Further thoughts about the number three. More than three is too much; less than three is not enough.
The worst novel that I have ever read through to the end is called Sauve Moi, "Save me". It is by Guillaume Musso. I finish it for two reasons. First because it is in French and set in the present day in New York and widens my vocabulary. Second because it is so gripping that I can't put it down. Here's the plot in all its triumphant absurdity. A young French woman having failed to become a successful actress in America, falls for an American doctor who has nearly run her over in his 4 x 4. She has booked her flight back to France but in her last two days in New York has a whirlwind romance with the doctor. He sees her to the airport and they part reluctantly. The plane crashes into the sea and he gives her up for dead. But it seems that she couldn't bear to stay on the plane and it is revealed that she has left it just before take-off. No explanation of how she is allowed to leave especially in the years following 9/11. The doctor does not know that she has survived and is sitting in Central Park moping when a female cop brings him a cup of coffee. It transpires that the cop was shot 10 years earlier in the course of duty. She is a ghost. She has been sent from the other side to collect the girl who wasn't meant to survive. Enough.... It goes on and on, and the plot becomes more and more complicated. Drugs and gangsters are involved. Oh, and it is the Doctor who shot the cop believing that she was a drug-dealer. Disbelief suspended long ago, as it becomes more and more ridiculous, I can't stop reading it to find out what happens in the end. I won't tell you. Why should I? I have had to suffer to find out.