Reading her books is like opening the door to a gulp of crisp, cold fresh air.
I love Agatha Christie, and I absolutely adore Hercules Poirot. The detective is not just smart, but extremely funny and way ahead of his time. Agatha Christie is using your prejudices against you. Probably this is what I love about her the most.’ A little fragile old lady? She can’t be a murderer. It’s impossible. ‘I just imagine Poirot smiling underneath his neat good-looking moustache and saying with confidence: watch me. Obviously, he wouldn’t say that, but my imaginary Poirot yes.
She builds up her story the same way I was building up my Eiffel Tower from toy wooden blocks when I was 2 years old. Piece by piece, meticulously and with never-ending patience. There is no time to be sentimental, and there is absolutely no way to think: I know all the answers from the very beginning. She didn’t just help me out from my reading slump like a helping hand reaching out to the helpless in an extremely emotionally long pause in the movie, but she filled me up with air. I felt like a hot air balloon just floating up, a weightless little feather that actually enjoys what she reads. I don’t know if this is because I choose hard books to read these days or the books themselves are just way too overwhelmingly complicated for me, that I feel like I have been on a successful meeting with an energy vampire, but it feels so good to read something that is truly entertaining and has a good ending.
And the characters. Come on. How diverse, how unapologetically human they are. You would think they are not very relatable, not very usual personalities but you couldn’t be further away from the truth. Not everyone is just what they seem. There is always more to people. One of the reasons why I think the biggest mistake someone can make is looking down on someone or worse overestimating them. And sometimes life really is one of a kind. Sometimes you meet crazy absurd people and sometimes you find yourself in impossible scenarios that are too absurd to be true but they happen to be. I think her books are a celebration of life. The reason to keep going. Because you really don’t know what can happen tomorrow or who you are going to meet.
When I was reading the book I thought I knew the answer to the mystery. To the big question: Who did it? But truth be told I only realised it by the very end when it was almost crystal clear where the story points. I especially liked the clear and concise ending. It felt like you should just clap the book close when you finish, like snapping your fingers or clicking your tongue after tasting something delicious. She is definitely my comfort read. Alongside J.R.R. Tolkien who is literally healing my soul with his books. Philip Pullman, Peter S. Beagle, Rejtő Jenő, and many more have been there for me since the very beginning of my life. I’m not one of those people who can re-read books but they are definitely my only exceptions. And I know the only reason I read is the search for these very feelings. These exciting healing lightweight dreams, still effortlessly helping me to ascend in the vast blueness of the summer night sky.
Or something like that.
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