I remember reading this book during the summer
between my first and second year of high-school. The girl I fancied back then
lent it to me and so I just had to read it – it led nowhere, but at least I have
no hard feelings towards her and we’re still good friends.
Agatha Christie’s books fall within the “great
read without necessarily being great literature” category: while their literary
significance is not particularly striking, it is undeniable that they are
delightful to read, and Ten Little
Indians is no exception.
For an impressionable fourteen-year old the
realization of the meaning of the name U.N. Owen was a coup de théâtre like no others. And
the message in a bottle at the end is actually a much deeper reflection of our
need for confession – and a legacy – than I realized at first (Ten Little Indians should be used
instead of the tree falling – soundlessly? – in a forest for sparking debates
about the experience of reality!).
