The Silkworm ~

The pleasure of reading an author at the top of her game is an incomparable pleasure. 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 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 take you on the wings of their words and transport you to a place which is the nearest kind of bliss one can experience. 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 that circle - the established authors, the fledgling ones, the agents, the editors, the owners, the rivals - and all of them fighting for authors, attention, promotion, 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 author 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 and treachery out in the streets: one gets chilled to the bones, indeed.

And then there are two parallel and subtexual 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 the ever on-the- edge relationship between Cormoran and his assistant Robin, who is, regrettably,       bethroed 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 written these last two 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. 

She's promised at least seven more Cormoran Strike books. What a mouthwatering prospect indeed.