The Weather's Clear, the Track is Fast

I no longer review any book I haven't finished. I have steered away from that habit after someone more deeply connected to books than myself chided me for it. So, this is not a book review of 'The Cuckoo's Calling' by Robert Galbraith/J.K. Rowling.

I am however reading the book nightly, and only about a quarter of the way through it. It moves along, as does the night.

The book needs no further publicity, but like anything that is well written, there are what I call internal nuggets of poetry within the prose. I love these.

Take the main character, the private investigator with the odd name, Cormoran Strike, who on one Sunday early in the tale has some time on his hands and plops down on a bench facing the Thames with a newspaper he's filched or, as the author writes, "twitched" from a receptionist station.

"The sun was warm on his head and shoulders. Seagulls cawed, wheeled overhead, and Strike, happily aware that he was due nowhere, and expected by no one, settled to read the paper from cover to cover on the sunny beach."

...due nowhere, and expected by no one...

This is the good phase of retirement.

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