I’m reading my first Agatha Christie book. Ever.
It’s a bit odd that I’ve never read one. My mother is not only a huge fan of mystery novels, she always did love Agatha Christie, and we had all of her books at home when I was growing up, in both English and French (or at least a few in French). I read avidly as a kid, and my regular trips to the library always resulted in a stack of books that I would devour at a pace that made another trip necessary within 2-3 weeks.
But I stayed away from Agatha Christie. I think I may have started one or two of her books, but never made it through more than a few pages, and I honestly can’t remember why. It certainly didn’t stop me from watching and enjoying films based on her novels — the ones with Peter Ustinov especially, and I have particularly fond memories of Evil Under the Sun (and interestingly enough, it was directed by Guy Hamilton, famous for his Bond films).
Which brings me to the point of this post, which is that yesterday I decided to pick up (or rather download) The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, and was sucked in to the point of reading through half of it in one sitting. Keep in mind that I’ve lost the ability to read books — blame my internet/magazine-induced ADD — so this is quite the feat for me. I’m now quite looking forward to finishing it, although it will probably need to happen over a few nights.
The moral of the story? I don’t know if there really is one, but I’m glad I decided to give Agatha Christie one more try.