Hallowe’en Party (1969) and Elephants Can Remember (1972) would have been fairly damning epitaphs for the career of the little Belgian, and for Dame Agatha herself, and yet when reading them it’s clear that Poirot is supposed to still be in his pomp and magnificence. Given the inevitable decline in Agatha Christie’s powers as her career drew to a close, there’s a moderate irony in that fact that she had come off probably the most successful decade in the history of detective fiction writing when she opted to portray Hercule Poirot at his apparent worst.
0 kommentar(er)
