Thus Was Adonis Murdered

A few days ago, I was writing about a book I’d recently read and found dissatisfying, and commented that I’d much prefer to re-read Sarah Caudwell’s novel Thus Was Adonis Murdered. Having said this, I plucked one of my copies of this book from the shelf and made it my current bedtime reading. I’m about 2/3 through it now – I fall asleep pretty quickly these days and can only absorb a few pages a night (don’t be fooled, Miss Edith may claim she’s out gallivanting every night, swilling Gibsons or Gimlets by the dozen, but more likely than not she’s propped up on the bed with a lot of pillows, cat at her feet, not even nursing a cup of hot Ovaltine, because she’s likely to spill).
Still, it must be said: Sarah Caudwell’s first mystery has to be one of the best mysteries published in the 20th century. Not because it’s so cleverly plotted, but because it’s so damn well-written. I mean, it’s FUNNY. If you like the kind of dry, dry British humor thing, or have a bug for or against Oxbridge, you must read this thing. It’s a hoot.
I was inspired to tell people, again, to read this thing because last night my copy experienced a dramatic event. This old paperback, which I believe my mother purchased in 1982, has been read so many times (by my mother and myself – you didn’t think Edith had a mother, did you? Well, I do, and if you think I’m bad, you should meet her some day; I’m diluted) that last night the front cover dropped off the damn thing. It just fluttered softly to the bed, detached from the book, leaving little feathery deckle-edges at the spine of the book. “Look!” I said in wonder to The Most Ethical Man in the World, who was feeding the cat. He came to the door of the bedroom. “That’s impressive,” he said.
I have read this book to death. And so: Thus Was Adonis Murdered. Repeated stabbings and repeated readings.