Saturday, August 10, 2019
Wednesday, August 7, 2019
Thursday, August 1, 2019
For me, all corpses count the same. One dead body might lead to Barry Precision. Another to nothing more than a love poem lost down the back of a sofa. There is no eminence here, no lowliness. We are all equal under Death’s scythe.
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Saturday, July 27, 2019
Tuesday, July 23, 2019
Friday, July 19, 2019
...Berlin now had almost nothing in common with the rest of the country. Increasingly the capital city was like a large ship that had slipped its mooring and was slowly drifting father and father away from the coast of Germany; it seemed unlikely we were going to return its more conservative ways, even if we’d wanted to. It’s not just people who outgrow their parents and origins; it’s metropolises, too.
It’s never the cold that brings out the worst in people, it’s the heat. If you can call them people: the sick, venal, lowlife that lies oozing at the bottom of the strata we are wont to call Berlin society. Sometimes I had the strong idea that [artist] George Grosz was right and I was wrong; that he was only recording what was already there: the indifferent fat bankers, the cripple veterans, the mutilated beggars, and the dead prostitutes — that this was how we really were, ugly and obscene, hypocritical and callous.
Friday, July 5, 2019
I lay in bed savouring the anticipation [of listening to podcast], watching light from the street ripple across the ceiling, listening as the heating kicked on and the grand old dame of a house groaned and cracked her bones.
Our stories weren’t disguised curriculum vitae. We didn’t tell them as a way of boasting or declaring our relative place in the social order. There was none of that crap. These were stories to entertain, told for the shape of them, for the sake of them, for the love of a tale.
It’s hard to be among vanilla bastards all the time. Normal people can get genuinely upset about a bad haircut, cross words, sick cats. It’s hard not to roll your eyes and say the wrong thing. I often said the wrong thing — wake up, shut up, grow up. These are the wrong things to say when people are sad about some minor cruelty or sentimental incident. But Adam Ross [who worked with Anna and is an addict] was as damaged as me. He didn’t need to be shielded or protected and he knew what not to pick at. A fellow traveller. You could say anything to him. That is rare and very precious.
As for the title, Amila Fabricase, the yacht's chef, was accused of murder in the yacht deaths and convicted. It is as much for this stranger as for herself that Anna stubbornly traces the fate of the Dana. The dual meaning of "conviction" is a smile from Mina's pen. Also, I laughed when I read the last paragraph. I can't remember the last time I laughed at the end of a mystery book! That, too, comes from Mina's smiling pen.
Monday, July 1, 2019
Sunday, June 23, 2019
In 2018, Danica is in fairly desperate financial straits in Gold Beach, Oregon, when two people attempt to kidnap her. Her background is innocuous and her life certainly has held only minimal drama, of interest to almost no one, including herself. Danica flees her perilous situation in Oregon to visit her estranged stepfather in California.
In 2018, Sam is pondering purchasing and renovating an old house in Malibu. When someone tries to attack Sam, he dodges the bullet meant for him and realizes the trail leads to where Danica’s stepfather is. He does not know Danica or her stepfather, however, so the journey is a strange and puzzling one for him. He arrives just in time to save Danica from yet another attempt to capture or kill her.
Wednesday, June 19, 2019
Wednesday, June 12, 2019
Logically, will the next book be entitled, “The Paragraph Is ...”? The paragraph is too long? The paragraph is buried? The paragraph is erased? His final paragraph?