Herbert Harris (1) (1911–1995)
Auteur de John Creasey's Crime Collection, 1985
Pour les autres auteurs qui s'appellent Herbert Harris, voyez la page de désambigüisation.
A propos de l'auteur
Crédit image: The Evening News (1881-1980)
Œuvres de Herbert Harris
John Creasey's Crime Collection, 1979 (1979) — Directeur de publication; Contributeur — 6 exemplaires
John Creasey's Crime Collection, 1990 (1990) — Directeur de publication; Contributeur — 5 exemplaires
John Creasey's Mystery Bedside Book 1966 — Directeur de publication — 2 exemplaires
John Creasey's Mystery Bedside Book 1971 (1970) — Directeur de publication; Contributeur — 2 exemplaires
John Creasey's Crime Collection, 1980 (1980) — Directeur de publication; Contributeur — 2 exemplaires
Hawaii Five-O The Angry Battalion 1 exemplaire
John Creasey's Mystery Bedside Book 1969 1 exemplaire
John creasey's mystery bedside book 1967 1 exemplaire
Oeuvres associées
Étiqueté
Partage des connaissances
- Nom canonique
- Harris, Herbert
- Nom légal
- Harris, Herbert Edwin
- Autres noms
- Bury, Frank
Moore, Michael
Friday, Peter
Regan, Jerry - Date de naissance
- 1911-08-25
- Date de décès
- 1995
- Sexe
- male
- Nationalité
- UK
- Lieu de naissance
- London, England, UK
- Lieux de résidence
- Isle of Wight, England, UK
Brighton, Sussex, England, UK - Professions
- journalist
writer
publicity agent - Relations
- Southey, Robert (great-grandfather)
- Courte biographie
- Born in London on August 25, 1911, Herbert Edwin Harris was the great-grandson of the poet laureate Robert Southey, who famously wrote a biography of Lord Horatio Nelson.
From the 1930s onwards Harris was a full-time writer, after a tough apprenticeship as a Fleet Street journalist and publicity man. He lived by the sea near Brighton (later moving to Ventnor on the Isle of Wight), churning out literally thousands of short stories and articles which he sold to various newspapers and magazines including The Star, the Evening Standard, Tit-Bits, Reveille, Happy Mag., Boy's Own Paper, Blighty, Argosy, Mike Shayne's Mystery Magazine, The Saint Detective Magazine, Parade, London Mystery Magazine and Weekend.
Some of Harris' stories appeared under the pseudonyms Frank Bury, Michael Moore, Peter Friday and Jerry Regan. He opened his Evening News account with the story "Board Meeting" which was published in 1951. He went on to contribute 106 stories until the last was published in 1980. His vast output of short stories earned him a place in the Guinness Book of World Records as the most prolific short story writer in the United Kingdom.
A long-time member of the Crime Writers Association, Harris edited the annual anthology of the C.W.A. for many years. Although Harris was known for his crime and detective stories, he was a versatile writer who wrote across several genres. His first full-length suspense novel, Who Kill to Live, was published in 1962. He went on to write two novels based on the 1970s TV series Hawaii Five-O, but short stories were always his preferred form. He died in 1995.
[Biography largely courtesy of The Evening News (1881-1980) Short Story Index]
Membres
Critiques
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Statistiques
- Œuvres
- 26
- Aussi par
- 3
- Membres
- 98
- Popularité
- #193,038
- Évaluation
- 3.7
- Critiques
- 1
- ISBN
- 41
- Langues
- 2
There's one real stinker in the book; embarrassingly, it's the one written by a friend, the late Ernest Dudley, a couple of whose nonfiction books I published many a long year ago. His "Chinatown Cowboy" is a sort of pastiche of Peter Cheyney's hamfisted imitations of US hardboiled crime writers -- a pastiche of a pastiche, in effect. Here's a sample of some dialogue:
Supposing a story is quite awfully written? Just supposing?
A couple of the other stories pissed me off. P.D. James's "A Very Commonplace Murder" is dull as ditchwater, as really far too much of her output has been (which hasn't stopped me from putting one of her recent novels near to the top of my to-be-read pile). H.R.F. Keating's "Caught and Bowled, Mrs Craggs" is perhaps the first ever cricketing mystery story I've disliked: it reads like one long sneer against both the working class and cricketeers, its main supposed marvel seeming to be that the Cockney-accented cleaner of the title could possibly have the wit to identify a murderer where the cops failed. To be honest, I've never much liked Keating's work anyway. I once heard him on a Radio 4 discussion show sneering at mystery writers who were so stupid as to go to the effort of working out in advance who the baddie was; he himself didn't make up his mind until he was approaching his wordcount max. Yes, I thought, and that's why every time I finish one of your novels I want to throw it at the wall. You're assuming your readers are morons and can't tell that, essentially, you're cheating them.
{/rant}
There are lots of good stories here, though. I loved the feel of Ian Stuart's "The Vanity of Martin Roscoe"; it's a clever story aside from this, but it has the same sort of delicious inevitability as Roy
Vicker's old "Department of Dead Ends" stories. Peter Godfrey's "To Heal a Murder" is another very clever mystery, but at the same time it has an emotional power you don't expect to find in stories of this kind; it also does something I love in short stories, which is to indicate but not retail a backstory which you therefore have to imagine for yourself. Christianna Brand's "The Niece from Scotland" sort of double-hoodwinked me, which was of course what it was intended to do; I was grinning too much at the slight-of-hand to worry about the tale's palpable implausibility. Penelope Wallace's "The Medicine Chest" is a lovely little comeuppance short-short. Dan J. Marlowe's "The Girl Who Sold Money" invents a way of making money out of counterfeiting without running the risk of arrest. Joan Aiken's "Safe and Soundproof" is a wonderfully sweet little piece (as is its heroine):
I read that opening line and was so jealous!
Add in some above-average tales by the likes of Julian Symons, Colin Watson, Joyce Porter (although the humour in this Dover tale is a bit heavy-handed in places), Michael Gilbert, Celia Fremlin (a perhaps rather contrived but nicely nasty little tale) and Andrew Garve, and what more could you ask for?… (plus d'informations)