Liars and Saints

  The writer Ann Leary has a rule for choosing novels: "I want a sociopath in the mix. Give me Patricia Highsmith, give me du Maurier. A story is best when it involves a knife-wielding maniac." To that end, I chose several thrillers for vacation: "The Soulmate" (meh), "The Plinko Bounce" (hooray), "The Expat" (delightful). But I think too *many* killings can create a monotonous experience, so I threw in just a cup or two of "literary" fiction: "Blaming" (Taylor) and "Commitment" (Mona Simpson). My spouse is more ambitious; he chose to read a lengthy biography of Abraham Lincoln, on the beach. Time away meant that I could lick my wounds over a job situation that irritated me. On a related note, I work with a career coach who likes to allude to the old chestnut:  A situation that won't bug you in five years is not a situation to dwell on...EVER....  That's not easy to internalize. I tend to think that everythin...

 "Flung Out of Space" is a reference to Therese, in "Carol"--but it could also function as a description of Patricia Highsmith's talent. This is a gift that seems "flung out of space." In a recent graphic novel, Highsmith is working on comics, but hoping to become a serious writer. "I don't write crime novels," she says. "I write good novels, with criminal elements." Stan Lee tries to recruit her; he envisions a future of caped crusaders. But Highsmith's dreams are full of sleepless men in clouds of cigar smoke, concealing guns under trench coats. Highsmith is both homophobic and misogynistic; she enters conversion therapy. She joins a support group for "latent homosexuals"--but, almost immediately, she begins sleeping with a married woman in the group. This leads to a novel--"The Price of Salt"--which inspires one gay reader to "go out and find my own Carol." I borrowed this book after watching...

Tom glanced behind him and saw the man coming out of the Green Cage, heading his way. Tom walked faster. There was no doubt the man was after him. Tom had noticed him five minutes ago, eyeing him carefully from a table, as if he weren't *quite* sure, but almost. He had looked sure enough for Tom to down his drink in a hurry, pay and get out. At the corner Tom leaned forward and trotted across Fifth Avenue. There was Raoul's. Should he take a chance and go in for another drink? Tempt fate and all that? Or should he beat it over to Park Avenue and try losing him in a few dark doorways? He went into Raoul's. Automatically, as he strolled to an empty space at the bar, he looked around to see if there was anyone he knew. There was the big man with red hair, whose name he always forgot, sitting at a table with a blonde girl. The red-haired man waved a hand, and Tom's hand went up limply in response. He slid one leg over a stool and faced the door challengingly, yet with a...