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Lädt ... Warum haben Sie gelogen, Sir? (1952)von John Bingham
   Keine aktuelle Diskussion zu diesem Buch. 1   JohnGrant1 | Aug 11, 2013 |    ) Salixj | Jul 12, 2009 | Zeige 2 von 2 keine Rezensionen | Rezension hinzufügen
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FROM THE INTRODUCTION BY JOHN LE CARRÉ "This novel comprises some of the best work of an extremely gifted and perhaps under-regarded British crime novelist....What gave John Bingham his magic was something we look for in every writer, too often in vain: an absolute command of the internal landscape of his characters, acutely observed by a humane but wonderfully corrosive eye." Michael Sibley and John Prosset shared a history that dated back to their first years at boarding school, and so the news of Prosset's murder came as a great shock to his old friend -- especially because Sibley had been staying only the day before at Prosset's country house, where the body was found. When the police arrive to question him in connection with the murder, Sibley finds himself lying about his recent visit, and thus begins to reveal the true nature of a longstanding but volatile friendship, fraught with mutual deception and distrust. As he tells his version of the truth to the police -- and to the reader -- Sibley makes the first of many fateful mistakes and finds himself not only under suspicion, but a primary suspect in the investigation. Seen through the eyes of Sibley himself, My Name Is Michael Sibley is a mesmerizing account of murder, as the narrator purposefully attempts to elude the police and prove his innocence to the reader in the same breath. Keine Bibliotheksbeschreibungen gefunden. |
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 Google Books — Lädt ...GenresMelvil Decimal System (DDC)823.914Literature English & Old English literatures English fiction Modern Period 1901-1999 1945-1999Klassifikation der Library of Congress [LCC] (USA)BewertungDurchschnitt: (3.7)
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4
Mild-mannered, undistinguished journalist Michael Sibley is shocked when his old schooldays companion John Prosset is bumped off, because it was something Sibley has always fantasized about doing himself (although the world knows them as the best of friends, Sibley has always loathed his overweening, arrogant acquaintance) -- and in recent weeks, with Prosset seemingly moving in on Sibley's fiancee, the fantasies have been becoming ever more alluring.
Almost immediately Sibley realizes he's in many ways the ideal suspect for the police, and so he starts "improving" on events a bit -- telling little white lies here and there, encouraging fiancee Kate to do likewise, and so on. The net result is, of course, that every last falsehood and disingenuity comes back to bite him, and he looks guilty as sin. Is it possible that he is guilty as sin, but lying to the reader? Or is he, as he claims to be, an innocent man destined for the hangman's noose?
There's nothing flamboyant about the way Bingham tells this tale -- he was a very plain, restrained, quiet writer -- and yet Sibley's account of his misadventures succeeded in completely mesmerizing me. With luck some of his other novels are still in print . . . (