I did a month of Going Home posts — looking at the contemporary fiction that had steered me onto the more classic detection path now walk — last May, and rather enjoyed revisiting some influential (for me) books and happy memories.
Since four Tuesdays in the month only allow me four books as part of this Going Home series, today we finish the current run. But I’ve enjoyed rereading these books and will doubtless return to this concept at some future point.
For the second look at novels which I suspect put me on the route to my persistent craving of a classic detection fix, we go back to an author I adored during what were probably his lean years and had moved on from once he regained his youthful popularity.
Three things in life you can’t do: hurry love, touch this, and go home. For all the nostalgia the third provokes, it’s never the same; and yet of late I’ve found myself pondering the fact that my journey to 1930s detective fiction must’ve started somewhere. And so, for my Tuesday posts this month, I am going to attempt to go home.