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Saved From Homer and Chaucer
Is this weather crazy or what? It warms up just enough to turn the ice to pools of water, but not enough that the water drains away. Then it freezes over and you’re stuck with massive new ice patches. Next it snows, meaning you have to shovel in order to maintain access to the outside world, But all that accomplishes is to uncover the ice again, offering new opportunities for you to slip and break your clavicle. And then the cycle repeats.
So you’re stuck inside with cabin fever. At such a time, I’m delighted to turn to the Wellington branch of the PEC library to help me through. For example, I’ve been able to enjoy Michelle Obama’s well-crafted memoir, Becoming, which is a lot more inspiring than the latest Trump takedown. In fact, I’ve sworn off Trump disaster books: what’s the point in feeding my rage?
I haven’t had to reach into the classics, like Homer or Chaucer—yet. That’s because one of my guilty reading pleasures is the detective novel. And so I was delighted to devour—guilt-free because of the weather—new books by my two favourite genre writers— Ian Rankin (In a House of Lies) and Peter Robinson (Careless Love). Rankin’s book is the 22nd in his series featuring recently retired policeman John Rebus and set in Edinburgh. Robinson’s book is the 25th in his series featuring inspector Alan Banks and set in the Yorkshire Dales. When I say “set,” I really mean it: you could just feel yourself sitting watching the action from a ringside seat in a local pub. So these guys, who have each won multiple crime writing awards and have each had their works turned into television series, have really earned their spurs. Rankin is a Scot, while Robinson, who grew up in England, is based in Canada. Each has been at it nonstop since 1987.
As I read the two books almost back to back, I was struck by the similarity in their principal characters, Rebus and Banks. Each is a loner, not particularly inclined to do things by the book, with a poor regard for his own health, but with a well developed sense of the superiority of his taste in ’60s and ’70s U.K. pop music—a taste that he doesn’t hesitate to inflict upon others. (Mind you, I can’t picture a successful fictional detective with a taste for bubblegum music.) Each has a failed marriage behind him.
And each has mentored a junior female officer (Siobhan Clarke for Rebus, Annie Cabot for Banks) who has risen in responsibility despite personal hardship.
After turning out 47 (and that’s just the Rebus/Banks output) books between them, you would think that the well of inspiration would be running dry. But that is not the case: both books are an all-consuming read. Indeed, the plots promise more to come. Rebus still hasn’t wrestled his nemesis Big Ger Cafferty to the ground, and Banks has unresolved issues with an attempted murderer who has been spotted in sinister company.
How do the two novelists maintain their edge? Aside from coming up with a strong plot, which must get more difficult each time, they keep up with technology and have their characters age in real time, thereby forcing new personalities into the story. In addition, neither is limited to the sort of storyline in which, with all the suspects assembled, the detective demonstrates his brilliance by showing how he has deduced that the the butler has ‘done it’; or in which the book ends with the bad guy desperately being chased by our hero, who takes the villain down in a heart-stopping one on one showdown. Each is prepared to focus instead on the ‘why’ of the crime or the ‘how’ of its solution. Rankin is particularly strong at capturing quick-paced dialogue, while Robinson’s strength lies in giving a reasonable explanation to the seemingly inexplicable scenarios confronting his detective.
My hat is off to Rankin (and Rebus) and Robinson (and Banks) for the entertainment they have provided to me. And let me plead with them: if the weather next winter is going to be anything like this year’s, please have your next tomes published by fall. I wouldn’t really like to count on Homer or Chaucer to entertain me.
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