The Seven Deadly Sins by René Maltête
Like any self-respecting Catholic school girl, I developed a love for mischief early on. If Sister Margaret’s going to pull you out of your desk by your ear on the suspicion that you were thinking something she didn’t approve of, you might as well actually do the deed to deserve your punishment.
Enter the seven deadly sins.
I never particularly liked sloth or gluttony – or the practitioners of those black arts. Envy and wrath can be tough to take – even if they provide some amusement, and definitely have their place in a good yarn.
But oh, the virtuosos of lust and pride. They can be a lot of fun. Really, has there ever been a novel written – one that’s worth its salt – that didn’t feature pride and lust in some form or another? I don’t think a thriller can exist without them. Try to imagine any Raymond Chandler or Dashiell Hammett story sans a lustful dame or prideful villain? Or Alan Furst or Daniel Silva for that matter?