For some reason that only an expert in the Limbic System could possibly explain, the crime writers ongoing attempts on blogs worldwide to square the circle in relation to genre and to point out that, Balzac or not, noir fiction is a valuable safety valve for the expression of contemporary woes, looks set to continue.
I daren't mention why Balzac has got thrown into the pot (his characters never seem to stop sobbing), but a few canny searches round the thriller circuit will make it obvious that "this writer does not write like Balzac" is theme for the September back to noir school brigade in Ireland.
I pare my fingernails and rise, as the sensible deity in Chaucer's "Troilus and Cressida" (and yes, I know that that is not how Chaucer spelled it) to laugh with true enjoyment and not a trace of sarcasm at the piffling concerns of those who trot round daily with such egomaniacal energy. Is it "Noir"? Is it a "Thriller" or possible (probably... undoubtedly...) a "Mystery". We need to send for John Dewey to sort it out once and for all.
In fact, going one step further, I look at photos taken in tropical light and console myself that even if we continue to have months of flat, grey nothingness as the Celtic Twilight kicks in for the late Autumn, I can at least remember warmer days well away for the inutterable boredome of what passes for literary debate on this island.
And the flashbacks to class in the 1970's have also caused entertainment.
Considerations on whether or not Tess of the d'Urbervilles was "a puppet of the gods" or not took forever and, seemingly, the jury is still out.
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