The Moonstone, by Wilkie Collins
The Moonstone, by Wilkie Collins :
I paid the cabman exactly his fare. He received it with an oath, upon which I instantly gave him a tract. If I had presented a pistol at his head, the abandoned wretch could hardly have exhibited greater consternation. He jumped up on his box, and, with profane exclamations of dismay, drove off furiously. Quite useless, I am happy to say! I sowed the good seed, in spite of him, by throwing a second tract in at the window of the cab.
They say this is the first detective novel, and that could be so. It counts as one of your rare chances to read a thriller and get credit for reading actual literature at the same time. Ostensibly about the theft of a diamond with an Indian curse on it from an English country estate, it has a lot of subtext about human relations and trustworthiness. It may not have been done before Collins tried it.
It also has a famous plot gimmick (which I won't spoil here, since some of you may not know it) that I had assumed was the main point of the plot. It isn’t. Turns out there’s about two or three other plot gimmicks, which together make the solution impossibly contrived. I liked it anyhow.
Part of the point is watching the narrative shift from character to character. Various sections of the book are told by various people who may or may not be reliable, but whose different perceptions make the book consistently entertaining and give it a bigger than life aspect.
The biggest surprise was the amazing humor of the story. The servant who uses Defoe for divination, the caddish suitor with no shame in his body, the quack doctor and especially the old priggish relative with her arsenal of 19th century Jack Chick tracts are actually laugh-out-loud funny in their foibles and prejudices.
I say, don’t bother trying to solve it; just let the plot wash over you.
I paid the cabman exactly his fare. He received it with an oath, upon which I instantly gave him a tract. If I had presented a pistol at his head, the abandoned wretch could hardly have exhibited greater consternation. He jumped up on his box, and, with profane exclamations of dismay, drove off furiously. Quite useless, I am happy to say! I sowed the good seed, in spite of him, by throwing a second tract in at the window of the cab.
They say this is the first detective novel, and that could be so. It counts as one of your rare chances to read a thriller and get credit for reading actual literature at the same time. Ostensibly about the theft of a diamond with an Indian curse on it from an English country estate, it has a lot of subtext about human relations and trustworthiness. It may not have been done before Collins tried it.
It also has a famous plot gimmick (which I won't spoil here, since some of you may not know it) that I had assumed was the main point of the plot. It isn’t. Turns out there’s about two or three other plot gimmicks, which together make the solution impossibly contrived. I liked it anyhow.
Part of the point is watching the narrative shift from character to character. Various sections of the book are told by various people who may or may not be reliable, but whose different perceptions make the book consistently entertaining and give it a bigger than life aspect.
The biggest surprise was the amazing humor of the story. The servant who uses Defoe for divination, the caddish suitor with no shame in his body, the quack doctor and especially the old priggish relative with her arsenal of 19th century Jack Chick tracts are actually laugh-out-loud funny in their foibles and prejudices.
I say, don’t bother trying to solve it; just let the plot wash over you.