The Silkworm by Robert Galbraith
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Sequel to The Cuckoo’s Calling, this book is better written. Or, maybe, I’ve gotten used to Galbraith’s prose style. It doesn’t have the third-person-omniscient-related problems the other had, at least.
Plot-wise, it’s very well constructed. Aspiring detective fiction authors should make a chart of the conflicts. Every situation that every character is in has some form of suspense-building conflict. At any moment there are four or five dominoes that Galbraith has set up. She could knock any of them down to cause her protagonist realistic trouble. And she’s set them all up so she can do it whenever is convenient for the plot. The leg, money, Robin’s fiancee, Strike’s ex, Strike’s dad, et cetera.
One problem with the plot is that much of the suspense of the last few chapters is arbitrary. Strike sends two friends to get two final pieces of evidence. But the narrative leaves out what they’re looking for. It omits all details about their instructions. So we’re not in suspense about something in the world of the book. The protagonist knows the information we want; but the narrator won’t tell us. It’s frustrating.
She does this so that the big reveal can happen all at once. And the big reveal in Silkworm is very, very good. I realized who the murderer was right on cue, from a clue that nobody in the story mentioned. That’s exquisite: chef’s kiss.
I only wish she had found another way to withhold the key information from me besides just… withholding it.
It reminds me of Muriel Spark’s A Far Cry From Kensington. I suppose writers have the right to set their novels in the world of publishing. It’s good that she waited for the second book in the series, though. Writers writing about writing gets boring quick; we have to know there’s more to it than that.
I wonder if the manner of the murder isn’t Rowling saying something to the Harry Potter fan-fiction community? In fact, I would be surprised if they haven’t dissected Silkworm to the tune of hundreds of pages. The plot yells that novels are symbolic. That they say something about their author’s lives. And then it yanks that idea away.
Maybe, in the end, it’s a version of Nabokov’s Symbols and Signs…
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