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Landscape with Dead Dons
When the Vice-Chancellor of Warlock College is discovered stabbed with a dessert knife, Inspector Autumn investigates the baffling murder
208 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1956
1 person is currently reading
68 people want to read
About the author
Robert Robinson
9 books1 followerRobert Henry Robinson was an English radio and television presenter, game show host, journalist, and author.
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Displaying 1 - 21 of 21 reviews
February 12, 2020
I feel as though I should add a caveat for the sexism of this book. But I enjoyed it very much, in part because I felt that its wicked satire was ultimately directed at the pretentions of white, imperial, male power. This all makes it sound more serious than the novel itself ever is. It contains absurd corpses, frothy prose, women academics on bicycles, and an extended and complex joke about a lost Chaucer manuscript. If you are the kind of person who enjoys absurdist mystery fiction and/or jokes about lost Chaucer manuscript, you're likely to enjoy this. If you don't savor Colin Dexter's work, though, you're unlikely to find pleasure in this sillier send-up of human and academic follies.
August 6, 2021
When valuable books are stolen from Oxford University's library, and some are burnt, Scotland Yard sends detective Autumn to investigate. But no sooner does Autumn arrive at Warlock college than he finds the vice chancellor of the University--and his host--has been murdered. There are all sorts of motives for his death--he was a very disagreeable man--and Autumn is all but overwhelmed by the colorful characters and eccentrics that he meets.
August 26, 2011
An interesting book, a little tongue in cheek mystery about the murder of a couple of Oxford University dons. There are just too many suspects and characters being juggled about and I got a little dizzy keeping them straight.
November 11, 2014
A rather boring mystery. The author intended the story to be amusing, and maybe it would be for an Oxford insider, but I found only a few comedic moments. I only bothered to finish the book because my book club is going to discuss it as part of our "mystery and comedy" series.
February 6, 2021
I am always attracted by the green of the old Penguin Crime series. This time it beguiled me into forgetting that Robert Robinson was a very annoying man. Never mind, a couple of hours and one pound fifty isn't too drastic a wasted outlay.
For those who don't know, Robert Robinson was the Andrew Marr of his time, although rather more heard than seen - those were the days when radio was king. He was cocky, interrupted regularly, never in my hearing said anything of note nor, a greater failing, anything remotely amusing. Are you beginning to see the similarities?
Anyway, it turns out, looking at the timeline, that he may have joined the ranks of commentator journalists only after realising, via this novel, that he could not make a living writing detective novels. This was published in 1956, and I think he joined the BBC in 1955. Probably he had just written this manuscript and, despite hawking it around hopefully, knew that it was no good. Or someone told him it was lousy - the Robert Robinson I remember would not, I suspect, have been capable of such honest self-criticism.
The book is set in Oxford, and Robinson probably believed that the setting was enough to carry all before it. The story concerns murders in a college, none of which the author manages to make us care about. This is because his approach is so shallow and dull. To be scrupulously fair, there is quite a good set piece, portraying some boat races. However, the quality of Robinson's attempt at characterisation can be indicated by the fact that a pesky hack journalist character is given the name of Mr Bum. Just in case you didn't know what to think about him.
Perhaps I was in a bad mood - lockdown can do that to a person - but I cannot recommend this book.
For those who don't know, Robert Robinson was the Andrew Marr of his time, although rather more heard than seen - those were the days when radio was king. He was cocky, interrupted regularly, never in my hearing said anything of note nor, a greater failing, anything remotely amusing. Are you beginning to see the similarities?
Anyway, it turns out, looking at the timeline, that he may have joined the ranks of commentator journalists only after realising, via this novel, that he could not make a living writing detective novels. This was published in 1956, and I think he joined the BBC in 1955. Probably he had just written this manuscript and, despite hawking it around hopefully, knew that it was no good. Or someone told him it was lousy - the Robert Robinson I remember would not, I suspect, have been capable of such honest self-criticism.
The book is set in Oxford, and Robinson probably believed that the setting was enough to carry all before it. The story concerns murders in a college, none of which the author manages to make us care about. This is because his approach is so shallow and dull. To be scrupulously fair, there is quite a good set piece, portraying some boat races. However, the quality of Robinson's attempt at characterisation can be indicated by the fact that a pesky hack journalist character is given the name of Mr Bum. Just in case you didn't know what to think about him.
Perhaps I was in a bad mood - lockdown can do that to a person - but I cannot recommend this book.
March 15, 2011
Schauplatz dieses kriminellen Kleinods ist die altehrwürdige Universitätsstadt Oxford, gespickt mit toten Professoren.
Eine akademische Gemeinschaft in all ihrer Exzentrizität und reizend skurrile Nebenfiguren beleben die Landschaft mit den toten Professoren.
Fair Play, keine verschwiegenen Details und eine der schönsten Verhaftungsszenen mit einer sehr rührigen Verfolgungsjagd machen "Landscape with Dead Dons" ("Die toten Professoren") zum reinsten Lesevergnügen.
Einer der besten Kriminalromane aus DuMont's Kriminalbibliothek.
Eine akademische Gemeinschaft in all ihrer Exzentrizität und reizend skurrile Nebenfiguren beleben die Landschaft mit den toten Professoren.
Fair Play, keine verschwiegenen Details und eine der schönsten Verhaftungsszenen mit einer sehr rührigen Verfolgungsjagd machen "Landscape with Dead Dons" ("Die toten Professoren") zum reinsten Lesevergnügen.
Einer der besten Kriminalromane aus DuMont's Kriminalbibliothek.
November 4, 2020
My second all-time favorite mystery. A neglected classic of the genre.
February 4, 2025
3.89 stars in the stacks under Radcliffe Square
Dear Future me
What a bloody relief this was. Something light and entertaining that was also well-written and with an interesting enough mystery that we didn't slip into torpor half way through.
Okay, let’s not write a thousand word essay this time.*
Let's start with the negatives and go on to the rather longer positives list after.
Not so great things:
• cringey mid-century sexism, right there at the start and—tragically—right there at the end when I’d all but forgotten about it. That and some veery dated ways of making fun of people. It’s not nasty or mean-spirited, just … very mid-century. Think … saucy seaside post cards or an episode of The Two Ronnies.
• characters aren’t exactly rounded. They’re actors in a clever plot with a delightful setting. We certainly get a feel for Autumn’s quality of mind, but not so very much of the character it lives in. Having said that, Robinson is good at drawing the actors in with a quick pen portrait that gives you the sense of them—and in a brisk sort of a book like this—it’s enough. The most lively sense of character we get other than Autumn is Bum the journalist and Dorcas of the Oxford police.
• Which reminds me—the names are a bit distracting. The nouns: Autumn, Flower, Dogg, Egg, Bum … then the exotics: Manchip, Undigo, Falal …
• Some tiny loose ends. Minor things left unexplained or just … left.
That’s about it. I found it remarkably non-irritating otherwise! (believe it or not, I consider that a win for my reading over the past year)
Rather good, in fact:
• Actually properly well written. No on page problems at all. Vocabulary you can get your teeth into—if you like that sort of thing. Not embroidered or literary, but with moments of beauty mixed nicely in with the observational comedy and farce.
• The setting is fully realised. Both in broad sweep and intimate unexpected detail. One of the great pleasures of the book was hanging around Oxford during Eights Week. Seeing it, feeling it, breathing it in, day and night. An unexpected pleasure in a light mystery.
• Satire, farce and sprinkles of observational humour mix with the mystery, but never get the upper hand. I’d say 70% mystery, 15% farce, 10% observation, 5% satire. One might quibble—according to taste—over whether the mix is quite right. Personally, I could have stood more satire and less farce—because this kind of farce is hard to bring off in print. A massed, naked man-hunt is something best done on film. Like one of those comedies from the 60s with Peter Sellers and David Niven. Print can’t quite bring the absurdity home. But that’s a quibble. It was still silly fun.
And the satire was subtle stabs at academia—both its trendy and hidebound aspects. Interestingly, 70 years later, both kinds still exist and are still ripe for puncture, possibly because it’s a matter of temperament, not of time or of subject matter. And temperamental differences are everywhere in saecula saeculorum…
• … Which reminds me that there’s some really interesting points made by the murderer right at the end about the two types of intellect, those who are caught somewhat between the two poles, intellectual vanity and the hothouse atmosphere of academic communities. It’s not the only book—not even the only murder mystery—I’ve read that discusses this, but it was an enjoyable take.
• And, at last: the mystery … was good, actually. Some detecting went on, which makes a nice change. Not so much with the finger prints and the blood stains, but lots of cogitation about actions and statements and their implications (which is more interesting to me anyhow. Procedurals are rather dull to my way of thinking). And I enjoyed how much of the process we were allowed to see as Autumn worked his way through. Rare enough in this kind of book to be a treat.
And then the thing was hidden in completely plain sight, which was rather wonderful.
This one will stay on my shelves for a re-read.
with surprise,
past you
*Nnooo ... a mere 650 words ...
Dear Future me
What a bloody relief this was. Something light and entertaining that was also well-written and with an interesting enough mystery that we didn't slip into torpor half way through.
Okay, let’s not write a thousand word essay this time.*
Let's start with the negatives and go on to the rather longer positives list after.
Not so great things:
• cringey mid-century sexism, right there at the start and—tragically—right there at the end when I’d all but forgotten about it. That and some veery dated ways of making fun of people. It’s not nasty or mean-spirited, just … very mid-century. Think … saucy seaside post cards or an episode of The Two Ronnies.
• characters aren’t exactly rounded. They’re actors in a clever plot with a delightful setting. We certainly get a feel for Autumn’s quality of mind, but not so very much of the character it lives in. Having said that, Robinson is good at drawing the actors in with a quick pen portrait that gives you the sense of them—and in a brisk sort of a book like this—it’s enough. The most lively sense of character we get other than Autumn is Bum the journalist and Dorcas of the Oxford police.
• Which reminds me—the names are a bit distracting. The nouns: Autumn, Flower, Dogg, Egg, Bum … then the exotics: Manchip, Undigo, Falal …
• Some tiny loose ends. Minor things left unexplained or just … left.
That’s about it. I found it remarkably non-irritating otherwise! (believe it or not, I consider that a win for my reading over the past year)
Rather good, in fact:
• Actually properly well written. No on page problems at all. Vocabulary you can get your teeth into—if you like that sort of thing. Not embroidered or literary, but with moments of beauty mixed nicely in with the observational comedy and farce.
• The setting is fully realised. Both in broad sweep and intimate unexpected detail. One of the great pleasures of the book was hanging around Oxford during Eights Week. Seeing it, feeling it, breathing it in, day and night. An unexpected pleasure in a light mystery.
• Satire, farce and sprinkles of observational humour mix with the mystery, but never get the upper hand. I’d say 70% mystery, 15% farce, 10% observation, 5% satire. One might quibble—according to taste—over whether the mix is quite right. Personally, I could have stood more satire and less farce—because this kind of farce is hard to bring off in print. A massed, naked man-hunt is something best done on film. Like one of those comedies from the 60s with Peter Sellers and David Niven. Print can’t quite bring the absurdity home. But that’s a quibble. It was still silly fun.
And the satire was subtle stabs at academia—both its trendy and hidebound aspects. Interestingly, 70 years later, both kinds still exist and are still ripe for puncture, possibly because it’s a matter of temperament, not of time or of subject matter. And temperamental differences are everywhere in saecula saeculorum…
• … Which reminds me that there’s some really interesting points made by the murderer right at the end about the two types of intellect, those who are caught somewhat between the two poles, intellectual vanity and the hothouse atmosphere of academic communities. It’s not the only book—not even the only murder mystery—I’ve read that discusses this, but it was an enjoyable take.
• And, at last: the mystery … was good, actually. Some detecting went on, which makes a nice change. Not so much with the finger prints and the blood stains, but lots of cogitation about actions and statements and their implications (which is more interesting to me anyhow. Procedurals are rather dull to my way of thinking). And I enjoyed how much of the process we were allowed to see as Autumn worked his way through. Rare enough in this kind of book to be a treat.
And then the thing was hidden in completely plain sight, which was rather wonderful.
This one will stay on my shelves for a re-read.
with surprise,
past you
*Nnooo ... a mere 650 words ...
December 23, 2024
Oxford, Mitte der fünfziger Jahre; Genre: Kriminalroman, zwei Professoren werden ermordet.
Das Buch war der einzige Kriminalroman des zu nachmaliger Medien-Popularität gelangenden Robinson. Ein launiger, verschmitzter Whodunit mit einer in sich verschlossenen, allerdings eher eifersüchtig, als kameradschaftlich verschlossenen Professoren-Runde in einem Oxforder College. Das Buch kam seinerzeit gut an und gilt als ein Wunder an Fairness gegenüber dem Leser. Angeblich weiß Inspektor Autumn von Scotland Yard, eine eher blasse Figur, bis knapp vor der Auflösung auch nie mehr als die Leser und hat auch noch die Freundlichkeit, seinen gesamten Wissenstand unter den Augen des Lesers gelegentlich zusammenzufassen und zu ordnen.
Was schon mal andeutet, dass es so rasant bei dieser Geschichte nicht zugeht. Und was schlussendlich immerhin doch dazu führt, dass Autumn über mehrere Kapitel hinweg sich nach „dem Mann“ erkundigt und ihm dann folgt, ihm übers Wasser weg zuschaut - und immer wieder heißt es: „der Mann, der Prof. NN ermordet hatte“. Mit anderen Worten: Robinson scheint sich ziemlich sicher zu sein, dass noch immer keiner seiner Leser ahnt, wen der Mann da im Auge hat. Und das liegt doch daran, dass er uns scheinbar, aber nicht wirklich alles gezeigt hatte.
Man lobt an dem Buch, wie geschickt es die allerwichtigsten Aspekte offen an der Oberfläche versteckt. In der Tat ist es so, dass man wohl reichlich schnell ahnen würde, wer der Mörder sein muss, wenn man auf halber Strecke dann mal raus hätte, was eigentlich das zentrale Problem dieses akademischen Ladens ist. Vieles hat mit wertvollen alten Büchern zu tun. Autumn wird nach Oxford abgeordnet, weil ein Unbekannter begonnen hat, die bedeutendsten Denkmale der englischen Literatur in Form ihrer Erstausgaben zu vernichten. Aber gerade jetzt hat einer der Professoren ein Denkmal wiedergefunden, eine verlorengegangene Schrift von Geoffrey Chaucer. Diese geht in der gelehrten Gesellschaft lässig von Hand zu Hand und ist alles andere als hochgesichert. Allerdings befinden sich in dem fraglichen Gebäude normalerweise nur 15 männliche Wesen, Professoren und Undergraduates, die sich Hoffnungen auf Festanstellung machen. Tags wird der Eingang überwacht, nachts wird das Haus, in dem sie auch privat leben, zugeschlossen.
Es war einer von diesen 15. Die sich scheinbar locker, teils aber auch recht verbittert auf den Arm nehmen und ins Wort fallen, wenn der Inspektor was wissen will. Da gibt es Eifersüchteleien. Der erste Tote ist der Chef, also stellt sich die Frage, wer rückt nach. Einer hatte ein Verhältnis mit der Frau eines anderen und ein Dritter hätte es weitererzählen können. Zwei Studenten lieben dasselbe Mädchen. Ein russischer Gaststudent wird der kommunistischen Wühlarbeit verdächtigt. Ins dämmerige Büchermagazin, wo jedes Buch Englands mit einem Exemplar vertreten ist, werden pornografische Liebhaberdrucke eingeschmuggelt. Eine vertrottelte alte Frau, die sich von kleinen Männern, die aus dem Fernsehen kommen, bedroht fühlt, will von ihrem Dach aus solche Männchen in regelmäßigen Abständen nachts mit einem Lieferwagen vorfahren und Geschäften nachgehen gesehen haben.
Robinson hat, nach sehr viel Reden, Tee trinken, Dozieren, jenen aparten Schlussgag, bei dem eine Schar vollkommen nackter Männer quer durch Oxford dem Mörder hinterher rennt. Das ist ja ganz hübsch, war seinerzeit, in England, in den fünfziger Jahren, wohl wesentlich kesser, als es heute noch ist, und es unterstreicht, dass der Autor sich in der Tradition eines Detektivs wie Gervase Fen und seines Autors Edmund Crispin verortet hat, dessen „Der wandernder Spielzeugladen“ ich allerdings entschieden amüsanter, auf angenehme Art verzopfter und verschnörkelter finde als das hier. Wohlgemerkt: Der „Toy Shop“ ist extrem konstruiert und unglaubwürdig, was das Verbrechen und dessen Organisation angeht, aber das augenzwinkernde Oxford-Kolorit ist ja doch die Hauptsache und eben ein größeres Vergnügen.
Dieses Buch ist oft schwer zu verfolgen, weil die Fäden andauernd fallen gelassen werden und mit etwas kryptischem Professoren-Schnack dazwischen geredet wird. Ständig sprechen die 15 Männer miteinander, die wir, wie sich auf die Dauer leider herausstellt, auseinanderhalten können sollten. Aber das schafft man nicht. Sie sind sich zu ähnlich, bzw. zu unpersönlich geschildert – und allein diese kuriosen Namen wie Egg und Dogg und Bow-Parley helfen da auch nicht weiter.
Das Buch war der einzige Kriminalroman des zu nachmaliger Medien-Popularität gelangenden Robinson. Ein launiger, verschmitzter Whodunit mit einer in sich verschlossenen, allerdings eher eifersüchtig, als kameradschaftlich verschlossenen Professoren-Runde in einem Oxforder College. Das Buch kam seinerzeit gut an und gilt als ein Wunder an Fairness gegenüber dem Leser. Angeblich weiß Inspektor Autumn von Scotland Yard, eine eher blasse Figur, bis knapp vor der Auflösung auch nie mehr als die Leser und hat auch noch die Freundlichkeit, seinen gesamten Wissenstand unter den Augen des Lesers gelegentlich zusammenzufassen und zu ordnen.
Was schon mal andeutet, dass es so rasant bei dieser Geschichte nicht zugeht. Und was schlussendlich immerhin doch dazu führt, dass Autumn über mehrere Kapitel hinweg sich nach „dem Mann“ erkundigt und ihm dann folgt, ihm übers Wasser weg zuschaut - und immer wieder heißt es: „der Mann, der Prof. NN ermordet hatte“. Mit anderen Worten: Robinson scheint sich ziemlich sicher zu sein, dass noch immer keiner seiner Leser ahnt, wen der Mann da im Auge hat. Und das liegt doch daran, dass er uns scheinbar, aber nicht wirklich alles gezeigt hatte.
Man lobt an dem Buch, wie geschickt es die allerwichtigsten Aspekte offen an der Oberfläche versteckt. In der Tat ist es so, dass man wohl reichlich schnell ahnen würde, wer der Mörder sein muss, wenn man auf halber Strecke dann mal raus hätte, was eigentlich das zentrale Problem dieses akademischen Ladens ist. Vieles hat mit wertvollen alten Büchern zu tun. Autumn wird nach Oxford abgeordnet, weil ein Unbekannter begonnen hat, die bedeutendsten Denkmale der englischen Literatur in Form ihrer Erstausgaben zu vernichten. Aber gerade jetzt hat einer der Professoren ein Denkmal wiedergefunden, eine verlorengegangene Schrift von Geoffrey Chaucer. Diese geht in der gelehrten Gesellschaft lässig von Hand zu Hand und ist alles andere als hochgesichert. Allerdings befinden sich in dem fraglichen Gebäude normalerweise nur 15 männliche Wesen, Professoren und Undergraduates, die sich Hoffnungen auf Festanstellung machen. Tags wird der Eingang überwacht, nachts wird das Haus, in dem sie auch privat leben, zugeschlossen.
Es war einer von diesen 15. Die sich scheinbar locker, teils aber auch recht verbittert auf den Arm nehmen und ins Wort fallen, wenn der Inspektor was wissen will. Da gibt es Eifersüchteleien. Der erste Tote ist der Chef, also stellt sich die Frage, wer rückt nach. Einer hatte ein Verhältnis mit der Frau eines anderen und ein Dritter hätte es weitererzählen können. Zwei Studenten lieben dasselbe Mädchen. Ein russischer Gaststudent wird der kommunistischen Wühlarbeit verdächtigt. Ins dämmerige Büchermagazin, wo jedes Buch Englands mit einem Exemplar vertreten ist, werden pornografische Liebhaberdrucke eingeschmuggelt. Eine vertrottelte alte Frau, die sich von kleinen Männern, die aus dem Fernsehen kommen, bedroht fühlt, will von ihrem Dach aus solche Männchen in regelmäßigen Abständen nachts mit einem Lieferwagen vorfahren und Geschäften nachgehen gesehen haben.
Robinson hat, nach sehr viel Reden, Tee trinken, Dozieren, jenen aparten Schlussgag, bei dem eine Schar vollkommen nackter Männer quer durch Oxford dem Mörder hinterher rennt. Das ist ja ganz hübsch, war seinerzeit, in England, in den fünfziger Jahren, wohl wesentlich kesser, als es heute noch ist, und es unterstreicht, dass der Autor sich in der Tradition eines Detektivs wie Gervase Fen und seines Autors Edmund Crispin verortet hat, dessen „Der wandernder Spielzeugladen“ ich allerdings entschieden amüsanter, auf angenehme Art verzopfter und verschnörkelter finde als das hier. Wohlgemerkt: Der „Toy Shop“ ist extrem konstruiert und unglaubwürdig, was das Verbrechen und dessen Organisation angeht, aber das augenzwinkernde Oxford-Kolorit ist ja doch die Hauptsache und eben ein größeres Vergnügen.
Dieses Buch ist oft schwer zu verfolgen, weil die Fäden andauernd fallen gelassen werden und mit etwas kryptischem Professoren-Schnack dazwischen geredet wird. Ständig sprechen die 15 Männer miteinander, die wir, wie sich auf die Dauer leider herausstellt, auseinanderhalten können sollten. Aber das schafft man nicht. Sie sind sich zu ähnlich, bzw. zu unpersönlich geschildert – und allein diese kuriosen Namen wie Egg und Dogg und Bow-Parley helfen da auch nicht weiter.
July 26, 2023
Missään vaiheessa minulle ei selvinnyt, mikä Kuolleet kirjatoukat oikein yrittää olla. Onko se tarkoitettu dekkariparodiaksi? Vaiko satiiriksi Oxfordin professoreista? Vai koettaako se vain olla hauska murhamysteeri? Oli mikä tahansa, ei se minusta ainakaan ollut hääppöinen kirja. Oikeastaan se oli erittäin rasittava.
Minulle dekkarit ovat puhdasta eskapismia. Ja jotta homma toimisi, minun olisi jollain tavalla pääni sisällä uskottava kuvattavaan maailmaan ja pidettävä tai oltava kiinnostunut edes jostakin päähenkilöstä. Robert Robinson kuitenkin teki jo hahmojensa nimivalinnoilla selväksi, hänen Oxfordinsa on puhdasta pelleilyä. Bum, Weed ja Sharpshoot. Spectre. Dogg, Egg, Flower ja Archangel. Tantalum. Falal ja Undigo. Immanuel Kant. Ja päähenkilönä Autumn. Tähän maailmaan ei tarvinnut uskoa hetkeäkään.
Perinteisen puskafarssin puolelle kirja lipesi lopussa, kun joukko yliopistomiehiä juoksi kelteisillään Oxfordin halki. Mitään hauskaa siinä niin kuin koko kirjassakaan ei kuitenkaan ollut. Suomalaista kesäteatteria tai vanhoja suomalaisia elokuvia Kuolleet kirjatoukat muistutti sikälikin, että vuorosanat olivat jatkuvasti naurettavan (ei naurattavan) teatraalisia. Kuolleet kirjatoukat on myös ärsyttävän sovinistinen. Hahmojen tai tarinan puolesta sen ei enimmäkseen tarvitsisi olla, joten kyse on suurimmalta osin vain Robinsonin sovinismista.
Murhien motiivin osalta kirja oli varsin nokkela, mutta muuta kehuttavaa siinä ei oikeastaan ollut. Suuri pettymys tämä siis kokonaisuutena oli, vallankin kun aihepiiri ja ympäristö olivat erittäin kiinnostavia.
Minulle dekkarit ovat puhdasta eskapismia. Ja jotta homma toimisi, minun olisi jollain tavalla pääni sisällä uskottava kuvattavaan maailmaan ja pidettävä tai oltava kiinnostunut edes jostakin päähenkilöstä. Robert Robinson kuitenkin teki jo hahmojensa nimivalinnoilla selväksi, hänen Oxfordinsa on puhdasta pelleilyä. Bum, Weed ja Sharpshoot. Spectre. Dogg, Egg, Flower ja Archangel. Tantalum. Falal ja Undigo. Immanuel Kant. Ja päähenkilönä Autumn. Tähän maailmaan ei tarvinnut uskoa hetkeäkään.
Perinteisen puskafarssin puolelle kirja lipesi lopussa, kun joukko yliopistomiehiä juoksi kelteisillään Oxfordin halki. Mitään hauskaa siinä niin kuin koko kirjassakaan ei kuitenkaan ollut. Suomalaista kesäteatteria tai vanhoja suomalaisia elokuvia Kuolleet kirjatoukat muistutti sikälikin, että vuorosanat olivat jatkuvasti naurettavan (ei naurattavan) teatraalisia. Kuolleet kirjatoukat on myös ärsyttävän sovinistinen. Hahmojen tai tarinan puolesta sen ei enimmäkseen tarvitsisi olla, joten kyse on suurimmalta osin vain Robinsonin sovinismista.
Murhien motiivin osalta kirja oli varsin nokkela, mutta muuta kehuttavaa siinä ei oikeastaan ollut. Suuri pettymys tämä siis kokonaisuutena oli, vallankin kun aihepiiri ja ympäristö olivat erittäin kiinnostavia.
August 25, 2021
I added this edition and photographs to GoodReads. I've been reading a lot of fiction or mysteries set in Oxford and Cambridge. This was a first edition with a caveat band warning that the book was old and fragile so handle with care.
Slowish to start, the book has well wrought sentences that shine through, with not a word wasted and full of humour. The plot is sprinkled with characters whose names ironically reflect their personality role, for example "Bow-Parley" for the Chaplain of whom he writes pricelessly:
'In conversation it always seemed as if the Rev. Cyprian Bow-Parley were using his hands as antenna, as sensitive apparatus whereby he might put himself in touch with corporeality. He would clamp his hand on the arm of the person he addressed as if apprehension that the slightest break in contact might involve instant sublimation of Bow-Parley-on-Earth, and a reappearance (crystalline and ethereal) somewhere in the region of the ceiling.'
Slowish to start, the book has well wrought sentences that shine through, with not a word wasted and full of humour. The plot is sprinkled with characters whose names ironically reflect their personality role, for example "Bow-Parley" for the Chaplain of whom he writes pricelessly:
'In conversation it always seemed as if the Rev. Cyprian Bow-Parley were using his hands as antenna, as sensitive apparatus whereby he might put himself in touch with corporeality. He would clamp his hand on the arm of the person he addressed as if apprehension that the slightest break in contact might involve instant sublimation of Bow-Parley-on-Earth, and a reappearance (crystalline and ethereal) somewhere in the region of the ceiling.'
May 15, 2018
I heard about this novel when it was mentioned by Russell Davies, the present question-master on Brain of Britain, who added that Robinson was 'inordinately proud' of it. And justifiably so! Possibly a little too clever for its own good, and very cliquey, but a quick, entertaining read! If you can deduce whodunnit before the ultimate denouement, award yourself a celebratory dip in Parson's Pleasure!
June 4, 2018
Complicated!
August 26, 2018
Loppuratkaisu oli nerokas, mutten oikein pitänyt kirjoittajan vaeltelevasta tyylistä...
July 4, 2025
All the Oxford lingo made this hard to follow for me. Also the ending was too ridiculous to be borne. Mystery and characters were decent.
May 4, 2021
If Robert Robinson were still alive he would be well worth following on Twitter: he was a wry, gently humorous observer of society and its odd tropes, often carrying a watermark of wisdom in his expressions both verbal and written. This book, his first, is detective fiction and it makes good technical use of the closed world of academia (Oxford) where all possibilities can be held up carefully to the light of study without untidy interference from random realities of life.
The tone is arch, gently satirical and witty, although his choice of character surnames is heavy-handed at times: the detective is Autumn, a journalist is called Bum, that kind of thing. So in the end the book feels a bit like an exercise in genre writing rather than a sincere commitment to the generic conventions.
I have read and enjoyed Robinson's journalism (I still listen to recordings of Stop The Week from BBC radio in the 1980's!) and a later novel, Bad Dreams, which is more straightforwardly literary and serious; only his autobiography, Skip All That, has disappointed. He had a lively, astute intellect and refreshingly lacked all sentimentality. I did enjoy this book, but its idiosyncrasies reduced that enjoyment somewhat, so I cannot in all honesty recommend it to the general reader.
The tone is arch, gently satirical and witty, although his choice of character surnames is heavy-handed at times: the detective is Autumn, a journalist is called Bum, that kind of thing. So in the end the book feels a bit like an exercise in genre writing rather than a sincere commitment to the generic conventions.
I have read and enjoyed Robinson's journalism (I still listen to recordings of Stop The Week from BBC radio in the 1980's!) and a later novel, Bad Dreams, which is more straightforwardly literary and serious; only his autobiography, Skip All That, has disappointed. He had a lively, astute intellect and refreshingly lacked all sentimentality. I did enjoy this book, but its idiosyncrasies reduced that enjoyment somewhat, so I cannot in all honesty recommend it to the general reader.
May 2, 2016
Robinson's first published work, originally released by Gollancz shortly after the broadcaster came down from Oxford in the mid-1950s, is not quite as good as I remember, but still an entertaining jaunt through that ancient university town. Although plagued with broad strokes of undergraduate humour (two of the fictional colleges are called Warlock -- the men's college -- and Walpurgis -- the ladies' college -- and there are characters boasting names like Egg, Bum, Flower, Manchip, and Archangel), and featuring a climactic chase through Oxford by a horde of unclothed dons who have fled Parson's Pleasure in a panic, the mystery is interesting, even if the solution is telegraphed a fair distance in advance. Not as clever as it wants to be, and certainly not as good as the similarly-veined The Moving Toyshop by Edmund Crispin, Landscape with Dead Dons is still worth reading, if only for its evocation of a world which scarcely seems like it was ever real.
Full review to follow.
Full review to follow.
January 3, 2014
I can see why this book is not still on people's reading lists. It was published in 1956. I think the print was even smaller than it is in todays paperbacks. Sometimes the language got in the way of the story and became a bit overblown. There were a few very funny scenes. One involved a number nude of Oxford dons and one fully clothed policeman chasing the villian, another nude don, from the river and through the town. I had fun reading it, but will not seek out others.
The book was given to me by a friend cleaning out her bookcases. Does someone want it or should I keep it until I do my culling of the books?
The book was given to me by a friend cleaning out her bookcases. Does someone want it or should I keep it until I do my culling of the books?
December 28, 2013
This book I've had since my schooldays, when I had a taste for whodunits, but only got around to reading this year. It's a little bit in thrall to Zuleika Dobson and the concept of Oxford as a surreal wonderland - which is perfectly true, as a matter of fact, but evanesces when laboured to this degree. Still, there are passages of really marvellous writing and it passes the time agreeably enough. If you like the genre, worth a look.
November 27, 2013
Read this over several days, so may have forgotten some bits. A very academic Oxford spoof (I partly read it because the back of the book quoted Michael Innes as saying it was "tremendous fun"). I'm sure there were lots of in jokes I didn't get. And 1956 was a long time ago -- things have changed since the time of Tolkien, et al. But I did enjoy ti.
March 26, 2017
Amusing whodunnit full of Oxonian detail -- silly but fun
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