pop culture, reviewed

Sidney Sheldon has died.

I have a major soft spot for Sidney Sheldon because he might have been the first adult author that I  loved.  I started reading his books at about nine or ten, against my mother’s wishes — they were “totally inappropriate,”  you know — but finally she relented as long as I didn’t tell anyone that I was allowed to read them.  I had read them all and moved past the trash stage by about thirteen, but I have maintained an affection for them all my life, because it was his books that made me realize that you learn from everything that you read, even the trash, even the guilty pleasures.  I still remember learning that the Prado is the museum in Madrid because of If Tomorrow Comes, and I learned about diamond mining in South Africa from Master of the Game. Tiny little things, but they’re something.  (Those are my two favorites, by the way — I can also recommend Rage of Angels and The Other Side of Midnight.)

Good stuff.  Nothing wrong with some fluff occasionally, nothing at all.