One of the most well-known Finnish novels ever written, that almost every Finn who reads books feels compelled to read at some point in their lives. Finally I got around dragging this from the library, making my arm into spaghetti. What I appreciated the most, is that the writing makes you feel like you're reading an authentic ancient Egyptian papyrus. At least in Finnish, I mean. I was also thrilled to find out that this takes place in the reign of Akhenaten (the husband of Nefertiti and father of Tutankhamun), in my opinion the most interesting pharaoh known so far. Loved Waltari's portrayal of him. He also incorporated a huge amount of information about ancient Egypt, without making the story too heavy to read.

All in all, a nice and entertaining historical novel, but which is still at times a bit too long-winded and lacks that 'something' that would transfer this to the next level. I could give this four stars, but in my book it's pretty near perfection, so three will have to do. Maybe three and a half, if it was possible.

Even if you didn't like the book, there is some significance in Sinuhe's ponderings, no matter what the year is:

There is no difference between one man and another, for all are born naked into the world. A man cannot be measured by the color of his skin, or by his speech, or by his clothes and jewels, but only by his heart. A good man is better than a bad man, and justice is better than injustice--and that is all I know.

The purpose of a short overview of only twelve serial killers escapes me, because I presume there are tomes referencing every single American serial killer (or at least most of them) and acting as introductions. I was testing Kindle in my phone the other day, and this was available for free in Amazon's Kindle books, so I figured I wouldn't be losing anything by at least trying this out.

Well, I did finish this, since I was morbidly curious about how much the level of craziness would grow, but otherwise I have to say I wasn't particularly impressed.

Obviously, there are interesting details here. John Gacy performed as a clown, and was known as an outgoing and succesful businessman. One of Jeffrey Dahmer's drugged victims escaped and the police believed he was his lover, because Dahmer (who worked at a chocolate factory at one point) was so well-spoken and calm, but if they had checked his apartment when they escorted them back there, they would've found the decomposing body of one of his latest victims on the bedroom floor. Well, later this happened: "There's a goddamn head in the refrigerator!". Ted Bundy worked at Seattle's Suicide Hotline crisis center, and earned a commendation from the police for saving a toddler. David Berkowitz had no success with women, so he decided to off them instead.

All these, however, I'd rather read from a proper and coherent reference book, or from an individual biography of one of the killers. Keller's approach is much too simplistic and, as he admits, subjective. A bit more polishing would have been great, too, since there's repetition in the parts where the victims are listed. It's all and well to note every single victim and treat them with respect, but at least a bit of variation sentence-wise would have been nice. I found no reason why one should read this instead of a Wikipedia article.

I avoid romantic comedies. Obviously I've still seen a few, and that's why I mainly cringe when I see another trailer from another film about a bunch of asswipes. Other overly romantic stuff gives me the same reaction. If I want something light to read, I turn to children's books or horror (preferrably Stephen King). As with everything, there are exceptions (although in this case, very few). When Harry Met Sally (1989) and Notting Hill (1999) (Rhys Ifan's character!) are two examples of movies that aren't my favourites, but which I've still seen at least twice. They have a point, and it's not necessarily a saccharine one. The first Bridget Jones is another one. It's just goofy, down-to-earth, and Bridget herself is the same: ordinary, not a polished model-type with a Pepsodent smile, and has awesome friends.

I've just never read the book, and now I thought would be perfect chance when I'm trying to go through some London books. The problem was the chick lit genre, which I've always found extremely off-putting. I've only read one before this, and it was torture. I've read countless of blurbs and reviews, though, but none of them have actually made me want to try reading the actual thing. The plot lines have mostly just given me a headache. I probably wouldn't have read Bridget Jones, if I hadn't seen the movie first. So, curiosity got the best of me (or maybe the heat of summer weather).

A longer introduction than perhaps necessary, but I thought it's important to understand the background where I'm coming from. Chick lit seems to rely on relatable characters and a sense of fun. Did I relate to Bridget? Hell no. Was this light-hearted fun? Not really.

I'm not in a similar situation with Bridget and her friends. I'm single, that much is true, but I don't have a problem with it or with people in relationships. I don't feel the need to trash men in every conversation (unless there's a very cogent reason, but that applies to women as well). These women don't have an ounce of common sense. Bridget takes Daniel's flirtations at face value, believing he's practically in love with her, and then complains when he's reluctant to commit to her. He said to her face, out loud, that he only wants to have fun! We all have our problems in relationships, and we all make mistakes, but I have trouble understanding why anyone would purposely dig themselves a hole. Have some self-respect. No one likes time wasters, but if you try to explain something into something completely different, then it's on you when things go pear-shaped.

Bridget is a gullible woman, who seems unable to control herself. We all have those problems in some areas, but am I going to be entertained by a book whose main character is supposed to be an endearing disaster? There was nothing funny about Bridget and her antics. She just made me sad. A woman in her thirties, and her life is filled with weight issues and neurotic self-analyzing. A lot of people (not only women) do worry about their weight, and think their self-esteem will magically jump into high heavens if they lose some fat. Bridget's problems are therefore relatable to some (completely understandable, because no one wants to feel like they're alone in something), but what are they really signalling? It's ok to view yourself as a complete useless slob and constantly beat yourself up? Being on a perpetual diet means you can write numbers into your diary, but in reality make little effort to be healthier?

It's not only that I don't understand Bridget, but the characters are very thin. The main love interest is supposed to be a big deal, but he's a mere shadow lurking somewhere in the background, so I never got a sense of who he is. He's forgotten for most of the novel, and then suddenly he appears again like some deus ex machina to make Bridget feel better. What the hell? But it's in a diary form, you say. Yes, but that's no excuse to make an important character virtually non-existent and a mere plot tool. I still have no idea why he's the one for Bridget.

There are some good bits here, though. Someone who admires Joanna Lumley and Susan Sarandon can't be entirely hopeless, and the description of Bridget's godson's birthday was hilarious. I sincerely hope I'll never end up into a situation like that, since it actually reminded me of a nightmare I once had. I also appreciate that Fielding clearly wanted to write something that's not made of pink glitter, but the actual execution missed its mark. Bridget is sassy, that much is true, but her other qualities - oy. If you identify with some of this, cool, but if you don't... There's little else to grab onto.

Somehow I'm guessing Bridget's obsession with self-pity won't end in the other books. She can wallow in it as long as she likes, though, because I'm not listening anymore. There's being sad for a valid reason, and then there's fishing pity and trying to build your self-confidence through others' opinions. Personally, I find it exasperating when everything has to be made a bigger deal than it actually is.

Noir. I can always trust it when I feel like reading something where it's guaranteed that things go horribly wrong or someone goes apeshit. Williams has been an unknown to me until now, but if this really isn't his strongest novels, I'm going to be in paradise later.

A Touch of Death smells like fear, sweat, powder, lipstick, and sex, and it's the colour of sharp scissors in the evening light. Williams's prose is to the point, yet a sizzling atmosphere of passion and suppressed rage are looming somewhere beneath. The plot is unarguably drawn out and as a mere framework not that interesting. However, it sticks with you regardless like a piece of chewing gum. Scarborough seems like a sleepwalker at times, and although he understands the woman in the bikini is trouble, he's unable to turn away. Just like in a nightmare. The final scene in the car is the hottest thing I've read in a while, and the ending is like a slap in the face, although you always knew what would happen. How can anything be ice cold and burning hot at the same time?

London is enveloped by an almost apocalyptic smog that obscures everything, both physically and figuratively speaking. A murderer is wandering the streets, searching for a way to a treasure. Albert Campion is called to help on the case, but he doesn't really do much detective work, appearing instead as a distant character mostly hovering in the background. Misleading, because the series is supposed to contain Albert Campion mysteries. Campion isn't even his real name! Allingham does a lot of dwelling with the characters' personalities and their behaviour and whatnot, but the actual crime solving is left on the sidelines, whereas psychological ponderings take up a lot of space.

I ended up feeling conflicted about the whole book, because Allingham is wonderful at describing London and the effect of the smog. The side characters obsessed with the treasure are bizarre, in a good way. My expectations just didn't click with what I got in the end, and one would have hoped the meditations on philosophical and theological issues had been more integrated into the actual story. Now they seemed disconnected, made reading a bit sticky, and stretched the plot unnecessarily (or more like halted it completely). On the other hand, Campion didn't seem to have a purpose in the story, so he could have been left out entirely without it affecting in any way to anything.

However, despite the poor pacing etc., the gloomy atmosphere and the fascinating ending won me over, so I'll continue with the series. Maybe start from the beginning to see if the novels are any different there, or if Campion is introduced more comprehensively.