Years ago, while recovering from a heart attack, my father
asked me to bring him some books to pass the time in the
hospital. He was a bit of a mystery reader, had turned me on
to Holmes; I later turned him on to Chandler and
Hammett.
I just happened to be plowing through a stack of Stark's
Parker books at the time (had finally gotten a stack of them,
instead of a trickle), some for the first time. So I took
them down to him, praising them highly.
He couldn't even get through one. They were just too bleak
and amoral for him to handle in his condition. Of course,
looking back, they were probably too cold for him in the best
of conditions.
He continued to read many mysteries I recommended, but never
again without asking, This isn't like _those_ books, is
it?
Mark
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