A wicked Nor’Easter is raging outside, frustrating my spring cleaning efforts–tis the season for pitching junk–and flooding the sewers. The coven of raccoons beneath the porch seem quite upset at the forced relocation.

Been reading Black Sunday by Thomas Harris in bits and pieces for the last several weeks. His first novel, a best seller nearly written thirty plus years ago, a good decade before he birthed Lecter, strikes me on two fronts:

1) He delivers the goods and keeps the ball rolling. The man is a master at ratcheting tension.
2) The voice is muted, possibly by an editor, and definitely on purpose. Oh, his fingerprints cover the pages, it’s Harris all right, but his expert baritone does not ring through the narrative like a crafted pop song. And certainly not as powerfully as it does in Silence of the Lambs or Hannibal.

When I mentioned the second note to a good friend of mine, she countered that maybe Harris toned his personality down to sell the boo. Once he had his foot in the door and some sales, he could do it his way.

And I’m thinking she’s right.