Fink's books on Lanian psychoanalysis are outstanding--well written and clear (not easy in this domain) while offering important explanations and arguments that don't try to water down psychoanalysis. And I'm a fan of just about all sub-genres of detective story. So I was hopeful, when I came across this book, that it might be the first time in the history of the genre that a "psychologist" (or psychoanalyst or phsychiatrist) detective actually had some real knowledge of the field, and put it to use in solving the mystery.
Canal does have all of Fink's knowledge of psychoanalytic theory, and displays it constantly...but there's not much in the way of detective story. The first story in rhis collection sounds like Fink really wanted to write a kind of forensic psychoanalysis of Mozart, without doing all the work, so he puts it in the mouth of a fictional character. It would be more interesting as an academic essay.
I was surprised by what a dreadful writer Fink turns out to be. His non-fiction is quite good, but these stories are painful to read, almost unreadable. It sounds like someone who has never actually read much fiction deciding to write some--and so deciding that affected and stilted prose just is what those "literary" types do. The kind of writing you get from teenagers who've read only about one short story all the way through, and think that in good writing characters never just say anything thing, they must "aver" or "interpolate" all the time. Or that a there are no women sitting on sofas, only luscious blondes draping their svelte forms voluptuously across velvet divans. All the characters are embarrassingly flat cliches, and, sorry to say, Fink comes off as some vulgar and insecure nouveau desperate to prove he's really superior to the great unwashed by childishly obsessing about how much he knows about wine and classical music. I seriously felt bad for his painful insecurity while reading these stories. A few more comments in the first one about how inferior Pittsburgh is to Paris, and I might not have finished.
The pointless use of odd French idioms is another example--none of them are necessary to the story, and they seem designed only to show off the author's command of the langauge. When Canal, at the end of a longish speech in English, adds a French idiom about an eel under the rock (which is not translated), it seems a desperate attempt to fit the idiom in--because in fact, it turns out there is NOT something "fishy" going on, and Canal doesn't really seem to think there is.
Really, painful to read, and a bit embarrassing. Although the insights into psychoanalytic theory are interesting, particularly the observations on Mozart. I don't imagine many readers will make it all the way these long stories (I found myself skimming by the time I got to the third). Personally, I'll stick with Simenon for now.