James Tucker (3) (1929–)

By page 11, I still had not decided whether Ian Charteris deserved my attention for 185 pages. I usually love, like, detest, fear, loath or have some other strong emotion toward the main character long before I'd spent 11 pages with she/him. Nothing, except he seemed a little? what? don't know. When Mr. James--a very good user of words, by the way--decided to spend two pages telling the reader--me in this case--repeatedly--how the journalist "coded" their writing to convey a particular impression in the story without skirting the throes of liability and slander, I decided I was through with "NOOSE" for now. Why? my mood? an annoying repeat of the same idea in different alterations on the same page? character that didn't give me enough reason to actually care--for ill or good--what happened to them and it was about time--even this early, especially since the book is only 185 pages long? Whatever the reason, I've put Bill James on my "to read" list and I'll read him again, and may even try this particular novel at that time. So, back to the Library for now. And, don't you just love Libraries! What a wonderful way to meet hundreds, if not thousands of writers and the people they talk about without spending a dime--unless it is in support of a library of course! I have a good sized personal Library but not every mystery/thriller writer makes the cut, but those that do are enjoyed over and over. Their are some that I've read everything they have written 4-5 times over the years and not a one has lost it's attraction, charm, and pleasure. Well, one, but that's another story.… (más)

The cover of this book calls it "A Harpur & Iles Mystery", which must be one of the most remarkable pieces of copywriting idiocy ever to appear. It is, for a start, not a mystery.

What is this book exactly? It's a crime novel, and it has cops in it called Harpur and Iles. But it's not in any real sense a mimetic novel. Instead, it's a sort of extraordinarily mannered semi-comedy of manners, semi-Jacobean tragedy. In an unnamed British city, the controllers of the drug trade are trying to adapt to the fact that the street price of their merchandise is plummeting dues to the easing of governmental attitudes toward dope. So they jostle for supremacy in an attempt to restructure the marketplace, killing each other in the process. And the cops seem complicit in all this. And, toward the end of the book, I didn't care in the slightest what happened so long as I got to page 191 and could read something else instead.

Bill James is a much-loved writer -- there are quotes all over the cover from hifalutin critics -- but not one for me. I have a feeling that, many years ago, I was deceived by the strapline into reading a different "Harpur & Iles Mystery" and spent much of the relevant time fighting a potent urge to throw it at the wall. A I imply, different readers may well have a completely different take on this book than I did.… (más)