KK sent out the following, in this morning's email:
Graves in Academe, by Susan Kenny, a thriller that Maura lent me, is about a college literature professor, female of course, who uses literature clues to solve a series of murders and other crimes that take place on the campus of her new University posting. (Do you think colleges are the most dangerous places around?)
In an aside she muses at one place; "That was the beauty of literature, of the written word; it existed, created a world elsewhere, another country that one could enter freely and at will."
Oh well, back to The X Bar X Boys at Devil's Canyon...
This reminded me . . .
I was just thinking, a couple of nights ago, that I have gotten tired of most mysteries, at least, the ones readily available as mass-market paperbacks.
The writing is often well-nigh unbearable, and even if the plot seems like something I'd like to follow, the prose puts me off to the degree that I hurl the book across the room.
I started fretting that the only modern mysteries with any literary merit, or at least, without literary demerits, are those set on college campuses or in English drawing rooms.
Now that Raymond Chandler and John D. MacDonald are done, I wondered, am I doomed to the ivory tower for my light reading, condemned to an endless diet of tea and crumpets?
Fortunately, I thought of Robert Crais, Dennis Lehane, John Sandford, and Andrew Vachss. And if there are these four, there must be many more good ones.
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