From The Wall Street Journal:
Raymond Chandler found her novels irritating. They “fake the clues, the timing, the play of coincidence,” he complained, and “fake character, which hits me hardest of all, because I have a sense of character.” Robert Graves declared that “her English was schoolgirlish, her situations for the most part artificial, and her detail faulty.” And he was a friend. Bernard Levin “found not one of the books worth the time of an intelligent adult”; Francis Wyndham called them “animated algebra”; Julian Symons considered them “riddles rather than books.” More recently, Ruth Rendell lamented, “When I read one of her books, I don’t feel as though I have a piece of fiction worthy of the name in front of me,” while Michael Dibdin deemed Agatha Christie “a killer [whose] victim was the British crime novel.” Nevertheless, when Edmund Wilson, in a 1945 essay, famously asked, “Who cares who killed Roger Ackroyd?,” the answer was—and still is—tens of millions of Agatha Christie readers: the “Low Brows,” as Christie affectionately referred to them in 1956, by which time she had sold more than 50 million books world-wide.
When she died in 1976, aged 85, Christie left behind over a hundred works of fiction and drama, some poems, an autobiography . . . and a great deal of stuff. Stuff that made Laura Thompson, her new biographer, fairly swoon as she rummaged through it. “The notebooks with their agonised jottings. The fur coats that smell still of distant scent. The soft pools of christening lace. . . . The attaché case that contained Archie Christie’s love letters, and the wedding ring he gave her. . . . So many things kept,” and not in sterile archives but in situ, throughout her longtime home, Greenway House in Devon, “filling every cupboard, every attic, every secret drawer.” In “Agatha Christie: A Mysterious Life,” Ms. Thompson mines this trove for clues not only to the writer’s inner life but also to her fiction’s recurring themes and enduring appeal. She also unearths a vanished era—of villages and servants, tea and vicars—long regarded as quintessentially British.
. . . .
Christie’s birthplace is gone and Ms. Thompson revisiting the site could be Charles Ryder returning to Brideshead, so fierce is her nostalgia and dismay. “The 1851 town hall now a branch of Tesco,” she wails, with “junkies and asylum-seekers lurching along Higher Union Street.” It seems an odd introduction to a biography, this spasm of xenophobic throat clearing. Then again, Ms. Thompson spent years embedded with the Mitford family—her previous book was “The Six: The Lives of the Mitford Sisters” (2015)—and some of that dunderhead glibness was bound to rub off.
Link to the rest at The Wall Street Journal