9:03 p.m. - 2018-08-01
TWO BOOKS I DIDN'T READ
Our local library has occasional book sales as a way to raise revenue. Some of the books are recently removed from the library shelves for a variety of reasons, but most have been donated by patrons of the library. Prices are very, very reasonable, even for used books: ten to twenty-five cents per book, or--if you wait until near the end of the sale--you can fill a grocery bag with books for just one dollar.

In a recent such sale I came across a couple of books by authors I used to enjoy but had somehow got out of the habit of reading: Patricia Cornwell's PREDATOR was another in her Kay Scarpetta series, and a Joe R Lansdale effort titled FREEZER BURN. I wasn't exactly clear on my reasons for wandering away from Cornwell and Lansdale, so at such affordable prices, I decided to renew our acquaintance.

After thirty or so pages of PREDATOR I remembered why I had lost enthusiasm for the Scarpetta novels. Dedicated to the grim and often grotesque subject of serial killers, detailed autopsies, and internal politics of the law enforcement community; these crime novels can be exceedingly grim and consistently dark. I think Cornwell has the same problem that ruined the Thomas Harris novels for me: topping one's previous effort in the serial killer genre is usually accomplished by descending ever lower into the darkest regions of the human psyche. Harris lost me with the ending of HANNIBAL. Cornwell never drops that far but does consistently force us to inhabit an ever more somber and morose world. In PREDATOR Scarpetta's daughter Lucy is going through a particularly difficult an dangerous time while Scarpetta herself is trying to deal with the growing coldness of her friend Marino and a traitor on her own staff. After just a few chapters I asked myself if I really wanted to go on this grim emotional ride, and my answer was No.

Lansdale is perhaps best know for the Hap and Leonard novels, but there didn't seem to be any protagonist at all in FREEZER BURN. Instead we are given a sort of hillbilly Grand Guignol, following a man who has left his dead mother to rot in her own bedroom so that he can cash her Social Security checks. His further adventures involve killing a firecracker salesman, having one accomplice die in a grotesque car crash and another bitten to death by water moccasins. I found myself not caring about the central character and not amused by his bloody over the top misadventures.

So both books are soon to be donated back to the same book sale from which they came. They cost me next to nothing, and now someone else with tastes different from mine will have a chance to be entertained by them. What I learned from these books is that my tastes have changed and will no doubt continue to do so. Often if we drift away from a once appreciated author or genre the drifting is perhaps less random than it may seem.

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