Wherein I Solve The White Mystery

It seems that the only necessary element for the creation of a mystery is application of the label "mystery"; that is, that any simple act classed outside of conventional norms can lend its setting more than its ostensible share of scrutiny. So, our modern-day mystery novel can add interest to any period, any geographic region, through the shortest possible expedient: a murder. A murder, being horrible enough to hold attention but not abominable enough to deflect it, seems an ideal light to hold to the otherwise dim outlines of any prosaic landscape or society. In other words: the ignoble can take the opportunity to march into view close on the heels of the parading return-of-the-repressed.

Scaling the observation down, a mere ambiguity of trait or motive may attract such interest on a smaller, less official scale. Certain simple products become fathomless confusions of elusive taste and racial unease. Such insertions of the inexplicable not only beguile the young, but tend to inculcate a taste for ambiguity for its own sake (and, one suspects, unpleasantness for its own sake).

Speaking of confections, elusive taste and racial unease: an nth generation laughingstock.