There’s always something a bit disappointing to me in the endings of crime novels. Maybe that’s part of what makes them so addictive – the wish to recapture that early sense of excitement and promise. To keep the suspense going there have to be loose threads, too many to tie up neatly, so that the last pages are crowded with overblown images, people, things told not shown.
This is how I felt about the last quarter of The Yiddish Policemen’s Union. The book was redeemed though, in part by its perfect last paragraph.
Now I’m reading a fantasy novel for young adults written by my friend Christine. A Place Called Kayforl has been accepted for publication next year by Allen and Unwin. Christine has created an entire world with its own history and language. It’s difficult for me to remember that this is a world that does not exist outside the pages of the novel.