Wait. You didn’t LOVE it?
I’m a hardcore fan of Agatha Christie stories, especially the Hercule Poirot series of whodunnit mysteries. As far as I’m concerned, the only slight blemish to be found on these century-old books is the occasional use of language that makes some people uncomfortable today. I can look past that, while I recognize others cannot. C’est la vie.
But my love of Christie’s clever tales explains why I was completely enthralled with Anthony Horowitz’s novel, Magpie Murders. I have no idea how the hell six years went by before I even knew about this book. It came out in 2017—in fact, there’s already been a sequel published, 2020’s Moonflower Murders. Somehow they both escaped my notice until I recently heard Horowitz on a podcast and Magpie Murders was mentioned.
Curious, I downloaded the ebook just before taking a long flight from the East Coast to Hawaii.
The book made those 12 hours of travel fly by, if you’ll pardon the unintentional pun.
Not a review
But this isn’t a review of the book—you’ll found tens of thousands of those. Some people loved it, while others didn’t care for it. And that’s what I wanted to focus on, and to see if you’ve experienced the same thing I did.
Because I freaking LOVED this novel. Not just because it was a mystery in the style of Agatha Christie—in fact, the book references the British writer multiple times; she’s an inspiration for both the story and the story-within-the-story—but also because I found the structure itself interesting and the mystery remarkably well-told.
I hesitate to use the word ‘mesmerized,’ which is perhaps a bit overused these days. The fact is, however, that I could not stop reading this damned thing. I found myself trying to regale my wife with how cleverly it was composed, even though trying to share one’s enthusiasm for a book with someone who really doesn’t care is frustrating for the teller and boring as hell for the listener. I understood that and I still insisted on talking to her about it.
When it was over, I was thrilled to discover the second book and instantly downloaded it.
But now to the issue that inspired this post.
I enjoyed this book so much that I instantly cataloged it in my brain as one of the ten best books I’ve read. That’s a mighty bold assessment, considering the vast number of books I’ve consumed in my life as well as my documented inability to remember too much about each book after some time has passed.
Nevertheless, it was just so damned good that I made a horrible mistake after finishing: I went online and looked to see if everyone felt the same way. I expected Magpie Murders to have garnered at least an overall score of 4.7 or 4.8 from the thousands and thousands of reviews.
So imagine my shock at seeing a consensus of 4.2. Granted, that’s still good—but far short of what I expected.
Why?
The obvious question this prompted from me was: Why? Why don’t more people score this book as highly as I did?
(Disclaimer One: I’m someone who thinks the entire online review system is garbage—but that’s another post altogether.)
I hated myself afterward, but I actually invested valuable minutes of my life sifting through the negative reviews. One or two people raised some valid points, I suppose, but not enough to warrant their one- or two-star grade.
(Disclaimer Two: I’m also someone who believes there’s a legion of people who are incapable of anything but one-star or five-star reviews. They have absolutely no sense of gradation; everything is either the greatest of all time or the worst pile of poo ever. Nothing in-between. I feel sorry for those people. Again, that’s another post.)
One reviewer claimed the first third of the book and the final third were excellent, but the middle was a mess. Another said the story-within-a-story was a “gimmick,” something with which I must strongly disagree. It could be a gimmick in some other novels, but, in this case, it was an extraordinary effect that just worked.
The point is: Why do we care when others disagree with our assessment? We take it personally, which is hilarious—I didn’t write the damned book.
But we see it as some sort of character slight, I guess; you somehow found the flaws in this work of art that I missed. Does this make you erudite and me ignorant? Or, flipping that around, does it make me an authority of artistic creation and you a pompous blowhard?
Ultimately, it’s all rather silly. My like or dislike of a work of fiction doesn’t require any input from you or anyone else. It’s between me and Anthony Horowitz, or between me and Agatha Christie. Or between me and Toni Morrison, John Lennon, Gwen Stefani, Britt Daniel, Lenny Kravitz, or Damian Kulash. Or fill-in-the-blank with any creative individual you care to name.
I appreciate that we all see works of art through different lenses, and we have our own particular (and sometimes peculiar) tastes. I’m glad I like something you don’t, and vice-versa.
But if you don’t like Magpie Murders, you’re clearly a moron.
*kidding* (mostly)
* * *
If this piece made you think—or even if it didn’t—perhaps you’d consider buying Dom a tea or a beer right here. It might help him get over the sting of having his favorite books ripped by total strangers.
