Cuckoo's Calling. Rating: Divine.

"How easy it was to capitalize on a person's own bent for self-destruction; how simple to nudge them into non-bring, then to stand back and shrug and agree that it had been the inevitable result of a chaotic, catastrophic life."

I am not a finicky reader. I have no alliances according to genre or time period. I am not fond of romance, but, as with panna cotta, I will not turn it away if it is done well. I do not require a book to be a work of literary genius in order to like it - but it must be good at being what it is. 

I will elaborate. A pizza that has a lot of cheese and a lot of pepperoni and the right amount of sauce is a pizza I will enjoy - I am hoping for a pizza, this is the platonic ideal of a pizza, and as such, I am apt to describe it as quite a fine pizza. A pizza, however, that is composed of crisp unleavened flatbread topped with arugula and balsamic vinegar and pears is not something that I am likely to be pleased by, should I request a pizza for my dinner. I should not be pleased by that at all, because it is clearly a non-pizza playing at being a pizza. I should likely be very disappointed and gaze with longing at my neighbor's plate of spaghetti, wondering why I chose such an expensive and irritating restaurant in the first place.

It is from this perspective that I deeply enjoyed Cuckoo's Calling, the first of two Robert Galbraith novels. They are both classic Brit-noir, and they are both very good at being exactly that. The Cormoran Strike series (named, as detective novels should be, for the protagonist) has suffered a great injustice at the hands of the press and public. It is no longer any kind of a secret that Robert Galbraith is a pseudonym under which J.K. Rowling attempted to write something that was not Harry Potter. Like a woman in a Scorcese film, this book simply could not win - countless critics refuse to accept the famous authors' attempt to jump genres. Unlike them, I will not draw comparisons between the Cormoran Strike novels and the Harry Potter series. It disrespects the author and the books themselves in equal measure, and makes the critic look like the simplest kind of fool.

So. Down to business.

The Cuckoo's Calling by the pseudonymous Robert Galbraith 

...was delightful. It was not emotionally heartrending and did not make an impression I would describe as "eternal", but it was wonderful at accomplishing everything it set out to do and be, with a little extra nuance and panache than one would expect. The protagonist - private detective Cormoran Strike - is appropriately haggard, but well developed past that single feature. He is attracted to gorgeous women who are immediately identifiable as "bad news"; he smokes heavily and his office tongue-in-cheekily features prominent horizontal blinds. But that is not all - there is more to him than those staples of a noir detective: he is a veteran with a prosthetic leg, a penchant for fastidious organization, and an intriguing childhood that is important to him but not central to his identity. 

We are introduced to him from the perspective of his new secretary, who is given far more nuance and depth than female characters in these sorts of novels are typically. Point to Galbraith for that. A hundred points to Galbraith for that - I will always prefer a novel in which the women are well-developed over one which treats us as so much set dressing. Robin (the secretary in question) has goals and hopes and dreams and a personal life that she does not abandon as soon as the plot might make it difficult to maintain. Mercifully, Galbraith draws no romantic connection between her and Strike; they are allowed to have real relational development beyond the demands of such a nauseating cliche.

A note on pseudonyms, and why I am using "Galbraith" instead of "Rowling": I will always and only refer to an author by his or her chosen name. Choosing a pseudonym is difficult, and I deeply respect the process and struggle involved with selection and implementation. When I was deciding the name under which I would spend the rest of my life in hiding, I went through a list of fifty-seven before settling on Adelaide Swift. Rejected names included  Marchesa Matchbook (too appropriate), Veronica Pettybottom (too oblivious), and Antonia Tafferton (too close to home). Choosing a name by which to identify oneself is arduous enough without people willfully disregarding ones' stated preference.

I have digressed perhaps a shade too far. Back to the book. The plot is almost secondary to the writing and characters; it proves a useful framework on which Galbraith can display his skill at building engaging personalities. I shall discuss said plot anyway. Lula Landry (a perfect detective novel murder victim name), a famous model, is thought to have committed suicide; her slightly unstable brother hires Strike to prove that she didn't. Strike pursues the mystery in an incredibly professional and thorough manner - luck falls on him occasionally, but he is well beyond skilled enough to be worthy of our attentions. I hate few things so much as a useless protagonist who seems to stumble into the plot with all the grace of a two-legged elephant; Cormoran Strike proves himself capable of the dexterity demanded by the plot, and I found myself highly invested in him.

Now, for Spoilers.

A critical factor in my judgment of any book - especially a mystery - is it's ending. You've been warned. 

No noir is complete without the final reveal, which must include logical conclusions of which our P.I. hero has been suspicious all along. Cuckoo's Calling does not disappoint. Strike weaves a gorgeous answer to the mystery by calling Landry's unstable brother to his office, lowering the blinds (in a perfect noir callback that reminds the reader exactly where they are), and unflinchingly describing the extent of his misdeeds. It is an extraordinarily satisfactory ending, tying up all of the loose ends in the novel and resolving things that did not at first seem to need concluding, but which suddenly become far more satisfying when connected to the primary plot. 

I have seen some objections to the fact that we are told the final solution to the mystery, rather than "shown" the answers - I disagree with these criticisms heartily. In a multigenerational family disappearance mystery, the answers can be smoothly revealed in an alternative perspective jump back to the moment of the murder. In a young adult fiction novel about bullying or suicide, chapters might alternate between escalating developments and their future consequences. It's a lovely way to draw a reader along through a developing plot. 

But in a noir, the detective gets to confront the villain and explain the methods and evidence by which they uncovered his misdeeds. To take that right away from Cormoran Strike would be injustice on the level of refusing to give your executive administrative assistant a raise year after year in spite of her obvious growth and development - unacceptable, and naturally deserving of retaliation.

I will be very clear - the Cormoran Strike novels (for I have read them both and will consider this review as applicable to them equally) are not groundbreaking literature. They are not going to define a genre or change the landscape of an existing one. What they do accomplish is what many books should strive for with greater ardor: they are the platonic ideal of their genre. They perfectly are what they set out to be. British Noir could easily be measured by how many pints of Cornish beer Cormoran Strike drinks while deciding how best to make his next investigative move. They are honest books - a job well done - and perfect for reading when you are craving West Country accents, high-bred debauchery, and the slanting light of office blinds falling through a smoky haze onto the face of a worn-out private investigator.

Rating: Divine.

Possible ratings: Magnificent, Divine, Satisfactory, Tiresome, Lamentable, Execrable. This is a blog about words, what rating system did you expect?

The Silent Sister. Rating: Execrable.

"I'm nervous." I glanced at her. She was watching me intently. "I'm afraid she'll act like she doesn't know me. Turn me away. That would be the worst."

I wanted to walk away in the middle of reading this book, as though someone had pointed out a news article about a burned-down office complex nearby. Time to move on to the next book, leaving no trace of my existence behind. But I soldiered on through for you, dear Reader.

I have had great difficulty in writing this review, because a small part of me wanted you to suffer as I did. I felt that perhaps you wouldn't understand how terrible this book was unless you tasted that poison for yourself. So I summarized the entire book - every superfluous plot point, every walk-on role for an extraneous character, every excruciating turn of phrase.

It was too much, reader. I am not so cruel as to submit you to that. I shall instead select a few key examples of flagrantly lazy writing and present them to you: a tasting menu, so that you know the full range of disappointment you might experience were you to mistakenly pick up and then ingest this embarrassment of a novel.

Let's begin.

The Silent Sister by the perhaps slightly overstimulated Diane Chamberlain

...has a lot going on for 350 pages, most of which is detail masquerading as substance. Let's explore.

The core of the novel is promising: Riley (our protagonist) is cleaning out the home of her late father and 'discovers evidence' that her sister, who everyone thinks committed suicide, might be alive. She embarks on a journey to discover her family's past.

That tidy little nugget of synopsis is stretched to a degree of agonizing attenuation over the course of the novel. The reader is forced to wade through a swamp of meaningless information - the father collected pipes, the brother likes to hunt, the suspicious girlfriend has a daughter who is recovering from a drug problem. If any of this information ever became in any way relevant to the plot or narrative, it would be redeemable. Instead, the book is nothing more than a drunk and companionless Aunt, who insists upon reporting on the affairs of all of her friends and colleagues - none of whom you will ever meet or care about in the slightest.

Do not be fooled into thinking that these characters contain multitudes - or, indeed, that they contain even a single multitude between the lot of them. False character development litters the novel like a trapdoor in the back of a hall closet: you peer at it, wondering where it might lead, but when you lift the latch, all you see are pipes and dust.

An example? Riley, throughout the book, staunchly refuses alcohol. It would seem that every person she encounters proffers wine or scotch or beer, and every time, she politely demurs. A hidden drinking problem? A fear of what will happen if she imbibes? Something repressed? It arises so many times that surely it represents a theme! Characterization! Hurrah!

But no - in one of the latter chapters, she drinks a beer (and nachos, to 'sop up the alcohol'. I am not making that language up, reader. It is dire.). Nothing happens. It is utterly insignificant. Oh, did you think that was a character trait? No, no. It was only text - meaningless detail dressed up as substance, sneaking into a party to which it was not invited.

Now, for Spoilers.

I shall summarize the Big Twists briefly:

The sister faked her suicide with the help of the father and a totally unnecessary character named "Tom" because she didn't want Riley to grow up with the stigma of being the daughter of a murder, because she is actually Riley's mother, and she was raped by her violin teacher when she was a very young violin prodigy, and then she killed him. The sister/mother ran away to San Diego, discovered/realized/accepted that she was a lesbian, and now has two children with her wife, with whom she is in a semi-famous bluegrass band.

Riley attends a concert to meet her long-lost sister/mother:

"She started playing again, the bounce of her hair like a symbol of the freedom she'd stolen for herself."

Like a symbol. I mourn, deeply and without restraint, for that sentence.

By the end of the book, after a series of clumsy personality reversals by many of the overwritten, underdeveloped characters, Riley and her sister/mom are the best of friends. It is perhaps the most disappointing ending that could have been written for such an already unrewarding novel.

It is a rare thing, reader, for me to feel such unmitigated detestation of a book. I am a lover of books, and this book has stretched my ability to call that love 'unconditional' well beyond the breaking point.

Rating: Execrable. 

Possible ratings: Magnificent, Divine, Satisfactory, Tiresome, Lamentable, Execrable. This is a blog about words, what rating system did you expect?

The Golem and the Jinni. Rating: Satisfactory

"He'd lived so long in anticipation of his own death that to contemplate his future was like standing at the edge of a cliff, staring into a vertiginous rush of open sky."

Can a book be perfectly lovely and hold incredibly deep meaning without being compelling? Reviews - especially mine - will always be subjective, and this one will be no exception. In reading The Golem and the Jinni, I recognized that the book was good and the themes important. And yet, when the book was finished and I closed the rear cover, I did not experience the feeling I am used to experiencing upon finishing a great book. There is a wrenching, sorrowful satisfaction - a desire to start the book again, even knowing that the second reading will not be as enjoyable if it is not delayed. An immediate nostalgia: a recognition of the etching of a book onto the surface of ones' heart - this is the feeling that was missing when I closed the back cover of The Golem and the Jinni.

Thus, my difficulty in writing this review. I liked The Golem and the Jinni - it was an enjoyable book. And yet, I did not love it. I would not include it in my suitcase were I to flee the country in the dead of night wearing a wig and a wide-brimmed hat. I would not inscribe my real name on the inside of the front cover using one of the pens I took from the office supply closet before my flight. No - this book, I would return to a library with a sense of satisfaction and would never think about reading again.

The Golem and the Jinni by the perfectly capable Helene Wecker

...is a lovely fantasy novel that deeply explores the immigrant experience, the development of identity, and the acceptance of self versus other as separate and different. Chava is a golem, created to be a companion to a man who dies en route to America. Ahmad is a jinni trapped in a human body. Both find themselves in turn-of-the-century New York City, forced to forge American immigrant identities, struggling to understand who and what and why they are. Ahmad is unapologetically inhuman - he disdains many of the practices and beliefs of humans and does not strive overmuch to be one of them. Chava, meanwhile, struggles to be human - struggles with the meaning and challenges of her identity. They are inevitably drawn together.

The antagonist (revealed somewhat late in the book, although sketched early on and filled in deliciously well) is nuanced, but still irredeemably evil. The ties between the antagonist and our two fantastical protagonists are incredibly satisfying when finally revealed. These ties connect to one of the fascinating themes of the novel - the nature of self. Is it ingrained, or developed? The characters in the novel struggle with this question and press the reader to struggle with it as well. Chava, created for a specific nature and purpose; Ahmad, above and before creation, but imbued with a nature that he does not bother to fight. The antagonist, able to imbue others with natures of his own design, but incapable of recognizing his own nature and struggle. 

Now, for Spoilers.

This exploration of the meaning and nuance of nature feeds into an exploration of the meaning of good and evil. The golem is created to find a deep and abiding peace in violence: when she gives in to that urge and does indeed find that deep and abiding peace, is she truly evil? Or is she merely a slave to her nature? The jinni's nature is one that could traditionally easily be described as "evil" because it is inimical to human life. But is a raging inferno evil? Or is it simply doing what it is made to do?

These two are any easy pair to whom the reader can ascribe nuance; but the sorcerer who created the golem, who seeks eternal life at all costs - the antagonist. Surely he is really and truly evil? After all, he has chosen to do evil things all his life. He's The Bad Guy, and oh yes, he is indeed bad. Is that not his choice?

This, reader, is the spoiler - the sorcerer has chosen nothing. He obeys his nature, which clings to him like the smell of smoke from a fire lit by a sorcerer centuries before. His evil has been passed to him over generations. His evil is etched into his soul as surely as the golem's subservience or the jinni's heat. So, does he have a choice? If he does not have a choice, is he evil? If he does have a choice, then what is his nature?

It is a great deal to consider.

To tell a deep truth, reader, I find more joy in analyzing the themes of the book than I found in reading it. It was a perfectly good book, and a deeply respectable work of fantasy; perhaps even a great work of literature. My only regret is that I did not enjoy it just a shade more for itself, and a shade less for what it made me consider about myself.

Rating: Satisfactory. 

Possible ratings: Magnificent, Divine, Satisfactory, Tiresome, Lamentable, Execrable. This is a blog about words, what rating system did you expect?