Category Archives: Karin Fossum

Waiting For Life to Start*

restlessAs adults, we learn that life isn’t a series of exciting events all in a row. In fact, a lot of us are sustained by the regular routines of our lives. But very often, young people don’t have that perspective. There’s a sense among some young people of waiting for, well, they’re not entirely sure what. But they know they’re waiting for something to happen. Perhaps you remember that same restlessness from your own past.

That sense of waiting can make a person bored and restless. And when that happens it leaves one open to a lot of things that seem new and different, even exciting, at the time, but can quickly become dangerous. So it’s little wonder that we see that plot point, or that sort of character, in crime fiction.

In Peter Robinson’s Gallows View, for instance, we meet Trever Sharp. He’s a bright enough young person, but he’s bored and restless, living in the small Yorkshire town of Eastvale. He doesn’t quite fit in with the other boys at school, and he’s had brushes with the law. Fortunately, he’s been smart enough to steer clear of real trouble. Then he starts spending time with Mick Webster, who is, by nearly anyone’s definition, a juvenile delinquent. Trevor’s father warns him to have nothing to do with Mick, but Trevor is aimless and Mick is interesting and ‘cool.’ DI Alan Banks, who is introduced in this novel, encounters Trevor in the course of investigating a series of break-ins, a peeper who’s making the lives of Eastvale’s women miserable, and a murder. As the novel goes on, we see just how dangerous that restlessness can be.

Pascal Garnier’s How’s the Pain? introduces readers to twenty-one-year-old Bernard Ferrand. He’s aimless, bored, and at loose ends. What’s more, he doesn’t have a particular skill or passion, so there’s nothing, really, that interests him. But he does have a driving license. And that’s just what ageing contract killer Simon Marechall needs. He’s nearly at the end of his career, and wants to do one more job before he leaves it. The idea is that Ferrand will drive him to the French coast, where Marechall will take care of his last piece of business. Ferrand agrees; after all, what else is there for him to do? But he doesn’t know, at first, what his new boss’ business is. And by the time he finds out, things have already been set in motion. If you’ve read Garnier, you know that this trip is not going to go well…

In Karin Fossum’s When the Devil Holds the Candle, Oslo Inspector Konrad Sejer and his assistant, Jacob Skarre, investigate a strange disappearance. Andreas Winther hasn’t been seen in a few days. His mother Runi gets concerned and visits Sejer. At first, Sejer isn’t sure there’s any cause for worry; there are many reasons why a young man might take off for a few days without telling his mother where he is. But as more time goes by, Sejer begins to get concerned, too, and looks into the matter. He learns that Andreas and his best friend Sivert ‘Zipp’ Skorpe are both rather aimless young men, waiting for something interesting to happen. They do everything together, and it’s very likely that Zipp knows something about what happened to his friend. Sejer becomes even more convinced that Zipp knows more than he’s saying when he interviews him. But Zipp refuses to help. It takes all of Sejer’s skill to find out what, exactly, happened to Andreas and why. And the novel shows what can happen when people have a sense of waiting for something to start their lives.

We see that same sense of waiting and restlessness in Julia Spencer-Fleming’s In the Bleak Midwinter. That novel begins when a newborn is found at St. Alban’s (Episcopal) Church in the small town of Miller’s Kill, New York. Not long afterwards, the baby’s biological mother, Katie McWhorter, is found dead in the nearby river. Police Chief Russ Van Alstyne investigates the murder. Meanwhile, Clare Fergusson, who serves as St. Alban’s priest (and, who, incidentally, found the infant), works with Van Alstyne, as she feels a personal sense of responsibility to the people involved. As they look into the case, they interview Katie’s friends and her boyfriend, Ethan Stoner. We learn that many of these young people drink, take drugs, etc. in part because there’s not much for them in Miller’s Kill. They’re restless and bored, and there aren’t many jobs available. That sense of waiting for something isn’t the reason Katie is killed. But it is a part of these young people’s lives.

In Megan Abbott’s Dare Me, high school cheerleaders Addy Hanlon and Beth Cassidy are in their last year. They’re in charge of the school, as the saying goes, and waiting for their lives to start. Then, a new cheerleading coach, Collette French, is hired. From the beginning, the cheerleading squad is drawn to her, and she makes of the group a sort of special club. Addy, like the others, is a part of that club. But Beth is on the outside looking in, as the saying goes. Everything changes when there’s a suicide (or, perhaps, it wasn’t a suicide). And as the characters deal with what’s happened, we see where feeling a little aimless and restless can eventually lead.

We see that in Emma Cline’s The Girls, too. It’s 1969, and fourteen-year-old Evie Boyd is waiting for something – anything – to happen in her world. She’s bored and aimless, and not sure what comes next. Then, she meets a group of girls in a park and feels drawn to them, especially to a young woman named Suzanne. That’s how she gets involved with a charismatic man named Russell, who seems to have these young women under his spell. Before she knows it, Evie is drawn into this world, and towards some very dark and dangerous places. And it all starts because she’s restless and waiting for whatever comes next.

That’s not unusual for young people (and sometimes people who aren’t so young!). Restlessness does happen, and it can add a layer of tension and character development to a crime novel.


In Memoriam


This post is dedicated to the memory of Charmian Carr, who brought that feeling to life in Robert Wise’s film version of Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II’s The Sound of Music.


*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Richard Rodger’s and Oscar Hammerstein II’s Sixteen Going on Seventeen (Reprise).


Filed under Emma Cline, Julia Spencer-Fleming, Karin Fossum, Megan Abbott, Pascal Garnier, Peter Robinson

The Friendship is Toxic*

Toxic FriendshipsAn interesting post from Cleo at Cleopatra Loves Books has got me thinking about what you could almost call an alternate take on the domestic psychological thriller. Instead of the main characters being partners or family members, this sort of novel looks at friendships.

For most of us, friends are the sort of glue that holds life together and makes it better. But some friendships, even if they start out well, can turn quite toxic. And those toxic relationships can make for a compelling context for a thriller. There are several of them out there; I know you’ll think of more than I could.

As L.R. Wright’s The Suspect begins, eighty-year-old George Wilcox has just murdered eighty-five-year-old Carlyle Burke. Not very long afterwards, he reports the crime, saying that he stopped in and found Burke dead; RCMP Staff Sergeant Karl Alberg investigates. Word of the murder gets around the small town of Sechelt, British Columbia, very quickly, and there’s soon lots of speculation. But Alberg doesn’t have any real leads, as there doesn’t seem to be a motive. Burke hadn’t made any obvious enemies, and didn’t have a large fortune or valuable possessions that would have been worth stealing. As the novel goes on, we learn more about the background between Wilcox and Burke. And we learn what happened in the past that led to the murder.

Megan Abbott’s Bury Me Deep introduces readers to Marion Seeley. Her husband, Everett, has lost his medical license due to drug use, so he decides to go to Mexico to start over. While he’s getting settled, he arranges for Marion to live in a Phoenix apartment, and take a clerical job at the exclusive Werden Clinic. In the course of her job, Marion meets Louise Mercer and her roommate, Ginny Hoyt. Their lifestyle involves plenty of parties, drugs and men. Slowly, Marion becomes friends with Louise and Ginny, and drawn into their lives. And that friendship plays a major role in the tragedy that’s at the core of this novel.

Karin Fossum’s When the Devil Holds the Candle also explores what you might call a toxic friendship. Andreas Winther’s best (really, only) friend is Sivert ‘Zipp’ Skorpe. They do everything together, and depend on each other. Then, one day, Andreas goes missing. His mother, Runi, gets concerned, and goes to the police. But there are plenty of reasons why a young man might take off for a few days without telling his mother where he is. So at first, Oslo Inspector Konrad Sejer isn’t overly concerned. But when time goes by and Andreas doesn’t return, he starts to investigate. Sejer is sure that Zipp can give him useful information, but Zipp refuses to be helpful. Still, Sejer persists. Little by little, we learn what happened on the day Andreas disappeared, and we learn how the friendship between the two young men played a role.

In Tana French’s The Likeness, Dublin detective Cassie Maddox has recently been transferred from the homicide investigation team to the domestic violence investigation team, as a way to help her recover from the impact of an earlier case. Then one day, the body of a young woman is discovered. What’s especially eerie about this murder is that the victim looks exactly like Cassie. What’s more, her identification indicates that her name is Alexandra Madison, the same alias that Cassie used in her last assignment. As a part of the investigation, the police try to trace the young woman’s last days. They find that she lived in a house called Whitethorn House, outside of Dublin. So Cassie goes undercover there as Lexie Madison. She gets to know the other people who lived at the house, and she learns the real truth about their relationships, and about the young woman who was killed. She discovers that there was plenty of toxicity there, and that what happened in the house certainly played a role in the murder.

Yrsa Sigurðardóttir’s Last Rituals introduces Reykjavík attorney Thóra Gudmundsdóttir. One day, she gets a strange call from Amelia Guntlieb, who lives in Germany. It seems that her son, Harald, was a student at the university in Reykjavík when he was murdered and his body mutilated. The police think that his friend, Hugi Thórisson, is guilty. In fact, he’s already been arrested. But Amelia doesn’t think he’s responsible. She wants Thóra to clear Hugi’s name, and find out the truth about Harald’s death. And she’s sending the family banker, Matthew Reich, to work with Thóra. At first, Thóra’s not sure why Amelia chose her, but when Amelia explains that it’s because Thóra speaks fluent German, the matter begins to make more sense. Thóra and Matthew begin to ask some questions, and they soon discover that Hugi was by no means the only one who might have had a motive for murder. Harald had a very close-knit and almost secretive group of friends. And when Thóra meets them and tries to talk to them, she finds that they’re not at all forthcoming about their friendship with Harald. As the novel goes on, we learn the secrets they’re hiding, and we see how this friendship impacted everyone.

And that’s the thing about friendships. The best ones, of course, are nourishing and enriching, and we benefit immensely from them. But there are others that can be very toxic indeed. Which novels featuring this plot point have stayed with you?

Thanks very much, Cleo, for the inspiration. Now, may I suggest that your next blog stop be Cleo’s fantastic blog. Fine reviews and updates await you!


*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Kate Miller-Heidke’s I Like You Better When You’re Not Around.


Filed under Karin Fossum, L.R. Wright, Megan Abbott, Tana French, Yrsa Sigurðardóttir

She Knows Just What to Say*

CrimeFictionalEuphemismsNot very long ago, I got an email from a publishing company I’d previously contacted. One of the things I wanted was my contact’s confirmation that any contract I signed with this publisher would not involve any cost to me. Writers, I’m sure you know what it’s like to ‘feel out’ a publisher. The response I got was that the contract would likely involve at least some ‘cost sharing.’

Another term I’ve heard is ‘author subsidy.’ I’m sure there are plenty of others. What it all really means is that authors who sign with such publishers end up paying at least some of the cost of publication. Opinions about such contracts aside, what interested me was my contact’s choice of words. And it all got me to thinking about word choice and euphemisms.

I can’t, of course, say for sure, but my guess would be that phrases such as ‘cost sharing’ are designed to make the prospect of paying a publisher more palatable for an author. There are lots of other examples of words and phrases like that (e.g. ‘purchase,’ or ‘invest,’ rather than ‘pay’). And there are some good reasons to use them.

In crime fiction, euphemisms are sometimes much more effective, both for authors and for characters, than too much bluntness. For example, one of the most common sets of euphemisms in crime fiction are related to death. Many people, especially the bereaved, are uncomfortable with the words ‘dead,’ or ‘died.’ So the police, funeral arrangers, mourners and so on often avoid the word. In Karin Fossum’s Don’t Look Back, for instance, Inspector Konrad Sejer and his assistant, Jacob Skarre, investigate the murder of fifteen-year-old Annie Holland. One of the sad tasks Annie’s stepfather has to do is arrange for her funeral. So he has a conversation with a funeral director. It’s a very powerful scene, during which the director uses the term, ‘the deceased.’ Many such professionals also use the term, ‘loved one.’

Don’t Look Back also has an example of another sort of euphemism. As it turns out, the victim in this novel was raped before she died. Understandably, her stepfather can’t bring himself to use that word, so he chooses, ‘assaulted.’ And for his character, given the circumstances, that makes sense.

Lots of crime fiction novels, especially police procedurals, also include phrases such as ‘helping the police with their enquiries,’ or its parallel. For example, in one plot thread of Stuart MacBride’s Dying Light, DS Logan MacRae and the rest of DI Roberta Steel’s squad are investigating a series of murders of prostitutes. In one scene, MacRae’s listening to the radio in his car:

‘…someone was ‘assisting the police with their enquiries’ into the murder of a number of prostitutes.’

Most people know that means a person is likely a suspect. But there’s a good reason for that particular way of putting it. The police have to follow specific procedures to arrest someone. And the police may have good reasons not to be public about their suspicions. What’s more, journalists have to be careful to avoid libel or misrepresentation. ‘Assisting the police,’ sends the message that the police are working on a case without giving away false or premature information. It also sends the message they’re following procedure. So does the term ‘person of interest.’

Sometimes the police use euphemisms to put witnesses and suspects at their ease. In Sinéad Crowley’s Can Anybody Help Me?, for example, Dublin DS Claire Boyle is investigating the murder of a victim whose body was found in an empty apartment. So, naturally, she wants to find out as much as she can about the person who owns it. For that, she interviews Cormac Berry, who works with the firm that originally sold the apartment. Berry is, not surprisingly, concerned about being implicated. So during their talk, he eventually asks to speak to his lawyer. Here’s what happens when the lawyer arrives:

‘‘Ella O’Mahoney. I’m a legal representative for O’Mahoney Thorpe. I believe you are holding one of our employees here?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say holding…’’

In that case, O’Mahoney strategically avoids a euphemism, so as to put herself and her client in a better position. But Boyle picks that up, and tries to make it clear where Berry stands:

‘‘I’ll just leave you two alone then. I’ll just come back for a chat in a few minutes, yeah?’’

As it turns out, what Boyle learns from Berry is useful in solving the murder.

There are lots of other examples of this sort of language use. When it comes to the way people actually use words, there are times when euphemisms work better than would unvarnished words. And authentic crime fiction reflects that.

On the other hand, euphemisms can sometimes be seen as condescending, or even deceptive. Some people would prefer plain language, which they see as straightforward and honest. And sometimes, that direct approach can add to a crime novel, too. In Agatha Christie’s The ABC Murders, for instance, Hercule Poirot works with Chief Inspector Japp and the local police to investigate a series of murders. The only thing they seem to have in common is that Poirot receives a cryptic warning note before each one, and an ABC railway guide is discovered near each body. At one point, Poirot visits the family of the second victim, twenty-three-year-old Elizabeth ‘Betty’ Barnard. In order to find out who might have wanted her dead, he needs to know more about the victim. But, as is the custom, people are reticent to be blunt. In one scene, Poirot mentions this to Betty’s sister, Megan:

‘‘I should like to find someone who knew Elizabeth Barnard and who does not know she is dead. Then, perhaps, I should hear what is useful to me – the truth.’
Megan Barnard looked at him for a few minutes in silence whilst she smoked. Then, at last, she spoke…
‘Betty,’ she said, ‘was an unmitigated little ass!’’

And that’s exactly the sort of direct language that Poirot wants to get a sense of what this victim was like.

What’s your feeling about euphemisms? When you read crime fiction, do you prefer them? Or do you prefer really direct, blunt language? If you’re a writer, how do you choose how direct your characters will be?


*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Bob Seger’s Good For Me.


Filed under Agatha Christie, Karin Fossum, Sinéad Crowley, Stuart MacBride

I’m Kinda Awkward and Afraid*

Reactions to Mental IllnessIn Agatha Christie’s Sad Cypress, Elinor Carlisle is arrested for the murder of Mary Gerrard. She’s got motives both personal and financial, and there’s enough circumstantial evidence against her that she is a very likely suspect. Local GP Peter Lord has fallen in love with Mary, and wants her name cleared. So he asks Hercule Poirot to do just that. Poirot agrees to look into the case (‘though not to fabricate evidence), and begins investigating. In the meantime, Elinor remains in prison, and has to endure a trial. Needless to say, by the end of the book, she’s mentally and emotionally devastated. So Lord arranges for her to go for a rest cure. Christie doesn’t outright say it, but you can certainly imagine Lord’s referring her to some sort of mental institution. Christie doesn’t tell us, but one could wonder what happens to Elinor when she leaves that place? How will she be received? The hint is that Lord intends to be there for her. But it does raise the question of how others will receive her.

We continue to learn more and more about the human mind and how it works. But there’s still a great deal of misunderstanding and, sometimes, downright fear about those who’ve been in mental health care. Certainly it makes for a lot of awkwardness, especially when one’s going back to work after a time way, or otherwise trying to reconnect with people. It’s true in real life, and we often see it reflected in crime fiction, too.

In Karin Fossum’s Bad Intentions, we are introduced to Jon Moreno. He’s recently been released from a mental institution where he was dealing with severe anxiety issues. He’s still fragile, and not everyone’s comfortable interacting with him. Thinking that he could use a little cheering up, Jon’s friends Axel Frimann and Philip Reilly take him to spend the weekend at a cabin by Dead Water Lake. Late one night, the three young men decide to go out on the lake. While they’re there, a tragedy occurs, and only two come back. Oslo Inspector Konrad Sejer and his assistant Jacob Skarre investigate what happened. They try to get the two survivors to tell what they know, but that proves to be much more difficult than they thought it would be. Then, another body is discovered, this time in Glitter Lake. Now, the police have to cases on their hands, which may or may not be related. Among other things, this novel touches on what it’s like when someone returns to a group of old friends after having been in a mental health facility.

At the beginning of Åsa Larsson’s The Black Path, Stockholm attorney Rebecka Martinsson is under psychiatric care, mostly due to events detailed in Sun Storm and The Blood Spilt. She’s released from the hospital and returns to her home town of Kiruna, where she’s decided to stay for a while and start to rebuild her life. The main plot of The Black Path concerns the murder of Inna Watrang, Director of Communications for Kellis Mining. The key to the murder may be some of the legalities behind the company’s activities, so Martinsson gets involved in the case. As she does, we see at some points that it’s very awkward for her and for others to talk about her experiences in the hospital and accept her as ‘ready to re-join the world.’ There’s some of that awkwardness in The Blood Spilt, too, actually.

Certainly New South Wales DS Kate Farrer feels it in Kathryn Fox’s Skin and Bones. She’s just returning to work after three months’ medical leave of absence that became necessary after she went through a traumatic experience (you can read about it in Malicious Intent). During her leave, Farrer got psychological treatment, and was on the way to healing. She would have liked to take more time away, but staffing shortages have made it necessary for her to return, so she’s still a bit fragile. She’s dropped right back in it, so to speak, when the charred body of a woman is discovered in the remains of a house fire that seems to have been caused by arson. Also discovered is a bag full of baby clothes. What’s more, it’s soon revealed that the victim had recently given birth. But no child’s body is discovered, and no-one reports having found an abandoned infant. It’s a difficult and painful case, and there was awkwardness already as Farrer returned to work. But she does her best to focus and work with her new partner, Oliver Parke, to find the truth behind the fire, the death, and the baby.

And then there’s Matthew Wyman, whom we meet in Michael Hogan’s Burial of the Dead. A highly intelligent and talented artist, he’s always been somewhat mentally fragile. But matters come to a head when he gets mixed up in the death of seventy-year-old Emma Kost O’Neal. It comes out that he discovered the body. Moreover, he was involved with the victim’s great-niece, Emmanuelle ‘Manny’ Whitman, who stands to inherit a good deal of money. So there are pieces of evidence to link him with the case. And it’s not long before the police fix on him as a suspect. But it’s equally possible that he’s being framed. He’s a good target because of his mental health history. In fact, in the course of the novel, he has complete breakdown and ends up in a mental institution. As the police try to get to the truth about the case, it’s interesting to see how different people react to Wyman’s situation. His family doesn’t want to discuss it, or accept the fact that he needs mental health care. Other characters in the novels react in other ways, some awkward, and some less so. That plot thread adds a layer of complexity to the novel.

Mental health care still remains one of the more complex issues we face. And, for a lot of people, it’s too awkward to discuss. It makes some people downright uncomfortable. But it’s a fact of life, and it’s interesting to see how it’s woven into crime fiction.


*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from Alice Cooper’s How You Gonna See Me Now?


Filed under Agatha Christie, Åsa Larsson, Karin Fossum, Kathryn Fox, Michael Hogan

Getting to Know You Well*

Learning From BookshelvesLet’s say you’re invited to someone’s home for the first time. What’s the first thing that’s likely to pique your curiosity? If you’re a book lover, chances are that one of the first things you’ll want to look at is your host’s book collection. Part of that is, of course, that book lovers are drawn to books. But there’s also the fact that books tell a lot about their owners.

You can often tell people’s taste, education level, hobbies or special interests, and much more just from looking at their bookshelves. So it’s not surprising that we get curious about what’s on others’ shelves.

There are plenty of examples in crime fiction of what we learn from people’s bookshelves. That makes sense, too. For one thing, it’s realistic. For another, those details can add a lot to character development without having to go into a lot of narrative explanation.

In Agatha Christie’s Murder in Mesopotamia, for instance, Hercule Poirot is on his way back to London from a trip through the Middle East. He’s persuaded to interrupt his travels to help investigate the murder of Louise Leidner. She and her husband, noted archaeologist Eric Leidner, have been staying at the expedition house of an important dig a few hours from Baghdad. One afternoon, Louise is murdered in her room. Poirot is of the belief that the more one learns about a victim, the closer one gets to the truth about that victim’s death. So he takes a close look at, among other things, Louise’s collection of books. Interestingly enough, they tell him quite a lot about her personality, and that proves to be key to solving the mystery of her death. I know, I know, fans of Evil Under the Sun.

Ellery Queen is able to draw some conclusions from a book collection in The Origin of Evil. In that novel, he’s taken a house in the Hollywood Hills, hoping for some quiet time to write. That’s not what happens, though. One day, he’s visited by nineteen-year-old Laurel Hill, who tells him she believes her father Leander was murdered. According to Laurel, he’d been receiving a series of eerie and unpleasant ‘gifts.’ Those parcels caused the heart attack that actually killed him. In fact, Laurel says that her father’s business partner, Roger Priam, has been getting similar deliveries. At first, Queen is unwilling to do any investigation. But Laurel is nothing if not persistent. So he finally agrees. Naturally, he wants to speak to Priam, but Priam refuses to discuss the matter. That is, until an attempt is made on his life. He reluctantly allows Queen to investigate; as you might expect, Queen is drawn to his book collection. Priam has an impressive and expensive library. But oddly enough (‘though not surprising), it’s clear that Priam hasn’t read any of the books he owns. He simply amassed the collection because that’s what wealthy men are ‘supposed to’ do: have extensive libraries. It’s a very interesting case of using a character’s book collection to show what that character is like.

The main plot in Karin Fossum’s Don’t Look Back concerns the murder of fifteen-year-old Annie Holland. When her body is discovered near a tarn not far from her village, Oslo Inspector Konrad Sejer and his assistant Jacob Skarre investigate. At first, they don’t get very far. Annie was well-liked and had a good relationship with her mother and stepfather. She had an on-again/off-again relationship with her boyfriend, Halvor Muntz, but it was never violent. Halvor claims that he’s innocent, and there really is no reason to believe otherwise. Still, he wants to be sure his name is cleared. He also wants to find a way to cope with the grief he’s feeling over Annie’s loss. So he starts to go through her computer files to find anything that might shed light on the case. The problem is that her computer is password-protected. In trying to narrow down the password, Halvor immediately thinks of books and characters that Annie’s talked about before. He knows what any reader knows: those who love books take them to heart. It’s an example of using people’s taste in books to find out more about them.

Sometimes, a look at someone’s books can reveal a commonality. It might be a shared interest, a shared ‘go to’ author, or something else. And those commonalities can help to build relationships. For instance, in Gail Bowen’s A Killing Spring, academician and political scientist Joanne Kilbourn gets involved in the investigation of the murder of a colleague, Reed Gallagher. As if that’s not enough, there’s vandalism at the university where Joanne works. It’s meant that several colleagues are temporarily out of their offices as repairs are made, so Joanne gets a temporary office-mate, Ed Mariani. One night, he invites her and her daughter Taylor to dinner at the home he shares with his partner, Barry Levitt. Taylor is a gifted artist, and, as it turns out, Barry is quite knowledgeable about art. And in one scene, she ends up with a supply of art books he’s loaned her. It goes to show how people’s books can let us know what their interests are.

And then there’s Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza’s Inspector Espinosa, who lives and works in Rio de Janeiro. Espinosa certainly puts a lot of time into his work. But he also loves books and reading. He has a large collection, and in fact, dreams of someday owning a bookshop. Espinosa doesn’t have lots of bookshelves to show his collection. They’re stacked on top of one another in various parts of his home. And that in itself shows something about Espinosa as a reader. He’s not a bibliophile in the sense of wanting particular editions of particular classic novels, and so on. Rather, he loves the stories that books tell. And you can see that just from looking at the way he stores his books.

You may not think about it until, well, you actually think about it. But the books we have really do say a lot about us. In my case, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not…


*NOTE: The title of this post is the title of a song by Feeder.


Filed under Agatha Christie, Ellery Queen, Gail Bowen, Karin Fossum, Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza