In my ongoing effort to make note of every book I read in 2012, I ought to write that I re-read three Agatha Christie novels last week. I know: re-reading mysteries? Doesn't that defeat the point? But, Ms Christie wrote so many mysteries, so many of which I have read, and they are so skillful and so sly that I forget whodunnit after a few years. So, I keep cycling though my mass markets, year-after-year.
There are actually only four of her mysteries whose denouements I can never forget: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Murder on the Orient Express, Murder on the Nile, and And Then There Were None. If you've never read Agatha Christie, don't read Roger Ackroyd first (as I mistakenly did); but, do read it once you've met and fallen in love with Monsieur Poirot in other mysteries. It is a humdinger.
The three I read last week were: Sparkling Cyanide, Why Didn't They Ask Evans?, and Murder is Easy. Not much to note about them other than that Christie makes what must be such a difficult writing task look so darn easy. And the crimes, even murder most foul, are so darn fun. Dang Brits! Why do Americans even try to write?
(That said: I know several American authors who write extraordinarily well. You'd almost think they were British. But, as a national whole, the Brits outclass us by sheer sparkling, spectacular volume of wit and skill with pen or quill.)