Murder on the Orient Express (1934)

Agatha Christie is the best. Literally, she is. The most timeless, masterful detective writer -- I enjoyed "Murder on the Orient Express" immensely. I kept thinking -- how? How did she execute the plot and the clues and the detective-ing so flawlessly? I don't think there's a person out there who wouldn't enjoy this book (or her many others). ( )

K. read 2017

Magistrale nella costruzione e nel crescendo narrativo che conduce il lettore a scoprir pian piano la trama che ha condotto all'omicidio. Depistaggi, finte soluzioni, continue revisioni delle teorie proposte altro non servono a preparar il colpo di scena finale. E a lasciare, nel lettore, una domanda aperta, dubbi circa il senso della giustizia, delle leggi che, spesso, ne ostacolano il compiersi e della vendetta che, talora, ne concretizza l'implacabile giudizio.

Masterful in the construction and in the narrative crescendo that leads the reader to slowly discover the plot that led to the murder. Misdirections, false solutions, continuous revisions of the theories proposed do not serve to prepare the final twist. And to leave, in the reader, an open question, doubts about the sense of justice, of the laws that often hinder their fulfillment and of the revenge that, at times, concretizes the implacable judgment. ( )

I love this book and have read it so many times. What do you do when there have been so many adaptations and presentations of one of your favourite murder mysteries that it's all jumbled up in your head and nothing seems like the real tale any more?

My full review is at the John C Adams Reviews blog now:

https://www.johncadamsreviews.com/single-post/john-c-adams-reviews-murder-on-the... ( )

These two sat a table not far away. The younger was a likeable looking young man of thirty, clearly an American. It was, however, not he, but his companion who had attracted the little detective's attention.
He was a man of between sixty and seventy. From a little distance he had the bland aspect of a philanthropist. His slightly bald head, his domed forehead, the smiling mouth that displayed a very white set of false teeth, all seemed to speak of a benevolent personality. Only the eyes belied this assumption. They were small, deep set and crafty. Not only that. As the man, making some remarks to his young companion, glanced across the room, his gaze stopped on Poirot for a moment, and just for that second there was a strange malevolence, an unnatural These two sat a table not far away. The younger was a likeable looking young man of thirty, clearly an American. It was, however, not he, but his companion who had attracted the little detective's attention.
He was a man of between sixty and seventy. From a little distance he had the bland aspect of a philanthropist. His slightly bald head, his domed forehead, the smiling mouth that displayed a very white set of false teeth, all seemed to speak of a benevolent personality. Only the eyes belied this assumption. They were small, deep set and crafty. Not only that. As the man, making some remarks to his young companion, glanced across the room, his gaze stopped on Poirot for a moment, and just for that second there was a strange malevolence, an unnatural tensity in the glance.