by Agatha Christie
One of the chief pleasures of reading Agatha Christie--and it's been many years since I've picked her up--is her style, which a friend once described as "well-tailored." I liked that description because reading Christie is something like admiring a well-made, understated suit coat--serviceable brown wool but of unobjectionable quality, seams that conform to the body, padding that enhances without distorting, no loose threads, no bags in the lining, no bunching when you bend over, something that would hold its own among more fashionable or flashy items of the same kind.
Christie's 1968 novel is, critics say, somewhat unique in that the story focuses less on plot and more on character. In this case, the novel is scattered with subtle clues--like a brown tweed flecked with muted reds or oranges that you don't notice at a conscious level until you realize you've chosen to wear it with a red scarf or tie, and, voila, you see those little flecks were there all along, guiding your sartorial choices without your even thinking about it.
Well, I'm not sure that analogy works perfectly, but you get the idea. The reader gets some flecks of info--sometimes as subtle as the word "bunk"--as the plot of "Endless Night" goes on, and it isn't until the climax, which is is so abrupt as to make you wonder if the publisher left out some pages that you realize you were unconsciously distracted by those little flecks all along. The end isn't a surprise so much as a "doh!" And the fun is in going back and finding those little flecks that you'd ignored along the way.
There's George Saunders, upper left, who plays Lippincott in the movie version of the novel, his presence sadly diminished just before his suicide. But in his prime, there was no greater voice on film than Saunders'. Click the pic to watch him ooze charm all over Merle Oberon in "The Lodger," 1944.
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