A couple of years ago, when the good folks at The New York Sun asked me to write a weekly mystery column, I outlined what readers could expect. This is column no. 101, and I thought it might be worthwhile to reiterate the philosophy (if that’s not too highfalutin a term) that propels these weekly wanderings in the green fields of crime fiction.

If you’ve been reading “The Crime Scene” since the first day and remember what I wrote back then, you can skip the rest of this.

This column is not a straightforward collection of reviews of new novels (though there are plenty of huzzahs for good books and warnings about bad ones). I hope to provide all kinds of useful information about the world of mystery fiction: awards, events, gossip, notices of books you’re unlikely to see in the average chain store, even news about film, television, theater, and whatever else seems interesting.

It’s probably important to admit that I’m opinionated. What I most admire is storytellers, especially those who write about human passion so intense that characters resort to that most extreme of all passionate behavior – the extinguishing of another person’s life. Style – that is to say, literary style – matters. How well an author writes, the use of metaphor, simile, and other literary devices matters. Plot matters. Tell a good and fair story, have an arc that establishes the characters and the ensuing action, maintain intriguing subplots, and reach an inevitable and satisfying conclusion, and I’m yours.

Create three-dimensional characters, people I want to know more about, or forget the whole thing. If there are no fully developed heroes, villains, victims, suspects, or detectives (official or not), I might just as well be putting letters in little squares in a crossword puzzle. I bring the same set of requirements to a mystery novel that I would to any work of fiction.

And here’s the deal. If a cat solves the crime, I spit on the book in disgust; I rip out the pages in a fury, I stomp on it in a rage until it bleeds, and then I mercifully end its worthless life by burning it. If you love books in which a cat or a dog or a damned goldfish is smarter than the detective and deduces the conclusion, skip this column. You will never find a moment of joy here, unless or until I lose my mind.

Also, just so you know, my definition of a mystery is very broad. Any book (or story) in which a crime, or the threat of a crime, is central to the theme or the plot is a mystery in my eyes.

In the United States, the professional organization for authors of this type of fiction is the Mystery Writers of America. In Britain, the equivalent organization is the Crime Writers’ Association. Many authors belong to both. In other words, the terms “mystery” and “crime” are interchangeable to the folks who write the stuff, so I recklessly toss them about without making any effort to distinguish between them.

You may well ask which books are the paragons of the mystery writers’ art, against which others may be matched. I’m happy to tell you. Here is a handful of what I regard as nearperfect books, in no particular order:

“Red Dragon” (1981) by Thomas Harris is the greatest suspense novel I’ve ever read. It is even better than its more famous sequel, “The Silence of the Lambs,” which is superb because its restrained use of violence and gore makes it all the more powerful and shocking when finally released.

In “Chinaman’s Chance” (1978) by Ross Thomas, his two heroes – to use the term loosely – pull off a brilliant scam involving a cast of characters so large and perfectly realized that most writers would have saved them for their next dozen books.

“The Hound of the Baskervilles” (1902) by Arthur Conan Doyle, “The Maltese Falcon” (1930) by Dashiell Hammett, “The Long Goodbye” (1954) by Raymond Chandler, and “The Woman in White” (1860) by Wilkie Collins (the finest Victorian novel of them all, including the works of Charles Dickens) are such classics I need say nothing more.

“Breakheart Hill” (1995) by Thomas H. Cook is a poetic, heartwrenching story with a moment that shocks you, and is one of the two best mysteries of the best decade (along with Dennis Lehane’s “Mystic River,” 2001).

“A Kiss Before Dying” (1953) by Ira Levin, written when he was all of 23, is a perfect mystery. “Rosemary” (1967) is a horror novel. Do not hold the two abysmal movies made from it against the book.

James Crumley’s “The Last Good Kiss” (1978) (isn’t that a great title?) may not be for everyone. It’s got a lot of drugs, violence, cussin’, and other Hemingwayesque stuff, but I think it’s the best private-eye novel I’ve ever read – and I’m devoted to Chandler and Ross Macdonald.

There are many other authors whose work will live beyond the expected life span of most of us (regardless of what the cryogenic experts tell us), some famous, some undeservedly not. Some famous ones are Elmore Leonard, Robert B. Parker, Michael Connelly, P.D. James, James M. Cain, George Pelecanos, John le Carre, Eric Ambler, John D. MacDonald and Mickey Spillane. Some really, really good authors of whom you may not have heard are Joe Gores, Stephen Solomita, K.C. Constantine, Paul Cain, Leigh Brackett, Henry Bromell, Stanley Ellin, and Robert Girardi.

Unless you are a dedicated reader of crime fiction, you’ve got to start somewhere. So there you have a reading list that will make you think I’m smart and have good taste. Dig into the books and authors listed above and you’ll thank me. Really.

Mr. Penzler is the proprietor of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan and the series editor of the annual “Best American Mystery Stories.” He can be reached at openzler@nysun.com.