Monday, October 20, 2014

Memories False and Lost



“Tell the jury what you saw," the prosecutor asks the man on the witness stand.   We have seen this happen many times in movies and in crime shows on TV and read it in scores of crime novels.  Nothing is as convincing to a jury as an eyewitness report.

We know from Caro’s fascinating post a few months ago, though, how unreliable the hindsight of eyewitnesses can be.  If you missed her report or (ahem!) don’t remember it well, you can find it here:



This morning, while fixing myself breakfast, I listened to an episode of my favorite radio show.   It's called Radio Lab and reports on social and physical science and often about how they intersect and interact. All the episodes are available as podcasts, so I can tune one in whenever I want to hear something to stimulate the little gray cells.  This morning, it was the show called "Memory and Forgetting,” which deals with, among other things, some notions very useful to the crime writer.  Like the fact that memory is dynamic.   One does not put away one’s experiences like storing a can of tomato soup in the kitchen cupboard—with the ability to take out the exact same thing you put in.



Decades before the scientists proved what really happens to memories, Fredrick Loewe and Alan Jay Lerner instinctively knew that the more often one accesses a memory, the less likely we are to remember it accurately.  Viz--



Those two characters must have been truly in love and often thought back on their love affair.  That’s why their memories of it are so different.  Science can show us that now.

This means that the more the police repeatedly question the witness, the more degraded will be the quality of the testimony.  But maybe that is what the investigators want?



And memories can be planted.  Scientific investors have been doing that quite successfully for a long time.  All it takes is to tell the subject about a childhood memory reported by, say the his parents or by her older siblings and, bingo, most people will report details of the scene, filling in with memories of other places, the mall where they “remember” having gotten lost.  What never happened begins to feel absolutely real.

If you want to hear the radio show in question, you can find it here:  (I warn you, you will likely become addicted to Radio Lab and be a smarter person for it.)



At the very least, if you listen, you will learn that the human memory—while precious beyond words and the source of our sense of ourselves—is not one hundred percent reliable.  Try to keep that in mind.




Annamaria - Monday

Saturday, October 18, 2014

In Memoriam of a Great One.


I was going to write something else today, not quite sure what but something else.  Then I had a bit of unexpected finger surgery and was told to ease up on the keyboard for a couple of days. So you’re getting a reprieve. Of sorts. 

Instead, I’m going to peck out something meaningful that requires few words.

It’s a final salute to a man, husband, father, and warrior.  One of the best of The Greatest Generation, living a life few writers could ever hope to capture, no matter how hard they might try.


A second generation American of German Irish roots, born on New Year’s Eve 1919 in NYC’S poor Lower East Side, his factory worker father finally made enough to move the family up to the Bronx into another polyglot neighborhood of hard working men and women.

His athleticism and good nature earned him a position as a batboy at Yankee Stadium in the days of Babe Ruth—and later an offer to try out for the Babe’s former team, the Boston Red Sox.   After graduating high school he attended St. John’s University, working two jobs to pay for it, leaving no time to sleep.

Then came World War II, and he made his choice to leave school and go fight for his country.

He trained as a fighter-bomber pilot, flew 133 missions over Germany, never knowing each time he went up if he’d come back.  Many of his friends did not.  He received many decorations—including the unique honor of receiving both the United States and British Distinguished Flying Crosses.  But he never made a big deal of them. He just did his job.


And thought about the love of his life, Virginia.  The young woman he’d met on a one-day pass in flight school, in Sarasota.  And how they’d been inseparable until he left a month later, knowing he could not ask her to marry a soldier going off to war.


Four years later he returned, found her, and they married. 


He started a business. A very good one.  But it ended with the Korean War when he was called back to active duty to serve for twelve years as base commander of the Air National Guard’s 139th Fighter Squadron and 109thAirlift Wing in upstate New York.


There they had three daughters.


And there he buried his wife in 1970. His life was never the same, though he lived it through his daughters, his grandchildren, and reminiscences of a life respected and admired by all who knew him.


A memorial service with full military honors takes place today as he is interred next to his beloved Virginia.



God rest your blessed soul, Colonel Frederick Joseph Zilly, Jr. (1919-2014).

Jeff––Saturday

Friday, October 17, 2014

The Case Of Suzanne Pilley


There is a misconception that there can be no murder charge without a body. It used to be seven years before a presumption of death certificate could be granted. But now, death can be presumed if there are suspicious circumstances followed by a lack of  'electronic footprints in the snow.

Suzanne Pilley was a 38-year-old bookkeeper from Edinburgh. On the 4 May 2010 she is clearly seen on her usual morning commute.
                                           
                                                                BBC One

Her former lover and co-worker David Gilroy, was arrested and charged with her murder. He was later found by a majority verdict and received a sentence of life imprisonment. He is appealing.
Her remains have never been found.
All the evidence against Gilroy was circumstantial and complicated. The police (Lothian and Borders) and the fiscal office decided to devise a computerised narrative to explain to the jury the events of that day, and that fact that  nobody could have done it, apart from Mr Gilroy.
                                    
                                                                Gilroy
                                                                   STV
So on the 4th   May Suzanne is seen on the bus, she gets off and goes into Sainsburys to buy her sandwich and her bottle of water. The security film of her on the self- service  till is extremely clear. She leaves at 8.51. Three minutes later she is seen turning onto the street where she lives ( on CCTV). There is no coverage of her leaving any of the other exits off the street so she must have gone into her workplace but never turned up at her desk. She was a creature of habit and diligent- her co workers were worried.   It was unlikely she had ‘gone away’ as she had not catered for her cat or fish to be looked after.
This is where the computer graphics came into play for the jury. The prosecution built an image of the four story building. The three office floors are open plan with thirty offices on each floor. The ground floor was car parking.  The theory was that Suzanne had never made it into the office, something had happened to her in the carpark below.
Gilroy arrived at work by bus. He was late getting to his desk (about 9.25) and brought forward a meeting in Argyll from two days hence to the next day.  He went home by bus. His colleagues noticed he had make up covering scars on his face and hands. Nobody knew about his affair or the fact Suzanne had just ended it. At the time of the murder,  he was back with his wife and kids and he was very helpful in the investigation.
On 11 May 2010, Lothian and Borders Police initiated a huge public appeal for information. The SIO brought in large digital screens that sat in the centre of Edinburgh, playing footage of Suzanne’s last known movements. It cost a fortune. The SIO said that his boss nearly had a hairy canary when he mentioned the cost per day ( you could buy a car for that amount of cash, daily) but  he waited a while before he mentioned Suzanne’s work were footing the bill. One week later the employers issued a statement that it was out of character for her to disappear and the police immediately said they were now treating it as a murder enquiry.
                                            
                                      The search area. Huge and inaccessible

Meanwhile they had traced a silver car that has been seen driving round the wilds of Argyll on remote and very bumpy roads. Gilroy had a silver car. Examination of his car showed that all four springs were broken ( the first time the forensic expert had seen that on a thirty year career) so it had been doing some serious off roading.)
The problem was – what had happened to Suzanne.  The SIO brought in two cadaver dogs from   Yorkshire ( the Lothian and border dog was on his  holidays).  The two dogs, Springers,  who I shall called Bibbity and Bobbity worked together to give corroboration of their evidence. Bibbity waggled his head in the presence of  ‘decomposition  scents’,  Bobbity waggled his bottom.
Separately, they ran through the entire building, round every office, Bibbity went first and only showed two positives, one on a concealed stairwell in the carpark, the other beside a door – a door that had to be opened with two hands, so  anybody wanting to exit has to put down anything they are carrying. Babbity showed the same result, his bottom waggling. These dogs can pick up scents  secreted twenty minutes after death. Pretty impressive. So the theory was that Gilroy and Suzanne  had met for some kind of rendezvous in the stairwell.  Gilroy lashed out,  killed her, left her body there  hidden (scent source one) then went  about his business for the day.
                                           
                                                   
                                                     
The next day, the day of the Argyll trip,  he brought his car in,  reversed it up to the garage door and placed her in the boot. The dogs later tested positive  when they got access to the car boot.
He was seen buying air fresheners ( his boot stank of it) there was no DNA in the boot, just the smell of those air fresheners.

On the 6th of May Gilroy gave a 11 hour interview to the police. He had  concealer make up on  his face and had  fresh cuts on his hands- little crescent  shaped marks – like someone had dug their fingernails in.  A Pathologist said they were typical of  the injuries made by a victim of strangulation trying to remove their assailants hands. But he had to agree, they could, possibly have come from gardening as Gilroy insisted.

Suzanne suspected Gilroy was hacking into her computer and reading her emails. It was usual for  Gilroy to text Suzanne 50 times a day,  on the 3rd of May, they dropped to less than 10 a day.

                                          
                                                 he took a very long way round on quiet roads
                                                                Daily Record

The prosecution proved that, no matter which way they drove the journey from Edinburgh to Inverness, 124 miles and 2 hours of time were  unaccounted for.
 And the prosecution made a point of saying that  anybody in their right mind would use the Rest  and be Thankful, but he didn’t. He drove the long way round. Strange behaviour
Guilty by a majority verdict David Gilroy continues to maintain his innocence.
Suzanne’s remains have never been found.



Suzanne's Dad with his favourite photograph
The Sun




Caro Ramsay  17th Oct 2014








Thursday, October 16, 2014

What a man!

It is a cliché to say the world is in a mess.  In reality, there is too much going on for my head to keep track of – ebola, ISIS, the US elections, plunging stock markets, beheadings, politicians.

So here is a little good news about a remarkable man, with a will of steel and a most infectious laugh.

Last week Desmond Tutu celebrated his 79th birthday and, at the same time, retired from public life.

He is up there with Nelson Mandela as one of my heroes.  The path he took was totally different from Mandela’s, even though they shared the same goal – a democratic South Africa.

Mandela chose the political route to try to attain freedom.  Tutu chose the pulpit.

In the early 1960s, Tutu received his Bachelor and Master degrees in Theology from the City College London, after which he returned to South Africa where he worked for the Anglican Church in various roles, culminating in being appointed the first Black Bishop of Cape Town.



Ever since I can remember, Tutu was a thorn in the government’s side.  Obviously, during the years of apartheid, he was outspoken against the practice of legalized discrimination, but he was also adamantly and simultaneously against the US’s policy of constructive engagement and the African National Congress’s increasingly violent stance.

He acknowledged that sanctions would hurt the poor most of all, but argued that at least their suffering would have a purpose.  And he argued that violence begets violence and that a violent overthrow of the apartheid government would not be in the best interests of the country.




It is likely that his strong position in favour of non-violence may have kept him from being jailed by the apartheid government, which needed no legal basis for incarcerating opponent.

Throughout his career, Tutu championed human rights, and has been active in many different areas.  He has campaigned to fight HIV/AIDS, tuberculosis, poverty, racism, sexism, homophobia and transphobia.

In recognition of his activities, he received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984; the Albert Schweitzer Prize for Humanitarianism in 1986; the Pacem in Terris Award in 1987; the Sydney Peace Prize in 1999; the Gandhi Peace Prize in 2007; and the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2009. 

Amazing!

Throughout his life, he’s been a gadfly, not only when the apartheid regime was in power, but even today as he criticizes the ruling ANC government for spinelessness and lack of morality.  He is driven by principles and is unafraid of going after anyone or anybody who violates them.


Recently, for example, President Jacob Zuma denied the Dalai Lama – not for the first time - a visa to enter South Africa to attend the first gathering of Nobel laureates in Africa.  There were to be 14 laureates, gathering to honour Nelson Mandela and twenty years of democracy in South Africa.  They cancelled the meeting.



Tutu lambasted the government for kowtowing to pressures from the Chinese government, who regard the Dalai Lama as a terrorist.  Tutu said he was "ashamed to call this lickspittle bunch my government".

Commission – a body constituted after the fall of apartheid.  Its purpose was to have people of all political persuasions, who had committed crimes, such as murder and sabotage, address the commission, admit their guilt, and express remorse.  Usually this also included coming face to face with the families of those who had been killed or maimed.


If the commission felt that the perpetrator had expressed genuine remorse, he or she was forgiven and no charges could thereafter be brought.

What a civilized thing to do!  Oh, that more countries took this approach rather than the age-old approach of revenge.

If you ever have the chance to watch the PBS documentary on the Truth an Reconciliation Commission, do so.  I guarantee you’ll cry for its entire length, first at the barbarism people can perpetrate, then at the power of forgiveness.

Happy birthday Tata Tutu.  May you live for many more years.  May your tongue remain sharp.


Stan – Thursday.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Long Time No See!

Please give a warm, murderous welcome (okay, not literally) to guest blogger Cara Lopez Lee. Her memoir,  They Only Eat Their Husbands: Love, Travel, and the Power of Running Away, is not exactly crime fiction (though boy you could base a fictional killing or two on it) but it is most definitely a book for armchair travelers. Cara has been all kinds of places, including Alaska, Mexico and China. This post is about her dogged attempts to become multi-lingual, which in Chinese, be it Mandarin or Cantonese, is no easy task...





Long Time, No See!

After a year of Mandarin lessons and a year-and-a-half of Cantonese lessons, I can say “Where’s the bathroom?” in both languages, but don’t know what to do if the person answering does anything besides point. In Cantonese, right is “yao” and left is “dzaw”—don’t ask me the tones because Cantonese officially has either six or nine tones, but I hear 16. Problem is, if someone answers, “Down the hall to the left,” I’d hear, “Blah-blah-blah left.” Actually I’d hear “Mut-mut-mut left,” because “mut” means “blah” in Cantonese. After a few left turns, I’d end up where I started, where there’s only one thing I could say to the person who gave me directions: “Ho noi mo gin!” (Long time, no see!)

The above is called “losing face”: either mo min or diu gaa. I prefer mo min, because diu pronounced with the wrong tone means, “f**k,” though I doubt diu gaa translates “f**k-face.” I don’t mind losing face, but I’d rather not get punched in it. 





I first visited China in 1999, during my solo trek around the world. On that trip, I learned such Mandarin phrases as “Ni hap!” (Hello!)“Duo shao qian?” (How much is it?), and “Xie xie” (Thank you). As a beginner traveler, I fell into the trap of believing that, when in doubt, I could mime whatever I needed. Untrue, as I discovered when looking for my bus from Lijiang to Dali. Unable to read signs, I ran from bus to bus holding up my ticket and pleading “Dali?…Dali?...Dali?” The drivers stared blankly. Panicked, I felt a weird temptation to try Spanish, the only other language I knew. Good thing an old man read my ticket and led me by the hand to my bus, or I might never have made it home to write my memoir. 

Seven years later, I started researching a novel inspired by my Chinese-Mexican ancestry. I wanted to find the village of my great-grandfather, Ma Bing Sum, who was born in China. Until the 1970s, Toisan county was where most Chinese-Americans traced their roots. To prepare, I wanted to learn Cantonese. Toisanese is the local dialect, but I live in Denver, where I thought finding a Cantonese instructor would be easier. No such luck. Everyone insisted Mandarin would be more useful, so I surrendered and found a Mandarin tutor. 

Mandarin is hard. 


A year later, I only knew a handful of phrases, like, “I’m an American.” Shit, they could tell that by looking at me. So I hired a translator to help me find my ancestral village. Fiona Zhu, or Zhu Zhu, proved invaluable. My favorite great-uncle had told me my great-grandfather’s village was Gong Hao, but Zhu Zhu discovered that Gong Hao was a district containing eleven villages. So we embarked on a hunt.

On my previous trip to China, I often thought people were angry, because Mandarin tones sometimes sound harsh. Cantonese and Toisanese sound more musical. A comedian once said Cantonese speakers sound like they’re falling off a cliff: “mut-mut-mut-aaaaaaah!” Still, Cantonese can sound angry too if you don’t understand. At one point in Gong Hao, shouting people surrounded us.

“Are they angry?” I asked.

Zhu Zhu chuckled. “No. So nice, everybody wants to help find your family!” 

Ultimately, someone directed us to a 99-year-old man in the village of Git Non, who we nicknamed Old Mr. Ma. He spoke Toisanese. My translator did not. The interview went something like this: 

“My great-grandfather was born in Gong Hao 120 years ago,” I said, “so I’d like to learn what life was like here long ago.” My translator relayed this to his granddaughter in Cantonese, who relayed this to her grandfather in Toisanese, whose answer made the same trip in reverse. 

Five minutes later, Zhu Zhu said, “He wants to know your grandpa’s name.”

“Ma Bing Sum, but he left before you were born, so you wouldn’t have known him.” 

Chinese people are big on family history, so Mr. Ma refused to give up so easily. I told him Ma Bing Sum was born in Gong Hao around 1888 and moved to America in the early 1900s. Then I showed him a letter my uncle once wrote my great-grandfather. Mr. Ma grew excited, “Ho Ho Ho!” My great-grandfather was from this very village! Mr. Ma had met him during a couple of his visits home. He verified that Ma Bing Sum had lived in El Paso with a Mexican wife. He opened the village’s red book of ancestors to a page naming Ma Bing Sum and his eldest three sons. Across the path from Old Mr. Ma’s house stood the humble home where my great-grandfather was born. Down the street stood the huge house he built with money he made in America. 

“Your grandpa was the richest man in town,” Zhu Zhu said. This village was full of my distant cousins. “They say you are family.”

I had tears in my eyes, but I did not lose face. 

Two days later we did a full interview. One thing Mr. Ma shared was that long ago in Git Non, teens approaching marriageable age moved out of their parents’ homes and into two communal homes: one for boys, one for girls. Those homes now appear in my novel. 

Two years later I returned for Qing Ming, a Chinese version of “Day of the Dead” when people clean and decorate family graves and feed their ancestors. The Ma family served a roast pig, which now makes an undignified appearance in my novel. The next day we celebrated Mr. Ma’s 101st birthday. Everyone chuckled with delight when I said Cantonese phrases Zhu Zhu taught me, like M’Goi (thank you) and ho ho mei, (delicious).

That does it, I thought. I’m learning Cantonese and I’m coming back. Mr. Ma won’t understand me, but his family will. I can also return to Guangzhou and Hong Kong where my uncle grew up, and speak the language he spoke. What’s more, I want my novel to feel realistic, and language is culture. I renewed my search for a Cantonese tutor: “I don’t care if Mandarin is more sensible!” I found Jing Jing, a twenty-something tutor from Guangzhou. 



Sometimes Jing Jing’s lessons reveal a generation gap. She worked hard to teach me “Hang gai, Tai hei, Sik fan,” meaning, “Go shopping, see a show, eat”—the Chinese version of “Go to the mall.” She assures me this is “very popular,” though I doubt my great-grandfather said it in the 1910s. Then again, she also taught me the common greeting,“Sik dzaw fan mei ah?” which never goes out of style. It means, “Have you eaten yet?” or literally, “Have you eaten rice?” a reminder that rice is central to Chinese culture. Jing Jing explained that, upon meeting someone, it’s polite to say, “Please give me your advice.” I’m eager to make this request of my Chinese cousins. 

There’s something about a foreigner speaking our language that warms the soul. It says this relationship means so much that I wish to build a bridge between us.

The last time I saw Old Mr. Ma he was waving from his doorway on his 101st birthday, saying, “Bye-bye!” a popular farewell in modern China. I had given him sweets, a card, and a red balloon. He was most tickled by that balloon, not because he’s feeble-minded—we had discussed profound concepts, including how he values the family closeness of village life, which is why he never sought his fortune in America—no, he loved the balloon simply because he’s a joyful person.

I hope I get to tell him, “Ho Noi Mo Gin!”—“Long Time No See.” If he’s no longer around, I’ll ask where his grave is so I can leave an offering. Hopefully by then I’ll know how to ask for directions. 



                                                 
About the Author:
Cara Lopez Lee’s stories have appeared in The Los Angeles TimesConnotation Press, and Rivet Journal. She’s a book editor, and she’s a faculty member at Lighthouse Writers Workshop. She has traveled throughout Asia, Europe, Africa, Latin America, and the U.S. She married her husband at an active volcano in Costa Rica. They live in Denver. You can buy Cara’s memoir, They Only Eat Their Husbands, at Conundrum Press, IndieBound, or Amazon. You can also follow her on FacebookTwitter, and Pinterest.

Lisa…every other Wednesday...


Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Patrick Modiano winner of the Nobel for literature who you've never heard of

Patrick Modiano publishes his books consistently in France and yet, only two so far have been translated into English. He just won the Nobel Prize for Literature. I'd never heard of him until, years ago after the publication of Murder in the Marais, the University of California Press asked me to review his forthcoming book 'Dora Bruder'. In the UK it was published as The Search Warrant. I guessed it was because Marais dealt with hidden Jewish children during the Occupation and that's what Modiano had written about. Dora Bruder comes from a single newspaper clipping Modiano/the narrator finds.
What ever happened to her -  this young Jewish girl who disappears? The whole book is the search and historical evidence he finds. The book touched me. Here's the beginning:
Eight years ago, in an old copy of Paris Soir dated December 31 1941, a headline on page three caught my eye:
PARIS
Missing, a young girl, Dora Bruder, age 15, height 1.55m, oval-shaped face, grey-brown eyes, grey sports jacket, maroon pullover, navy-blue skirt and hat, brown gym shoes. Address all information to M and Mme Bruder, 41 Boulevard Ornano, Paris.
I had long been familar with the area around the Boulevard Ornano. As a child, I would accompany my mother to the Saint-Ouen flea markets. We would get off the bus either at the Porte de Clignancourt or, occasionally, outside the 18th arrondissement Town Hall. Always, it was a Saturday or Sunday afternoon.
I am writing these pages in November 1996. It seldom stops raining. Tomorrow we shall be in December, and 55 years will have passed since Dora ran away. It gets dark early, and it is just as well: night obliterates the greyness and monotony of these rainy days when one wonders if it really is daytime, or if we are not going through some intermediary stage, a sort of gloomy eclipse lasting til dusk. Then the street-lamps and shop windows and cafés light up, the evening air freshens, contours sharpen, there are traffic jams at the crossroads and hurrying crowds in the streets. And in the midst of all these lights, all this hubbub, I can hardly believe that this is the city where Dora lived with her parents, where my father lived when he was 20 years younger than I am now. I feel as if I am alone in making the link between Paris then and Paris now, alone in remembering all these details. There are moments when the link is stretched to breaking-point, and other evenings when the city of yesterday appears to me in fugitive gleams behind that of today. 
 After reading Dora Bruder I did retrace those steps of Dora's that Modiano/the narrator so meticulously traced.  Call me a groupie. One of the locations I only found a few years ago, where Dora had been hidden in a Catholic sisters refuge, proved the most elusive. Why? It had been torn down and was now an elementary school that I'd walked by several times.  A French person once said 'Oh Modiano, he writes the same book every time.' But no, I think Modiano is obsesssed by that era, his place in it and France's and writes on this theme in every book but with a totally different voice. He's a detective of his own past,  product of a Jewish father who collaborated with the Germans and hid from them. His father remained a shadowy figure in Modiano's childhood. Modiano wrote about his search, it's a theme in all his books, and France's dark past in the Occupation. His work explores in micro the macro of that time. 
Alexandra Schwartz writes about Modiano wonderfully in the New Yorker. Here's part of her article:
"Who is this writer, and what are the ungraspable human destinies he has uncovered? Modiano was born near Paris in July, 1945, to a Flemish mother and a father from a Jewish family with roots in Salonika. He worked his way to the Lycée Henri-IV, the top preparatory school in France, but his formal education ended at seventeen. Europeans born in 1945 share a certain liminal condition. They escaped the threat, but not the taint, of the war. They were born into freedom but conceived in turmoil; they grew up looking over their shoulders... Modiano’s first novel,  involves a ...kind of projection into the narrowly escaped past. Set in 1942 in a phantasmagoric Paris (Proust, Freud, Hitler, and Dreyfus all make appearances), it is called “La Place de l’Étoile”—a reference to the rotunda at the head of the Champs Elysées that circles the Arc de Triomphe, but also to the yellow felt star worn by Jews during the Occupation. “La Place de l’Étoile” appeared at a moment when the core tenet of French postwar identity—“the myth of France as a nation of resisters,” as the French writer Clémence Boulouque put it to me when I called her to discuss Modiano’s win—was beginning to crumble. (The book was published in May, 1968, the same month that the famous student protests in Paris began; General de Gaulle, the President of the Republic and the living symbol of French heroism during the war, fled to a military base in Germany to wait it all out.) Modiano knew the soiled truth firsthand. His father had refused to wear the star and did not turn himself in when Paris’s Jews were rounded up for deportation to concentration camps; he spent the war doing business on the black market and hanging around with the Gestapo stationed on the Rue Lauriston. Boulouque, who is currently a post-doctoral fellow in Jewish Studies at the University of Pennsylvania, told me that in his three dozen or so novels Modiano has returned again and again to the same themes: the pull of the past, the threat of disappearance, the blurring of moral boundaries, “the dark side of the soul.” Modiano, she told me, believes that “the novelist has an ethical duty to record the traces of the people who have vanished, the people who were made to disappear.” It will not have escaped the attention of the Nobel committee that Modiano’s win comes at a time when anti-Semitism in France is on the rise, as is the rate of French Jews’ emigration to Israel. The fear that French Jews are not safe in their own land, that French Jewish culture may vanish, is once again palpable. (Photo overlooking rue Saint Honore with surrendering German soldiers 1944)

The French magazine Nouvel Observateur says this in their BiblioObs section. There's a map below and quotes, sorry from a badly Google translated article on Modiano. It has a map of where his books take place in Paris.

Among all, a book in Paris plays a part it is "Dora Bruder." Street names abound, from the apartment of the parents of little Dora, located at 41 Boulevard Ornano and the nearby cinema, Ornano 43 But gradually crumbles a series of names that no longer the same affect, religious boarding of 62-64 rue Picpus (Which has been torn down) echo roundups  12 Quai de Gesvres (head of social assistance of the Police, where his father was believed to be reading a passage), haunts almost all the books away Modiano, at least all those who for Paris headquarters for investigation. Dora Bruder replaced the dizziness of the reference of the abyss of accuracy. Paris has closed on the little Dora. Halfway between "New Mysteries of Paris" Leo Malet and "Attempt to exhaustion of a Parisian place" Perec's novels Modiano lead for nearly fifty years a survey of Paris, Paris instead of a crime. But these thrillers holes / white thrillers investigating oblivion  making the same trajectory flesh for his crimes.Modiano archivist, very sick, with all these addresses as a skin fever. Until regret, always, to say too much, not having been able to shut up. Private Detective writer merges with the real estate agent-writer.
Ok the long and short is they call Modiano a mystery writer who has won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Take heart blogmates!
Cara - Tuesday