Nick Gadd's Ghostlines is a classic kind of detective novel. His detective Phillip Trudeau is a jaded, scarred by the world type with a drinking problem, a little Rebus, a little Humprey Bogart as Marlowe. The writing, fittingly, is very clean and manly. Straight up as it were...While the plot with it's underdog exposing the unethical rich narrative is appealing, what is extraordinary about this novel is its wonderful evocation of Melbourne. It begins with a kid on a bike being hit by a train and continues from this point to an old man's cluttered house in Williamstown to the sushi bar infected cbd. I loved a sub plot about the Maribyrnong group and and artist named Valerie. He managed to weave in much that was really Melbourne.
I have also been dipping into collection of stories about lovers' quarrels called Let's Call the Whole Thing Off. I loved the artfulness of the writing. Its "ready for my close-up" stuff; no word is really wasted. Dorothy Parker opens the anthology with painfully observed post wedding conversation between a bride and groom about a tiara. The wife picks, the husband deflects then overacts, the wife retreats, the husband makes amends. Darkly comic or depressing depending on one's own state of mind. Jhumpa Lahiri also had a newlywed story that travelled this fine line between love and resentment. The stories are diverse, crossing cultures and sexualities. My favourite was a story about bedrooms and the differing decorating styles of men and women. It was witty and whimsical. Pink has her heart brolen by Blue but eventually finds love again with Green! Gotta watch out for those Blues....Earlier in the month I read Fred Vargas The Three Evangelists - good quirky french detective fun - and Robin Bowles' The Case of the Missing Masterpiece - more local, slightly less fun.
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