Murder Must Advertise

Probably my second favorite of her novels. I love the way it's written and all of the advertising slogans.

Это моя первая книга золотого века британского детектива, написанная не Агатой Кристи и не Джоном Карром. Первая, и не последняя, несмотря на то, что я поставила не слишком высокую оценку. Первоначально мне ужасно не повезло, мне попался этот роман в каком-то кошмарном переводе noname, который напомнил мне перевод описаний товаров с aliexpress. Местами я серьезно теряла мысль, особенно когда текст изобиловал множественными подробностями. Да, эти подробности безусловно сыграли свою роль: подробные описания рекламного дела, а потом и удивительной скрупулезности описание матча по крикету для меня этот роман практически похоронили... Ну и убийцу вычислить было элементарно, его и не скрывали особо... Словом, этот роман не зашел, но общая атмосфера, привлекательный главный герой, многообразие событий дают надежду на остальные романы автора. Но пока Агата Кристи и Джон Карр - вне конкуренции.

This is the first Dorothy Sayers mystery I've read–much to my chagrin. I'm a fan of the mystery in so many of its forms and interwar-year fiction has a special place in my heart. I found the story pleasantly convoluted and hysterically stuffy and old fashioned, which may not be the intended read but worked for me. I'm not sure yet if I like Lord Peter Whimsy or not; I go through phases where I just can't be arsed to care about the life of yet another charismatic man. But Sayers knows what she's up to, so I'll come back for more.

This may be my favorite Wimsey book. A peek at the British class system, cricket, and hilarious adverts from back in the day. Wimsey is not quite deified yet, as I think he is in “Gaudy Night.”

‰ЫПTo Lord Peter Wimsey, the few weeks of his life spent in unravelling the Problem of the Iron Staircase possessed an odd dreamlike quality, noticeable at the time and still more insistent in retrospect. The very work that engaged him ‰ЫУ or rather, the shadowy simulacrum of himself that signed itself on every morning in the name of Death Bredon ‰ЫУ wafted him into a sphere of dim platonic archtypes, bearing a scarcely recognizable relationship to anything in the living world. Here those strange entities, the Thrifty Housewife, the Man of Discrimination, the Keen Buyer and the Good Judge, for ever young, for ever handsome, for ever virtuous, economical and inquisitive, moved to and fro upon their complicated orbits, comparing prices and values, making tests of purity, asking indiscreet questions about each other‰ЫЄs ailments, household expenses, bed-springs, shaving cream, diet, laundry work and boots, perpetually spending to save and saving to spend, cutting out coupons and collecting cartons, surprising husbands with margarine and wives with patent washers and vacuum-cleaners, occupied from morning to night in washing, cooking, dusting, filling, saving their children from germs, their complexions from wind and weather, their teeth from decay and their stomachs from indigestion, and yet adding so many hours to the day by labour-saving appliances that they had always leisure for visiting the talkies, sprawling on the beach to picnic upon Potted Meats and Tinned Fruit, and (when adorned by So-and-so‰ЫЄs Silks, Blank‰ЫЄs Gloves, Dash‰ЫЄs Footwear, Whatnot‰ЫЄs Weatherproof Complexion Cream and Thingummy‰ЫЄs Beautifying Shampoos), even attending Ranelagh, Cowes, the Grand Stand at Ascot, Monte Carlo and the Queen‰ЫЄs Drawing-Rooms.‰Ыќ