Sept. 21, 2024
I have been touting, and will continue to do so, the books of Ross Thomas. I’ve read or reread seven of his novels over the past few months – interspersed with some from brand names, which are vanilla sandwiches on white bread by comparison – and can say without qualification that no one is better in the spy-thriller-crime-espionage genre.
I can’t put them down and, honestly, don’t feel much like reading anyone else these days. Here’s why:
He’s Raymond Chandler, except gleefully darker, more disillusioned, and more cynical than Marlowe…
Graham Greene, except corruption and dented idealism are often in greater (and more entertaining) supply than honor…
Elmore Leonard, except more biting and a little sorrowful…
Carl Hiaasen, except his moral outrage can be more pointed and political (but just as funny)…
John Le Carre, except more twisted…
Ian Fleming, except the plots aren’t so fantastical (and, frankly, can be confusing as hell, but so what?)…
Ernest Hemingway, except more lyrical while often being just as terse…
Dashiell Hammett, except less hard-boiled and more world-weary…
And Donald Westlake, except more ironic and more about cons than capers...
When you read a Ross Thomas book, you get a master class in writing, characterization, narrative drive, and wit. Pick one, any one, and start the adventure. (My recommendations so far: Briarpatch, Cast a Yellow Shadow, The Fools in Town Are on Our Side). Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.
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