Michael Cox, 1948-2009

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Our Dark Passages columnist, Sarah Weinman, reported Thursday on the death of novelist Michael Cox, who for most of his literary career seemed destined to be known as M.R. James’ biographer and an authority on Victorian ghost stories. Then, in the last few years, he published two big neo-Victorian mysteries, ‘The Meaning of Night’ and ‘The Glass of Time.’ The Telegraph posted an obit Friday that details his career and his ordeals with cancer and treatment.

Both novels are as big and baggy as any triple-decker published in the era to which they pay homage. The fact that he quickly published two books of such size seemed amazing. He let on that these works weren’t the product of a sudden burst of inspiration: ‘Meaning,’ in fact, had actually been 30 years in the making. His battle with cancer (which resulted in his losing his eyesight, though it was restored after surgery and therapy) was, understandably, a powerful motivation to finishing the books. He also had other practical advice for writers not facing such extreme circumstances, which Weinman includes in her post: ‘The best piece of advice is to write every day. There is no better discipline.’ You can read more of what Weinman wrote as well as comments from Cox’s American editor, Jill Bialosky of W.W. Norton, at her site.

I intended to review ‘Meaning’ for us and begged out of it when, at the 300-page mark, I grew frustrated with Cox’s obvious satisfaction in keeping plot revelations well-concealed (too well-concealed, I thought) in the manner of Wilkie Collins. No narrative relief seemed in sight, and it was too much for me. In the years since, I’ve realized these books can’t be squeezed into a sprint before deadline. I’ve grown attached to both books, to the narrators and their grasp of London and its environs, their sense of humor and appreciation for old tomes, and I’m sorry that Cox didn’t live to write a third.

The words of his Edward, the narrator of ‘Meaning,’ now seem much more autobiographical, especially knowing that he wrote without any reassurance that he would live long enough to even finish that novel:

In the two novels he did complete, Cox created two intriguing, affectionately wrought portraits of the Victorian world. Any writer would be proud to leave behind two such siblings to keep his memory alive, as Cox himself indicated to readers with this chapter title from ‘Meaning’:

-- Nick Owchar