The Watchman
Robert Crais
Simon & Schuster, 2007
Rating: 4.2

After years spent chronicling the exploits of wisecracking detective Elvis Cole, Robert Crais finally turns his attention to Cole’s enigmatic partner, Joe Pike. Just as Crais’ last two Cole novels, The Last Detective and The Forgotten Man, explored that character’s psyche and back story in illuminating detail, The Watchman peels back the curtain to provide a look at the inner workings of his tightly controlled friend. And just as those books (and non-Cole works like Demolition Angel and The Two-Minute Rule) did, it showcases Crais’ ever-evolving skill as a crafter of compelling character studies as well as urgently paced thrillers. In fact, after more than twenty years, it reveals Crais at the peak of his powers in both arenas.

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From the It Was Only A Matter of Time Desk comes a report that a book collecting Sting’s song lyrics will be released this fall, entitled (simply enough) Lyrics by Sting. “Over time, the meaning of a song can continue to reveal itself,” his lordship says in a press release. 

Nothing against Sting’s body of work, seriously, but I think we’ve pretty much absorbed everything there is to be mined from grandiose lyrics like those to “Synchronicity” (parts one and two) or “Russians” or “Love is the Seventh Wave” or “Let Your Soul Be Your Pilot” or … you get the idea.

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It’s with extreme sadness that Shaking Through marks the passing of Kurt Vonnegut, inarguably one of the greatest writers in American literature. He died yesterday of brain injuries related to a recent fall.

There’s such a thing as damning someone with great praise, since phrases like “one of the greatest writers in American literature” often conjure images of “important” (i.e., stuffy) works.  There’s writing that calls attention to itself via its high-minded prose and academic meditations. There’s tweed-jacketed New England writing consumed with the idea of older men being attracted to younger women and fornicating like Rabbits outside the marriage bed (imagine that).

And then there’s Vonnegut’s writing, which was almost anti-”writing”: (more…)