A Book Review
A Geezer’s Notebook, By Jim Foster
I just finished reading a book that took me three weeks to get through. That’s three weeks of struggling and slogging. I started the damned thing one afternoon and within a couple of chapters regretted picking it up. It was just too complicated.
There were far too many characters, too many crooked US Senators. Not to mention scads of scoundrels in the CIA, FBI and every other agency down there. Plus there was Britain’s MI6, Israel’s Mossad, Middle East terrorists by the camel-full, and last but hardly least, the American Air Force and Navy. Did I miss anyone, probably but I must soldier on.
I will not tell you the name of the book, nor will I mention the author’s name because he is one of my favourites. Not only that, you, if you are dumb enough to buy it, or better still borrow it, you might actually like the book. The author is reasonably famous, but obviously struggling having only written eighteen novels published in thirty-two languages and forty countries with sales in excess of $200 million copies. If I were to blab his name and the title I could very well destroy his career. So I did what every decent espionage agent does. I wrote his name and the name of the book on a piece of paper and swallowed it.
My difficulty with the book wasn’t that it wasn’t a good story; it was, but the only way anyone could possibly keep all the characters straight would be to hire a secretary to write all the names name down, their occupation, who was sleeping with whom (is ‘whom’ correct and if not why not?) Reading this tome took so long because I had to force myself over and over again to pick it up and take another whack at it.
Now there is probably a fleet of psychiatrists out there wondering what kind of lunatic would do such a thing. A normal person would pitch the book into the blue box and pick up another, but I am not normal, or even close. In my twisted mind I worry this world-famous author might somehow find out I tossed his book and have a nervous breakdown, or worse stop writing and the world would be deprived of his next novel which will no doubt be longer and even more complicated with dozens more characters.
My second biggest problem was the author (who shall be unnamed because he might find out where I live and send a hit squad after me) had a very bad habit of telling me the hero’s full name, his military rank, then referring to him as the Major and sometimes by his first name, or his nick name (which was his first name shortened) but mostly by his last name which of course I can’t tell you. I was continually looking back whole chapters, and once or twice all the way back to page one trying to figure out who had just been shot, stabbed or sat on by a villainous, but astonishingly beautiful and I might add horny, woman who also had several names, five as a matter of fact.
I am a member of a poker club and the only way I keep their names straight is to consult the seating plan, so you can imagine how confusing this book was for me. When I finally came to the end at page 664 and realized he was not only still alive, but was about to get lucky, although with a medical team standing by for both of them, I sobbed in blessed relief.
There is also the problem of how the Major survived his many stabbings, shootings and pistol-whippings and was still walking around. His blood transfusions alone must be in the gallons and as for his stitches even the author lost count, I certainly did. Once his new girl friend sees him limping out of the shower I think she might think ‘this is ridiculous, the man is a walking jig-saw puzzle’ and move on to a Second Lieutenant or even a Lance Corporal as long as he has all his parts.
By the number of victims, good and bad, killed in the book, I figure there must be just a half-dozen people left in the entire United States and none in the secret service, US Senate and military at all.
My only hope is that all the Senators shot, poisoned, or blown up, were MAGA Republicans.
(Image Supplied)
