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I have dressed this site in new overalls; it has crawled out of its fungus-breeding corner and donned a chic and elegant garb. The header image might change on a random basis – I am erratic like that, but I adore most everything else about this theme, especially the italic font. The inspiration for this change is probably from the cover design of Agatha Christie’s “The Mysterious Affair at Styles” produced by The Barnes and Noble Library of Essential Reading. There’s a pristine fireplace reigning the redwood wall, an old chiseled English frame above, and furniture embellished with floral laces and fabric and elegant murals. There’s even this charming little tea set, flaunting the cakes and scones that I can make out, which reminds me of the Manchester Town Hall where I had my first and only afternoon tea. Bless the good old days.

This was my first Agatha Christie book and I am completely mesmerized. She writes in the most lucid and endearing prose, and her mysteries are so intelligent. I read somewhere that she had been involved in voluntary war effort during World War I as a nurse and pharmacy dispenser, hence where she learned of the many medicines and poisons. I won’t delve into the story (for real, this time, not crying wolf), but I learned a new deadly toxin – strychnine – and by the end of the book, I could have almost declared a Chemistry major if I were still in school. It’s just that enticing.

My favorite character would have to be Mary Cavendish. She’s described as a slender, “enigmatical” woman of contrast, an “impression of a wild untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilized body,” such that her actions do not always speak her mind. She is both bitter and proud, jealous and affectionate, restrained and liberated, and it is particularly because of these fascinating traits that she continuously allures Hastings himself. Even in the face of the mystery and of quarrels and conflicts, her voice remains “cool and liquid,” her words full of reason and decorum, so much so that I couldn’t imagine anyone any more elite and classy. There is also an air about her quiet demeanor, when you would expect any ordinary good listener and instead receive an eloquent tongue, a curious gaze, or a subtly disconcerting tone. She is mystifying like that, and throughout nearly the entire book, I was both puzzled and absorbed in her opaque aura. The finale bares the whole and complete honesty of her feelings, and given the quality of her character (applause for Christie, the magician), even despite her flaws and any previous resentment she could have fueled, readers are drawn to sympathize and admire her, still.

Mary Cavendish is an “enigmatical” woman of contrast.

I think Mary’s persona challenges how far pride can take you. It is an important element to have because it conveys acknowledgement of your own worth and value, but when the situation turns too dire to retain any propriety, you instantly loosen your grips and run a slew of coarse mannerisms that you will never regret. What is considered “dire” need and what the situation calls for is subjective, but I’m sure we can all agree that a few words of criticism does not deserve a public lashing. A tactful, dignified response entails careful words, and a precision for what meanings you express. Nevertheless, ominous moments may find that your brain has escaped you.

Backtracking, this debut novel is an engrossing read. I have a very neutral opinion of Poirot, but I’ll still be reaching a hand over for the next Christie book at B&N. (And this layout, I love, in case anyone wonders if I forgot what this post originally was about.)