Several lifetimes ago, I was at a gathering of people from Bel Air Presbyterian Church at a wealthy couple’s home. I believe the husband was a lawyer of some kind, but the most distinctive thing about him were his suspenders. I was admiring their floor-to-ceiling wooden bookcases and then he & I started chatting about Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett. He asked if I had read Gorky Park by Martin Cruz Smith and I said I hadn’t.
“You must, “he said.
A lifetime or two later, I bought a used paperback copy at the Iliad Bookstore and put it on my bookshelf. Another lifetime or two passed.
When I moved into my new place in Studio City in March, I ran across it as I unpacked my boxes & boxes of books and decided it was finally time to read it.
I’ve been a voracious reader my entire life, but I just couldn’t seem to muster the will to finish it. It languished for months. It seems clear to me now that my lack of enthusiasm was a sign of my depression.
I forced myself to finish it this week. I thought it was good, not great.