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.
The first 1,300 miles
No time to go wobbly, John
Me one, Grim Reaper zero. Booyah.
Sidewalk swine
If it’s not burning, it’s not the West
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.