As some of you may know, I’m a devoted reader of crime/mystery/detective books. Among their authors, Agatha Christie stands, for me, not only tallest, but somehow in … a class by herself. Of course the plots are devilish. But along with that — and despite that — her narration just has the most natural quality, with Humour at every turn. Before she was Agatha Christie, here is Agatha Mary Clarissa Miller …
My particular problem, however, is that … I have a MOST challenged memory, when it comes to keeping track of what is going on in a mystery book. So, like all Christies, the first time I read Lord Edgware Dies, I was just totally at sea.
I have just finished reading it again, for the second time. (Or perhaps the third?) In a way, it was even more fun, because I remembered enough not to feel completely flummoxed, yet still was fuzzy on a good part of the goings on.
Oh, here is how the book looked upon its American introduction, in magazine installments Dickens-style. Thirteen For Dinner (or for the book, Thirteen At Dinner) was the original American title. M. Poirot is so proud of les moustaches!
lessthanamegabyte 