What do you think?
Rate this book
Henry James' Midnight Song
When a bloody body disappears from Dr. Freud's study, Inspector Maurice Le Blanc must cope with Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, Henry James, Edith Wharton, and others. By the author of The Eleven Million Mile High Dancer. 35,000 first printing.
445 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1993
8 people are currently reading
147 people want to read
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews
July 3, 2018
A beautiful novel encompassing everything great about the post-modernist literary movement. Following the lives and thoughts of historical and fictional characters, this story depicts love, adultery, mystery and murder. Many strings are weaving very different stories that all come together at the closing of the novel. This novel makes the reader question and think about the reasons why people do what they do, and in Freudian nature, what childhood memory has fueled that impulse. If you like ever changing characters, and a novel that forces you think analyze every detail, this is a an amazing book to read.
November 16, 2025
What if Cain killed Abel because he wanted to fuck his mother.
SPOILERS:
So: Abel is Maurice LeBlanc, a Parisian man from nobiliary ascendance who has resigned to his estate in solidarity with the lower classes. Now turned detective, he receives the call from a fellow comrade in Vienna to help with the investigation of a series of murders in the city that has been accompanied with a series of blue paper notes. One of the incidents in this chain of tragedies, involves non other that Sigmund Freud, whose house becomes a crime scene when, in the middle of the night, a corpse appears on the floor and quickly disappears in the frame of ten minutes, to the terror of both her spouse, Martha, and her sister, Minna. LeBlanc has to resolve a murder without corpse.
Cain is detective Voll: the Police officer who calls LeBlanc to Vienna. Later, we discover that he's actually son to some LeBlanc family's servants, who was fed, in his early childhood, with stories by a nurse who told him he was the true heir to the LeBlancs, but was replaced with Maurice when he was only a baby. Voll, being only a child, actually tried to kill Maurice, while crying "My mother!".
The song of the title might refer to the sounds and murmurs Time makes while assembling the present, which can be rationalized by the concept of "spirit of the times", a rather eerie sentiment of the uncanny, of the encompassing things to come.
SPOILERS:
So: Abel is Maurice LeBlanc, a Parisian man from nobiliary ascendance who has resigned to his estate in solidarity with the lower classes. Now turned detective, he receives the call from a fellow comrade in Vienna to help with the investigation of a series of murders in the city that has been accompanied with a series of blue paper notes. One of the incidents in this chain of tragedies, involves non other that Sigmund Freud, whose house becomes a crime scene when, in the middle of the night, a corpse appears on the floor and quickly disappears in the frame of ten minutes, to the terror of both her spouse, Martha, and her sister, Minna. LeBlanc has to resolve a murder without corpse.
Cain is detective Voll: the Police officer who calls LeBlanc to Vienna. Later, we discover that he's actually son to some LeBlanc family's servants, who was fed, in his early childhood, with stories by a nurse who told him he was the true heir to the LeBlancs, but was replaced with Maurice when he was only a baby. Voll, being only a child, actually tried to kill Maurice, while crying "My mother!".
The song of the title might refer to the sounds and murmurs Time makes while assembling the present, which can be rationalized by the concept of "spirit of the times", a rather eerie sentiment of the uncanny, of the encompassing things to come.
September 13, 2022
This is a classic, beautifully written, multi layered, intriguing, erotic, suspenseful, romantic, intelligent. After I read it I ordered it in hardback.
August 19, 2011
Da man vor jeder Kritik ja immer was Nettes sagen soll (à la: „Ich schätze Ihre Arbeit in unserer Abteilung wirklich sehr, tolle Präsentation neulich! Toll wäre es übrigens auch, wenn sie regelmäßig Deo benutzen würden.“), zuerst einmal das Positive: Es ist nicht schlecht geschrieben. Die Charaktere sind gut und genau gezeichnet und manchmal auch recht lustig (im Übrigen spielen einige Personen mit, die tatsächlich gelebt haben: Der Psychoanalytiker Sigmund Freud, die Autorin Edith Wharton, der Autor Henry James und am Rande auch der österreichische Kaiser selbst). Das beste Ensemble und die prunkvollste Kulisse (das k.u.k. Wien) nützen allerdings leider wenig, wenn die Geschichte nur einen sehr dünnen roten Faden hat, der kaum die vielen verschiedenen Handlungsstränge zusammenhalten kann.
Nun, es ist schon klar, dass geheimnisvolle Frauenmorde in Wien geschehen und dass angeblich auch in Doktor Freuds Wohnung ein Mord passiert sein soll. Das ist allerdings nicht wirklich sicher, weil nur Freuds Ehefrau und deren Schwester Zeuginnen waren – und Freud weiß ja selbst, dass beide eigentlich ziemlich hysterisch in solchen Dingen nicht wirklich zuverlässig sind. Doch wieso wollen dann alle Mitglieder des Haushalts den großen, eingetrockneten Blutfleck auf dem Teppich vor dem eigens aus Paris angereisten Inspektor verbergen?
Tja, und ansonsten bewegen wir uns ein wenig in der gehobenen Gesellschaft Wiens, lauschen den Gesprächen in den Salons, die sich um die Theorien Herzls oder den Dreyfus-Prozess drehen und haben letztlich wenig Ahnung, was dieses Buch eigentlich sein soll. Ein Krimi ist es auf nicht, vielleicht doch eher ein Gesellschaftsporträt, ein Roman über das Fin de siècle oder über Wien, ein Mosaik aus diversen Teilchen, ein Stimmungsbild…
Es kann gut sein, dass jemand, der so etwas mag, dieses Buch ganz toll findet. Mir war es aber oft einfach zu unentschlossen, was es eigentlich sein will. Dazu hat sich die Geschichte häufig in viel zu kurzen Kapiteln, in Nebenhandlungen und Details verloren – zuerst war ich von den ständigen Sprüngen zwischen Städten und Charakteren total verwirrt, dann ärgerte es mich etwas, weil es mich davon abhielt, mich näher in einen Handlungsstrang hineinzuversetzen.
Fazit also leider nur ein „ganz nett“ – ich habe aber momentan so viele andere Bücher im Regal stehen, die mehr versprechen als ein „so ganz nett“. Deswegen bleibt es auch nur bei einem „nicht ganz gelesen“.
Nun, es ist schon klar, dass geheimnisvolle Frauenmorde in Wien geschehen und dass angeblich auch in Doktor Freuds Wohnung ein Mord passiert sein soll. Das ist allerdings nicht wirklich sicher, weil nur Freuds Ehefrau und deren Schwester Zeuginnen waren – und Freud weiß ja selbst, dass beide eigentlich ziemlich hysterisch in solchen Dingen nicht wirklich zuverlässig sind. Doch wieso wollen dann alle Mitglieder des Haushalts den großen, eingetrockneten Blutfleck auf dem Teppich vor dem eigens aus Paris angereisten Inspektor verbergen?
Tja, und ansonsten bewegen wir uns ein wenig in der gehobenen Gesellschaft Wiens, lauschen den Gesprächen in den Salons, die sich um die Theorien Herzls oder den Dreyfus-Prozess drehen und haben letztlich wenig Ahnung, was dieses Buch eigentlich sein soll. Ein Krimi ist es auf nicht, vielleicht doch eher ein Gesellschaftsporträt, ein Roman über das Fin de siècle oder über Wien, ein Mosaik aus diversen Teilchen, ein Stimmungsbild…
Es kann gut sein, dass jemand, der so etwas mag, dieses Buch ganz toll findet. Mir war es aber oft einfach zu unentschlossen, was es eigentlich sein will. Dazu hat sich die Geschichte häufig in viel zu kurzen Kapiteln, in Nebenhandlungen und Details verloren – zuerst war ich von den ständigen Sprüngen zwischen Städten und Charakteren total verwirrt, dann ärgerte es mich etwas, weil es mich davon abhielt, mich näher in einen Handlungsstrang hineinzuversetzen.
Fazit also leider nur ein „ganz nett“ – ich habe aber momentan so viele andere Bücher im Regal stehen, die mehr versprechen als ein „so ganz nett“. Deswegen bleibt es auch nur bei einem „nicht ganz gelesen“.
March 23, 2011
What Cecily said made Henry James wonder now if anyone ever would actually have anything to say about HIM? It rather intrigued him, the brief moments when he looked up on his library shelf and dared to think that someone, sometime, hopefully, he thought, a man of erudition and good will, might write a book about him, Henry James. He looked at the library shelf and it seemed to glow. Sheer poppycock and nonsense to be sure, yet how elevating in a way to think it might be true. He permitted himself the conceit of imagining a book, one entire book devoted to a study of his work. Maybe, he thought wistfully, it would even have gold letters. If it was about his work, he though he would actually be quite pleased. It was the other suggestion that annoyed him. 91
Edith Wharton took the papers from him and studied the notes. At the bottom of the notes were the letters scattered in exactly the same way. The most recent note had the letters e, i, o, u. Perhaps Henry had made them into a word, a word she'd never heard?
"I dont see what you mean," she said, feeling a bit disappointed that he might have discovered something which eluded here.
"Well," he said excitedly, "I don't know that it's definitive, or anything of the sort, but all of the scattered letters on the other notes, save this last one - the one that doesn't have rhyme in the same scheme - why all those other notes have consonants on them, you see, t, n,r,w,q, all of that, and this last one, why it's only vowels."
Edith stared at him. "How extraordinary of you to notice," she said.
"Yes." He though it rather was. He was quite proud of himself.
"Well, you see," he said, wanting to embroider on his victory, "I've always been rather interested in vowels. They say it was the Greeks who invented them."
"How clever of you to remember that," she said.
"Well," Henry said, "you can hardly forget it when you think about it, of course. I mean imagine that all those languages before Greek were nothing but consonants. I mean can you imagine the excitement of having a letter for a sound. Think if it!" he exclaimed.
"O," Edith Wharton said. 424
Edith Wharton took the papers from him and studied the notes. At the bottom of the notes were the letters scattered in exactly the same way. The most recent note had the letters e, i, o, u. Perhaps Henry had made them into a word, a word she'd never heard?
"I dont see what you mean," she said, feeling a bit disappointed that he might have discovered something which eluded here.
"Well," he said excitedly, "I don't know that it's definitive, or anything of the sort, but all of the scattered letters on the other notes, save this last one - the one that doesn't have rhyme in the same scheme - why all those other notes have consonants on them, you see, t, n,r,w,q, all of that, and this last one, why it's only vowels."
Edith stared at him. "How extraordinary of you to notice," she said.
"Yes." He though it rather was. He was quite proud of himself.
"Well, you see," he said, wanting to embroider on his victory, "I've always been rather interested in vowels. They say it was the Greeks who invented them."
"How clever of you to remember that," she said.
"Well," Henry said, "you can hardly forget it when you think about it, of course. I mean imagine that all those languages before Greek were nothing but consonants. I mean can you imagine the excitement of having a letter for a sound. Think if it!" he exclaimed.
"O," Edith Wharton said. 424
October 13, 2010
Henry James' Midnight Song is by the same author who wrote The Eleven Million Mile High Dancer, but is completely different, but also a wonderful book. It takes place in fin-de- siecle Vienna and the story is a murder mystery that takes place at Freud's home. The major characters are Freud, Jung, Henry James, Edith Wharton, and Theodore Herzl. The book is fascinating and entertaining, and is also about how the fate of European Jewry is starting to change.
July 31, 2014
Story does not hang together. Many errors and difficult to follow. Modern language used in turn of the century dialogue. Too many confusing and irrelevant characters. Solution to the murder is off-the-wall silly. Don't waste your time on this book. Very few reviews in 1993 and I cannot understand how they were so positive. I disliked this book and wasted time getting to the ending just to see if the book would redeem itself. No.
June 22, 2012
this book tells me people in the victorian era were as cheating and lustful bastards as today and cunning with thier behind closed doors bullshit. This book makes you see aristocrates as the douches they are.
March 1, 2015
Really enjoyed this novel with historical figures as some of its main characters. Centered in fin-de-siecle Vienna, the author takes advantage of an amazing time and place to write a fascinating novel.
September 25, 2010
Postmodern murder mystery novel...Freud, Jung, Wharton and James. Excellent read.
October 3, 2014
Too weird and hard to follow. Confusing jumps between characters and seeming alternate realities. I'm willing to work for a good story, but this one just asked too much.
December 1, 2017
Did not like it enough to get through 100 pages.
Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews