I discovered Gilbert Adair because he wrote a series of parody-mysteries of famous Agatha Christie works, for example, The Act of Roger Murgatroyd, which, I should say, is hilarious and clever and a toy made to the exact specifications of a locked-room mystery lover with a sense of humor.
But I didn’t realize The Death of the Author would be basically the same kind of mystery. Not a locked-room one, I don’t mean, at least not in the physical sense. But an impossible-murder mystery, of which the locked-room variety is but a subtype.
The novella opens with a meeting between the narrator, Leo Sfax, and a young woman named Astrid. He agrees to something she wants to do, she leaves, and he sits at his computer and begins to type, and tells the reader that at that point, he typed out the four pages she has just read.
The Sfax goes on to narrate his life story starting in childhood, which was spent in pre-War France. During the German occupation, Sfax kept his head down, and he emigrated to the US a few years into the peace. There, he went from shelving and selling books in Greenwich Village to writing them in a fictional New Haven, becoming the darling of elite comparative literature departments throughout the English-speaking world. We find out that Astrid was a graduate student at his university, and that he was not her director but worked closely with her, she falling in love with his Theory—which is, by the way, the Death of the Author. Astrid has recently called a meeting with him, whose purpose he does not know. She proposes writing a biography of Sfax. He agrees, she leaves, and he sits at his computer and begins to type, and tells the reader that at that point, he typed out the forty-one pages she has just read.
One more time. But this time, Sfax says he’s been lying. That stuff about what happened in France, it was a it more unsavory than he’d like anyone to believe. He’s built his life in America, deliciously, propounding a theory that he hopes to use to exculpate himself from authorship of Nazi-tinted writings during his collaborative period. And even more deliciously, the more he tried, with efforts at obscurity, to kill that author, the more he exposed himself to eventual exposure.
The dramatic and literary climax of the novella has, I think, at least two “collapses” that I won’t outline, maybe more. A precious postmodern puzzle-piece, The Death of the Author gave me at least one thing other than the pure pleasure I take in reading such mysteries: the realization that perhaps I like them so much because they are mysteries, just like my beloved Agatha Christies and Dorothy Sayers are mysteries, and like my big book of locked-room mysteries is full of mysteries. Not because of anything profound or fashionable (or fashionably unfashionable?), but for the fun of the puzzle.