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Dick Francis
18/2/10 08:36I was never a horsey girl. When friends of mine went mad for Flicka and Misty and all the other horse books, or had toy horses and horse posters all over their rooms, I was frankly boggled. Why?
But I loved Dick Francis's books. Francis was a jockey, then a sports writer, then a writer of mysteries. He published his first novel in 1962; I read his second, Nerve, when I was about ten, and was immediately hooked, by the clean, tight writing, by the plots themselves, by the window into what was, to me (lifelong Anglophile that I am), an exotic world, and yes, by the horses. Francis used what he knew: the world of racing. Most, if not all of his protagonists were jockeys. All of his plots had something to do with racing, racing people, racetracks. I learned to drink Scotch after reading Proof, a novel about a wine-and-spirits salesman who winds up investigating liquor sales at racetracks. I understood Banker (about an investment bank that puts up the money to buy a successful race horse for syndication) partly because I'd worked at an investment bank, but partly because Francis researched wonderfully and explained just enough. And while I'm not a horsey person, I would love, someday, to go to the races in Britain, to see in person what Francis captured so gorgeously for me.
Dick Francis died on Valentine's Day. I only just learned of it today, and I am sad. One more of his mysteries is in the pipeline, probably co-written with his son Felix, who was his collaborator on the last couple of books, and then...no more.
John Leonard is quoted in the Times obit as having said: “Not to read Dick Francis because you don’t like horses is like not reading Dostoyevsky because you don’t like God.” Yes. This.
But I loved Dick Francis's books. Francis was a jockey, then a sports writer, then a writer of mysteries. He published his first novel in 1962; I read his second, Nerve, when I was about ten, and was immediately hooked, by the clean, tight writing, by the plots themselves, by the window into what was, to me (lifelong Anglophile that I am), an exotic world, and yes, by the horses. Francis used what he knew: the world of racing. Most, if not all of his protagonists were jockeys. All of his plots had something to do with racing, racing people, racetracks. I learned to drink Scotch after reading Proof, a novel about a wine-and-spirits salesman who winds up investigating liquor sales at racetracks. I understood Banker (about an investment bank that puts up the money to buy a successful race horse for syndication) partly because I'd worked at an investment bank, but partly because Francis researched wonderfully and explained just enough. And while I'm not a horsey person, I would love, someday, to go to the races in Britain, to see in person what Francis captured so gorgeously for me.
Dick Francis died on Valentine's Day. I only just learned of it today, and I am sad. One more of his mysteries is in the pipeline, probably co-written with his son Felix, who was his collaborator on the last couple of books, and then...no more.
John Leonard is quoted in the Times obit as having said: “Not to read Dick Francis because you don’t like horses is like not reading Dostoyevsky because you don’t like God.” Yes. This.