My nearly annual tribute to one of my favorite fictional characters (if not my all-time favorite). I’ve got to do an overhaul to this soon, but it is slightly updated and tweaked from two years ago.
On Oct. 23* in Chillicothe, Ohio**, Archie Goodwin entered this world—no doubt with a smile for the pretty nurses—and American detective literature was never the same. He’s the narrator (and, I’d argue protagonist) of the questionably named Nero Wolfe mysteries. While the eccentric and overweight genius might be what brings people to the series, it’s Archie’s wit, attitude, and snappy narrative voice that brings people back.
* About 34 years ago, no matter what year it is that you read this.
** Although, in Too Many Women, we read: “Your father’s name is James Arner Goodwin, and you were born in Canton, Ohio, in nineteen-fourteen. Your mother’s maiden name was Leslie. You have two brothers and two sisters.” Stout claims that the PI who looked into Archie got it wrong.
When my aunt first gave me a Nero Wolfe book to read, she sold me on the Wolfe character, but when I read it, I wasn’t so sure that I liked the guy. But his assistant? He was cool. Sure, it didn’t take me long to get into Wolfe, but Archie’s always been my favorite. Since I was in Middle School, if I was suffering a slump of any kind (reading, emotional, physical), time with Archie Goodwin could get me out of it. There were a few years that when I got sick, I’d grab a Nero Wolfe novel to help me get through it (along with the Vitamin C and Chicken Noodle soup), and you can’t tell me it didn’t work. Noted critic Jacques Barzun says it well:
If he had done nothing more than to create Archie Goodwin, Rex Stout would deserve the gratitude of whatever assessors watch over the prosperity of American literature. For surely Archie is one of the folk heroes in which the modern American temper can see itself transfigured. Archie is the lineal descendant of Huck Finn.
While Archie’s about as far from a teetotaler as you can get, to commemorate his birthday, I’m toasting him in one of the ways I think he’d appreciate most—by raising a glass of milk in his honor.
Who was Archie? Archie summed up his life like this:
Born in Ohio. Public high school, pretty good at geometry and football, graduated with honor but no honors. Went to college two weeks, decided it was childish, came to New York and got a job guarding a pier, shot and killed two men and was fired, was recommended to Nero Wolfe for a chore he wanted done, did it, was offered a full-time job by Mr. Wolfe, took it, still have it.” (Fourth of July Picnic)
Long may he keep it. Just what was he employed by Wolfe to do? In The Black Mountain he answers the statement, “I thought you was a private eye” with:
I don’t like the way you say it, but I am. Also, I am an accountant, an amanuensis, and a cocklebur. Eight to five you never heard the word amanuensis and you never saw a cocklebur.
In The Red Box, he says
I know pretty well what my field is. Aside from my primary function as the thorn in the seat of Wolfe’s chair to keep him from going to sleep and waking up only for meals, I’m chiefly cut out for two things: to jump and grab something before the other guy can get his paws on it, and to collect pieces of the puzzle for Wolfe to work on.
In Too Many Women, he’s a bit more concise and describes himself as the:
heart, liver, lungs and gizzard of the private detective business of Nero Wolfe, Wolfe being merely the brains
In Poison a la Carte (and echoed in Bullet for One and If Death Ever Slept), he describes his job as:
[Wolfe’s] assistant detective and man Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday
In Black Orchids, he reacts to an insult:
…her cheap crack about me being a ten-cent Clark Gable, which was ridiculous. He simpers, to begin with, and to end with no one can say I resemble a movie actor, and if they did it would be more apt to be Gary Cooper than Clark Gable.
Over at The Thrilling Detective, he’s described this way:
If Goodwin hadn’t gone to work for Wolfe, he’d certainly have his own agency by now (and temporarily does, in one novel). Far more of a traditional eye, Goodwin is a tough, handsome guy with a photographic memory, a .32 under his well-tailored suit (and sometimes an extra .38 in his overcoat pocket), and a well-developed appreciation for the ladies. And, in the opinion of more than a few cops, officials and stuffed-shirt executives, a mouth that ought to be nailed shut permanently. (Wolfe isn’t immune either–part of Goodwin’s job, as he sees it, is needling the fat man into taking cases, if only to make sure the bills get covered.) He’s not the deductive genius that Wolfe is, but a smart and tenacious op with a good right hook, and a decent and personable man. Most of all, in his narration of the books, he’s a helluva storyteller; it’s his view of the world, and his interaction with Wolfe, that keeps us coming back for each new mystery.
Archie’s Corner at The Wolfe Pack has more details..
I’m not the only Archie fan out there:
- Someone pointed me at this post, The Wit and Wisdom of Archie Goodwin. There’s some really good stuff here that I was tempted to steal, instead, I’ll just point you at it.
- Robert Crais himself when writing an introduction to a Before Midnight reprint, devoted it to paying tribute to Archie—one of the few pieces of anything written that I can say I agree with jot and tittle.
In case you’re wondering if this post was simply an excuse to go through some collections of Archie Goodwin quotations, you wouldn’t be totally wrong…he’s one of the fictional characters I like spending time with most in this world—he’s the literary equivalent of comfort food. So just a couple more great lines I’ve quoted here before:
I would appreciate it if they would call a halt on all their devoted efforts to find a way to abolish war or eliminate disease or run trains with atoms or extend the span of human life to a couple of centuries, and everybody concentrate for a while on how to wake me up in the morning without my resenting it. It may be that a bevy of beautiful maidens in pure silk yellow very sheer gowns, barefooted, singing “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” and scattering rose petals over me would do the trick, but I’d have to try it.
I looked at the wall clock. It said two minutes to four. I looked at my wrist watch. It said one minute to four. In spite of the discrepancy, it seemed safe to conclude that it would soon be four o’clock.
I shook my head. “You’re flattering me, Inspector. I don’t arouse passions like that. It’s my intellect women like. I inspire them to read good books, but I doubt if I could inspire even Lizzie Borden to murder.”
She turned back to me, graceful as a big cat, and stood there straight and proud, not quite smiling, her warm dark eyes as curious as if she had never seen a man before. I knew damn well I ought to say something, but what? The only thing to say was ‘Will you marry me?’ but that wouldn’t do because the idea of her washing dishes or darning socks was preposterous.
“Indeed,” I said. That was Nero Wolfe’s word, and I never used it except in moments of stress, and it severely annoyed me when I caught myself using it, because when I look in a mirror I prefer to see me as is, with no skin grafted from anybody else’s hide, even Nero Wolfe’s.
If you like Anglo-Saxon, I belched. If you fancy Latin, I eructed. No matter which, I had known that Wolfe and Inspector Cramer would have to put up with it that evening, because that is always a part of my reaction to sauerkraut. I don’t glory in it or go for a record, but neither do I fight it back. I want to be liked just for myself.
When a hippopotamus is peevish it’s a lot of peeve.
Among the kinds of men I have a prejudice against are the ones named Eugene. There’s no use asking me why, because I admit it’s a prejudice. It may be that when I was a in kindergarten out in Ohio a man named Eugene stole candy from me, but if so I have forgotten all about it. For all practical purposes, it is merely one face of my complex character that I do not like men named Eugene.
It was nothing new for Wolfe to take steps, either on his own, or with one or more of the operatives we used, without burdening my mind with it. His stated reason was that I worked better if I thought it all depended on me. His actual reason was that he loved to have a curtain go up revealing him balancing a live seal on his nose.
It helps a lot, with two people as much together as he and I were, if they understand each other. He understood that I was too strong-minded to add another word unless he told me to, and I understood that he was too pigheaded to tell me to.
I always belong wherever I am.
The major problem—one of the major problems, for there are several—one of the many major problems with governing people is that of whom you get to do it; or rather of who manages to get people to let them do it to them.
Rex Stout’s 
