Yesterday I was writing my review for The Girl on the Train and trying to pinpoint why I wasn’t terribly excited by it. While I was thinking, I found that I kept comparing it to a mystery I remember really fondly. It was by the queen, of course, so maybe it’s an unfair comparison because who can compare well to Agatha Christie?
I had The Murder of Roger Ackroyd stuck in my head, so I went to nab a look at it out of curiosity to see what I had written in my review of it when I read it about five years ago. I remember the overall gist and tone of it now, but what details did I enjoy that I certainly missed?
WELL. Imagine my surprise when I found out that back in my youth in college, I had felt that The Murder of Roger Ackroyd was a two-star read. As in, it was just okay.What the hell? How did I not care that much for it then, but end up five years later thinking on it fondly as one that I was impressed with and taught me a lot about the art of mystery?
Ultimately, I have no idea, but here’s a little retroactive note to myself.
Alright, past self. I know you were forced to read this in a college English class, but seriously, what? You’re saying it was just ok??
Current me is shaking her head in shame. And thinking, I should probably re-read this, as my memory of it was that it was pretty damn good. Entertaining, and dramatic, and an ending I didn’t expect, with a quirkily developed cast. Why didn’t I think so the first time? Odd.
I sense a re-read in my future. And maybe a dip back to Agatha, with Murder on the Orient Express, because how have I never read that yet?