Blind Corner

One cannot help but feel that Dornford Yates would, rightly, not have approved of modern chain bookstores and that, if offered a coffee and biscotti instead of a rousing read, would have hurled the vile foreign filth that is an espresso into the face of the startled barrista and set out in search for some books about how to kill foreigners. Unarmed combat techniques to be employed against either foreigners, or members of the lower classes or, shudder at the prospect, foreigners of the lower classes, are the sort of thing that Mr Yates would approve of in the self-help section. That and, possibly, at a stretch, a manual about how to erect shelves although I strongly suspect that Mr Yate’s view on D.I.Y. is that it’s some sort of show more filthy foreign trick to weaken the British ruling classes and that the correct procedure for getting Something Done Around The House is to have your servant contact the correct tradesperson.

There is rare and exquisite pleasure to be found in second hand books shops, and I don’t just mean those that are merely fronts for an opium den. It was by ducking into a second hand bookshop in Norfolk that I picked up ‘Blind Corner’. The instant I looked at the cover, I could tell that I was on to a winner. First the name of the author. Dornford Yates. A Christian name with a solid ring of respectability and a surname that hints of the steamier side of life as encountered in a wine lodge. Then the intriguing title. And all rendered in a font that reminds one of daggers or of marks carved into the wood or cave wall in a last desperate message. At the bottom right hand corner is the price. Two and six. This, I think, is a paperback price that invites one to purchase the book but also lets one know that the book will not mind if it is carried in a jacket pocket or stuffed in a satchel. This is a book that a chap reads in a trench, or under the covers with a torch, or possibly wiling away time when incarcerated in some filthy foreign jail on a trumped up charge.

In the picture adorning the front cover a chap in a rather smart canary yellow jacket and a jaunty red cravat holds a pistol, steady as a rock, on two thugs. The thugs look surprised and daunted. One of the thugs has a tattoo. Okay, it is of an anchor and is on his forearm rather than being, say, a Chinese symbol that the tattooist thought meant ‘harmony’ but in fact is the trademark for a leading brand of Chinese hemmeroid cream, but the tattoo marks the man a villainous and violent thug. In the doorway stands the gun-wielder’s pal, sporting a blue cravat under an open necked white shirt and pullover. He appears to be a thoroughly decent sort.

I pulled out my trusty literary protractor and measured the angle of the gun-wielder’s jaw. It was well into the ‘firm, yet cultured’ end of the scale I have devised for assessing literary content from character portrayal on a book’s front cover. Taking a few other measurements I determined that this would most likely be a book about chaps thrown together in a race against the clock treasure hunt in a foreign castle where they are battling some very, very rough types indeed. There would be no women characters at all, but the chap narrating the story (most likely the chap in the doorway, narrators always hang back) would be warm to the point of gushing in his praise of the fellow with the gun. Indeed the praise would be so gushing that one might think they are a little too close, before realising that that’s just what chaps are like. Especially chaps that went to public school.

I was excited beyond the point of reason at the promise of such a rollicking tale and purchased the book at once. Having read it, I was chuffed that my assessment was bang on, all apart from no women; an innkeeper’s wife makes a brief appearance, carrying a plate of sausages. show less

This was my first Jim Thompson, and I have to admit I found it difficult. As a member of the 21st century, and a British citizen, the 1950s USA demotic, especially concerning the minutiae of running a private cinema, was at times for me opaque to the point of impenetrable. The story is told in the form of a monologue by the central character, and although every page positively reeks with the seedy atmosphere of his existence, many of his actions and motives had to be deduced from clues I had a habit of missing. I enjoyed guessing, though, and mostly I guess I guessed right, as I did manage to hold on and reach the end of the story mostly knowing (or thinking I knew) what had gone on. What's more, all of the above notwithstanding, it was show more still gripping enough to inspire me to have another go sometime soon. show less

Pretty good adventure thriller. Almost feels like a YA book even though its characters are a bit older. Not great writing, i found it hard to understand the geography of certain situations, the descriptions were a bit muddled at times.
Not much in the way of characterization but what little we do get is quite odd which was entertaining :lol. Our POV character is ordinary enough to connect with but there's also a retired military intelligence officer who acts as the Holmes to our protagonists Watson.
Some might consider the ending to be a bit anti-climactic but i liked it. I would have liked it more if i could picture everything clearly but there was that problem with the writing i mentioned earlier.
Its not that there isn't a dramatic show more rush at the end its just not what you might be expecting.

Overall, some morally questionable english derring-do, fast paced and not without its charm. show less