Pleasant Surprises
For a very long time, a good friend has recommended Elizabeth Peters' Amelia Peabody books to me as a rollicking good read. At Christmas I decided to treat myself to the first one and also picked up a book about an Edwardian railway detective (Necropolis Railway, I think).
I read the railway one first; it was a bit slow, with a fairly unsympathetic lead character, Conan Doyle's trick of not telling you all the information you need to sort it out yourself and, worst of all, it didn't actually end. You have to buy the next one to find out what happens, yet nowhere did it mention this was on ongoing story. Sadly, it wasn't really interesting enough to warrant buying the next one.
Then I moved on to "Crocodile on the Sandbank"; well, what a difference! I read virtually all of it yesterday as we watched the snow falling, then we forayed out and I treated myself to the next two. Val was right, it was a good old pulp Victorian romp, with lots of dashing gallantness and derring-do, which after the fortnight I've had was exactly the sort of escapism I needed.
Its rare these days that I find a book I truly enjoy; I've either pretty much read it before (i.e. virtual carbon copies of stories tackled by different authors), the story is dull and fails to engage me or I get so annoyed at the characters being complete idiots that I couldn't care less what happens to them (I've tried Memoirs of a Geisha twice because of this, and still can't finish it).
It was also a tremendous luxury to just sit and read for the pleasure of reading, something many of us no longer have the time to do. Most of my reading is work related. I have to admit to feeling a little guilty for indulging myself in this way, but it was worth it.
I read the railway one first; it was a bit slow, with a fairly unsympathetic lead character, Conan Doyle's trick of not telling you all the information you need to sort it out yourself and, worst of all, it didn't actually end. You have to buy the next one to find out what happens, yet nowhere did it mention this was on ongoing story. Sadly, it wasn't really interesting enough to warrant buying the next one.
Then I moved on to "Crocodile on the Sandbank"; well, what a difference! I read virtually all of it yesterday as we watched the snow falling, then we forayed out and I treated myself to the next two. Val was right, it was a good old pulp Victorian romp, with lots of dashing gallantness and derring-do, which after the fortnight I've had was exactly the sort of escapism I needed.
Its rare these days that I find a book I truly enjoy; I've either pretty much read it before (i.e. virtual carbon copies of stories tackled by different authors), the story is dull and fails to engage me or I get so annoyed at the characters being complete idiots that I couldn't care less what happens to them (I've tried Memoirs of a Geisha twice because of this, and still can't finish it).
It was also a tremendous luxury to just sit and read for the pleasure of reading, something many of us no longer have the time to do. Most of my reading is work related. I have to admit to feeling a little guilty for indulging myself in this way, but it was worth it.