Thursday, 21 December 2017


I enjoyed this book, but with the mildly guilty feeling that both the writer and myself were wasting our time.  

A sort of genre thriller with literary aspirations, it tells the story of a young man in 1910s Vienna.  He is an actor with erectile problems with goes on to be a spy.  It’s strong on atmosphere, on historical detail, and on fun; but it lacks plot, and, more importantly, heart.  It’s obviously written by a very capable person, but seems to lack purpose, or a reason for being.  

It was more or less a kind of popcorn.  Expensive and unusually flavoured, but popcorn all the same.  I am not sure why Boyd or I bothered.

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