Rubbish

I bought John le Carre’s The Naïve and Sentimental Lover at some point in the late seventies and proceeded not to read it. I thought I’d put right the omission, and duly took the paperback from the shelves of Maison KL the last time we were there. In fact, it was one of only two books I took to Manchester on our recent visit.

And just why is it taking me so long to finish it? I suppose a lack of time is partly to blame, but essentially it’s quite possibly the worst novel I’ve ever read, and that doesn’t help. I regard myself for the most part as a sympathetic reader who’ll forgive a writer a lot. In this case I forgive the great spy-novelist nothing. Utter rubbish. I’m plodding on only from an odd sense of duty, and I want to get my money’s worth – it cost me a quid, when a quid was a quid.