I read my first Agatha Christie yesterday on JoAnna's recommendation of AC in general and Olivia on the book. It was well written. But it left me feeling vaguely depressed. It is all very well for people to be killed off, but I prefer it to have a hopeful ending. Life might be a vale of tears that ended suddenly and violently for these poor saps, but all the rest of us have some hope of happiness. As long as we don't have too much to do with the criminal and insane classes. Dick Francis is good for that. Nice, fairly cheery little epilouges are included at the end so we know that life can be good and beautiful. This particular Agatha Christie killed off every single main character. There was no one to root for, no small glimpse of romance and happiness at the end. Just a madman.
Of course, this vauge feeling of depression may have been due to the fact that by reading the book, I didn't get the laundry done or the house picked up. If only I was one of those sensible types that did all that I needed too prior to sitting down to read. Someday, someday. Like when I don't have crazy sweet girls who feel the need to empty Gilbert's toy bucket so they could have a reading spot. However, they did pick up this mess. With gentle remindings from us. And then a few less gentle remindings.