A nasty sinus thing has taken over my body for the last several days, and the massive amounts of Benadryl I've been taking have left me too spacy for posting. Instead, I've been under blankies drinking gingerale and reading - sometimes re-reading - detective novels. I've been reminded how much I like the Dalziel and Pascoe stories by Reginald Hill. They are successful, as similarly successful series are, in large part because the stories are anchored in compelling characters. They are also worth reading because of Hill's ability to capture snatches of life - and their metaphorical application to police work in Yorkshire - like this:
This self-conscious pursuit of he aged was not something he understood. He liked the old oak table off which he ate his lonely breakfast (and precious little else since his wife had left him) because it was his and had been his parents'. Probably his grandparents' too; he had no idea how old it was. It didn't signify. But if he had to get another, it would be something new. This stuff was just secondhand. Evidence of your own family's use and misuse was one thing; other people's scars, scratches and grime was something quite different.
Next time you're down with the pestilence, check 'em out. And thanks to Baltar and Armand for keeping things up around here.
Posted by binky at March 28, 2005 10:35 AM | TrackBack | Posted to Books