And one more ...

P. D. James, The Lighthouse

Yet another Adam Dalgliesh mystery, elegant and atmospheric, in an isolated English setting. I didn't find it entirely satisfying, though. I've had the impression over the last few books that the Baroness is an old lady who finds it more and more difficult to keep her writing in tune with the modern world. She has a two-pronged method for dealing with this; choosing remote, old-fashioned settings where the modern world doesn't impinge much; and forcing in aggressively modern elements in an attempt to make the story feel topical. In this case, the 'modern' element dates the writing very precisely to about three years ago. Also, I can't help noticing that Dalgliesh has been detecting for more than forty years now, and seems to have stopped aging somewhere along the way. His adoring minions seem to partake in the same slowing to a lesser extent, and don't notice anything odd, but it's hard on the suspension of disbelief. It gets really jarring when he reminisces about an obviously pre-war childhood.

Monday

I went to check on the claret cup cactus today on my way to lunch, and it wasn't there; there was just a sad little hollow in the grass-infested stone chips where it had been. I'm not completely sure that the groundskeepers haven't relocated it for reasons of their own; it's been a nearly a week since I looked there, and later last week I found another one (or possibly the same one) in a bed across the street. It does seem unlikely that anyone who knew what they were doing would move a cactus in mid-bloom, though. If it's been stolen, I have trouble finding words I want to type; antisocial is putting it mildly.

The other disturbing thing today is that Robert Jordan has worrying health news. That brings up a tangled mess of thoughts about priorities and celebrity and unfinished subcreations and mortality that it would hardly be appropriate to go on about here; I can only say that I wish him and his family all the best.