not merely superfluous, but ridiculous
this post was originally published on my Goodreads account.
Possibly the Platonic ideal of a crime novel–characters who become fixed in the mind after 1-2 terse lines of description, a plot that becomes complex without being convoluted, an ending that isn’t a surprise twist so much as a freight train you can see coming but can’t get away from, the pervasive sense that the plodding, vicious boxing match between law and crime is going to go the distance. It felt a little slight to me, the way a lot of classic crime novels do, but a day later the whole thing is still turning over in my mind, and I don’t feel like it’s going to leave any time soon. Crime fiction, at its best, is a woodwind instrument–it’s small, and it resonates.