Mysteries and crime fiction hold a special kind of appeal. Just look at the immense popularity of true crime podcasts, police procedurals on network TV, or the undying interest in the works of Agatha Christie. Some of the earliest forms of literature we have are mysteries, such as “Oedipus Rex,” and some of the greatest novels ever written are crime novels, such as “Crime and Punishment.”
The appeal of the mystery is unlike the appeal of any other genre. Fundamentally, the joy of the good mystery novel involves the tension between two opposing forces: obscurity and revelation. Just as the pleasure of music derives from the deft handling and proper timing of the resolution of tension, so too, in mysteries, we experience pleasure at the careful, well-timed revelation of information. What was hidden becomes visible; what was contradictory, impossible, inexplicable takes on, bit by bit, a discernible form as clues are revealed. It is the stupefying surprise of the discovery of meaning in what seemed meaningless.
Our rational nature relishes this process. The “gamification,” the “puzzle-box” aspect of a well-crafted mystery builds tension through confusion and impenetrability, which is then released little by little, and, finally, all at once in the concluding scene where the mastermind detective gathers the other characters together and explains everything. The rational appetite takes joy in the unveiling of truth.
But our moral sense also relishes this type of story because all of us wrestle with the mystery of evil, both within ourselves and others. A well-written mystery or crime novel tackles head-on that mystery-within-the-mystery, the enigma of iniquity.
As every mystery enthusiast knows, the culprit must have means, motive, and opportunity. It is this question of motive that provides an opening to peer into the chasm of human psychology and human sin. What leads us to commit evil? What causes crime?
Evil is, at least by an Aristotelian definition, a kind of irrationality, a kind of insanity. Why, then, do we do it? The skilled mystery writer examines that question, offering hints, fragments of truth, flickers of light in the dark, shadows passing over a face, though the complete answer can never be fully given.
In Dostoevsky’s “Crime and Punishment,” the real mystery is not who committed the murder – we know that from the very start – but, rather, why? Raskolnikov himself struggles to account for the barbaric act, offering different versions of his rationale to both himself and others throughout the novel. Only toward the end does the truth of the matter work its way, painfully, to the surface of his consciousness and to the reader’s horrified gaze. Even then, we are not sure we’ve fully grasped the matter, as an element of inexplicability remains. Some portions of Raskolnikov’s soul remain half-hidden in shadow – like our own.
So in reading crime fiction we attempt to come to terms with the reality of the original sin that has sickened humanity from the beginning. It is not always a pleasant business, but it’s a necessary one, and the best mysteries help us penetrate a little further into the black box of our own human nature.
Here, again, we return to the theme of revelation. “And thy own soul a sword shall pierce, that, out of many hearts, thoughts may be revealed” (Luke 2:35). This is, perhaps, the greatest joy of a great mystery novel: the revelation of hearts. In a good mystery story, despite false starts, false judgments, and false assumptions, each of the characters’ true self is unveiled at the climax and denouement. The crisis of the crime has forced that which was hidden – not just in the criminal’s heart but in everyone’s heart – to the surface. Caught in the crucible of catastrophe, ordinary people’s true natures are revealed.
It is in this sense that mysteries and crime stories are “apocalypses” in the original sense of the word, which means, “an unveiling” or “disclosure.” Out of many hearts, thoughts are revealed. Yes, the criminal is identified, but, at least according to the classic motifs of this kind of novel, other secrets are also outed: the affair, the stolen will, the ancient grudge, the long-suffering victim, the long-lost brother. That is all part of the thrill. This structure implies, too, the truth that it is in and through crisis and suffering that one’s true character is tested and ultimately revealed. As G. K. Chesterton wrote, “The romance of the police force is thus the whole romance of man.”
The other meaning of apocalypse – that is to say, the end of the world – also applies to the ending of a mystery. A good mystery novel ends with The Last Judgment in miniature. In the end, the good are rewarded and the evil are cast into exterior darkness. The detective becomes an instrument of justice, an avenging angel, blowing the trumpet of doom and finality – or maybe the detective is really a shadow of the Divine Detective, an image of the Judge himself, who penetrates all hearts, no matter the webs of deception with which we have attempted to cover ourselves. He unweaves those webs, traces those intricacies, laying them bare in the startling white light.
It is a terrifying yet thrilling and consoling thought: darkness scatters, truth emerges, the innocent are vindicated, and all is set right again.
The best mysteries give us a foretaste.
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This article was made possible by The Fred & Rheta Skelton Center for Cultural Renewal.
Image credit: Unsplash
