海角大神

In his newest book, Roger Rosenblatt tells his story walking.

The journalist, teacher and author of 16 books, including the bestselling memoirs 鈥淢aking Toast鈥� and 鈥淜ayak Morning,鈥� takes a nighttime stroll through the streets where he grew up in New York.

"A man retraces the steps of his youth in order to determine where he has been and where he is. Your basic mystery story. Mixed motives, false leads, dead-end trails. Innocence. Missing persons. Bodies everywhere," writes Rosenblatt.

Written in the spirit of E.B. White鈥檚 鈥淗ere is New York鈥� and Alfred Kazin鈥檚 鈥淎 Walker in the City,鈥� the book is a meandering ramble through Rosenblatt鈥檚 past and the streets of New York's Gramercy Park neighborhood. Some readers will find that delightful. Those who prefer to walk with a destination firmly in mind are likely to find their patience tested. (If you find his recollection of the time he willed himself to dream he was an owl detective an amusing piece of whimsy 鈥� 鈥淎s a largish owl, I had some difficulty stuffing my feathers in to the taxi鈥� 鈥� you鈥檒l be fine.)

"I believe in spare writing. Precise and restrained writing. I like short sentences. Fragmented sentences, sometimes," Rosenblatt wrote in 鈥淯nless It Moves the Human Heart,鈥� his bestselling account of a semester in his class on Writing Everything at Stony Brook University. He still likes the fragmented sentences, but no one would accuse 鈥淭he Boy Detective鈥� of excessive restraint. It鈥檚 an extended riff, more meditation than memoir.

鈥淚 tend toward creative drift myself. Just like Penelope, I lose my thread,鈥� Rosenblatt confides.

As a nine-year-old, Rosenblatt fancied himself a detective-in-training. 鈥淚 wanted to be Holmes, himself,鈥� he writes. 鈥淭he detective I concocted for myself was not exactly like him. What I imagined was a composite made up of Holmes鈥檚 powers of observation, Hercule Poirot鈥檚 powers of deduction, Sam Spade鈥檚 straight talk, Miss Marple鈥檚 stick-to-itiveness, and Philip Marlowe鈥檚 courage and sense of honor 鈥� he who traveled the 鈥榤ean streets,鈥� like mine, and was 鈥榥either tarnished nor afraid.鈥� The fact that, as far as I could tell, I lacked 颅every single one of these qualities, and saw no prospect of ever achieving them, presented no discouragement.鈥�

His youthful reconnaissance missions helped him develop an eye for observation that the journalist and writer later put to good use, winning two George Polk Awards, a Peabody and an Emmy.

On his walk, Rosenblatt writes that he is still accompanied by that boy, lonely and imaginative, who dreamed of having a young Teddy Roosevelt for a partner in crime.

鈥淚 am the spitting image of myself,鈥� he writes. 鈥淗ow like myself I am. This is why I do not believe in time. How could I if I feel the presence of the boy as completely as I do the man, in many ways more completely since the boy is more completely realized. He who existed in me over half a century ago walks with me today.鈥�

While not as moving as 鈥淢aking Toast,鈥� his widely acclaimed memoir of the first year after his daughter鈥檚 death at the age of 38, when he and his wife took in their grieving grandchildren and son-in-law, 鈥淭he Boy Detective鈥� offers glimpses of Rosenblatt鈥檚 childhood. These are mixed in with discussions of Roosevelt, Dashiell Hammett, Edgar Allan Poe, Edith Wharton, and other famous writers and residents of Gramercy Park, peeks at those walking the streets with him and reminiscences of how those streets have changed, and his thoughts on other New York landmarks. (鈥淚ts feeling of calm comfort is what appealed to King Kong, I am sure of it,鈥� he says of the Empire State building.)

Rosenblatt鈥檚 parents expected him to behave like a miniature adult. (Similar pressure apparently was not put on his much-younger brother, whom his mom doted on.)

"Roger," his dad told him, "that's no way for a twelve-year-old boy to behave."

"Dad," he said, "I'm eight."

Rosenblatt writes about his home, with the walls hung with William Randolph Hearst鈥檚 excess paintings, which his parents purchased from Gimbel鈥檚. 鈥淭he canvases cracked like stale cake.鈥�

But those glimpses will be tantalizingly few for those expecting a straightforward memoir of childhood. Rosenblatt, who refers to an unseen companion as 鈥淧al,鈥� also mixes in fake confessions, such as Poe, who invented the detective story, admitting to the 鈥淢urder of Marie Roget.鈥� (There鈥檚 also a tone-deaf one about Hitler.) Rosenblatt muses on the Road Hill House murders, which shocked Victorian England and inspired Wilkie Collins and Charles Dickens. For those who have read Kate Summerscale鈥檚 excellent 鈥淭he Suspicions of Mr. Whicher,鈥� there鈥檚 nothing new here.

Rosenblatt, who has taught for more than 40 years, also talks to his writing students during his perambulations.

鈥淸Y]our memoir is not about you. So, stay out of it,鈥� he tells them. 鈥淎t the outset of a memoir, you are propelled by the desire to let the world know who you are. Soon you will discover that you don鈥檛 really care that much about who you are, and that writing with that goal alone will turn boring, cloying. You will tire of yourself just as you tire of others who think only of themselves....鈥�

Readers who believe a journey is worth more than the destination will find a kindred spirit in Rosenblatt, who is generous company during his wanderings.

鈥淢y favorite part of being a detective is just this 鈥� the walk, just taking in the world.鈥�

Yvonne Zipp is the Monitor fiction critic.