More about books...

Writhing less comfortably through the last nights in my own bed I've read 'The Spy Game' by Georgina Harding which is every bit as 'elegant' and 'beautifully written' as the endorsing critical quotes say of it (which I generally ignore until after I've sampled the wares when I can snort with derision and wonder how much they were paid or what a good job has been made of editing out the rest of the quote.) It was, amazingly, just as gripping as promised too, though almost nothing happens. It took finding a W.H.Smith somewhere in London to happen across it, a fact which brings me nicely to acknowledge, long after it should have been acknowledged, a comment someone wrote on a blog entry long ago about the dearth of Phil Rickman backlists in book stores. I've never seen Phil's books in airport lounges, Tesco or train stations. If someone hadn't told me about him I might never have known. His titles hardly ever appeared in the boxes that came through the door of the bookshop which is an indication of how little they sell I imagine. They deserve much more exposure because they are well written, with rounded believable characters I can care about and, and for those who like the subject of the paranormal, some actual thought has been put into them. I only bought the Shakespeare thing because it was part of the poor choice at a railway station kiosk where the second book was half price. This will boost the sales of what should by rights slide silently into the slush pile and sink, never to be seen again.

Conspiracy theory alert. We are being manipulated. AAAaargh!

It was so good to hear one of the Booker prize readers, who I have always felt sorry for in recent years, complaining about the doom&gloom misery in most of the books she has to plough through. Almost every book, she claims, begins with a rape and that is the fun bit, it's downhill all the way thereafter. It reminds me why I stick to crime novels - at least they aren't pretending to be Literature and there's often a laugh or two along the way. (Though that reminds me of another grumble - the other book I read in my away time by Quentin Jardine. I so wish someone would teach that man how to write dialogue that isn't wooden and totally unbelievable. Presumably he is one of the happy band well-publicised at stands in airports and train stations, which again was where I found him and bought him in desperation for entertaiment I have already almost forgtten.)

There's anough misery in the world without getting more of it splurged over us by -usually - women out for a cheap pull. No matter how cathartic Greek tragedy may be these dreary wallowers just don't match up.