In my teens and twenties, I'd plunge greedily into novels as if throwing myself into the sea. Total immersion. I'd lay my hands on everything I could find by a succession of authors, such as Tolstoy, Hemingway, C.S. Forester, Faulkner, Graham Greene, Sartre. For weeks I'd walk around in a daze, captivated by the dialogue, the description, the syntax, the characters, the atmosphere of the imaginary worlds they'd created. During my final school exams I had a thing about Neville Shute's novels. I read 10 of them in rapid succession, one a day, hiding each book from the library on my knees and under my desk. Needless to say, I failed everything and had to sit the exams all over again. The older I get, the less this happens. I'm not so impressionable and more cynical, I suppose. Few contemporary novels have this impact. Maybe it's me or possibly they're just not that good, or both.
But it's happened with a new discovery, and I don't know why I didn't get to Charles McCarry's espionage novels before.
They remind me of one of his contemporaries, Patrick White, the great Australian author. I'm not sure why, but I think it's the elegance of his style and the depth of his characters. McCarry's novels are wonderfully well-written. They are also funny, witty and scary. Like a tide coming in, the plot creeps gently up on the reader, almost unnoticed, until it overwhelms. McCarry knows his Rome, Paris, his Middle East and his Congo. He knows the hotels, the restaurants, the food and drink. Or it feels as though he does because he's so convincing. He writes well and amusingly about sex and beautifully about love - or the lack of it. Some of the work shows its age because it's politically incorrect by the standards of today (Israel has to be defended and Arabs are all terrorists), but not so much so as to spoil the tales for the reader.
Will some alert publisher with a nose for excellence please reissue all his novels so I don't have to search in vain for McCarry's books in second-hand stores?