Last week I read Jed Rubenfeld's 'The Interpretation of Murder' - and I'm galled to find that as April draws to a close that's the only book I've read this month, because of the obsessional revising I've been doing on my own book. I keep a total every month of the books I've bought and the books I've read, and the former always outnumber the latter - hands up all those who buy books addictively, regardless of how many books sit reproachfully on their shelves, waiting to be read - or re-read. How many of you have bluffed your way through a conversation with guests who admire the wealth of intelligent reading in your bookcase and who, you hope, have no idea that the book you're wittering on about is one of the many you haven't got round to reading yet? Oh yes, you know you do it ...
Anyway, Rubenfeld's book is a good read, if not quite as cracking as I'd expected (hype always has that counterproductive effect). It is very clever and has one of the best first pages I've read in a long time - once again demonstrating how important it is to get your opening right when you're writing. I didn't really believe in any of it - the characters, the murder plot: it was an intelligent game and somewhat chilly. What I did enjoy enormously and did believe in, was the portrayal of early twentieth century New York, with skyscrapers and bridges in frantic, vulgar, competitive construction. It's worth reading the book for that alone.
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