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A review by elenajohansen
Behold, Here's Poison by Georgette Heyer
1.0
DNF @ page 127. It's only partially the book's fault, though.
I don't enjoy mystery novels. Oddly enough, I do sometimes enjoy mystery movies, and I had my phase of watching investigative procedural shows with their mystery elements. But novels have always left me bored, frustrated, or bewildered.
This is no exception; but my dislike of the genre isn't the fault of this particular book.
My yearly reading challenges, no matter the source or the year, always include somewhere "Read a mystery." And I always put my game face on and try a new one, thinking "Maybe this time I'll enjoy it." And I never do. I should really stop trying.
So what portion of my disappointment with this is actually the book's fault? It has a huge cast of characters that are uniformly obnoxious with very little in the way of differing personalities between them; the worst of upper-crust British society at the time, I guess, and so overdone to my sensibilities that if you told me this was satire I would believe you. The first seventy pages of the book were solely devoted to these dozen or so awful people constantly slinging accusations at each other and reiterating information that I, the reader, already knew; it was a slog, and I nearly gave up before the inspectors were even introduced. When I got that far, I gamely attempted two more chapters before throwing in the towel; the constant repetition of information in conversation between different characters was simply too exhausting, and the pace of the story was glacially slow.
I'm stating it now: I have no intention of ever reading any book whose primary genre is listed as "mystery" again. I never like them and I'm tired of trying to.
I don't enjoy mystery novels. Oddly enough, I do sometimes enjoy mystery movies, and I had my phase of watching investigative procedural shows with their mystery elements. But novels have always left me bored, frustrated, or bewildered.
This is no exception; but my dislike of the genre isn't the fault of this particular book.
My yearly reading challenges, no matter the source or the year, always include somewhere "Read a mystery." And I always put my game face on and try a new one, thinking "Maybe this time I'll enjoy it." And I never do. I should really stop trying.
So what portion of my disappointment with this is actually the book's fault? It has a huge cast of characters that are uniformly obnoxious with very little in the way of differing personalities between them; the worst of upper-crust British society at the time, I guess, and so overdone to my sensibilities that if you told me this was satire I would believe you. The first seventy pages of the book were solely devoted to these dozen or so awful people constantly slinging accusations at each other and reiterating information that I, the reader, already knew; it was a slog, and I nearly gave up before the inspectors were even introduced. When I got that far, I gamely attempted two more chapters before throwing in the towel; the constant repetition of information in conversation between different characters was simply too exhausting, and the pace of the story was glacially slow.
I'm stating it now: I have no intention of ever reading any book whose primary genre is listed as "mystery" again. I never like them and I'm tired of trying to.