The Silkworm
The illimitable pleasures of Rowling's writings
The pleasure of reading an author at the top of her game is an incomparable benediction. And when it is Rowling, in her ghost writer avatar Robert Galbraith, writing about her detective Cormoran Strike and his comely assistant Robin, the pleasure just doubles.
“The Silkworm,” the second book in, hopefully, an illimitable series, finds private detective Cormoran Strike return, after the case of murdered model Lula Landry, chronicled in 2013’s wonderful “The Cuckoo’s Calling”.
The smoothness of writing, the relaxed tone, and the never-boring detailing of a city I have grown to love ever so much, reminds me of those terrific speakers who can transport you to a place which, is the nearest kind of bliss one can experience, on the wings of their magical words. That's this book.
Oh there is a deliciously gory murder, and a slew of abominable characters, any of whom the reader would have loved to be the murderer. But the fun lies elsewhere. Rowling gives an almost-insider view of the self-serving navel-watching narcissistic world of publishing and all the characters who move in those circles - the established authors, the fledgling ones, the agents, the editors, the owners, the rivals - fighting as they are for attention, promotion, lucre, women, men, et al. And the delightful ugliness of it all.
And it's quite cleverly done, like a film within a film, with the murdered man being the author of a book full of poisoned portraits of a host of industry characters. One can literally see Rowling chuckling as she penned this inside story.
Rowling treats each chapter as a set-piece, as she unravels the intricate threads of the murder. There is a classical English family dinner, where the hostess considers it her entitlement to know the inside story of an affair; the absolutely hilarious scene of a couple with two painful kids, who to the absolute horror of Cormoran, want a third; a lovingly described lunch at a quintessential English pub; a road trip which almost proves to be fatal; a drunken, gossipy party celebrating a publishing house's coup of getting an author; and so on and so forth. Each piece moves the story forward, whilst allowing Rowling to lovingly create atmospherics.
And London, ah. It is in the throes of it's coldest winter, and there is treacherous snow on the ground and treachery out on the streets: one willingly gets chilled to the bones!
And then there are two parallel and sub-textual tracks, which add considerably to the heft and charm of the book. One is of reminiscence and endings, of Cormoran's abortive love affair with a heartbreakingly beautiful girl. In a short passage, she is shown to be getting married, and there is a sms and there's a photograph. Suffice to say, there is an incredible amount of despair and fortitude written in with consummate skill.
And the second track is of the ever-on-the-edge relationship between Cormoran and his assistant Robin, who is, regrettably, betrothed to be married. The exasperation and the exhilaration of the relationship has a delectable balance. A treat indeed.
I have not read Rowling's Harry Potter books. But have read everything after that. Her A Casual Vacancy was probably one of the most heartbreaking books I have read these past few years. And then her detective series starting with Cuckoo's Calling and now this. She is a brave writer, unflinching in her dissection of sorrow and purpose, and the frailties of strong men, and the self-centeredness of despairing women.
When she’d started the series, Rowling had promised at least seven Cormoran Strike books. The seventh is already out - The Running Grave - and we haven't heard the bells tolling yet.
What a mouthwatering prospect indeed.
I also wrote on some favorite books, viz City of Girls, Damage, Sea Prayer, The Winter of Our Discontent, Normal People, A Gentleman in Moscow!
Read, maybe?
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