Pocketbok, 478 sidor
På german
Publicerades 27 oktober 2018 av dtv Verlagsgesellschaft.
Peter Grant ist Police Constable in London mit einer ausgeprägten Begabung fürs Magische. Was seinen Vorgesetzten nicht entgeht. Auftritt Thomas Nightingale, Polizeiinspektor und außerdem der letzte Zauberer Englands. Er wird Peter in den Grundlagen der Magie ausbilden. Ein Mord in Covent Garden führt den frischgebackenen Zauberlehrling Peter auf die Spur eines Schauspielers, der vor 200 Jahren an dieser Stelle den Tod fand.
Vastavalmistunut lontoolaispoliisi pääsee selvittämään murhia, joihin tuntuu liittyvän paitsi kummituksia myös kaikenmoisia myyttisiä olentoja. Tyylilajissaan ihan toimivaa viihdettä.
I hate that I don't love this book. It's such a perfect setup, like a mashup of Neverwhere and Peter Ackroyd, that not only can but wants to use all the various clashing identities of a 2,000-year-old city and how they clash. London the jewel of colonial empire; London the hub of international culture and trade, home to people from all over the world; London the conservative good ol' boys club; London the ancient but constant reinvention; London where council estates sit next to Old Money; London the boil on the Thames.
Ah, London you're a lady laid out before my eyes
Your heart of gold it pulses between your scarred up thighs
Your eyes are full of sadness, red busses skirt your hem
Your head-dress is a ring of lights but I would not follow them
Your architects were madmen, your builders sane but drunk
Among your faded jewels …
I hate that I don't love this book. It's such a perfect setup, like a mashup of Neverwhere and Peter Ackroyd, that not only can but wants to use all the various clashing identities of a 2,000-year-old city and how they clash. London the jewel of colonial empire; London the hub of international culture and trade, home to people from all over the world; London the conservative good ol' boys club; London the ancient but constant reinvention; London where council estates sit next to Old Money; London the boil on the Thames.
Ah, London you're a lady laid out before my eyes
Your heart of gold it pulses between your scarred up thighs
Your eyes are full of sadness, red busses skirt your hem
Your head-dress is a ring of lights but I would not follow them
Your architects were madmen, your builders sane but drunk
Among your faded jewels shine acid house and punk
...etc. So why don't I love it?
I think the problem is PC Peter Grant himself. Don't get me wrong, he's a perfectly agreeable character, and it's not necessarily that he narrates in a way that makes me hear the book as being narrated by Eric Idle at times, but... Look, the entire point of having a detective novel in the first place, especially with a detective as the protagonist, and especially as a narrator (which is rarely a good idea), and ESPECIALLY when you're establishing that there are entire worlds of magic and secret societies and ancient contracts and wizards and ghosts and trolls and vampires and anthropomorphic representations of landmarks, is to have him, well, detect. Interrogate. Ask questions. Draw conclusions. And I can't shake the feeling that Grant's colleagues are right; while he's a nice guy with some very good qualities, he's not a very good cop. When presented with... almost anything, he pretty much just shrugs and goes with it, content that he will be told everything in good time; doesn't ask follow-up questions, doesn't demand to know more, doesn't go "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?" Or rather, he does, but not nearly enough for my liking, exactly because the worldbuilding is so intriguing, I feel like a kid being shown a fantastic new toy and told I have exactly 10 seconds to play with it. I want more.
...Guess I'll just have to read the sequels. Damnit.
