
It’s been a few years since I read anything by Edmund Crispin. Following a bout of eagerly purchasing most of his limited library, I actually got around to reading him in the form of The Moving Toyshop. It’s an ok book to be sure, but I was left more puzzled by why it’s so well known. I followed it up with Love Lies Bleeding, which never captured my imagination, and felt entirely forgettable even as I read it.
I’ve always heard good things about Swan Song, and having acquired what I deemed to be the most desirable edition (Felony and Mayhem, 2006), I promptly sat on it for two years. You see, I have this stack of books that I’m “going to read next” – Peter Dickinson’s The Poisoned Oracle, Paul Gallico’s Too Many Ghosts, Michael Innes’ Hamlet Revenge, and roughly a dozen others – that has become a sort of book graveyard. I really do intend to read these next, but somehow when I go to pick my next read, it never comes off this pile. Swan Song was trapped in that perdition as well, and it’s time to break free.
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