, I went into it expecting something truly bizarre and outré. But what I got instead appeared—at first—to be a fairly run-of-the-mill pulp mystery, which I enjoyed immensely even though (or, if I'm honest, exactly because) it was wildly overplotted, peppered with absurd twists and propped up on a precarious tower of improbable coincidences.
It was indeed bizarre, but not in the grandiose way I was expecting. Instead, the weirdness was in the details. The many, many details. For some reason, the book was set six years in the future (published in 1934, the action takes place in 1940), but that is in no way relevant to the plot. When a character visits a cemetery, it's not just any cemetery, but one expressly for circus freaks (Legga, the Human Spider!). Dialogue is strangely rendered, either as impenetrable "accented" dialects or oddly broken phrases bogged down by em-dashes and tangents. There is a mini-discourse on brain surgery and a fifty-page conversation that increases the complexity of the story by about 400%. Whole subplots seemed to go nowhere.
But then I got to the final chapters. My wife reports that in the last hour of reading, I said "WHAT?!" aloud seventeen times. SEVENTEEN. And three times more after I finished. She said I looked utterly confused. And I'm still not sure the ending makes any sense whatsoever.
But I LOVED IT.
Is this just another badly written pulp novel or an extremely clever one, with a heavy dollop of self-parody? Was Keeler making a joke or just a punchline? It's hard to say, but I suspect he knew EXACTLY what he was doing. The funny bits seem too deliberately funny to be happy accidents, and the confusing bits seem to revel in their confusion. Whatever the answer, I'm hooked, and I will definitely seek out more Keeler.
August 31, 2013
"I paused, a foot in mid-air, with my hand on the rail. And instead of ascending those steps, I strode straight over to that shaft. The black grave-marker in front of which bore the bright white numerals '49.' And, my lower jaw hanging open, I read the inscription carved upon that granite face.
Which inscription ran:
'Here lies the famous
O MING LEE
The Girl with Four Legs and Six Arms
Known to the Profession
as
LEGGA, THE HUMAN SPIDER
Born Canton, China
Died Canton, Ohio
1917 - 1937
Erected by the Chinese of America.'
I passed a hand weakly over my forehead.
No. 49.
3753 Gardendale Street.
And here was Miss Lee - Miss O.M. Lee!
Blankly, for I was still fuddled, I turned and read the words chiseled on a small gravestone, alabaster white, that seemingly marked a tiny new-born baby's grave.
They read:
'b. 1884 d. 1936
Here lies
GEN. TOM DOWLING
18 inches high
20 pounds in weight
Rest in peace, General!'
What the -
The red-bristle-face man was coming down the steps of his aerie. I advanced to meet him. Skirting around a huge grave in which - so I concluded at once - a husband and wife must be buried side by side. Till I saw, as I rounded it; on a large but temporary wooden marker, resembling a huge shingle, crudely painted:
'ROSCOE PARKER
He brought happiness and
cheer to the world, with
a heart that, for sheer
nobleness, conformed with
his 612 pounds of weight!
B. 1885 D. 1935'
The red-bristle-faced man was now on me.
'Om lak to halp yu elf yu vassen findin' grey vat yu lokking for. Om Misder Hvralek, grevyard sopperintendunt.'
'Lithuanian?' I asked shrewdly.
'Czecho-Slav,' he replied modestly.
'No,' I said, knowing exactly what I would be up against plowing through a lingo like that."
Which inscription ran:
'Here lies the famous
O MING LEE
The Girl with Four Legs and Six Arms
Known to the Profession
as
LEGGA, THE HUMAN SPIDER
Born Canton, China
Died Canton, Ohio
1917 - 1937
Erected by the Chinese of America.'
I passed a hand weakly over my forehead.
No. 49.
3753 Gardendale Street.
And here was Miss Lee - Miss O.M. Lee!
Blankly, for I was still fuddled, I turned and read the words chiseled on a small gravestone, alabaster white, that seemingly marked a tiny new-born baby's grave.
They read:
'b. 1884 d. 1936
Here lies
GEN. TOM DOWLING
18 inches high
20 pounds in weight
Rest in peace, General!'
What the -
The red-bristle-face man was coming down the steps of his aerie. I advanced to meet him. Skirting around a huge grave in which - so I concluded at once - a husband and wife must be buried side by side. Till I saw, as I rounded it; on a large but temporary wooden marker, resembling a huge shingle, crudely painted:
'ROSCOE PARKER
He brought happiness and
cheer to the world, with
a heart that, for sheer
nobleness, conformed with
his 612 pounds of weight!
B. 1885 D. 1935'
The red-bristle-faced man was now on me.
'Om lak to halp yu elf yu vassen findin' grey vat yu lokking for. Om Misder Hvralek, grevyard sopperintendunt.'
'Lithuanian?' I asked shrewdly.
'Czecho-Slav,' he replied modestly.
'No,' I said, knowing exactly what I would be up against plowing through a lingo like that."
July 1, 2022
A simultaneously delightful and frustrating work of genius. Keeler is incomparable and now my favorite mystery writer. I have never read anything else even remotely close to Keeler's work. It is truly unique. Never have so many literary sins been so fun. This is not my favorite Keeler work, but I can see why it's many people's favorite. Don't ask me to explain the ending. There is no explanation, only madness.
Edit: This book has continued to grow on me since my initial read. I can’t stop thinking about it. I adored the opening tease, the quirky and creepy moments along the way. I occasionally got bogged down in the details or lost my interest along with my way among the many intertwining threads. But I can’t stop thinking about the ending or the ultimate goal of this novel. A unique masterpiece that achieves a rare psychological feat—giving you a glimpse into another world, another mind, another way of thinking. I don’t think the way Keeler does and couldn’t construct a webwork mystery like this one, but for just a moment I did. For just a moment I tasted the flavour of his thoughts and the epistemic despair that’s the darker side of his gift. He gave me that taste because somehow in his dimestore-novel-writing-genius way he found a method to bring not just his thoughts, but his way of thinking to me. Unforgettable. Even as I write this review I am assailed with the loneliness that Keeler must have felt as he sought to find kin through the message-in-a-bottle of his fiction. A unique and beautiful mind whose pulp masterpieces will undoubtedly continue to find sympathetic souls.
Edit: This book has continued to grow on me since my initial read. I can’t stop thinking about it. I adored the opening tease, the quirky and creepy moments along the way. I occasionally got bogged down in the details or lost my interest along with my way among the many intertwining threads. But I can’t stop thinking about the ending or the ultimate goal of this novel. A unique masterpiece that achieves a rare psychological feat—giving you a glimpse into another world, another mind, another way of thinking. I don’t think the way Keeler does and couldn’t construct a webwork mystery like this one, but for just a moment I did. For just a moment I tasted the flavour of his thoughts and the epistemic despair that’s the darker side of his gift. He gave me that taste because somehow in his dimestore-novel-writing-genius way he found a method to bring not just his thoughts, but his way of thinking to me. Unforgettable. Even as I write this review I am assailed with the loneliness that Keeler must have felt as he sought to find kin through the message-in-a-bottle of his fiction. A unique and beautiful mind whose pulp masterpieces will undoubtedly continue to find sympathetic souls.
Currently reading
July 6, 2007I wanted to read this book because of this part of the books introduction about this eccentric mystery novel writer:
Keene is sometimes called the best worst writer ever -- the Ed Wood of the mystery genre. His plots consist of one jaw-droppingly coincidence after another; his writing reads like a drunken translation, filled with clangorous smiles and characters spouting loopy "dialects" that, though they be ostensibly German or Cockney, seem to originate primarily in Keeler's own cracked imagination. But the combined effect of his writing is, strange to say, joyous. In a Keeler novel, you're bound to find yourself solving a murder with a Sherlock holmes detective who is in fact a retarded janitor (The Green Jade Hand, 1930) or pondering a suspect in the form of the "Flying Strangler Baby" (1936)...this being a midget who, dressed as an adorable little tyke, swoops down to garrote his victim from a miniature helicopter.
I picked up this book last summer and found it utterly impossible to read--it was all over the place--but somehow I feel like the last few books I've read are putting me in a good reading mood to go back to this one. (Namely the combination of reading everything is illuminated with its quirky hillarious use of language followed by fortress of solitude which is so ridiculously ambitious and all over the place that I finally was won over by the sheer amount of incongruous elements)
Keene is sometimes called the best worst writer ever -- the Ed Wood of the mystery genre. His plots consist of one jaw-droppingly coincidence after another; his writing reads like a drunken translation, filled with clangorous smiles and characters spouting loopy "dialects" that, though they be ostensibly German or Cockney, seem to originate primarily in Keeler's own cracked imagination. But the combined effect of his writing is, strange to say, joyous. In a Keeler novel, you're bound to find yourself solving a murder with a Sherlock holmes detective who is in fact a retarded janitor (The Green Jade Hand, 1930) or pondering a suspect in the form of the "Flying Strangler Baby" (1936)...this being a midget who, dressed as an adorable little tyke, swoops down to garrote his victim from a miniature helicopter.
I picked up this book last summer and found it utterly impossible to read--it was all over the place--but somehow I feel like the last few books I've read are putting me in a good reading mood to go back to this one. (Namely the combination of reading everything is illuminated with its quirky hillarious use of language followed by fortress of solitude which is so ridiculously ambitious and all over the place that I finally was won over by the sheer amount of incongruous elements)
September 5, 2008
"Poet. Blackmailer! Murderer!"
Harry Stephen Keeler is likely the only writer to use the word "congeries" in a descriptive paragraph only to have one of his protagonists utter the same word three paragraphs later. Elaborate disquisitions on trepanation join mini-lectures on how to achieve maximum convexity in designer handbags. Litigious missionaries cross paths with candy factory detectives, and candy factory detectives with dimwitted janitors who win jigsaw puzzle championships. The results are hardly politically correct, but that's not the only way Keeler teases his reader. By the end, each is the "original Mr. Sucker from Suckersville."
This is a lily pad hopscotch across the mental pond, buggy with enthusiasm, drunk on lollypops, and improbable as any "Ouspenskian truth" issuing from Department 17 of a pitched Imagination. Nothing hits the gut here, it's all floss and lightening, more exclamation points per square inch than a Mayakovsky poem, but it's a kooky junket unlike much else. I'll take the Keeler stuntplane to San Do Mar for a return trip, thanks.
Harry Stephen Keeler is likely the only writer to use the word "congeries" in a descriptive paragraph only to have one of his protagonists utter the same word three paragraphs later. Elaborate disquisitions on trepanation join mini-lectures on how to achieve maximum convexity in designer handbags. Litigious missionaries cross paths with candy factory detectives, and candy factory detectives with dimwitted janitors who win jigsaw puzzle championships. The results are hardly politically correct, but that's not the only way Keeler teases his reader. By the end, each is the "original Mr. Sucker from Suckersville."
This is a lily pad hopscotch across the mental pond, buggy with enthusiasm, drunk on lollypops, and improbable as any "Ouspenskian truth" issuing from Department 17 of a pitched Imagination. Nothing hits the gut here, it's all floss and lightening, more exclamation points per square inch than a Mayakovsky poem, but it's a kooky junket unlike much else. I'll take the Keeler stuntplane to San Do Mar for a return trip, thanks.
July 21, 2009
Hey! This is fun to read! I bought it as a gift for Jenny, but she never read it. I read it instead. When I got it I didn't realize the author had somewhat of a cult following. In some reviews, he's described as an Ed Wood type. After finishing it, I can see why. Kitschy, spooky, suspenseful, and cheesy. The writing is a bit stilted sounding and has the quality of sounded rushed. This is also not surprising, given how prolific the guy was, pumping out several mysteries every year. Truth is, it's not quite as wacky as the back cover would have one believe. The crazy characters referenced only briefly appear and are peripheral to the story. We're mostly invited to accompany the normal protagonist who stumbles into the mystery. The language is definitely antique, which gives some charm to the book. It was written in and takes place during 1930s Chicago, and the author drops lots of local references, which at times seems gratuitous (for instance, naming street addresses and the neighborhoods in which they lie). Nonetheless, fun for a Chicagoist to read.
February 2, 2015
'Bizarre' doesn't even begin to describe this. I knew that Keeler was an eccentric writer, to put it mildly, so I was somewhat prepared for the dazzling mishmash that is this novel. It all concerns the skull of the title, and by the time I came to the last page and was subjected to the final incomprehensible revelation, I had even less of an idea of where the damn skull came from, or what its importance could be, than I did when I began. For most of the book there seems to be a somewhat logical story in process, although one filled with wildly improbable coincidences, pages of bewildering backstory, and digressions on candy-making, weaponry, brain surgery and more. So I was ready for an improbably but semi-coherent conclusion. Silly me. I probably could try to retrace the twisted logic employed to arrive at the novel's final sentence, but suspect it would be an exercise in futility. That said, this was a lot of fun to read, although I'm not sure I will attempt another Keeler for quite awhile.
June 10, 2009
My copy is, of course, the McSweeney's reprint, so I came to this mystery expecting something hip and weird. I read the introduction, so I knew Keeler was going to be strange. But even so, I was delighted and surprised from the very first sentence. It's just not possible to appreciate the nature of this writer's eccentricity without reading him yourself. Or to anticipate how much joy is involved in the way the story rolls along, picking up speed and complications. The narrator blithely postulates solutions to the mystery, then learns that he has ridiculously misinterpreted the situation, then, without missing a beat, simply devises a new solution that may well be sillier than the last. I want to read more Keeler. Unfortunately, it seems that his books are collectors' items that sell for ridiculous amounts on eBay. I'll have to keep my eyes open in used bookstores.
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