Out on the tar plains
I spent the weekend in a Victorian guesthouse, which meant Saturday night consisted of sitting in the parlour in a comfortable wingback chair (strangely, no antimacassar) with an RP-voiced announcer and classical music on the elderly radio. So naturally I read half a biography of Arthur Conan Doyle (I'm not counting this, as I didn't finish it - I was mainly interested in his childhood and how much of the Murder Rooms series was invented. The two-faced fellow GP he initially practised with is there, and the alcoholic/mad father, but his mother seems to have played a more important part than the books allow for, and the bio skipped so quickly through the medical school years ("met Joseph Bell. Headed off on Arctic freighter to raise money. Graduated") that I couldn't confirm the fellow classmate serial killer thing) and then an Agatha Christie, later in period but still appropriate in feel. 4.50 from Paddington - one of the ones I'm sure I've read, but it's been so long that I don't remember the details.
I remember disliking Miss Marple as a child (when I was a child, that is) and I may have started this one and then flung it aside in disgust, intent on locating the next Poirot. (I find Tommy and Tuppence tolerable, on average) This one was published in 1957 or thereabouts, and manages to include references to abortion, male homosexuality and the biological necessity of defecation, just in case anyone thought Agatha dwelt only in comfortable cliches. I've never understood the use of "cosy" for murder mysteries, anyway, but moving on. I once again failed to guess the killer, although did spot the romantic interest.
I also read the painfully bad Beaches, by Iris Rainer Dart. A re-read; I read it after seeing the movie, because I was curious about how the balance of power/viewer interest played out in it, and I'd retained no memory of it, probably because it is very bad. One of those books where you can see the shadow of a much better book, with real people, trapped somewhere behind the page.
I remember disliking Miss Marple as a child (when I was a child, that is) and I may have started this one and then flung it aside in disgust, intent on locating the next Poirot. (I find Tommy and Tuppence tolerable, on average) This one was published in 1957 or thereabouts, and manages to include references to abortion, male homosexuality and the biological necessity of defecation, just in case anyone thought Agatha dwelt only in comfortable cliches. I've never understood the use of "cosy" for murder mysteries, anyway, but moving on. I once again failed to guess the killer, although did spot the romantic interest.
I also read the painfully bad Beaches, by Iris Rainer Dart. A re-read; I read it after seeing the movie, because I was curious about how the balance of power/viewer interest played out in it, and I'd retained no memory of it, probably because it is very bad. One of those books where you can see the shadow of a much better book, with real people, trapped somewhere behind the page.