If I had to name my first ‘literary hero’, the first author whose books I read that made me jealous, that made me think to myself, “This. Is. It. This is what I need to do. I need to write stories, mysteries, that makes people feel like this book has made me feel,” only one name come to mind. The author is Agatha Christie, and the book was And Then There Were None (also known by the less PC title Ten Little Indians).
If you added up all the time I spent with Agatha, with her Miss Marple and her Hercule Poirot and others of her creation, I’m sure it would amount to months of hours of reading, perhaps years. If I had had an imaginary friend, she would have been it. Even in my tender pre-teen years, I knew that her books, that she, wasn’t normal (and I mean that in the best way possible).
She was ahead of her time. She pulled no punches. She was prolific and disturbed and wonderful and wacked.
So how does she stand the test of time?
Eerily well. It’s been years (decades) since I’ve read one of her books. I’m quite sure that I’ve probably read this one before, although I couldn’t remember it. And while it’s not one of her best, it’s still darn good. There’s not many books written almost fifty years ago that you could read today and have it still feel rather modern. Still a good mystery with an intricate plot that’s not entirely obvious. Still a few chuckles to be found among the pages. For those reasons and many more, Agatha Christie is and will remain the Queen of Mystery. 5 stars!
I love this one
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