Wednesday, July 6

Last weekend I reread an old copy of Box Nine by Jack O’Connell, the first of his series of novels set in the very near future in the city of Quinsigamond. I had read it once before, when I first came across the book, and I could not remember whether I liked it or not.

Rereading it I realised how little sense the plot made, and I don’t mean that in a good way. It concerns a drug, Lingo, that enhances users’ verbal abilities to the point where they speak and listen so fast they sound like insects buzzing. It also makes them sexually insatiable before sending them into murderous rages that usually result in death. The story follows the form of a police procedural and a whodunnit, as a detective, Leonore Thomas, in the drug squad tries to locate the supplier.

The commercial viability of a drug that kills 90% of its customers constitutes one of the smaller problems with the plot.

Sitting in Kamppi I think briefly about this again. Then, looking out of the apartment at the balcony, some shapes catch my eye. I photograph them and carry on with the conversation, which concerns a prize-winning Indian novel.