I hate to love them. Watching Twin Peaks this weekend has reminded me of the very special feelings I have for certain sorts of policemen. Those men and women in the pages of books or on the tv screen, who embody a certain quiet seriousness, who are regular to the point of metronomy. It always comes down to rhythm, doesn't it? Inspecteur Maigret and his little habits, the subtle charm of reliability. Lieutenant Columbo, shuffling around in the same old coat, driving the same old car, tiredly berating the same old naughty dog. "My wife loves murder mysteries..." he repeats. "Oh, one more question sir..."
Maigret and Columbo, so often investigating those wealthy, dissolute folk whose very lack of regularity is their downfall. The calmness which grows out of the cultivation of habits would have made murder impossible. Instead those unfortunate souls drift from tennis games to cocktail parties without realizing their weariness is in the soul, not the body.
What better to express the rhythm of a person than their eating habits. Agent Cooper with his pie and coffee, the Twin Peaks police station with their nightly doughnut smörgåsbord. Foucault was right: the soul is the prison of the body. With the precise mind which befits a bizarre FBI operative, the body cannot but fall into line. Doughnuts, pie: it is not a question of hunger - they'll get eaten one way or the other, because the desire does not emanate from the stomach.
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