God!
Jesus! Holy Mackerel! - I don't believe in those dudes, but I invoke their names when
I am impressed, and I am blown away, blown to smithereens, by mystery writer Elizabeth George.
I have about fifty pages to go in 
A Traitor to Memory, and I hesitate to end my joy of
reading it. I have been taking little bites of it for a week. I will read it to the end in
a few minutes, and then, what will be left of me? I am what's left of Bill Wickland.
Better than sex? Damned near.
Many years ago, in the Air Farce [sic] in the Midwest in the winter, I'd
leave the office and go straight to my bunk and dive into Russian writers, and read them
for four or five hours, then go to 'midnight meal' and devour S.O.S., shit on a shingle,
chipped beef in gravy on toast.
Then I'd go to a bar sober at midnight, and nail one of the stragglers.
Elizabeth George's most recent work is as good as Dostoevsky. I don't know if I have
spelled his name correctly. My Eudora's dictionary is American only, it seems.
The only thing Elizabeth doesn't give us is 'laugh my ass off', like so
many of my favorite authors do. I forgive her that, because she is so good a writer. If
you like fiction, which is more true than truth, because you can't get sued for fiction,
read her stuff. Start at the start.
It is easy for me to say that she is a better writer than I am, difficult
to say that she might be as good as my Uncle Mike.
- luvyerfriendbill --
Sure glad I checked my E today!
Every thing I do will be funky, from now on.
Wild Life, Unusual Oregon
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© 2003 R K Puma rk@rkpuma.com
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