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A review by sharkybookshelf
Absent In The Spring by Agatha Christie, Mary Westmacott
3.0
Returning from visiting her daughter in Baghdad, Joan Scudmore finds herself stranded in a rest house by flooding - alone with her thoughts, she contemplates her life…
This is now the third Westmacott I’ve read as part of my Sharky Reads Christie project, and although it was the least worst so far, I rather wish I hadn’t decided to include them (alas I am a completist).
It is a truly excellent character study and Christie perfectly renders a very specific variety of British woman: self-important, self-aggrandising, somehow involved in every singly thing happening in the parish, condescendingly thinks she knows what’s best for everyone but actually doesn’t understand the temperament of her family at all, largely oblivious. Colonial superiority abounds in every casual comment about the locals (be warned). It’s mildly satisfying to watch her slowly realise and confront the reality.
But here’s the thing, whilst it’s a richly drawn, acute (and lampooning) portrait, I just…didn’t really care. So it was fine, but frankly, reading this book added nothing of import to my life - I’ve met enough of this sort of person (the modern iteration is not so different), there’s no need to read about them also. Plus the ending was kind of frustrating.
A rich, astute and brutal character study, but also rather pointless.
This is now the third Westmacott I’ve read as part of my Sharky Reads Christie project, and although it was the least worst so far, I rather wish I hadn’t decided to include them (alas I am a completist).
It is a truly excellent character study and Christie perfectly renders a very specific variety of British woman: self-important, self-aggrandising, somehow involved in every singly thing happening in the parish, condescendingly thinks she knows what’s best for everyone but actually doesn’t understand the temperament of her family at all, largely oblivious. Colonial superiority abounds in every casual comment about the locals (be warned). It’s mildly satisfying to watch her slowly realise and confront the reality.
But here’s the thing, whilst it’s a richly drawn, acute (and lampooning) portrait, I just…didn’t really care. So it was fine, but frankly, reading this book added nothing of import to my life - I’ve met enough of this sort of person (the modern iteration is not so different), there’s no need to read about them also. Plus the ending was kind of frustrating.
A rich, astute and brutal character study, but also rather pointless.