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PART I

Chapter 1

The young soldier stood in front of the entrance to Ward X, looking doubtfully at the door in search of some kind of sign. Finding nothing, he lowered the duffel bag to the ground and now wondered if he had truly reached his final destination. The outer ward, they told him, pointing with gratitude to the path leading deeper into the hospital grounds - with gratitude, because everyone was up to their necks busy, and he showed quite clearly his willingness to find the way himself. All his belongings, with the exception of weapons - the battalion master had taken them the day before - were left to him, but he did not even notice this burden, to which he had long been accustomed. Yes, that’s probably true, this is the last building, he found everything correctly, but the department itself, if it really was a department, was very small. Much smaller than those he passed by. Besides, it was very quiet here. Department of tropical psychoses. It would be nice to end the war like this! Although, by the way, what difference does it make... If everything really ends.

Through the window of her office, Sister Honor Langtry, unnoticed, peered intently at the newcomer, feeling both irritation and keen interest. The irritation arose because it was imposed on her at that stage of the hospital's existence when she no longer doubted that there would be no more new patients. In addition, she knew very well that the appearance of a newcomer would certainly upset, if only for a short time, the fragile balance that she had managed to maintain lately in the X department. The interest was caused by the fact that she now had to solve a new mystery hiding under the name Wilson M.E.J.

...A sergeant of another illustrious battalion, another illustrious division, pinned on his chest above his left pocket is the striped red and blue ribbon of the medal “For Military Merit,” which was very highly valued and awarded infrequently. Nearby there are three more stars - for participation in the hostilities of 1939-1945, an African star and a star of a participant in the war in the Pacific. Attached to the back of the hat was an almost white-faded pagri, a souvenir from the Middle East. On the light fabric, a patch of gray bordered stood out - the distinctive colors of the division. He was wearing a faded tunic, very clean and carefully ironed, a soft felt hat worn at exactly the angle prescribed by the instructions, an elastic band around his chin, the brass buckles sparkling. Not too tall, but strong, his neck and arms were black tanned. Yes, the war was long for this, but looking at him, Sister Langtry could not guess why he was sent to Section X. Perhaps there was a certain indecisiveness, even aimlessness, in him, but in the end any normal person, accustomed to independently determining his actions, would have felt the same, realizing that fate was leading him in some direction completely unknown to him. On the other hand, such a reaction is completely natural for a person who finds himself in a new place. As for the more characteristic signs of mental disorder - confusion, disorientation, pathological changes in demeanor - they were absent. In fact, she concluded, he looked like a completely normal person, which in itself was completely abnormal for Section X.

At that moment, the soldier decided that it was time to finally take action, picked up his duffel bag from the ground and moved along the long slope leading directly to the entrance to the building. At the same time, Sister Langtry walked around the table and left the office into the corridor. They met immediately behind the curtain, almost colliding with their foreheads. The curtain was made at one time by some joker who had long since recovered and returned to his battalion.

Page 1 of 90

Colleen McCullough

An Indécent Obsession

Published by arrangement with Avon Books, an imprint of Harper Collins Publishers Inc.

Part one

Chapter 1

The young soldier stood in front of the entrance to Ward X, looking doubtfully at the door in search of some kind of sign. Finding nothing, he lowered the duffel bag to the ground and now wondered whether he had truly reached his final destination. The last ward, they told him, pointing with gratitude to the path leading deeper into the hospital grounds - with gratitude, because everyone was up to their necks busy and he had clearly enough shown his readiness to find the way himself. All his things, with the exception of weapons - the battalion master had taken them the day before - were left to him, but he did not even notice this burden, to which he had long been accustomed. Yes, that’s probably true, this is the last building, he found everything correctly, but the department itself, if it really was a department, was very small. Much smaller than those he passed by. Besides, it was very quiet here. Department of tropical psychoses. It would be nice to end the war like this! Although, by the way, what difference does it make... If everything really ends.

...A sergeant of another illustrious battalion, another illustrious division, pinned on his chest above his left pocket is the striped red and blue ribbon of the medal “For Military Merit,” which was very highly valued and awarded infrequently. Nearby there are three more stars - for participation in the hostilities of 1939-1945, an African star and a star of a participant in the war in the Pacific. Attached to the back of the hat was an almost white-faded pagri, a souvenir from the Middle East. On the light fabric, a patch of gray bordered stood out - the distinctive colors of the division. He was wearing a faded tunic, very clean and carefully ironed, a soft felt hat worn at exactly the angle prescribed by the instructions, an elastic band around his chin, the brass buckles sparkling. Not too tall, but strong, his neck and arms were black tanned. Yes, the war was long for this, but looking at him, Sister Langtry could not guess why he was sent to Section X. Perhaps there was a certain indecision, even aimlessness, in him, but, in the end, any normal person, accustomed to independently determining his actions, would feel the same, realizing that fate was leading him in some direction completely unknown to him. On the other hand, such a reaction is completely natural for a person who finds himself in a new place. As for the more characteristic signs of mental disorder - confusion, disorientation, pathological changes in demeanor - they were absent. In fact, she concluded, he looked like a completely normal person, which in itself was completely abnormal for Section X.

At that moment, the soldier decided that it was time to finally take action, picked up his duffel bag from the ground and moved along the long ramp leading directly to the entrance to the building. At the same time, Sister Langtry walked around the table and left the office into the corridor. They met immediately behind the curtain, almost colliding with their foreheads. The curtain was made at one time by some joker who had long since recovered and returned to his battalion. Beer bottle caps were strung on a long fishing line, so that instead of the melodious clinking of Chinese beads, it made a tin clanging, introducing a sharp dissonance into their first meeting.

“Greetings, Sergeant, my name is Sister Langtry,” she said with a kind smile, inviting him to enter the world of Section X, a world that had long since become her own.

But the irritation caused by bad premonitions was still stirring in her, hidden under a benevolent smile, and was expressed in a quick, authoritative gesture of her hand stretched out for the documents. What idiots work on medical boards! They didn't even bother to seal the envelope. Of course, he stopped somewhere and read everything that was written there.

And he saluted, and did it without any fuss, then took off his hat and only after that handed her an envelope with documents, very calmly, without showing any dissatisfaction.

“I beg your pardon, sister,” he said, “I didn’t need to read what was written here.” I already know.

Turning away slightly, she scanned the papers with a trained eye in the few seconds it took her to walk from the office door to the desk. So, let her understand that she is not going to hold him at attention in front of her while she delves into his personal life. She would review his medical history when the time was right, but for now she would have to settle him and then leave him to his own devices.

– Are you Wilson M. E. J.? – she asked a question, noting with satisfaction his calm appearance.

“Wilson Michael Edward John,” he clarified, and a barely noticeable smile of reciprocal sympathy flashed in his eyes.

– Can I call you Michael?

– Michael or Mike, it doesn’t matter.

“He is in control,” she thought, “or at least he gives the impression that he is. In any case, no signs of self-doubt, that's obvious. Dear God, make sure that others take it just as calmly!”

-Where did you come from? – she asked curiously.

- Oh, from distant countries! – he answered evasively.

- Oh, sergeant, stop it! War is over. There is no longer any need to maintain military secrets. You're from Borneo, I assume, but where exactly? From Brunei, Balikpapan, Tarkan?

- From Balikpapan.

“You showed up just in time, Sergeant,” she remarked amiably and headed down the short corridor, at the end of which the door to the ward was visible. “Dinner will be ready soon, and the kai here is quite good.”

The building that housed Section X was hastily assembled from the remains, and since it was remembered at the very last moment, it was allocated a place on the far border of the territory belonging to the hospital. From the very beginning it was not intended for patients who needed complex medical care. The department was designed for ten beds, but in case of emergency it could accommodate twelve to fourteen, not counting the veranda, where many beds could also be placed. The building itself was a rectangular wooden house, made of unhewn logs, painted light brown, which the patients called “childish surprise.” Thick hardwood boards were laid on the floor. The windows, or rather the wide slits, were not glazed - wooden shutters were simply hung on them to protect them from the weather. Large palm leaves were thrown on top as a roof.

A sad story, rich in stupid, arrogant main characters, obsessed with a sense of duty, taking place within the walls of Base No. 15, where, under the supervision of an ordinary nurse Honor, a cruel scoundrel, a real psycho, a blind man, a vomiter with migraines, incomprehensible and healthy, is being “treated” for tropical psychosis. The psychosis of the patients itself arose against the backdrop of the horrors that they had to see or create during the war years, and in this small world they are trying to come to their senses with fear, expecting that they will have to adapt to life under a peaceful sky.
I just can’t understand why the novel is entitled with such a loud title - “Indecent Passion”, what is obscene if a nurse fell in love with a healthy and impressive military man and began to play pictures of a happy future together in her head. It's not incest after all. The main character certainly amused with her “I love him!” almost from the first days of our acquaintance. What kind of kindergarten is this, she’s not 15 years old, I can understand that during 6 years of wandering around hospitals, she might not have had time for her personal life and she was overcome by a passion for a prominent man, but for her love to cover her like that, excuse me. The object of Honor's love, Michael, is also a strange specimen, the author for a long time presents him as a man fixated on his problems and who has decided that family and women are not for him, endlessly engaged in soul-searching, suddenly, as if he had been hit with a sack, he realizes that he also loves something. When did he manage to do this interestingly, in the breaks between samovar work and caring for the schizo with whom he rushed around like a sack?
When shop No. 15 is closed, we observe an idiotic conversation between the lovebirds, he loves, but cannot build a life with her. Because the war destroyed family values in him and he must take care of the psycho until his last breath, who castrated and killed a cruel scoundrel while defending himself and Michael, and he’s confident about her too - since she’s higher than him on the social ladder, she won’t be able to live with him in the village and blah blah blah. Honor screams as much as she can, but it’s as if he’s delivering a monologue from the stage and is deaf to her pleas. The psycho needs real help and how can the nurse, understanding the possible consequences, let these two go in four directions?...and it’s a no brainer that things won’t end well here. Hiding behind loud phrases, the characters don’t even try to try to be together, in my opinion this is stupidity, there are practically no obstacles and if the author hadn’t sung so vividly about mutual love, I would have understood that they simply physically and morally supported each other in difficult times and separated as There are ships at sea, but this is how you trample real feelings.
The ending is sad - Michael is killed by a psycho and is being eaten by worms, and the nurse works from morning to night in a mental hospital, and I don’t really understand what this book is about. It’s neither about war nor about unhappy love, because I didn’t find any significant obstacles to the happiness of the heroes, there were some difficulties, but everything can be solved. Probably for me this is a book about stupidity, about not having a strong enough desire to fight, about inventing excuses in the form of “duty” so as not to try to be happy for fear of being disappointed.

Rated the book

I don’t know what to write about this book! I definitely won’t praise, but I don’t want to scold. A complete misunderstanding, not history!

First, about the plot: nurse Honor Langtry works in a special department of "X" (tropical psychoses) in a hospital for war veterans. One fine day, a new patient, Michael Wilson, appears there. And gradually Honor realizes that her feelings for him are something more than the good attitude of a nurse towards a simple patient...
It seems that after reading this, more questions arise than answers. I'll try to figure it out in order.

1. I was glad that the novel was still stronger than the same “Tim” would be. Although I gave them the same rating. But these are already costs of the five-point system. The book still falls short of a positive rating.
Again, I never tired of being amazed that this author wrote “The Thorn Birds”! Heaven and earth! Maybe I should have stopped after "Thorn"? There would be fewer disappointed readers! What if someone reads these novels before? I definitely wouldn’t read The Blackthorn after them.
2. Terrible name! And absolutely, in my opinion, does not fit the content of the novel itself. Where is this real passion? And even “indecent” or “indecent” (as in some publications)?! Between these two fanatics of duty, obsessed with responsibility for everyone and everything, speaking in official lifeless phrases and knowing better than anyone how to save humanity? Don’t make my slippers funny!
I saw only the beginning of an emerging normal human feeling, which the heroes immediately curtailed. They are not like everyone else, they have a different purpose!
3. The fact that Colin McCullough likes to write about strange people is understandable. But it’s one thing to describe such characters vividly and interestingly (as in “The Blackthorn”), and another thing to describe them formally and monotonously, as in “Indecent Passion.”
4. The end... In order not to reveal all the secrets, I will only say: “what they fought for, that’s what they ran into”! Everything is natural!

It looks like this will be the end of my acquaintance with Colleen McCullough. And I will consider her the author of only One Wonderful Book!!!

Rated the book

Complete disappointment. Colleen McCullough looks nothing like herself. What a riot of emotions from “The Thorn Birds” and what a sluggish reaction to everything written in this book! Nothing that would resemble (even remotely) the handwriting of the author of the almost masterpiece “Singing...”. The whole reading process could be compared to how you feel on a hot summer day, when the sun is at its peak, the brain is melted, complete apathy and one single desire is to freshen up. I don’t know if I managed to show how lifeless this book is and exactly sluggish?..
Firstly, the characters are absolutely unlikable and unmemorable. There is no sparkle or brightness in them. Both Honor (the main character) and Michael (the hero) are simply obsessed with a sense of responsibility for everything and everyone, for them Duty is more important and more important than anything in the world. This is not bad, but only in moderation. For the heroes, this feeling was dominant, and this made them unbearably boring.
Secondly, judging by the name, one can imagine a love line with raging passions, fiery outpourings, etc. Absolutely! Not really obscene, even the most ordinary passion is gone. Or maybe I’m too emotional, just desperately looking for a thrill?.. I don’t think so. You should have seen the sentences used to construct the dialogues between Honor and Michael! Not a hint of warmth, I'm not talking about passion. Monotonous, abrupt, short, precise sentences. Weren't they bored of talking like this?! I shrug my shoulders in confusion...
Thirdly, despite the light style, the book is NOT read in one breath, like the same “Singing...” and the no less interesting “Touch” by the same McCullough. It is precisely because of the dryness of the plot and the lack of dynamics that the Reader wants ALL THIS to end as soon as possible. Boring! It's burdensome and boring.

This is not the McCullough you know from The Thorn Birds.
Readers who are not familiar with the author, never start reading this book! Then you won’t be able to convince yourself and take on the legendary “The Thorn Birds.” Take my word for it.

Rated the book

It's not horror. This is horror horror
I have just one question: how could the author of the amazing novel “The Thorn Birds” write THIS? The modest author of this review was again carried away in search of reading material to places where a sane person should not look at all. This dangerous place is called Book Trash.
“Indecent Passion” - the vulgar title of Colleen McCullough’s novel immediately alerted me, but for some reason it didn’t stop me. But in vain! Then I would have retained in my memory the bright image of the author of the novel “The Floggers of Thorns,” one of the most beloved books in my youth. What now? One is left to wonder: How could Colleen McCullough fall so low? The book is about nothing
The main character, a nurse named Honor Langrey, embodies kindness and care, and her lover, Michael Wilson, considers himself responsible for everyone. In any case, that's what it says in the book's summary. But in fact, they both embody a faceless something that does not evoke any feelings other than annoyance at having picked up this book at all. I don’t even want to write much. This banal vulgar story is not worth it. I didn't have the patience to read it to the end. Simply, if you want to retain a good impression of Colleen McCullough’s work, consider her the author of one brilliant book, “The Thorn Birds.”
I also wanted to put in a negative word about the Mona Lisa series, in which the aforementioned nightmare was published. Recently, the Eksmo publishing house has apparently lost interest in it. It does not publish new works by foreign writers, it only republishes old ones, and even then it is not the best. The translation of many books is poor. Then they would have closed the series altogether, or done everything as it should be. Alas, you won’t get far on beautiful covers alone.

Colin McCullough

Obscene passion

Colleen McCullough

An Indécent Obsession

Published by arrangement with Avon Books, an imprint of Harper Collins Publishers Inc.

Part one

The young soldier stood in front of the entrance to Ward X, looking doubtfully at the door in search of some kind of sign. Finding nothing, he lowered the duffel bag to the ground and now wondered whether he had truly reached his final destination. The last ward, they told him, pointing with gratitude to the path leading deeper into the hospital grounds - with gratitude, because everyone was up to their necks busy and he had clearly enough shown his readiness to find the way himself. All his things, with the exception of weapons - the battalion master had taken them the day before - were left to him, but he did not even notice this burden, to which he had long been accustomed. Yes, that’s probably true, this is the last building, he found everything correctly, but the department itself, if it really was a department, was very small. Much smaller than those he passed by. Besides, it was very quiet here. Department of tropical psychoses. It would be nice to end the war like this! Although, by the way, what difference does it make... If everything really ends.

...A sergeant of another illustrious battalion, another illustrious division, pinned on his chest above his left pocket is the striped red and blue ribbon of the medal “For Military Merit,” which was very highly valued and awarded infrequently. Nearby there are three more stars - for participation in the hostilities of 1939-1945, an African star and a star of a participant in the war in the Pacific. Attached to the back of the hat was an almost white-faded pagri, a souvenir from the Middle East. On the light fabric, a patch of gray bordered stood out - the distinctive colors of the division. He was wearing a faded tunic, very clean and carefully ironed, a soft felt hat worn at exactly the angle prescribed by the instructions, an elastic band around his chin, the brass buckles sparkling. Not too tall, but strong, his neck and arms were black tanned. Yes, the war was long for this, but looking at him, Sister Langtry could not guess why he was sent to Section X. Perhaps there was a certain indecision, even aimlessness, in him, but, in the end, any normal person, accustomed to independently determining his actions, would feel the same, realizing that fate was leading him in some direction completely unknown to him. On the other hand, such a reaction is completely natural for a person who finds himself in a new place. As for the more characteristic signs of mental disorder - confusion, disorientation, pathological changes in demeanor - they were absent. In fact, she concluded, he looked like a completely normal person, which in itself was completely abnormal for Section X.

“Greetings, Sergeant, my name is Sister Langtry,” she said with a kind smile, inviting him to enter the world of Section X, a world that had long since become her own.

And he saluted, and did it without any fuss, then took off his hat and only after that handed her an envelope with documents, very calmly, without showing any dissatisfaction.

“I beg your pardon, sister,” he said, “I didn’t need to read what was written here.” I already know.

– Are you Wilson M. E. J.? – she asked a question, noting with satisfaction his calm appearance.

“Wilson Michael Edward John,” he clarified, and a barely noticeable smile of reciprocal sympathy flashed in his eyes.

– Can I call you Michael?

– Michael or Mike, it doesn’t matter.

“He is in control,” she thought, “or at least he gives the impression that he is. In any case, no signs of self-doubt, that's obvious. Dear God, make sure that others take it just as calmly!”

-Where did you come from? – she asked curiously.

- Oh, from distant countries! – he answered evasively.

- Oh, sergeant, stop it! War is over. There is no longer any need to maintain military secrets. You're from Borneo, I assume, but where exactly? From Brunei, Balikpapan, Tarkan?

- From Balikpapan.

There were only five beds in the ward now, and four were located along one wall as is usually customary in hospital wards, while the fifth strangely seemed out of place, since it stood alone along the opposite wall, and not at a right angle, as prescribed by hospital instructions.

They were ordinary low bunks, dull in their sameness. All were carefully made, but on none of them did Michael notice a blanket or even a bedspread - in this humid climate they were useless - only two sheets made of unbleached calico, which, however, had long since turned white from constant washing, like old bones turn white from the weather. Above the head of each bed, a hoop like a basketball hoop was driven in at a height of six feet, and several yards of mosquito netting were attached to it. The folds were all draped and hung so elegantly that even Jack Fat in his heyday would not have disdained them. Between the beds there were old tin bedside tables.

“Throw your bag on that bed over there,” said Nurse Langtry, pointing to the outermost bunk in the row, which stood against the far wall, just under the shuttered window opening.

The same opening was located behind the headboard. There's no better place to catch a cold while lying in a draft.

Michael put his hat on the pillow, emptied the contents of the duffel bag directly onto the bed, and then turned to Nurse Langtry. The part of the room behind his bed was fenced off with several screens, and it seemed as if some mysterious patient was lying dying on the other side. But Sister Langtry, calmly beckoning him to follow her, slipped between the two screens with an ease that betrayed daily exercise. It turned out that no one died and there was no secret at all. Screens separated a long narrow dining table, on both sides of which there were benches, and at the end there was a very comfortable-looking chair.

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