The Rise Of Io By: Wesley Chu

The Rise of Io by Wesley Chu
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

First of all, Wesley Chu is the bomb.com (trademarked), secondly The Rise of Io was a stellar read. A continuation of the Quasling universe created in Mr. Chu's first trilogy, Io is a brilliant tale, killer world building, great characters, action and dialogue.

Top to bottom...total FUN, and eventhough I was a fan of the first trilogy, I liked this book better and applaud the change of scenery and slight direction. It's a fun, fast read, go spend your money and buy all four in the series.

Thank you to Angry Robot for the ARC, the overlords are awesome..(drone sounds inserted)

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Down At The Old Bailey

Rumpole and the Reign of Terror by John Mortimer
Reviewed by Jason Koivu
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Every time I finish a Rumpole book, I figure "Well, that must be the last of them..." and then I find another! Having just taken the time to look over John Mortimer's list of Rumpole's, I see I've got about 9 or 10 more to go. Huzzah!

I love reading about the British legal system and viewing it through the eyes of that most lovable of curmudgeons, Horace Rumpole, a defense lawyer who believes a man is innocent until proven guilty. He's a hero for the oppressed, put-upon and wrongfully accused.

Granted, these Rumpole stories do get a bit cartoonish, what with the overly cruel judges and daft prosecutors, and then usually somewhere towards the end there's a Scooby Doo-like reveal ("I would've gotten away with it, if it weren't for you meddling kids!") as you'll often find in so many mysteries wherein the villain admits to the crime and gives himself away. At least Mortimer usually waits to use this story expedient until after the criminal is absolutely cornered, so it's not too annoying a tactic.

Rumpole and the Reign of Terror is a most interesting new addition to a series that started in the '70s. The subject matter has shifted with the times and now takes in the terrorism topic. London in the early 2000s was a target for terrorist activities and knee-jerk reactions were to be expected. Mortimer uses the tension, stress and terror of the general populous as a talking-point topic in order to produce yet another of his entertaining tales of the legal system at work.

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Lovecraft Coutnry

Lovecraft Country by Matt Ruff
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Lovecraft Country is a collection of inter-connected stories about an extended African American family in the mid to late 1940's and their encounters with things not of this world, notably sorcerers, a gateway to another world, and a haunted house.

Holy. Shit. Lovecraft Country is an early front-runner for the best book I've read in 2016. Here's how it all went down.

Lovecraft Country is the story of the Green/Turner family, an African American family trying to make ends meet in the Jim Crow era. Matt Ruff does a great job of contrasting the cosmic horror of the Lovecraft mythos with the everyday horrors of racism and ignorance. I loved how each story used Lovecraft staples as a starting point and interjected a member or two of the Turner family.

The ages-long connection between the Turners and the Braithwaites was very well done. For an evil mastermind, Caleb Braithwaite was a well-drawn character, far from the scene chewing villain he could have been. The magic system was well done and true to the tale's Lovecraftian roots. The Turners were capable but not superhuman by any means.

Honestly, I can't think of anything bad to say about this book. It hit all the right buttons for me. It has the momentum of a collection of pulp yarns but the writing is far superior to most stories of this kind and the Jim Crow era setting and the well drawn characters set it several notches above most books of this type.

Five out of five stars. Good luck impressing me after this, next book.

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Brook Street: Thief

Ava March
Carina Press
Reviewed by Nancy
4 out of 5 stars

Summary

London, 1822 ... It was only supposed to be one night. One night to determine once and for all if he truly preferred men. But the last thing Lord Benjamin Parker expected to find in a questionable gambling hell is a gorgeous young man who steals his heart.

It was only supposed to be a job. Cavin Fox has done it many times — select a prime mark, distract him with lust, and leave his pockets empty. Yet when Cavin slips away under the cover of darkness, the only part of Benjamin he leaves untouched is his pockets.

With a taste of his fantasies fulfilled, Benjamin wants more than one night with Cavin. But convincing the elusive young man to give them a chance proves difficult. Living with a band of thieves in the worst area of London, Cavin knows there's no place for him in a gentleman's life. Yet Benjamin isn't about to let Cavin—and love—continue to slip away from him.

My Review

Lord Benjamin Parker is tired of well-meaning family members trying to hook him up with a nice lady, especially when he thinks his preference might be for a nice man. Not such an easy undertaking in the homophobic climate of 19th century London, but Ben does manage to find a gambling hell that caters to men of “unnatural persuasion”. It is there where he meets Cavin Fox, a handsome young man and petty thief in search of a well-heeled gentleman to lure to bed and leave him penniless.

After a fun night of gambling, conversation, and sexual discovery, both men get a lot more than they expected. Cavin is aware that he and Ben come from completely different social classes and realizes that even though they enjoyed each other’s company, nothing good could come from a relationship between them. So he waits until Ben is asleep, steals out quietly, leaving Ben’s valuables behind but accidentally takes his coat. When Cavin gets to his seedy home in the rookery of St. Giles, his landlord and employer inquires about the missing coat, so Cavin needs to see Ben again in order to get it back.

Though circumstances continue to force these two men together, Cavin is very secretive about his life and refuses to spend the night with Ben. Ben is frustrated by Cavin’s lack of trust and refusal to accept help of any kind even after he agreed to employ Cavin’s younger brother Sam as a servant. Things come to a head and Cavin finds himself in a position where he can no longer refuse Ben’s offer of assistance. Gradually, Ben learns more about Cavin’s grim life and Cavin learns that his past makes absolutely no difference to Ben.

I liked how the story was written from the perspectives of both men and found them both to be very likable, though not entirely believable at times. Ben has a lot more money than he knows what to do with, but his heart is always in the right place. The difficult life and poverty Cavin endures has not crushed his soul. He is a considerate lover, he cares deeply for Sam, and he wants to mend his thieving ways.

This is a light, sweet, sexy, fairy-tale romance that brought a smile to my face. Though I generally prefer more drama and hardship in my historical novels, I enjoyed Ben’s patience, his calm demeanor, and his non-judgmental acceptance of Cavin. I also enjoyed Cavin’s ability to adapt to a variety of situations, his sense of modesty, and his growth. Both men have a lot to learn from each other and deserve a chance at happiness.

Saga, Volume 1

Saga, Volume 1 by Brian K. Vaughan
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

There are moments in life when you can't help but realize that what you want to say was already said better by someone else. I present Grandpa Simpson on being with it.


I've been told Saga is the cool thing right now so it makes me think, I must not be cool. That actually just means I've returned to my status quo of most of my life. I've rarely been accused of being cool or with it. I'm not a trendsetter, I know nothing about fashion, and my daughter is old enough to tell me I'm annoying from time to time. So my cool card isn't suspended it's revoked and my file is labeled do not renew.

So a couple whose people are at war got married and are having a child. No one likes that and everyone wants them dead.

Including people with old TV sets for heads.

Why they have TV heads I have no idea. I guess they don't need to eat, but I wonder if they need to plug in from time to time. This is weird and vulgar. Vulgarity doesn't particularly bother me, but the characters use the f word like middle school kids who just learned the word. Use some SYMONYMS! Even other curse words would be welcome, but the author dug deep with the f bomb.

Will all that being said I didn't hate Saga volume 1, but this really isn't my kind of story.

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ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON BY FRANK MCLYNN

Robert Louis Stevenson:: A Biography by Frank McLynn
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

”He had long spidery limbs, was narrow-chested, walked with a slight stoop and was so thin that his joints made sharp corners under his cloths. 5’10” tall, he had fine bones, long sensitive hands, well-shaped feet about which he was vain, an oval face with high cheekbones, ruddy colouring, and aquiline nose like his mother’s and a large and expressive mouth that was described as a little tricksy and mocking. Yet his dark brown eyes were easily his most striking feature….”


A portrait painting by John Singer Sargent. He really captures the spirit of RLS with the casual way he is sitting and the way his eyes peer out at those peering at him.

Not much of specimen, this Scottish Edinburgh man, but striking in appearance. Not someone anyone easily forgot. His father, Thomas, a burly, able bodied man who designed and built lighthouses as his father did, had to wonder how this spindly creature emerged from his loins. Despite their many disagreements, most around his father’s Calvinistic beliefs and the ever pressing concern the young Stevenson had for money, they loved each other. If Robert Louis Stevenson had been born in the mold of his father, there might have been a soldier named RLS or another in a long string of Stevenson engineers, but there never would have been the writer RLS.

Writing was something he could do to some degree while sick, recovering from being sick, or preparing to be sick again. His body was his enemy. He fought it constantly and was always trying to spring beyond its fragile borders to see the world with clear eyes instead of the fever shrouded ones he was given.

The fevers brought visions, apocalyptic dreams, pool of urine inducing spectres, and lurid images that had him screaming his way back to consciousness, clutching his hair in trembling hands, and feeling his heart pounding against his ribcage. ”But Stevenson never wanted to block the receptor to the unconsciousness entirely, for he recognized it as the true hidden spring of creativity.”

These night terrors brought him Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

He wrote the first draft in a matter of days, like a man possessed. He brought it downstairs to read to Fanny, his wife; she hated it. ”This brought to a head the conflict between Louis’s desire to tell the truth as he saw it and Fanny’s wish for commercial success.” He was definitely a man of passion, of fiery Scottish temper, and also quick to tears. The argument became so heated that he...flung...the...manuscript...into...the...fire.

I want that manuscript!.

After he stormed from the room, did Fanny salvage it from the fire? No, I can almost see her shoving any partial pages that escaped the flames deeper into the fire, and I loathe her for it. I’m going to come back to Fanny.

So he went back up to his writing room and completed another draft of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, which took into consideration his wife’s suggestions and was done in ten weeks. The story burned it’s way out of him, or it would have exploded his brain many years before the fatal aneurism that does eventually kills him in the South Pacific. The truthful version of DJMR was much more explicit with violence and sex. It was hard to say who was right, given the success that story has had and the influence the book has had on movies, television, film, and even art, but, of course, I can’t help but wonder about what was lost in the ashes.

There have been many biographies written about RLS, and all have differing opinions about the positive and negative aspects of Fanny Osbourne on the life of RLS. Frank McLynn takes a very hard line in regards to her behavior, and frankly, I agree with his assessments. RLS met her in France and became enamored with her darkened skin, pretty feet, and American sensibilities. He was coming off a rejection from another woman named Fanny Sitwell, who also had many of the same characteristics of Fanny Osbourne. It is easy to see that this Fanny was really a surrogate for the other Fanny. Both had husbands, which was also rather inconvenient. I don’t really believe, despite the natural attraction that women felt for him, that Stevenson had much experience with women beyond a few dalliances in the bordello and a few boyish crushes. He liked older women and may have been searching for someone to nurture him. He also had a strong morality, more of Thomas in him than either would believe, about taking advantage of women in any way, shape, or form.

When Fanny went back to her husband in America, several years later RLS was still thinking about her. He had finally amassed enough money to make the long trip from Scotland to California.

It is INSANE!

No one in their right mind would ever tell Stevenson to go West young man, unless it was with a team of doctors. He barely survived the journey, and he found a woman less than receptive to his presence. Some biographers have done some heavy sighing over how romantic this harebrained scheme of his of crossing an ocean and a continent to find his true love was, but the reality did not live up to the dream. It was a testy negotiation, with Fanny calculating his inheritance and the potential money he could make writing and wondering if she was exchanging a philandering husband for a walking corpse.

RLS won! Lost. Won. Well, I don’t know. Whatever that something something was that Fanny had, he was determined to have it. She did push him towards fiction more than the essay/ travel writing he was doing at the time, so I can’t really take the chance of unleashing my time machine from the stable and going back to 1879 and pushing her down the longest flight of stairs I can find.

Besides that would be wrong. It would, right?

I have several issues with Fanny: one is that she slowly poisoned him against all of his old friends, some of whom were instrumental in his development as a writer. She couldn’t stand him spending too much time with anyone other than herself. Two, she spent his money like a drunken sailor on shore leave in Singapore, and what she didn’t spend, her ambitionless kids Belle and Lloyd spent. Three, she resented his writing ability. She was a frustrated writer and frequently was too critical and not nurturing enough of his writing. Four, when he would get sick, she would develop some psychosomatic illness of her own that sometimes required a very sick Stevenson to try and tend to her. Five, she despised Treasure Island; she tried to block it ever being more than a serialized story, but fortunately, despite her efforts, it was published as a book. After his death, she discovered that the book was giving her the largest revenue, and with that knowledge, her opinion of the book changed as well.

I can feel my blood pressure rising, so enough about Fanny.


This is a portrait by John Singer Sargent of RLS and Fanny. I think it is utterly brilliant. Fanny of course didn’t like it probably because she was shrouded. I have a copy of this painting hanging in my home office.

Stevenson left a lot of unfinished works, some of them brimming with promise. He had too many ideas bouncing around in his head all the time. A new idea would light up his brain with new avenues to explore and in the process it would flounder another that he had started to write. His frequent illnesses often got him off track as well. He would often have to think of himself as someone else to escape his ailing body and let his mind be free. The climate of Scotland, and most of Europe, was too hard on his health. He finally settled on the island of Samoa for the last years of his life. Did he find rest and peace? Unfortunately, not very much. Finances were always a concern, and the large house and estate he bought were constantly draining away his royalties and his inheritance. His ready made family was not providing the comfort he deserved. Fanny had frequent bouts of depression that kept him in constant turmoil.

He died uncorking a bottle of wine. What a grand way to go if you are 84, but at 44, like the wine left in that bottle, there were a lot of wonderful stories left trapped in his mind, forever lost to all of us.

I have always had a special fondness for RLS. As a young lad of ten, I found a copy of Treasure Island at the library. It was the light that lit the flame of a lifetime reader. I read it three times before returning it to the library and then checked it out numerous times over the next few years. I owe him a debt that I can never repay for opening up a world of wonders to me. Books have been my constant companion. My moral compass. They tantalize me. They inspire me. They sooth me. They’ve chased the blues away and insured that I never felt totally alone in the world. They have made me who I am. Every book I pick up, I wonder is this another... Treasure Island.

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Religion and Art: World Builders

Heretics and Heroes: How Renaissance Artists and Reformation Priests Created Our World by Thomas Cahill
Reviewed by Jason Koivu
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Thomas Cahill's Heretics and Heroes is a great look at the interwoven connection between the Reformation and the Renaissance, taking in a large swath of the primary leaders in religion, politics and the artists during that time period.

To be honest, history buffs won't find much new here as Cahill runs over the basics on the various kings, queens, popes, bishops, painters and sculptors of the 14th through 17th centuries. Take this as a good intro to that period, covering what any history course or book would touch upon.

However, beyond that, it delves deeper into the specifics of religion's grip upon Europe at the time, never wholly with or against the grand edicts of the day. Balance and clear thought are struck through out.

A few relatively minor personages come in for a sort of Wikipedia treatment and add nuance to the history. These were some of my favorite passages in the book, perhaps because they were the least known stories to me. The world is a strange...mainly because of the nonsense us kookie humans have gotten up to.

This is my second Thomas Cahill and I enjoyed it a good deal more than the first, Sailing the Wine-Dark Sea: Why the Greeks Matter. It made me feel more confident about this writer, enough that perhaps now I'll overcome move my fear of overhype and move on to his most popular book, How the Irish Saved Civilization.

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Ballad of Black Tom

The Ballad of Black Tom by Victor LaValle
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Tommy Tester is a hustler, doing what he has to to make ends meet and support his ailing father. When he meets Robert Suydam, things will never be the same...

I've always been a bigger fan of things inspired by H.P. Lovecraft than the man's actual work. It's certainly been a good few months for H.P. Lovecraft-inspired fiction for me. First, there was Carter & Lovecraft, then Lovecraft Country, and now this novella, the Ballad of Black Tom.

Victor LaValle has taken The Horror at Red Hook, called Lovecraft's most racist book by some, and turned it inside out.

Tommy Tester delivers a magical tome to an old woman, runs afoul of two detectives, and meets up with an old man bent on waking The Sleeping King from his dead and dreaming slumber. Needless to say, a lot happens in this slim book.

There was a viewpoint shift about halfway through. While I didn't think Malone was as interesting as Black Tom, the story couldn't have been told without him. LaValle does a fantastic job of capturing the Lovecraftian flavor of The Horror at Red Hook and makes it his own. I loved the ending of this book. Hell, I devoured the whole thing in one sitting.

4.5 out of 5 stars. I'll be watching Victor LaValle with great interest.

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The Joy of Hate

Greg Gutfeld
Crown Publishing
Reviewed by Nancy
4 out of 5 stars

Summary

From the irreverent star of Fox News’s Red Eye and The Five, hilarious observations on the manufactured outrage of an oversensitive, wussified culture.

Greg Gutfeld hates artificial tolerance. At the root of every single major political conflict is the annoying coddling Americans must endure of these harebrained liberal hypocrisies. In fact, most of the time liberals uses the mantle of tolerance as a guise for their pathetic intolerance. And what we really need is smart intolerance, or as Gutfeld reminds us, what we used to call common sense.

The Joy of Hate tackles this conundrum head on--replacing the idiocy of open-mindness with a shrewd judgmentalism that rejects stupid ideas, notions, and people. With countless examples grabbed from the headlines, Gutfeld provides readers with the enormous tally of what pisses us all off. For example:
- The double standard: You can make fun of Christians, but God forbid Muslims. It's okay to call a woman any name imaginable, as long as she's a Republican. And no problem if you're a bigot, as long as you're politically correct about it.
- The demonizing of the Tea Party and romanticizing of the Occupy Wall Streeters.
- The media who are always offended (see MSNBC lineup)
- How critics of Obamacare or illegal immigration are somehow immediately labeled racists.
- The endless debate over the Ground Zero Mosque (which Gutfeld planned to open a Muslim gay bar next to).
- As well as pretentious music criticism, slow-moving ceiling fans, and snotty restaurant hostesses.

Funny and sarcastic to the point of being mean (but in a nice way), The Joy of Hate points out the true jerks in this society and tells them all off.

My Review

I don’t watch much TV, unless it’s a series that I can get hooked on or a movie. I generally stay away from talk shows, reality shows, comedies, and news/opinion shows. So I’ve never heard of Greg Gutfeld.

I’m so glad I came across Mike's review and gave him a chance.

His essays are proof positive that the left does not have a monopoly on intelligence, humor, or sarcasm.

Just last week, I was going to pull into a parking spot at Market Basket when this woman comes flying out from in between cars and beats me to the spot while fixing me with a nasty glare. Her shabby car was festooned with bumper stickers. After her appalling behavior, this was the one that stood out the most:



If she were truly tolerant, she would have let the old woman with the bad foot (and better car) take the spot closer to the entrance.

I’m sure Greg Gutfeld would have a good laugh over that one. I know I did. This is the kind of artificial tolerance that he talks about.

Though I tend to think these essays would be more appealing to those who lean to the right on the political spectrum, independent thinkers who don’t blindly accept one worldview and those who tolerate others with different views may get something out of it too.

I laughed even while he was dissing one of my favorite bands:

“The idea of tolerance – a seemingly innocuous concept – has now become something else entirely: a way to bludgeon people into shutting up, piping down, and apologizing, when the attacked are often the ones who hold the key to common sense. They speak an unspeakable truth, and they get clobbered by the Truncheon of Tolerance. Tolerance has turned normal people into sheep/parrot hybrids, followers in word and deed – bloating and squawking at everyone in a psychological torment not experienced since Dave Matthews picked up a guitar.”

He covers immigration, climate change, birth control, religion, feminism, media bias, Occupy Wall Street, celebrities, second-hand smoke, parades, etc.

Some of my favorites were:

- My Big Fat Gay Muslim Bar
- A Really Bad Day at the Office
- To Obama, Borders Was Nothing But a Bookstore
- A Pack of Lies
- Stalin Grads

While I don’t agree with everything he says, reading these essays was fun, refreshing, thought-provoking, and a perfect way to spend time on the beach.

One of these days I’ll check out his show.

THE PIGEON TUNNEL BY JOHN LE CARRE

The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories from My Life by John le Carré
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

”These are true stories told from memory--to which you are entitled to ask, what is truth, and what is memory to a creative writer in what we may delicately call the evening of his life? To the lawyer, truth is facets unadorned. Whether such facts are ever findable is another matter. To the creative writer, fact is raw material, not his taskmaster but his instrument, and his job is to make it sing. Real truth lies, if anywhere, not in facts, but in nuance.”



I’ve had many discussions over the years about the blurred, wiggly lines that separate truth from fiction. People who only read nonfiction and look down their noses at novels because “they are made up” don’t seem to grasp just how perilous it is to call anything nonfiction. Memory is threaded with lies. The victors write the histories, and without the other perspective, the truth is like dough. It can be molded, flattened, and turned into any shape the writer wishes it to be. Even with many perspectives, the truth morphs and changes as each tells the other what they saw. We can make people remember things differently. I, for one, do not trust any of my memories completely. I know how good I am at selling myself the best version or even a much worse version of any event.

Sometimes it is imperative to forget details, to blur what happened into more palatable memories.

Fiction is as true as fact. The uncertainty of memory plagues every writer trying to assemble the “facts” of his life.

In the case of John le Carre, that might be even more so. As we read these vignettes, he introduces us to some of the real people he has met who have inspired the characters in his books. His father looms large across the pages of his books, but like le Carre did in this memoir, I’m going to boot Ronnie to the end of this review. It is almost impossible for a writer not to write himself into books. We see versions of David Cornwell (John le Carre’s real name) in his fiction, sometimes striding boldly and sometimes much more subtly contained to the shadows. Each version must be, for him, like looking in a warped mirror made of words.

I didn’t expect le Carre ever to write an autobiography. He is 84 years old, so if he had always expected to write one, he certainly kicked that can down the road a long ways. He has continued to be remarkably productive in his twilight years. When I read his later works, I still marvel at his command of his characters and his fascination and interest in telling stories. He has not lost the ability to hold me enthralled.

It would be impossible for John le Carre to write a memoir without addressing his relationship with Graham Greene. The Tailor of Panama is an ode to Greene’s Our Man in Havana. Greene’s books were a springboard for le Carre’s creativity. In this book, he tells a story about Greene during the war wanting to use the code word for EUNUCH in a dispatch back to headquarters. He was invited to attend a conference, and he wrote back: ”Like the eunuch I can’t come.” That is vintage Greene. David Cornwell is probably a bit too straight laced to have done something like that, but for Greene it was just the thing to keep that smirky grin on his face.

I found the introduction so inspiring. As a guy who dabbles with writing, I thought he made several intuitive statements about writing. They are all still tumbling around in my head. ”I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafes, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps. I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.”

Drawing the words... like sketching blueprints for a building or bridge or putting flesh on the bones of characters. It feels so hands on, like a mechanic up to his elbows in an engine with grease wedged under his fingernails. When a writer can bring words closer to himself, he can command them and build kingdoms that stretch the imagination to new boundaries. What can be discovered in the hallways of an inspired mind with just a #2 pencil and a pad of paper?

Richard Thomas Archibald (Ronnie) Cornwell was the father of the author. He was a conman. He knew the famous Kray Twins and was always chasing after the big score. He spent more than one jolt in jail, each time, of course, because of a misunderstanding. Women loved him, and men adored him. He was a charmer, a dreamer, a Lothario, and probably one of the strangest most enigmatic fathers a boy could have.

It was not unusual for David Cornwell to be pulled aside as he travelled from country to country promoting his books or researching the next one and be asked if he happened to know the whereabouts of his father. He would get calls asking for bail money from such far flung places a Zurich or Singapore. He had to be constantly pulled between loathing and loving his father with a healthy dose of embarrassment wrapped around both emotions. When The Spy Who Came in From the Cold hit big, Ronnie referred to the book as OUR BOOK and even ordered up a couple of hundred copies to sign and hand out as business cards. He, of course, charged the books to his son’s account.

At 84, Cornwell is still trying to come to terms with his father. He would love to know more about Ronnie and the sometimes diabolical schemes he tried to create out of air, much like a novelist realizing the twist he needs for his plot, but the truth, as David stated himself, lies in the nuances. If his father had been someone else, I have a sneaking suspicion we might never have had John le Carre.

I’ve read many of John le Carre’s books and will eventually read all of his books. Like a squirrel, I tuck his books like walnuts and save them for when I desperately need to be fed a perfect thriller. I wish him many more years of health and, along with that, the ability to keep putting pencil to paper. Interesting enough, I’ve noticed that some reviewers read this book and loved it without ever reading a John le Carre novel. Baffling, but at the same time, what a tribute to the writing. Highly recommended for John le Carre Fans or anyone.

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