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Lawrence Block, Out on the Cutting Edge

Ich fing erst mit dem Taschenbuch an, das aber dann leider ziemlich lädiert wurde, als ich in einen Regenschauer ohne Schirm geriet, und las es dann auf dem Paperwhite zuende während das Taschenbuch trocknete. Auch bei diesem Band hatte ich komplett vergessen wer die Mörder in den beiden ineinander verzweigten Handlungssträngen waren, und dass Mick Ballou hier sein Debut hat.

It was Friday night, which meant a step meeting, and this week we were on the sixth step, in the course of which one becomes ready on some inner level to hae one's defects of character removed. As far as I can tell, there's nothing in particular that you do to bring this about. It's just supposed to happen to you. It hasn't happened to me.

(Lawrence Block, Out on the Cutting Edge, 1989)

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Lawrence Block, A Drop of the Hard Stuff

Als ich schon mit "Out on the Cutting Edge" weitermachen wollte, fiel mir ein, dass dieser nachträglich geschriebene Band chronologisch noch zwischen "Eight Million Ways to Die" und dem ursprünglich nächsten Band angesiedelt ist. Hier kann Scudder gerade sein erstes Jubiläum als trockener Alkoholiker feiern - auch wenn ihm nach Feiern kaum zumute ist.

I dialed it now, and the machine picked up. I listened to a dead man's voice. I hung up, wondering how long it would be before someone unplugged the machine, how long before the telephone company cut off the phone service.
You don't die all at once. Not anymore. These days you die a little at a time.
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It was getting dark out when I left the library. I'd lost all track of time, and when I checked my watch I saw that it was past five. It wasn't fully dark, but the sun was down, and a gray day was drawing to a close. Every day the sun disappeared a little earlier than the day before. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that, it happened every year, but there were times when I felt there was a sadness attached to it, that the poor old year was dying a day at a time.
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(Lawrence Block, A Drop of the Hard Stuff, 2011)

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Lawrence Block, The Night and the Music, Matthew Scudder Short Stories

In 'The Night and the Music' gibt es am Schluß noch ein paar neuere Stories, die in den Collected Mystery Stories nicht enthalten sind, und so las ich sie parallel, wie es sich gerade ergab. Stories wie "Out the Window" oder "A Candle for the Bag Lady" könnte ich immer wieder lesen ohne sie überzubekommen.
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Maybe she caught her own killer. Maybe he caught himself, as everyone does. Maybe no man's an island and maybe everybody is.
All I know is I lit a candle for the woman, and I suspect I'm not the only one who did.

(Lawrence Block, A Candle for the Bag Lady, 1977)

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Lawrence Block, Eight Million Ways to Die

Obwohl Scudder am Ende die Kurve kriegt und es gerade so schafft, der einen letzten Versuchung zu widerstehen, erscheint mir dieser Band als einer der bittersten und hoffnungslosesten Teile der Serie. Und nach wie vor einer der besten, wenn nicht der Beste.
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After the meeting I walked for awhile in Central Park. The sun was out for a change and it was the first good day all week. I took a good long walk and watched the kids and the runners and the cyclists and the roller skaters and tried to reconcile all that wholesome innocent energy with the dark face of the city that showed itself every morning in the newspaper.
The two worlds overlap. Some of these riders would be robbed of their bicycles. Some of these strolling lovers would return home to burglarized apartments. Some of these laughing kids would pull holdups, and shoot or stab, and some would be held up or shot or stabbed, and a person could give himself a headache trying to make sense out of it.
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He was visibly drunk now, but only if you knew where to look. The eyes had a glaze on them, and there was a matching glaze on his whole manner. He was holding up his end of a typical alcoholic conversation, wherein two drunks take polite turns talking aloud to their own selves.
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'Those are cowry shells. Primitive societies all over the world use the cowry shell as a medium of exchange, it's the Swiss franc of the tribal world. You see how it's shaped?'
I went and had a look.
'Like the female genitalia,' she said. 'So men automatically use it to buy and sell.'
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(Lawrence Block, Eight Million Ways to Die, 1981)

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Stephen King, Four Past Midnight

Während 'The Langoliers', dicht gefolgt von 'The Library Policeman' ganz oben in meiner Rangliste von Stephen King-Geschichten rangiert, habe ich die beiden anderen Novellen in dieser Anthologie, 'Secret Window, Secret Garden' und 'The Sun Dog' ein- oder höchstens zweimal wiedergelesen. Als Amazon kürzlich versuchte mir die einzelne Neuveröffentlichung von 'The Sun Dog' zum mehr als dem doppeltem Preis von dieser Anthologie anzudrehen, holte ich mir stattdessen diesen Band als E-Book und bereute es nicht. Überraschend fand ich vor allem wie zeitlos die Stories wirken, obwohl sie schon fast 30 (!) Jahre alt sind, selbst die Beschreibung der Technik in 'The Langoliers' hält einen Vergleich mit heutigen Verhältnissen durchaus stand. Ganz nebenbei mutete es in dem Vorwort von King, in dem er auf 15 Jahre als Autor zurückblickt, etwas amüsant und fast seltsam an, wie er durchblicken lässt, dass er den Höhepunkt seiner Laufbahn schon erreicht hat, nichtsahnend, dass noch mindestens zweimal soviel Jahre und mehr als doppelt so viele Bücher folgen werden.

'That was very brave and very foolish, my boy,' Bob Jenkins said. His face was dead white and he looked as if he might pass out himself in another few moments. 'Never believe a writer. Listen to them, by all means, but never believe them. My God, what if I'd been wrong?'

Stephen King, Four Past Midnight, 1990

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Jodi Picoult, Perfect Match

Eine ungewöhnliche und erschütternde Geschichte einer Mutter, die für ihr Kind Dinge tut, die sie selber für unmöglich gehalten hätte um es vor (weiterem) Schaden zu bewahren, und die bis zum Ende fesselnd bleibt, selbst über die Verurteilung hinaus. Ich sollte wohl die restlichen Picoults nicht zu schnell hintereinander weglesen, es braucht echt eine gute Portion Nerven. Bei allen.

"I wish I could tell you I never would ... but that wouldn't be true. I thought I knew this world. I thought I could control it. But just when you think you've got your life by the reins, that's when it's most likely to run away with you.
"I killed someone." The words burn on my tongue. "No, not just someone, but a wonderful man. An innocent man. That's something I'm going to carry with me, forever. And like any burden, it is going to get heavier and heavier ... except I'll never be able to put it down, because now it's a part of who I am." Turning to the jury, I repeat, "I would like to tell you that I'd never do anything like this again, but then, I never thought I was capable of doing anything like this in the first place. And as it turned out, I was wrong."

(Jodi Picoult, Perfect Match, 2001)

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Tana French, The Trespasser

Noch eine beinahe unglaublich fesselnde Geschichte von Frenchs neuem Dreamteam Conway/Moran, diesmal aus der Sicht von Antoinette Conway, die es hier schafft sich in der Murder Squad zu etablieren, nicht so sehr gegen äußere Widerstände, sondern vor allem durch Überwindung ihrer eigenen Überzeugungen und Ängste und des tiefsitzenden Verfolgungswahns. Dazu ein faszinierender Mordfall, bei dem während der Ermittlungen sich immer wieder neue Aspekte ergeben und ungewöhnliche Beziehungsgeflechte - was will man mehr. Jetzt kann ich nur hoffen, dass French das Dreamteam nochmal an den Start schickt - obwohl es schwierig sein dürfte, die beiden ersten Fälle noch zu übertreffen. Zutrauen würde ich es ihr aber.
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These people are pissing me off. The neediness of it, all of them jumping up and down and waving their arms and doing their cutest little booty-shakes for the internet: Me, look at me, like me, please oh please want me!!! The because-I'm-worth-it shower (looking for someone tall, slim, very fit, no smokers, no drugs, no kids, no pets, must have full time job and own car, must like fusion cuisine, speak at least three languages, enjoy bikram yoga and acid jazz...) are just as bad: ordering their relationship from the online menu because of course you have to have one, same as you have to have a state-of-the-art sound system and a pimped-out new car, and it's important to make sure you get exactly what you want. The only ones I can respect are the ones there on business: Ukrainian superbabes looking for older men down the country, with a view to marriage. All the rest could do with a good kick up the hole and a double shot of self respect.
No one needs a relationship. What you need is the basic cop-on to figure that out, in the face of all the media bullshit screaming that you're nothing on your own and you're a dangerous freak if you disagree. The truth is, if you don't exist without someone else, you don't exist at all. And that doesn't just go for romance. I love my ma, I love my friends, I love the bones of them. If any of them wanted me to donate a kidney or crack a few heads, I'd do it, no questions asked. And if they all waved goodbye and walked out of my life tomorrow, I'd still be the same person I am today.
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They make me edgy. Dozens and dozens of people, they just keep coming, and every single one of their heads is crammed with stories they believe, and stories they want to believe, and every story is battering against the thin walls of the person's skull, drilling and gnawing for its chance to escape and attack someone else, bore its way in and feed off that mind too. Even the cute little student mincing along in her flowery dress, the shuffling old fella with his shuffling spaniel, they look Ebola-lethal.

(Tana French, The Trespasser, 2016)