So I've been into vintage spy novels lately, the kind that are 75 pages long and written by someone who might have actually been a spy, because it was the 50s or the 30s or the 70s at the time and maybe it could have happened that way? This book rolled across my screen and I thought, spies? Books? Cool? NO. This book was unenjoyable in a way that some Hollywood producer will come along and say, "We could totally shoot this in a weekend with cheap actors!" And then make millions. Every phrase was as corny as a pick-up line, and I meant to remember some to note here but as soon as I finished I began Ann Patchett's State of Wonder and now this book only qualifies as in my "library" because it has words and a publisher. Don't read it.