The Day of the Jackal by Frederick Forsyth

The key question is whether, beneath the surface in a crisis, it works. The plot of The Day of the Jackal hinges on this question. More interesting still (because I was working at the British Embassy), and of persistent relevance, is Forsyth’s depiction of the endlessly prickly Anglo-French relationship, which has recently come under scrutiny again. As someone who once took a suit to a dry cleaner in the eighth arrondissement at the end of July to be told it would be ready in ‘three working days’ time, on 2 September’, I now admire Forsyth’s evocation of the stultifying climate of the city in August when those Parisians who are rich and wise enough migrate. But it must be longer than I thought since I last read it because my own experience of living in Paris, nearly a decade ago, has coloured this most recent reading.

I turn to the book because I love its cynical tone, its fusion of fact and fiction, the detail, and most of all its pace.

Did I lend it out? Who to? Anyway, a few weeks ago I treated myself to a foxed and somewhat battered first edition, justifying the purchase to myself on the grounds that there is no book I have read more times. After my original copy (my parents’ actually) fell to bits I bought another one, which has gone missing. Whenever I am writing, but feel short of inspiration, I re-read The Day Of The Jackal, the thriller that made Frederick Forsyth’s name, and which was published fifty years ago this year.

The Day of the Jackal by Frederick Forsyth