I’m finally restocking my nightstand with crime novels, after a long hiatus I can’t fully explain. Last night I was reminded of what I’ve been missing. In Michael Dibden’s And Then You Die, detective Aurelio Zen, assaying a bogus identity, is talking to a beautiful woman he has met on the beach:
“So where are you from?”
“Venice,” he answered without thinking.
“Really? But no one’s from Venice any more.”
“I am that no one.”
That’s a nice bit of dialog, and I intend to steal it if I can figure out a method more subtle than outright plagiarism. Meanwhile, I’ll reveal myself for the crime-fiction dilettante I am by admitting that this is the first Dibden book I’ve read. My friend Peter Rozovsky was recommending him years ago. With good reason, it seems.
I have a couple others on stack: Thirty-Three Teeth, featuring Colin Cotterill’s Laotian coronor Siri Paiboun; and What the Dead Know, by Laura Lippman. Based on previous experience, I have high hopes for both.
Rachel’s real estate
A poem for Donald
A parting shot of Portis
One for the price of two
It might be time to read him again. I haven’t read the last few in the series. I’d be interested to hear what you think of Cosi Fan Tutti if you read it.
I don’t know about this dilettante stuff, though. Crime fiction is such a big field that I’m not sure anyone has an understanding of all its areas. Think of crime fiction as, oh, say, the universe. That’s pretty large.
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Detectives Beyond Borders
“Because Murder Is More Fun Away From Home”
http://detectivesbeyondborders.blogspot.com/
And I thank you for expanding my view of that universe. So does my brother, who is now a committed fan of Fred Vargas, after I gave him my copy of Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand.