The Case of the I Don't Care: or, You Should Read Sarah Caudwell Because I Said So.

Some weeks ago I borrowed a stack of books from the public library, as is, as you know, my wont.

One of them I was particularly excited about. It was called The Case of the Missing Books, by someone named Ian Sansom, and it was, according to the back cover, a sort of comic mystery novel, set in Ireland, featuring Our Hero, a Jewish vegetarian Londoner named Israel Armstrong, who goes off to Ireland to start his new job as a small-town librarian, only to find that all the library books are gone.
Ok, so, it doesn’t sound like a roller coaster of a book, but it sounded like it would probably be an extremely pleasant book to read. Genial, probably a few good laughs, well written.
Unfortunately – and I feel really, really horrible about saying this – the book is genial, but not much more. The truth is, I renewed this book once, and was still so bored by it, that I returned it today, without reading – get this – the last five pages. I read most of it last night, when I realized I owed late fees for the thing. I vowed to finish it before bringing it back today. I bought myself some time by (now, this is funny) going to have a pedicure, which meant I could read while someone took care of my feet (Edith has delicate feet, they need tending, not unlike baby sheep gamboling in fields of clover and daisies). So I read up to five pages to the end, sitting in the nail salon. And then I walked the two blocks to the library, realized how little of the book was left, and said, “Eh, screw it,” and put the book in the return drop.
To not read the last five pages, I must really, really have not cared. The fact that I had this book in my house for three weeks and couldn’t be moved to finish it more promptly? Not good. I am sorry. I’m sure that Mr. Sansom can turn out a charming funny mystery, but this one isn’t it. I was just bored beyond all sense. Somewhere, I think on Amazon.com, I read someone comparing this to all those Alexander McCall Smith books, none of which I’ve read. Well, let me say, if Alexander McCall Smith is like this – vaguely cutesy, not as funny as one hopes – then I’m just as happy that I’ve never cracked even one of his books. I’ve sold quite a few – I even bought one as a gift once – but I don’t need to read them. No, I have one absolute FAVORITE mystery novel, which I’m now re-reading, to comfort myself and cleanse my palate. It’s by Sarah Caudwell: Thus Was Adonis Murdered. THAT I can recommend. And it’s in print; if you want to read it (which I hope you do – it’s a sort of academic/mystery, set in London and Venice, and incredibly funny and dry and wonderful), you’ll have no trouble getting a copy.

Ian Sansome: One Star.
Sarah Caudwell: All The Stars There Are In Heaven.