What separates us ..
Let me count the ways.
Alistair McClean. Martin Cruz Smith. Robert Littell. Mick Herron. Erskine Childers. William Somerset Maugham. Eric Ambler. Peter Wright. Charles Cumming. Geoffrey Household. John Buchan. Alan Furst. Stella Rimington. Len Deighton. Graham Greene. Rudyard Kipling, Peter Fleming. Ian Fleming. John le Carre. Ben MacIntyre. Chapman Pincher. John Banville. Fitzroy Maclean.
You can feel the love of a spy novel here, whether it be true or fiction, and I’ve got all these babies sitting up on the shelf. Not just every author’s work, but every one of every author’s work.
I’m the Nick Pelling of espionage .. we know Dome has fifteen rooms of his (gothic) mansion full of books about the Voynich Manuscript, also a blog with about thirty million views, plus he has opinions that are published worldwide and are quoted widely in foreign tongues .. well, I want some of that.
I have the credentials. I know stuff you don’t. Spy stuff. But here I am talking to the wrong people … not that I don’t want you to come around, I’m loving it, but I don’t have a brother or sister out there who knows what it’s like to have to read a le Carre novel three times to completely understand the parts his people play, because some of his characters switch sides then get doubled back, then tripled back. And every time with a new name and using another language.
What that means is that ten characters turn into thirty.
It’s like trying to follow a three colour chess game where black turns to grey before becoming white which turns back to grey then black every ten moves. It’s abominable.
It’s also good. Très bon.
Which means I have a pretty fair understanding of what these two objects are all about.
Header shot courtesy zabslog