The very negative reviews of this book might well be the result of the jarring difference in style, tone, and narrative from the Shardlake series. Winter in Madrid is written in a literary style" with a weak plot, third person narration, flashbacks, and a generally bleak mood. As a fan of the Shardlake series I was unpleasantly surprised by all of the above. I wouldn't consider Winter in Madrid to be a failure or a bad novel, but it was neither what I expected or enjoyed. For anyone interested in the Spanish Civil War I would recommend Orwell's Homage to Catalonia.
I've read most of the Harry Hole books despite a growing sense that the series -- like Harry Hole himself -- is growing tiresome and less interesting over time. Nonetheless I've kept coming back, hoping that I would find myself once again engaged in the characters and story. In this book Nesbo indulges in detailed and excessively repulsive descriptions of violence and torture, almost as if he wants to see just how far he can push the reader's sense of fear, loathing, and disgust for no other purpose than to test his considerable ability as a writer. For me at least, this exercise served no purpose. I resorted to skipping over whole passages that were bogged down in such description. To make matters worse the plot is convoluted and contrived. In an effort to deliver the customary twist in the conclusion Nesbo seems to throw everything at the proverbial wall to see what sticks. I finished this book with no interest in reading another Harry Hole book.
I chose this book because I am a fan of noir detective fiction and this one was rated so highly. I was disappointed by a tired, plodding, and thin plot and a writing style that alternated between ersatz profundity introspection and comic book wham-bam action. In reading through Amazon reviews I noticed that some readers say that this is one of McDonald's weaker Travis McGee books. I certainly hope so, but I'm not sure I want to risk and more money and time on this series. As in all matters of taste, others may disagree.
I wish I would have checked the reviews before I bought this book. I chose this book after reading Jar City by the same author, which is a decidedly better book than this one. Arctic Chill crawls along at a snail's pace, with little in the way of a plot to engage the reader. None of the characters is fleshed out in much depth, and the final solution to the mystery more or less comes out of nowhere. At best this book could be read as a mood piece of an Iceland that is dark, cold, and bleak. Even the introduction of an immigrant family from Thailand, which could have offered some very interesting opportunities for social commentary and dramatic tension, never ascends much above cliche. All in all, a big disappointment.
This is not a thriller as much as a Christian religious tract. It's like calling the Left Behind series mainstream science fiction. I gave up when the standard miracles were trotted out to drive the plot.
This was my first (and probably last) Ian Banks novel. I am always on the lookout for new mysteries, and I was particularly interested in the tie-in to 1960s-70s radical politics. Although the writing style is good, I found the plot weak and the pace tedious. The resolution depends on characters spilling their guts to police instead of just clamming up or saying "before we go any further I want to talk to my solicitor." Occasionally this sort of confessional splurge can be forgiven, but it is such a constant feature of this book that it becomes intrusive and annoying. Finally, as detectives go I found Banks a bit on the bland side. Chacun a son gout, I suppose.
The story gets off to a strong start, with a very believable scenario in which Lord Halifax succeeds Chamberlain as PM and sues Nazi Germany for peace. The "what if" premise here is that a continuation of appeasement would have led to Hitler emerging as the clear victor in an attenuated war that never really grew into a World War. The depiction of fascism extending itself gradually into the institutions of British politics and society is truly frightening. The English characters swept up in this tragedy are finely drawn and mostly sympathetic (except for a suitably loathsome Blackshirt brother-in-law). However, the taut narrative begins to fray a bit about a third of the way into the book. As some others have noted, the idea that some secrets about America's development of an atomic bomb conveyed orally during a violent family argument does not really bear up to close scrutiny. Too, the prolonged chase of the person who, very much against his will, is burdened by the secret drags on far too long and is accorded too much importance to the governments concerned. Thereafter the story ends somewhat abruptly, with what seems like a somewhat forced rosy scenario for Britain's future following Hitler's death. What could have been a great book thus ends up being only good.
Written during WWII, Ross MacDonald's spy thriller is only partly satisfying. The plot is only so-so and the protagonist is less than believable, but the distinctive writing style clearly establishes MacDonald as a force to be reckoned with. As a writer, MacDonald only comes into his own in the Lew Archer series. Readers new to MacDonald should read all of the Lew Archer books first. After that, savor this little book for what it is: a early effort by someone who would go on to be a great writer.
I was attracted by the idea of a cyber-terror attack on financial systems. But what I actually got was a disappointing combination of deadeningly conventional thriller cliches with a good deal of tech talk thrown in with the goal of persuading the reader that the author actually knows what he is talking about. Who knows, he just might have expertise in the technical details. But then again who really cares if the technical content is buried in a heap of stock characters pulled off the thriller genre shelf (all the women are attractive blond, all the men are above average, etc. -- a veritable Lake Woebegone cast) and sloppy, appallingly bad writing even for a genre not known for its literary merits. One unintended benefit: every so often I come across a book so ineptly crafted that I am inspired to go back to my long unfinished second novel. Heaven knows that I am no great shakes as a fiction writer but I have no doubt can better than this even after three or four beers. So get ready world, I'm coming back!
For my money The Zebra-Striped Hearse shows Ross Macdonald at the top of his writing. The story is less violent and more psychologically-nuanced than earlier books on the series. The plot is brilliantly developed with the twists and turns needed to maintain suspense and element of surprise. The writing is both graceful and spare, perfectly capturing the essentials of the detective noir genre. My only complaint is the title which turns out to be something of a red herring -- or maybe that's entirely intentional. I won't say anything further lest I give away a spoiler alert.
I consider myself a Scott Turow fan. I have read all his books available on Audible and several in hard copy, never with less than overall appreciation for his ability to draw the reader into his narrative and his skill as a writer. Until now. I feel both puzzled and disappointed by Personal Injuries. Several reviewers have described the plot as boring, presumably because it moves along very slowly, frequently punctuated by digressive descriptions of minor characters and descriptive details of settings, clothing etc. It is, in short, more "literary" than the typical crime procedural mystery. My criticisms are more specific and do not take the author to task for writing a book that departs from my general expectations. I would argue that the books fails in ways that transcend genre. For example, the tensions between Robbie, the protagonist anti-hero sleazeball lawyer, and Evon, the constipated FBI agent assigned to undercover duty in Robbie's office, are artificial, tortured, and ultimately the stuff of television soap opera. Throwing in Robbie's wife dying a slow, painful death from ALS over the span of the story only reinforces this unfortunate impression. The cast of corrupt cops and judges comes across as more caricature than credible. Even poor Sandy Stern, the stately Argentine-American attorney from earlier Turow novels, is dragged in toward the end for a cameo appearance. In desperation perhaps, to lend some credibility? Finally one point that some might regard as nitpicking: the story is told in the person by George. George wafts in and out of the storyline, sometimes omniscient (or nearly so) and other times a relatively uninteresting and incurious observer of events. Turow attempts some unconvincing justification of how George could be cognizant of virtually all the things that are going on in the lives and thoughts of the other characters but it just doesn't fly. Creative writing technique aside, it is never a good thing when the reader is distracted by wondering who is narrating and why. Note: After I wrote this review I did a little research and learned that Time magazine named Personal Injuries as the Best Fiction Novel of 1999. I am left wondering who was on the jury and if they actually read the book.
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