TWO BY J. K. ROWLING
In a recent New York Times column several writers gave themselves
pseudonyms and wrote a short description of their supposed most recent book. This bagatelle was sparked by "The Cuckoo's Calling," a decidedly un-Harry Potter (thank God) novel, written by Rowling under a pen name
that someone in her agent's? publisher's? attorney's? office revealed. She had not meant that to happen but stepped up and confessed: Robert Galbraith is J. K. Rowling.
"Cuckoo's Calling" is a mystery set in London. Cuckoo, a fabulous model
falls or is thrown from a balcony at her flat on an upmarket Kensington square. Her death, while an apparently straightforward suicide, prompts her rich half-brother to hire Strike, an ex-military cop now fledgling private eye.
Strike is one of those huge men with a war injury, a former athlete
now with one leg. He fights pain and a broken heart. He is the smart bastard son of a rock star, in debt and looking to the new case to bail himself out. Strike hires a clever temp assistant whose instincts make
her a useful sidekick. In these two -- the shambling detective and the young temp -- Rowling has created characters you must meet again.
Surely, this novel will make the screen in one form or another: film, TV
series, something. Book sales were slow: a first novel by an unknown.
After the real author became known, the publisher (Hachette) has cranked out hundreds of thousands of hardcover and Kindle copies and the book is now a number one best seller. Rowling simply can't help herself.
A previous Rowling novel, "The Casual Vacancy," (Hachette, 2012) might have used a better title. This is the first Rowling departure from Harry Potter, in a setting away from London, a suffocating small town somewhere in the West Country.
It, too, begins with a sudden death, this one of a youngish local council member, of a brain aneurism. His shocking departure has left the council with a vacancy, the casual vacancy of the title. The major characters include young and old. All of them are often repellent and out of control. Everyone has secrets and the harm they do one another fairly makes your hair curl.
The writing wants to flow along, but the stories with so many characters, not one of them very sympathetic, involve keeping a lot of plates spinning. Do we care? I kept reading because of the moments, the occasional look into other lives, among them the best description of a heroin addict and her habitat I have ever come across. Much is bleak, there is little redemption and so the reader is relieved to be done.
Rowling is one of those people who just won't be stopped from writing. Her output is staggering. We know she has finished a sequel to the Strike
novel. If this is what it takes to divorce from Harry Potter, good for her. Wonder if the third ex-Harry book will begin with an unexpected death.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
COSTMARY
COSTMARY
Beside the wooden back steps at my grandmother's house in
Ellisburg, PA, was a big, leafy plant with a pleasant, minty scent.
"Rosemary," they told me and I believed that until I was a young adult.
I remembered the scent and Rosemary with its piney, oily smell was not it. Whenever I was near an herb garden, I'd look closely at anything vaguely resembling the plant of my memory. It was always one of those niggling loose ends, like trying to recall the name of the child who sat across from you in second grade.
Then, one summer afternoon, on a visit to Philipsburg Manor, a Historic Hudson Valley site at Sleepy Hollow, New York, I found it. In a quiet setting above the Hudson River and apart from a busy thoroughfare, was a mill, barns and gardens. One of the gardens was devoted to old species: herbs and flowers from colonial times. Among the thriving green beds, was a healthy-looking bush with frilled leaves. I nipped one and there it was! I was transported across time and space to my grandmother's back steps, where I saw my own child self, pinching the leaves.
"Costmary" the tag read. No wonder they called it "rosemary," close enough! I took a leaf and kept it until it finally disintegrated.
Now I knew what I'd been searching for but I was a long way from having any of my own.
Years passed. I moved from a country place with plenty of room for gardens to a city apartment with a large terrace. Here I keep a seasonal garden planted in pots of various sizes. I carry water out there daily because the sun and wind quickly dry the soil.
Like everyone else who has ordered anything online, I get catalogs, tons of them. "The Growers Exchange" of Charles City, Virginia, sent one and as I paged through it, I came across costmary, its picture and description: "Valued medicinally for its antiseptic properties - fresh leaves ease insect stings and bites. The sweet-scented leaves that are reminiscent of men's cologne are often used in tonic teas." Chrysanthemum balsamita. Tanacetum balsamita. Also known as "Bible Leaf." $5.95 a plant. I ordered three.
Then I waited. I checked often to see if the order had been sent. I waited some more then went away for a couple of weeks. While I was gone, I asked family members to watch the mail. Finally, long after I had given up, a well-padded parcel appeared in the mailbox. I carefully unwrapped three small plants looking road-weary and in need of a drink. I potted them together and left them on the kitchen counter for a few days, watering lightly and letting the sun shine on them a little. After a couple of weeks, I put the pot outside on the terrace in a shaded spot and out of the wind.
There they are, not looking anything like the picture in the catalog or in that Sleepy Hollow garden or by my grandmother's back steps. I will take them to Martha's Vineyard where I have a few herbs growing in a raised bed and tuck them in there, wishing them good luck and hoping for the best. I feel as if I finally solved a mystery and brought the solution home.
Beside the wooden back steps at my grandmother's house in
Ellisburg, PA, was a big, leafy plant with a pleasant, minty scent.
"Rosemary," they told me and I believed that until I was a young adult.
I remembered the scent and Rosemary with its piney, oily smell was not it. Whenever I was near an herb garden, I'd look closely at anything vaguely resembling the plant of my memory. It was always one of those niggling loose ends, like trying to recall the name of the child who sat across from you in second grade.
Then, one summer afternoon, on a visit to Philipsburg Manor, a Historic Hudson Valley site at Sleepy Hollow, New York, I found it. In a quiet setting above the Hudson River and apart from a busy thoroughfare, was a mill, barns and gardens. One of the gardens was devoted to old species: herbs and flowers from colonial times. Among the thriving green beds, was a healthy-looking bush with frilled leaves. I nipped one and there it was! I was transported across time and space to my grandmother's back steps, where I saw my own child self, pinching the leaves.
"Costmary" the tag read. No wonder they called it "rosemary," close enough! I took a leaf and kept it until it finally disintegrated.
Now I knew what I'd been searching for but I was a long way from having any of my own.
Years passed. I moved from a country place with plenty of room for gardens to a city apartment with a large terrace. Here I keep a seasonal garden planted in pots of various sizes. I carry water out there daily because the sun and wind quickly dry the soil.
Like everyone else who has ordered anything online, I get catalogs, tons of them. "The Growers Exchange" of Charles City, Virginia, sent one and as I paged through it, I came across costmary, its picture and description: "Valued medicinally for its antiseptic properties - fresh leaves ease insect stings and bites. The sweet-scented leaves that are reminiscent of men's cologne are often used in tonic teas." Chrysanthemum balsamita. Tanacetum balsamita. Also known as "Bible Leaf." $5.95 a plant. I ordered three.
Then I waited. I checked often to see if the order had been sent. I waited some more then went away for a couple of weeks. While I was gone, I asked family members to watch the mail. Finally, long after I had given up, a well-padded parcel appeared in the mailbox. I carefully unwrapped three small plants looking road-weary and in need of a drink. I potted them together and left them on the kitchen counter for a few days, watering lightly and letting the sun shine on them a little. After a couple of weeks, I put the pot outside on the terrace in a shaded spot and out of the wind.
There they are, not looking anything like the picture in the catalog or in that Sleepy Hollow garden or by my grandmother's back steps. I will take them to Martha's Vineyard where I have a few herbs growing in a raised bed and tuck them in there, wishing them good luck and hoping for the best. I feel as if I finally solved a mystery and brought the solution home.
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