End Games
The Sherlock Holmes "type" is pretty much inescapable in crime fiction, and relatively easy to spot. They are a predatory species, tending to solitude; dry of wit, slow to anger, a bit chewed up by life, wonderfully flawed; often self-deprecating but intuitively brilliant at what they do, and capable of tremendous kindness towards other human beings. It's also no secret that some of my favourite fictional characters have many of the characteristics of this type: Lucas Corso, Havelock Vetinari, Arkady Renko, and, of course, Aurelio Zen.
Marilyn Stasio in The New York Times (August 2007) wrote:
'Donna Leon has staked out Venice, Magdalen Nabb knows every narrow street in Florence, and Andrea Camilleri holds Sicily in the palm of his hand. But only Michael Dibdin, in the clever and exuberantly witty police procedurals he created for a dyspeptic cop named Aurelio Zen, tried to wrap his arms around the whole of Italy. Braving his way province by province - from the mountains of Alto Adige (in “Medusa”) to the caves of Sardinia (in “Vendetta”) - the British-born author produced crime stories that capture the idiosyncratic essence of each region while contributing to a dynamic study of the Italian national character in all its unruly glory.'
Michael Dibdin's last book about the Venetian policeman, "End Games", was published posthumously.
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There is a unique flavour of melancholy to remote railway stations during the long intervals between the arrival and departure of trains. And when the station is a modernist monstrocity constructed a few decades ago on the scale befitting a provincial capital such as Cosenza, that flavour can become almost intolerably intense.
The platform stretched away like a desolate beach at the edge of the world. Opposite, a grandiose diagram of sidings was occupied by a few rusted wagons, surplus to requirements and awaiting the scrap man. The clock ticked off precise divisions of a time without meaning anywhere else in the world. Within the cavernous vestibule behind, three uniformed employees yelled insults at each other across the resonant space with the insolence of those secure in the knowledge that under the statale 'you pretend to work and we'll pretend to pay you' system, their jobs were not only guaranteed for life but left them enough free time to make some serious money in the black economy on the side.
Like mine, thought Zen. Italy was indeed the bel paese, inexplicably blessed, just as some people seemed to be. Everything went wrong all the time, but somehow it didn't matter, while in other countries even if everything went perfectly, life was still a misery.
Marilyn Stasio in The New York Times (August 2007) wrote:
'Donna Leon has staked out Venice, Magdalen Nabb knows every narrow street in Florence, and Andrea Camilleri holds Sicily in the palm of his hand. But only Michael Dibdin, in the clever and exuberantly witty police procedurals he created for a dyspeptic cop named Aurelio Zen, tried to wrap his arms around the whole of Italy. Braving his way province by province - from the mountains of Alto Adige (in “Medusa”) to the caves of Sardinia (in “Vendetta”) - the British-born author produced crime stories that capture the idiosyncratic essence of each region while contributing to a dynamic study of the Italian national character in all its unruly glory.'
Michael Dibdin's last book about the Venetian policeman, "End Games", was published posthumously.
~
There is a unique flavour of melancholy to remote railway stations during the long intervals between the arrival and departure of trains. And when the station is a modernist monstrocity constructed a few decades ago on the scale befitting a provincial capital such as Cosenza, that flavour can become almost intolerably intense.
The platform stretched away like a desolate beach at the edge of the world. Opposite, a grandiose diagram of sidings was occupied by a few rusted wagons, surplus to requirements and awaiting the scrap man. The clock ticked off precise divisions of a time without meaning anywhere else in the world. Within the cavernous vestibule behind, three uniformed employees yelled insults at each other across the resonant space with the insolence of those secure in the knowledge that under the statale 'you pretend to work and we'll pretend to pay you' system, their jobs were not only guaranteed for life but left them enough free time to make some serious money in the black economy on the side.
Like mine, thought Zen. Italy was indeed the bel paese, inexplicably blessed, just as some people seemed to be. Everything went wrong all the time, but somehow it didn't matter, while in other countries even if everything went perfectly, life was still a misery.