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3.93 AVERAGE
3.93 AVERAGE
I learned of Agatha Christie's books under a pseudonym through a podcast and wanted to investigate. This seemed to be a good choice as it was the book Christie said she'd always wanted to write. I found this story fascinating and frustrating. And I found the main character, Joan, described well enough that I wouldn't want to spend any time with her. It's a great premise for a story, and left me wondering about what I'd discover in the same circumstances
Agatha Christie said that Absent in the spring was the most personal book she published. – Extract from her biography: “Shortly after that, I wrote the one book that has satisfied me completely. It was a new Mary Westmacott, the book that I had always wanted to write, that had been clear in my mind. It was the picture of a woman with a complete image of herself, of what she was, but about which she was completely mistaken.”
I wonder if that is how she felt about her first marriage. If she thought they were completely happy and in love, had the perfect family… If she, years after her divorce, realized how nothing really was as she had assumed, how she had missed details, how she had “known” things and had “forgotten” them.
I don’t think I would have enjoyed this book without having read her bio first. The main character is a pain. She has only one chapter of absolution, only one chapter when you root for her. But still, the book is wonderfully written. I was never bored.
I wonder if that is how she felt about her first marriage. If she thought they were completely happy and in love, had the perfect family… If she, years after her divorce, realized how nothing really was as she had assumed, how she had missed details, how she had “known” things and had “forgotten” them.
I don’t think I would have enjoyed this book without having read her bio first. The main character is a pain. She has only one chapter of absolution, only one chapter when you root for her. But still, the book is wonderfully written. I was never bored.
I never DNF books quickly, but this one had literally nothing going for it. In my notes while I was reading, I said that Joan is completely unlikable. I realize that’s the point, but it’s not very fun to spend your time with a character who basically has no choice but to face who she really is. Especially when there’s no real back story going into that. In addition, there were some pretty gross (and unnecessary) references to rape that were jarring. I also accidentally read spoilers when I was trying to gage whether or not to continue and that made me realize it’d be pointless for me to continue. I love Agatha Christie’s writing, but this one was just
Mais uma leitura concluída e mais um recanto encontrado na escrita da querida Agatha Christie, desta vez um livro de romance!!
ABSENT IN SPRING follows the story of Jane as she travels home to England from Baghdad. Along the way, Jane gets stuck at a rest station waiting for the next train where she has a week of time alone to reflect on her life and attitudes.
I was fascinated by this book. As a character, Jane seems like a horrible person. She was a nagging wife and mother who smothered her family. Since the story only followed Jane, I greatly disliked this book. Although it’s probably very realistic, I would not recommend it. I will be attempting another one of these “romances” at some point, but Agatha, maybe you should stick to solving crime.
1/5 ⭐️
⚠️CW: affairs, suicide, xenophobia
I was fascinated by this book. As a character, Jane seems like a horrible person. She was a nagging wife and mother who smothered her family. Since the story only followed Jane, I greatly disliked this book. Although it’s probably very realistic, I would not recommend it. I will be attempting another one of these “romances” at some point, but Agatha, maybe you should stick to solving crime.
1/5 ⭐️
⚠️CW: affairs, suicide, xenophobia
Nie podobała mi się ta książka, ale jest to trochę moja wina, ponieważ nie miałam pojęcia, że Christie pod pseudonimem nie pisała kryminałów, a gdybym miała tę wiedzę, to po prostu nie sięgnęłabym po tę książkę.
Jednak nie tylko fakt, że spodziewałam się czegoś innego sprawił, że nie podoba mi się ta pozycja, bo ona jest po prostu słaba i trochę bezcelowa. Niby pomysł jest w porządku, ale z wykonaniem jakoś gorzej. Dodatkowo książka zestrzała się bardzo brzydko.
Jednak nie tylko fakt, że spodziewałam się czegoś innego sprawił, że nie podoba mi się ta pozycja, bo ona jest po prostu słaba i trochę bezcelowa. Niby pomysł jest w porządku, ale z wykonaniem jakoś gorzej. Dodatkowo książka zestrzała się bardzo brzydko.
reflective
sad
An Agatha Christie she wrote under a pseudonym. The main character is the sort of Englishwoman who would normally get murdered in one of AC's mysteries--she's a self-satisfied bully who doesn't realize her family and "friends" mostly hate and resent her. Instead of getting murdered, she's stuck for days in a way station in middle-of-nowehere Egypt by herself (well, with only staff, which she doesn't really recognize as fellow human beings), left to contemplate what really happened in past instances with her family and staff and marriage and "friends."
Well, my sources were wrong. This is not a romance novel. It is not even a happy novel.
It is a heart-wrenching, psychological look at a 'modern' woman forced to actually examine her seemingly picture-perfect life and admit that she messed it up. That she is, to quote C.S. Lewis, "the sort of woman who lives for others - you can tell the others by their hunted expression.”
She thought she had the perfect marriage--but she forced her husband to give up his dreams so that they might be financially successful and in the process made him miserable.
She thought she was the perfect mother--but she pushed her children away by trying to control every aspect of their lives.
She thought she was empathetic and kind. In reality, she refused to see pain and instead only passed judgement.
And now, stranded at a train station and all alone with her thoughts for the first time possibly ever, she must reflect on who she really is.
This was not a fun book, and yet it is a strangely beautiful one. It induces self-reflection. This is a side of Agatha Christie you don't see in her mysteries. It felt more personal, more vulnerable and made me wonder more about her infamous disappearance in 1926. Was she too forced to confront herself when every other illusion was stripped from her?
Short but packs a punch. I'd go back for more.
Pre-Review
Excuse you, HOW COME NO ONE TOLD ME AGATHA CHRISTIE WROTE ROMANCE NOVELS?!
It is a heart-wrenching, psychological look at a 'modern' woman forced to actually examine her seemingly picture-perfect life and admit that she messed it up. That she is, to quote C.S. Lewis, "the sort of woman who lives for others - you can tell the others by their hunted expression.”
She thought she had the perfect marriage--but she forced her husband to give up his dreams so that they might be financially successful and in the process made him miserable.
She thought she was the perfect mother--but she pushed her children away by trying to control every aspect of their lives.
She thought she was empathetic and kind. In reality, she refused to see pain and instead only passed judgement.
And now, stranded at a train station and all alone with her thoughts for the first time possibly ever, she must reflect on who she really is.
This was not a fun book, and yet it is a strangely beautiful one. It induces self-reflection. This is a side of Agatha Christie you don't see in her mysteries. It felt more personal, more vulnerable and made me wonder more about her infamous disappearance in 1926. Was she too forced to confront herself when every other illusion was stripped from her?
Short but packs a punch. I'd go back for more.
Pre-Review
Excuse you, HOW COME NO ONE TOLD ME AGATHA CHRISTIE WROTE ROMANCE NOVELS?!
Joan Scudamore îşi miji ochii, vrând să vadă mai bine în penumbra sufrageriei de la „Popas”. Joan Scudamore era puţin mioapă.
„Cu siguranţă este… Nu, imposibil. Ba da! Chiar ea este: Blanche Haggard!”
De necrezut! În plin pustiu, să dea peste o fostă prietenă de pension, pe care nu o mai văzuse de… oh! cu siguranţă, de 15 ani.
Joan se lăsă cuprinsă de bucuria surprizei. Avea un caracter sociabil şi-i făcea întotdeauna plăcere să-şi întâlnească prietenele şi cunoştinţele. După aceea, însă, îşi spuse;
„Dar, vai, cât s-a schimbat! I-ai da cu mult peste vârsta ei.
Într-adevăr, cu mult mai mult. În fond, nu poate avea mai mult de… Să vedem… 48 de ani?”
Instinctiv, se întoarse spre oglinda care era agăţată în spatele ei. Ceea ce văzu, îi întări buna dispoziţie.
„Se poate spune, gândi Joan Scudamore, că nu-mi arăt vârsta”.
Oglinda îi trimitea imaginea unei femei între două vârste, dar suplă, cu un ten de o prospeţime uimitoare, cu părul castaniu, din care se iveau, ici-colo, câteva fire cenuşii, cu ochii albaştri, fermecători şi buzele surâzătoare.
Femeia aceasta, îmbrăcată într-un taior uşor, cu o linie sobră, purta o geantă puţin cam mare, impusă de necesităţile voiajului.
Într-adevăr, Joan Scudamore se întorcea, din Bagdad, la Londra, pe uscat. Revenind cu trenul din Bagdad, ea avea să-şi petreacă noaptea la motelul-restaurant „Popas” al căilor ferate şi, a doua zi, dimineaţa, îşi va continua drumul cu autocarul.
Boala subită a fiicei sale mai mici o făcuse să părăsească în grabă Marea Britanie: se gândise că ginerele ei William, lipsit de spirit practic, va lăsa totul în voia întâmplării şi dezordinea va domni în casă.
Dar, de acum înainte, totul va fi perfect. Preluase comanda, făcuse tot ce era de făcut. Pentru bebeluş, pentru William, pentru Barbara care era în convalescenţă, organizase totul, prevăzuse totul, odată pentru totdeauna. „Slavă Domnului – îşi spuse – niciodată nu mi-am pierdut cumpătul.”
„Cu siguranţă este… Nu, imposibil. Ba da! Chiar ea este: Blanche Haggard!”
De necrezut! În plin pustiu, să dea peste o fostă prietenă de pension, pe care nu o mai văzuse de… oh! cu siguranţă, de 15 ani.
Joan se lăsă cuprinsă de bucuria surprizei. Avea un caracter sociabil şi-i făcea întotdeauna plăcere să-şi întâlnească prietenele şi cunoştinţele. După aceea, însă, îşi spuse;
„Dar, vai, cât s-a schimbat! I-ai da cu mult peste vârsta ei.
Într-adevăr, cu mult mai mult. În fond, nu poate avea mai mult de… Să vedem… 48 de ani?”
Instinctiv, se întoarse spre oglinda care era agăţată în spatele ei. Ceea ce văzu, îi întări buna dispoziţie.
„Se poate spune, gândi Joan Scudamore, că nu-mi arăt vârsta”.
Oglinda îi trimitea imaginea unei femei între două vârste, dar suplă, cu un ten de o prospeţime uimitoare, cu părul castaniu, din care se iveau, ici-colo, câteva fire cenuşii, cu ochii albaştri, fermecători şi buzele surâzătoare.
Femeia aceasta, îmbrăcată într-un taior uşor, cu o linie sobră, purta o geantă puţin cam mare, impusă de necesităţile voiajului.
Într-adevăr, Joan Scudamore se întorcea, din Bagdad, la Londra, pe uscat. Revenind cu trenul din Bagdad, ea avea să-şi petreacă noaptea la motelul-restaurant „Popas” al căilor ferate şi, a doua zi, dimineaţa, îşi va continua drumul cu autocarul.
Boala subită a fiicei sale mai mici o făcuse să părăsească în grabă Marea Britanie: se gândise că ginerele ei William, lipsit de spirit practic, va lăsa totul în voia întâmplării şi dezordinea va domni în casă.
Dar, de acum înainte, totul va fi perfect. Preluase comanda, făcuse tot ce era de făcut. Pentru bebeluş, pentru William, pentru Barbara care era în convalescenţă, organizase totul, prevăzuse totul, odată pentru totdeauna. „Slavă Domnului – îşi spuse – niciodată nu mi-am pierdut cumpătul.”