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Midnight in Europe: A Novel Paperback – March 17, 2015
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Paris, 1938. As the shadow of war darkens Europe, democratic forces on the Continent struggle against fascism and communism, while in Spain the war has already begun. Alan Furst, whom Vince Flynn has called “the most talented espionage novelist of our generation,” now gives us a taut, suspenseful, romantic, and richly rendered novel of spies and secret operatives in Paris and New York, in Warsaw and Odessa, on the eve of World War II.
Cristián Ferrar, a brilliant and handsome Spanish émigré, is a lawyer in the Paris office of a prestigious international law firm. Ferrar is approached by the embassy of the Spanish Republic and asked to help a clandestine agency trying desperately to supply weapons to the Republic’s beleaguered army—an effort that puts his life at risk in the battle against fascism.
Joining Ferrar in this mission is a group of unlikely men and women: idealists and gangsters, arms traders and aristocrats and spies. From shady Paris nightclubs to white-shoe New York law firms, from brothels in Istanbul to the dockyards of Poland, Ferrar and his allies battle the secret agents of Hitler and Franco. And what allies they are: there’s Max de Lyon, a former arms merchant now hunted by the Gestapo; the Marquesa Maria Cristina, a beautiful aristocrat with a taste for danger; and the Macedonian Stavros, who grew up “fighting Bulgarian bandits. After that, being a gangster was easy.” Then there is Eileen Moore, the American woman Ferrar could never forget.
In Midnight in Europe, Alan Furst paints a spellbinding portrait of a continent marching into a nightmare—and the heroes and heroines who fought back against the darkness.
Praise for Alan Furst and Midnight in Europe
“Furst never stops astounding me.”—Tom Hanks
“Furst is the best in the business.”—Vince Flynn
“Elegant, gripping . . . [Furst] remains at the top of his game.”—The New York Times
“Suspenseful and sophisticated . . . No espionage author, it seems, is better at summoning the shifting moods and emotional atmosphere of Europe before the start of World War II than Alan Furst.”—The Wall Street Journal
“Endlessly compelling . . . Furst delivers an observant, sexy, and thrilling tale set in the outskirts of World War II. In Furst’s hands, Paris once again comes alive with intrigue.”—Erik Larson
“Too much fun to put down . . . [Furst is] a master of the atmospheric thriller.”—The Boston Globe
- Print length272 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherRandom House Trade Paperbacks
- Publication dateMarch 17, 2015
- Dimensions5.18 x 0.57 x 8 inches
- ISBN-100812981839
- ISBN-13978-0812981834
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Editorial Reviews
Review
“Elegant, gripping . . . [Furst] remains at the top of his game.”—The New York Times
“Suspenseful and sophisticated . . . No espionage author, it seems, is better at summoning the shifting moods and emotional atmosphere of Europe before the start of World War II than Alan Furst.”—The Wall Street Journal
“Endlessly compelling . . . Furst delivers an observant, sexy, and thrilling tale set in the outskirts of World War II. In Furst’s hands, Paris once again comes alive with intrigue.”—Erik Larson
“Too much fun to put down . . . [Furst is] a master of the atmospheric thriller.”—The Boston Globe
Praise for Alan Furst
“Furst never stops astounding me.”—Tom Hanks
“Furst is the best in the business—the most talented espionage novelist of our generation.”—Vince Flynn
“Page after page is dazzling.”—James Patterson
“Furst writes profoundly realistic books. The brilliant historical flourishes seem to create—or re-create—a world . . . a heartbreaking sense of the vast Homeric epic that was World War II and the smallness of almost every life that was caught up in it.”—The New York Times Book Review
“Though set in a specific place and time, Furst’s books are like Chopin’s nocturnes: timeless, transcendent, universal. One does not so much read them as fall under their spell.”—Los Angeles Times
“Alan Furst’s novels swing a beam into the shadows at the edges of the great events leading to World War II. Readers come knowing he’ll deliver effortless narrative.”—USA Today
“Mesmerizing . . . Mr. Furst is a master at conjuring European scenes and moods during World War II and the fraught years that preceded it.”—The Wall Street Journal
“Alan Furst again shows why he is a grandmaster of the historical espionage genre. . . . It doesn’t get more action-packed and grippingly atmospheric than this.”—The Boston Globe
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Cristián Ferrar, a Spanish émigré who lived in Paris, took a moment to enjoy the spectacle, then hurried across the avenue as the traffic light turned red and began to work his way through the crowd. In a buckled briefcase carried under his arm, he had that morning’s New York Times. The international news was as usual: marches, riots, assassinations, street brawls, arson; political warfare was tearing Europe apart. Real war was coming, this was merely the overture. In Spain, political warfare had flared into civil war, and, the Times reported, the Army of the Republic had attacked General Franco’s fascist forces at the Aragonese town of Teruel. And, you only had to turn the page, there was more: Hitler’s Nazi Germany had issued new restrictions on the Jews, while here was a photograph of Benito Mussolini, shown by his personal railcar as he gave the stiff-armed fascist salute, and there a photograph of Marshal Stalin, reviewing a parade of tank columns.
Cristián Ferrar would force himself to read it, would ask himself, Is there anything to be done? Is it hopeless? So it seemed. Elsewhere in the newspaper, the democratic opposition to the dictators tried not to show fear, but it was in their every word, the nervous dithering of the losing side. As Franco and his generals attacked the elected Republic, the others joined in, troops and warplanes provided by Germany and Italy, and with every victory they boasted and bragged and strutted: It’s our turn, get out of our way.
Or else.
He’d had a long, long day. A lawyer with the Coudert Frères law firm in Paris—“coo-DARE,” he would remind his American clients—he’d spent hours at the Coudert Brothers home office at 2 Rector Street. There’d been files to read, meetings to attend, and confidential discussions with the partners, as they worked on matters that involved both the Paris and the New York offices, whose wealthy clientele had worldwide business interests and, sometimes, eccentric lives. Coudert had, early in the century, famously untangled the byzantine affairs of the son of Jacques Lebaudy. Lebaudy père had earned millions of dollars, becoming known as “the Sugar King of France,” but the son was another story. On receipt of his father’s fortune he’d gone thoroughly mad and led a private army to North Africa and there declared himself “Emperor of the Sahara.” In time, the French Foreign Legion had sent the emperor packing and he’d wound up living on Long Island, where his wife shot and killed him.
But the difficulties of the Lebaudy case were minor compared to what Coudert had faced that day: the legal hell created by the Spanish Civil War, now in its seventeenth month; individuals and corporations cut off from their money, families in hiding because they were trapped on the wrong side—whatever side that was—burnt homes, burnt factories, burnt records, with no means of proving anything to insurance companies, or banks, or government bureaucracies. The Coudert lawyers in Paris and New York did the best they could, but sometimes there was little to be done. “We regret your misfortune, monsieur, but the oil tanker has apparently vanished.”
Ferrar had left the Coudert office at five-thirty and headed uptown to his hotel, the Gotham, then, as a favor to a friend at the Spanish embassy in Paris, he’d walked over to the Spanish Republic’s arms-buying office at 515 Madison Avenue. Here he’d picked up two manila envelopes he would take back to Paris—the days when you could trust the mail were long gone. He went next to Saks, meaning to buy Christmas presents—a hammered-silver bracelet and a cashmere sweater—for a woman friend he was to meet at seven. This love affair had gone on for more than two years as, every three months or so, he flew to Lisbon, where one could take the Pan Am flying boat to New York.
Actually, Ferrar was not precisely a Spaniard. He’d been born in Barcelona and so thought of himself as Catalan, from Catalonia, in ancient times a principality that included the French province of Roussillon. A Castilian from Madrid might well have recognized Ferrar’s origin: his skin at the pale edge of dark, a gentle hawkish slope to the nose, and the deep green eyes common to the Catalan, with thick, black hair combed straight back from a high forehead and cut in the European style; noticeably long, and low on the neck. In June he’d turned forty, rode horseback in the Bois de Boulogne twice a week, and stayed lean and tight with just that exercise. Heading toward the entrance to Saks, he wore a kind of lawyer’s battle dress: good, sober suit beneath a tan, delicately soiled raincoat, fedora hat slightly tilted over the left eye, maroon muffler, and brown leather gloves. With the briefcase under his arm, Ferrar looked like what he was, a lawyer, a hardworking paladin ready to defend you against Uncle Henry’s raid on your trusts.
As he reached the entry to the department store, Ferrar saw once again a thin little fellow who wore gold-rimmed spectacles, hands in the pockets of a blue overcoat, shoulders slumped as from fatigue or sorrow, who had followed him all day. This time he was leaning against the door of a taxi while the driver read a newspaper by the light of a streetlamp. The man in the blue overcoat had been with Ferrar at every stop, waiting outside at each location but not at all secretive, as though someone wanted Ferrar to know he was being watched.
Now who would that be?
There were many possibilities. For the secret services of Germany, Italy, and the USSR, the civil war in Spain was a spymaster’s dream, and attacks were organized against targets everywhere in Europe: politicians of the left, diplomats, intellectuals, journalists, idealists—all much-favored prey of the clandestine forces, be they fascist or communist. At embassies, social salons, grand hotels, and nightclubs, the predators worked day and night. As for the man who followed him, Ferrar suspected he might be a local communist in service to the NKVD, since the USSR—the Republic’s crucial, almost its only, ally—famously spied on its enemies, its friends, and everybody else. Or could the man be working for Franco’s secret police?
Ferrar was determined not to brood about it, he could think of nothing to do in response, and he was not someone easily intimidated. He dismissed the man’s presence with an unvoiced sigh, pulled the massive door open, and entered the store. Barely audible above the din of the shopping crowd, yet another band of carolers was singing “joyful and tri-umm-phant.” Momentarily adrift in an aromatic maze of perfume and cosmetics counters, Ferrar searched for the jewelry department. The man in the blue overcoat waited outside.
p. j. delaney it said on the window. Then, below that, bar & grill.
The very perfection of what the gossip columnists would call “the local saloon.” It had been there forever, on East Thirty-Seventh Street in Murray Hill, a neighborhood of rooming houses and small hotels, a low rung on the middle-class ladder where office workers, salesclerks, and people who did God-only-knew-what lived in genteel poverty. But their lives were their own. The neighborhood had, for no particular reason, a seductive air of privacy about it. You could do what you liked, nobody cared.
Delaney’s, as it was known, was down four steps from the sidewalk, open the door and the atmosphere came rolling out at you; decades of spilled beer and cigarette smoke. Cristián Ferrar sat in a booth by the wall; a stout wooden table—its edges scarred by cigarette burns—was flanked by benches attached to high backs, the tops handsomely scrolled. He had his New York Times spread out before him, ashtray to one side, whiskey and soda on the other.
Ferrar tried to read the newspaper, then folded it up and put it back in his briefcase—at least for the moment he would spare himself the smoke and fume of Europe on fire. He was in Delaney’s to meet his lover, Eileen Moore, so turned his thoughts to the pleasures they would share. As he thought of her, his eyes wandered up to the window and the sidewalk outside where, since the bar was below street level, he could see only the lower halves of people walking by. Could he identify Eileen before she entered the bar? In his imagination he could see her strong legs in black cotton stockings, but she might be wearing something else. Outside it was still snowing, a little girl paused, then bent over to peer through the window until her mother towed her away.
Ferrar had a sip of his drink; then, when he put the glass down, there she was. “Hello, Cristián,” she said, hands in the pockets of her wool coat. He stood, his smile radiant, and they embraced—a light, public embrace which lingered for the extra second that separates friendship from intimacy. Then he helped her off with her coat, finding ways to touch her as he did so, and hung it on a brass hook fixed to the side of the booth. She sat, slid next to the wall, he settled beside her, she rested a hand on his knee, there were droplets of melted snow in her hair.
“It’s been too long,” he said.
“It has.”
“We’ll make up for that,” he said.
Her hand tightened on his knee. Their eyes met, followed by a pair of knowing smiles. Grins, almost.
She had auburn hair, parted in the middle and falling in wings to her shoulders—easy to brush into place, cheap to maintain—and a pale, redhead’s complexion with a spray of freckles barely visible across the bridge of her nose: an Irish girl, raised in the Bronx, now, in her early thirties, living a Manhattan life. She wouldn’t be called pretty, but her face was animated and alive and good to look at. She wore a gray wool sweater that buttoned up the front, little gold earrings, no makeup, French perfume he’d bought her in August, black skirt, and the black cotton stockings with a seam up the back.
“Seeing you made me forget,” she said. “I meant to say buenas noches. Did I get that right?”
“You did,” he said. Then, “The old greeting—they don’t say that these days.”
By this she was startled. “And why not?”
“It would mean that you were of the upper classes and someone would arrest you. Now they say Salut, or Salut camarada. You know, ‘comrade.’ ”
“I’m not much of a comrade,” she said. “I marched, back in November, and we have a Help Spain coin jar at work, that’s about as far as I go with the politics.” At work meant, he knew, at the Public Library, where she shelved books at night. By day she wrote novels—cheap paperbacks with lurid covers.
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
“No, I’m not all that hungry. What’s on the blackboard?”
“ ‘Chicken à la king,’ it said. Which is . . . ?”
“Pieces of chicken in a cream sauce on toast. If the cook is feeling his oats there might be a pea or two in there.”
“And what king ate this?”
Her laugh was loud and harsh. “You,” she said.
“Let me get you a drink.”
“What’ve you got there?”
“Whiskey and soda.”
“Rye whiskey, in here. Yes, I’ll have that.”
He went to the bar and returned with the drink. Eileen took a pack of Chesterfields from her purse, smacked it twice on the table to firm up the tobacco at the smoker’s end, then peeled back the foil. Ferrar drew a Gitane from his packet and lit both their cigarettes. She raised her glass and said, “Salut, comrade,” then added, “and mud in your eye” and drank off a generous sip.
“In my eye?” He was being droll, which she really liked. And it sounded good in his accent—vaguely foreign, with a British lilt, because he’d learned his English in Paris, where the teachers were British expatriates.
“Are you still living at the same place?” Ferrar said.
She nodded. “The good old Iroquois Hotel. A room and a hotplate, bathroom down the hall.”
And a bed, he thought. A fond memory, that narrow bed with a lumpy mattress and iron rails at head and foot. Not much of a bed, but wonderful things happened there. With Eileen Moore he shared two great passions; they loved to laugh, and they loved sex—the more they excited each other, the more excited they became. Attraction was always mysterious, he believed—he didn’t really know what drew her to him—but for himself he knew very well indeed. Yes, he had a fierce appetite for her small, curved shape, for her round bottom in motion, but beyond that he was wildly provoked by her redhead’s coloring: her white body, the faded pink of her nether parts. He believed, deep down where his desire lived, that redheads had thinner skin, so that a single stroke went a long way. In Ferrar’s imagination, amid the crowd in the noisy bar, he recalled how, when he first touched her nipples, her chin lifted and her face became taut and concentrated. Stop it, he told himself—it was too soon to leave. He finished his drink and went off to get two more.
Waiting at the bar, Ferrar remembered the first time he’d seen her. She’d been working as a clerk in a warehouse near the Hudson River, there’d been a sudden fire, two of the workers had been injured and were carried out as the building burned to a shell. The owner, a German Jew who’d fled to Paris, had filed a claim with his insurance company, the company stated that the fire was arson and refused to pay, the owner retained Coudert and sued. When Ferrar, in New York for meetings, had deposed some of the workers, Eileen Moore sat across from him at a desk while a secretary recorded the deposition in shorthand. She did not record, but may have noticed, that attraction between Eileen Moore and Ferrar was instantaneous and powerful. Three months later—the insurance company had settled—he was back in the city; he called her, they met at Delaney’s, they went to her room.
Product details
- Publisher : Random House Trade Paperbacks; Reprint edition (March 17, 2015)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 272 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0812981839
- ISBN-13 : 978-0812981834
- Item Weight : 6.4 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.18 x 0.57 x 8 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #434,859 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #2,295 in Espionage Thrillers (Books)
- #4,081 in Historical Thrillers (Books)
- #23,063 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Alan Furst has lived for long periods in France, especially in Paris, and has travelled as a journalist in Eastern Europe and Russia. He has written extensively for Esquire and the International Herald Tribune.
Customer reviews
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Learn more how customers reviews work on AmazonCustomers say
Customers find the book engaging and well-written. They describe the historical fiction as excellent, with rich Coudert history. The writing quality is described as wonderful and well-told. Many find the story exciting, fascinating, and entertaining. However, opinions differ on the storyline, with some finding it action-packed and suspenseful, while others feel it lacks continuity and suspense. There are mixed views on the character development, with some finding them interesting and well-developed, while others consider them less compelling than in previous works.
AI-generated from the text of customer reviews
Customers find the book engaging and worth reading. They appreciate the thoughtful story with a mix of intrigue, violence, suspense, and lovemaking. The author is described as an intimate storyteller who places you in the lives of the characters.
"...But to me this plays out as a period piece in 1930’s costumes. It is suspenseful but in quiet ways that strike fear in our hearts because we can..." Read more
"...Just as enjoyable as all his previous books in this series, the excellent character development allows the reader to get very attached to the..." Read more
"...Dark Star" is the finest novel I have ever read in my life. It sticks with me 20 years later...." Read more
"...The story in Midnight is lively, several threads are followed, perhaps not as fully explored as one might wish...." Read more
Customers appreciate the historical accuracy of the book. They find it an engaging historical fiction with well-developed characters and a rich Coudert history. The story is set just before World War II, well-blended with European settings and history. Readers praise the author's skill in writing spy thrillers and describe the book as another wonderful story from Alan Furst, who is considered a master of the genre.
"Another fascinating, historically accurate, beautiful tale from Alan Furst set in pre-World War II Europe...." Read more
"Here is yet another story, well told, by the master of known mysteries...." Read more
"The title and the cover are intriguing: befitting an espionage thriller by a writer reputed to be one of the best writing in this genre..." Read more
"...As for its strengths, as usual, Furst captures the ambience of Paris well...." Read more
Customers enjoy the writing quality of the book. They find the story well-told, with a vivid prose that draws them in. The author is described as an accomplished craftsman, and the unique, colorful storyline has a comfortable length. The hero is well-meaning, though somewhat naive, and believable.
"...This very well-written unique colorful storyline could have comfortably gone on another hundred pages-- but didn't!..." Read more
"Here is yet another story, well told, by the master of known mysteries...." Read more
"...folks would agree with me that each book, taken on its own, is very well written, interesting, rich with background material -- especially for its..." Read more
"...Fine travelogue. Mr. Furst is a grand writer, I'll readily admit that...." Read more
Customers find the book engaging and well-written. They describe it as exciting, fascinating, entertaining, and informative about a utopian era. The characters are enjoyable to meet, especially Count Polyani.
"...Some may see this novel as being about as exciting as watching paint dry, because the events described are not the action-filled spy thriller fare..." Read more
"Another fascinating, historically accurate, beautiful tale from Alan Furst set in pre-World War II Europe...." Read more
"...They are always exciting, well-written and well-blended with European settings and history...." Read more
"...Yet there is a sense of disjointed accounts that do not coalesce into a coherent narrative. One of the agent Castillo, is killed...." Read more
Customers have different views on the storyline. Some find it engaging with action, suspense, and intrigue. They appreciate the author's skill at creating an atmosphere of uncertainty. However, others feel the story lacks continuity, suspense, or dramatic ending. The NKVD training and Spanish Civil War sections are also mentioned as fantastic.
"...While much of the book is very detailed and engrossing, the book ends very suddenly with minimal information given to the reader who is kind of left..." Read more
"...Nevertheless, the NKVD training and Spanish Civil War sections were fantastic...." Read more
"...gets into Poland, the Baltic and Black Seas, but surprisingly little Spain for a story that revolves around the Franco civil war...." Read more
"...This episode just ends impotently, as the pursuing boat hangs its head in apparent defeat and heads for a port. Next chapter. No, next paragraph...." Read more
Customers have mixed opinions about the character development. Some find the characters interesting and well-developed, with believable heroes. They describe the hero as likable and upright. However, others feel the characters lack depth and are less compelling than in previous books by Alan Furst.
"...enjoyable as all his previous books in this series, the excellent character development allows the reader to get very attached to the protagonist...." Read more
"...The characters are boring, the plot is tepid, and Mr. Furst resorts to soft porn scenes to try to get reader interest in this clear failure...." Read more
"...before the Second World War engulfed Europe, has peopled the novel with dozens of characters - some you'd like to meet others you'd best stay away..." Read more
"...The hero is educated and well meaning, even a little naive about some things, although not about sex...." Read more
Customers have different views on the research quality. Some find it interesting and well-researched, providing good insights and gritty details about life in that era. Others feel the book is formulaic and ordinary, lacking thrills and depth.
"...Even the sex scenes are boring, as well as gratuitous and wholly unnecessary...." Read more
"...While much of the book is very detailed and engrossing, the book ends very suddenly with minimal information given to the reader who is kind of left..." Read more
"...It was an enjoyable reading experience, albeit slightly formulaic and lackluster when Furst’s earlier works are considered." Read more
"...His story of civilians dragged into war and finding their purpose in life is well done...." Read more
Customers have different views on the pacing of the book. Some found it fast-paced and enjoyable, while others felt it dragged or was too rushed.
"...In fact, it is boring, through and through. It's the slowest, least exciting "thriller" you'll ever read...." Read more
"...A prequel to the inevitable and ultimate world war. Fast paced and intriguing. Always an enjoyable read!" Read more
"...Overall, a decent entry in the Furst canon even if one or two parts feel a little rushed." Read more
"...The novel moves with the same speed and suspense as in his prior works. Enjoyable and pleasant read." Read more
Top reviews from the United States
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- Reviewed in the United States on November 24, 2014Midnight in Europe by Alan Furst is a story of how ordinary people did extraordinary things when Europe was headed into the darkness of fascism and communism just before Hitler really began to power his way through Eastern and then Western Europe.
Some may see this novel as being about as exciting as watching paint dry, because the events described are not the action-filled spy thriller fare we are used to. But to me this plays out as a period piece in 1930’s costumes. It is suspenseful but in quiet ways that strike fear in our hearts because we can imagine circumstances in which we might be called upon to test our mettle and our dedication to a cause in similar ways.
Cristiàn Ferrar is our unlikely hero. He works for the Parisian branch of an American law firm that represents the interests of wealthy Europeans. He is just approaching middle age, just on the edge of losing his attractiveness to the types of ladies he has enjoyed in the past. He is an upper class Spaniard watching his country as it is taken over by fascists led by General Franco.
Here we come at the encroaching threat of Hitler sort of sideways as Ferrar is enlisted by a diplomat (Molino) at the Spanish Embassy in Paris to take the place of Castillo, a museum curator, executed while trying to broker an arms deal. The forces of the Republic in Spain are starved for weapons which are provided to Franco’s forces by the Germans and Italians (under Mussolini). Europe is flirting with the communist/fascist movement as an opportunity to supposedly upend the aristocracy and distribute power and wealth more equally.
Watching the glitches and near misses of this arms deal provides the tension in this novel but even more important, shows us those moments when Hitler is extending his regime and Russia under Stalin has become a frightening place where the slightest action can precipitate execution or imprisonment.
We can see that these men, our heroes, are just regular people pushing past their fears. We can also see that their efforts are like building a short dam just before a monstrous deluge. This small heroism cannot stem the tide that is rising over Europe. But it also reminds us that ordinary people all over Europe will keep performing these small acts of defiance which will eventually help to undermine the tsunami that is Hitler’s Germany. Hitler will out-bully all the minor fascists rising throughout Europe and will plunge Europe into that “midnight” mentioned in the novel’s title. Fortunately we are already aware as we read that these daring people, the people who love liberty and loathe a mad master, will prevail.
This is one small story of Europe on the edge of that Hitler madness, just a peek behind the curtain before the full horror plays out on the European stage. If our way of life in America were at stake would we be part of the small army of ordinary people who dared to resist?
A poignant and famous quote sums up this image of a continent being plunged into darkness. Just behind the title page Alan Furst quotes what Sir Edward Grey, the British Foreign Secretary said on 3 August 1914, the eve of the First World War, a statement that was even more prophetic as a description of the Second, “The lamps are going out all over Europe. We will not seem them again in our time.” But we did, although barely.
- Reviewed in the United States on August 25, 2014Another fascinating, historically accurate, beautiful tale from Alan Furst set in pre-World War II Europe. Just as enjoyable as all his previous books in this series, the excellent character development allows the reader to get very attached to the protagonist. While much of the book is very detailed and engrossing, the book ends very suddenly with minimal information given to the reader who is kind of left hanging --almost as if the writer grew tired of the book and just wanted to end it quickly! I would have given it a 5 star rating except for the sudden and vague conclusion leaving the reader wondering as to whatever really happened to the protagonist, his family, his friends and associates and their complicated political and military affiliations as the War was about to begin! This very well-written unique colorful storyline could have comfortably gone on another hundred pages-- but didn't!
I still definitely recommend it for all Alan Furst fans who enjoy pre- WWII "noir" historical fiction--great read until the last few pages!
- Reviewed in the United States on September 1, 2014I was about the biggest Alan Furst fan on earth before anyone had really ever heard of him.
"Night Soldiers" was far too sprawling and the threads connecting the setpieces rather strained at the "suspension of disbelief" bounds.
Nevertheless, the NKVD training and Spanish Civil War sections were fantastic. I will even absolve him of the anachronism of a Stalin I tank being unloaded on the docks of Valencia or wherever roughly 6 years before said model had been first produced.
"Dark Star" is the finest novel I have ever read in my life. It sticks with me 20 years later. Andre Szara is really the only fully-realised character Furst has ever written.
The first Casson book (by this point the titles are starting to run together) was pretty good too. Felt like maybe 1/3 of a "Dark Star." Still solid/above average/good on my scale.
At this point in time one pictures an editor or whatnot saying to Alan: "you know, I'm looking at your sales on Casson I and if you could just bottle and repeat this every two years you'll have a nice life for yourself."
And thus has come everything after.
Dark-haired (except the one bloke who was blonde), worldly fellow with interesting job. Gets enmeshed in some vaguely espionage-ish thing by a secret service. Goes on mission. Goes back to his life. Along the way meets the woman of near contemporaneous age and interestingness - WHO COULD BE THE ONE. This woman often has exactly the same look about her. Then there is another mission. Some tetchy moments along the way but it comes off. Then your protagonist and the woman run off together to live happily ever after feeding grapes to one another on a veranda or some such.
There. In one paragraph. Every Furst book. And I'm halfway through this (has taken a day) and this one shapes up the same way as well.
Well bugger me for being a sucker, but I will still buy and read them.
But Alan. If you are reading this. You're not, but if you are. YOU ARE CAPABLE OF SO MUCH MORE. C'mon, mate! Getting late into the career now. You probably have all the money your grandchildren will ever need. How about a magnum opus? Go out leaving them wanting more! Throw down the mic, walk off stage, and off to feed grapes to your very own... whoever. I know you have it in you!
Top reviews from other countries
- Very satisfiedReviewed in the United Kingdom on September 13, 2024
5.0 out of 5 stars Excellent content - structure of the book easy to follow and comprehend.
Clearly written
Nice blend of historical events and fiction
Subsdivisions of the book well sequenced
Characters clearly delineated
- June MalmerReviewed in Germany on June 16, 2023
5.0 out of 5 stars all good
No need to pay EU TVA for ordered books
- Jeff WoodReviewed in Italy on July 10, 2016
5.0 out of 5 stars Superb, as usual
It remains truly remarkable how convincing are Mr Furst's evocations of Europe, and the times of which he writes.
I admire too his ability to create entirely credible characters, major and minor, and thoroughly gripping plots.
Once again I was grieved to finish a Furst novel. Fortunately I have more to read and re-read.
- EsKayReviewed in Canada on June 11, 2014
5.0 out of 5 stars Another masterpiece
I wait with great impatience for every book Alan Furst writes, then devour it and reconcile myself to a new wait. This is an excellent book, brilliantly written and carefully crafted. As with every one of his previous books it leaves me anxious for more! If you haven't read his books yet I urge you to do so, you're in for an amazing experience.
- Richard RiceReviewed in Spain on August 21, 2014
2.0 out of 5 stars Midnight in europe
One of the worse books that I have ever read. In my opinion it was poorly written and did not hold my attention