definitely sub-par
Jan. 9th, 2003 12:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
truepenny[whinge]
I'm still not entirely recovered from this damnable flu. After a prodigiously productive day on Tuesday (dis. chapter reworked and 8 pages of Ch. 2 written), I spent yesterday in a lethargic haze, reading mysteries (offline) and more H/D (online). Then went to my weekly yoga class in the evening and totally got my ass kicked. And then slept badly, with the ever so charming wake-up-once-an-hour form of insomnia. I am truly not firing on all cylinders today.
[/whinge]
Smallbone Deceased by Michael Gilbert isn't as good as the good bits of Murder Must Advertise, although it doesn't descend to the ludicrous depths of Peter Wimsey, Action Hero. I always suspect that Sayers is having us on just slightly in those chapters--and I think the mock-epic of the cricket match is a definite hint--but I can't read them anyway. They're both boring and implausible. But the chapters set in Pym's I adore with the passion of a thousand fiery suns.
Smallbone Deceased actually reminds me quite strongly of Christiana Brand's Death in High Heels. They both have that same brittle semi-parody feel, although I think Brand is better at it and has more interesting things to say. Although, watch out for the gay-bashing in Death in High Heels, which, while not as hateful as Georgette Heyer in Duplicate Death or Ngaio Marsh (Death in Ecstacy and Singing in the Shrouds spring immediately to mind), is a definite presence. Even relatively sympathetic gay characters must be limp-wristed and effeminate and their love for another man must be pathetic and disgusting. Makes me cringe for the poor characters, stuck in such a stupid stereotype.
I'm still not entirely recovered from this damnable flu. After a prodigiously productive day on Tuesday (dis. chapter reworked and 8 pages of Ch. 2 written), I spent yesterday in a lethargic haze, reading mysteries (offline) and more H/D (online). Then went to my weekly yoga class in the evening and totally got my ass kicked. And then slept badly, with the ever so charming wake-up-once-an-hour form of insomnia. I am truly not firing on all cylinders today.
[/whinge]
Smallbone Deceased by Michael Gilbert isn't as good as the good bits of Murder Must Advertise, although it doesn't descend to the ludicrous depths of Peter Wimsey, Action Hero. I always suspect that Sayers is having us on just slightly in those chapters--and I think the mock-epic of the cricket match is a definite hint--but I can't read them anyway. They're both boring and implausible. But the chapters set in Pym's I adore with the passion of a thousand fiery suns.
Smallbone Deceased actually reminds me quite strongly of Christiana Brand's Death in High Heels. They both have that same brittle semi-parody feel, although I think Brand is better at it and has more interesting things to say. Although, watch out for the gay-bashing in Death in High Heels, which, while not as hateful as Georgette Heyer in Duplicate Death or Ngaio Marsh (Death in Ecstacy and Singing in the Shrouds spring immediately to mind), is a definite presence. Even relatively sympathetic gay characters must be limp-wristed and effeminate and their love for another man must be pathetic and disgusting. Makes me cringe for the poor characters, stuck in such a stupid stereotype.
