One of my early heroes of detective fiction has died.
P.D. James was 94 and had amassed multiple honors for her highly successful
novels, most featuring policeman-poet Adam Dalgliesh.
I didn’t find her stories entirely comfortable; they were
heavily laced with psychopathology, and so many of the characters were so
disagreeable that I really wanted to throttle most of them and toss them in
roadside ditches. But I admired James’s ability to craft a story and provide a
compelling atmosphere, whether it be in a hospital, a publishing house, a
nuclear power plant or a monastery.
James did not start publishing until she was in her
forties, after a career as a civil servant, and raising her family. I really
like that notion, of the second act being writing.
I confess that I thought she jumped the shark a bit when
she wrote Death Comes to Pemberley in
2011. It tosses characters from Pride and
Prejudice into a murder mystery, which I didn’t find as carefully plotted
or as cohesive as James’s other works. But I respect the hell out of her trying
something so different at age 91.
Something to aspire to, perhaps.
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