#TheRunningGrave

[thethirdroom]

[denmark-street]

While enjoying a largely positive reception, @RGalbraith's #TheRunningGrave is, like other #CormoranStrike novels, apparently being criticized for its length - that it's too long for "popular fiction." But, respectfully, I think this view is misguided. The criticism is in part "generic" -- that is, having to do with the genre of crime fiction. Conan Doyle wrote short stories, Agatha Christie novels are modestly sized. And readers have become accustomed to thinking that "poplular fiction" comprises short beach reads. But Wilkie Collins's pioneering works of English detective fiction like The Moonstone (1868) are nearly twice as long as Murder on the Orient Express. TS Eliot cited the length of Collins's work as one of its virtues, describing it as the first, the longest, and the best of modern English detective novels." Most importantly, @RGalbraith / @jk_rowling is not, it seems to me, setting out simply to write "popular fiction" - the #CormoranStrike series ought to be considered in the tradition of the Bildungsroman, or Coming-of-Age Novel which examines the psychological maturation of its central character(s). And a more just comparison would be the socially aware novels of Charles Dickens, whose "popular fiction" averaged in the hundreds of thousands of words! Bearing in mind that Dickens published in weekly and monthly serials, the salient point is that his "popular fiction" aimed to educate readers about what he believed were the urgent social issues of his time -- and so does @RGalbraith. In conclusion, #TheRunningGrave may be too long for you -- and that's fine. But with its keen spotlight on cults, crime, domestic violence, & so much more (I wish to avoid spoilers) it is for many of us NOT long enough... And could have been at least one chapter longer!

[monomama]

It’s been a while. A digital love letter to Aunt Joanie.

#TroubledBlood #CormoranStrike #RobertGalbraith #BBCStrike #CBStrike #TomBurke @BronteFilmandTV @RGalbraith @jk_rowling #TheRunningGrave

[realcbstrike-blog]

The Running Grave (Literature) - TV Tropes

https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Literature/TheRunningGrave#:~:text=Improbably%20Predictable%3A%20At%20the%20end,suicide%20earlier%20in%20the%20novel.

I'm guessing between this and the not so subtle comments about "how great the book is" and "you'll not be disappointed" 😉 that something progresses in the Mills and Boon faux romance.🥱🥱🥱 NOT that the book becomes a masterpiece of detective literature. Only 1100 pages of the ebook to go. Probably less, if I read on my tablet. It's an interesting site.

[105nt]

15 days! A #Poem while we wait for #TheRunningGrave ...

Like a bad suitor desperate and trembling

From the mixed sense of being not loved and loving,

Who with feared longing half would know, dissembling

With what he'd wish proved what he fears soon proving,

I look with inner eyes afraid to look,

Yet perplexed into looking, at the worth

This verse may have and wonder, of my book,

To what thoughts shall't in alien hearts give birth.

But, as he who doth love, and, loving, hopes,

Yet, hoping, fears, fears to put proof to proof,

And in his mind for possible proofs gropes,

Delaying the true proof, lest the real thing scoff,

I daily live, i'th' fame I dream to see,

But by my thought of others' thought of me.

Sonnet XV, by Fernando Pessoa

[arcimboldisworld]

Robert Galbraith - Das strömende Grab.

Robert Galbraith - Das strömende Grab. #thestrikeseries #joannekrowling #lesejahr2024 #krimi #literatur #buchempfehlung #lesen #buch #bücher #therunninggrave

Der Output von Robert Galbraith aka Joanne K. Rowling ist unfassbar, fast beschleicht mich das Gefühl, dass sie Ghostwriter beschäftigt, die einen Roman nach dem anderen auf den Markt werfen und das mit immer dickeren Bänden. Der zuletzt erschienene Roman mit den beiden Detektiv:innen Robin Ellacott und Cormoran Strike jedenfalls topped nochmal alles mit seinen 1290 Seiten in der deutschen…

[thesefilespod]

🎤 We want to hear from you! 🎤

Now that we have the cover and synopsis, send us your predictions for #TheRunningGrave as we prepare for our predictions episode! 🌊🏮🪦

Last day to submit predictions is August 12. ✉️

[105nt]

3 days! A #Poem while we wait for #TheRunningGrave ...

As I walk these streets alone, through this borough I call home

Upon the baron fields of Highbury 'neath the stadiums of stone

Through the turnstiles at The Angel, see the homeless on the green

From The Cally to The Cross, and every shithole in between

Pass the church, the mosque, a crack den, and the offie on the corner

See the brasses from the brothel that pretends to be a sauna

Watch the bedlam in the bookies, see the winners and the losers

Seeking solace from their sorrow in the local battle cruisers

Through the madness in the market, weathered faces turn to greet ya

"'Ello gov'nor, how's your mother?"

"You alright, son, be lucky, geezer"

Double pie and mash and liquor, a Cuppa Rosie Lee up chap

Or watch retired gangsters bicker, every day in Arthur's café

The little fuckers causing trouble, for the cozzers make you smile

You meet ya muckers for a couple, forget your troubles for a while

From The Thornhill to The Hemmy, all the faces are the same

'Cause the manor might be changing, but the people still remain

North London forever

Whatever the weather, these streets are our own

And my heart will leave you, never

My blood will forever, run through the stone

From The Angel, by Louis Dunford

[105nt]

5 days! A #Poem while we wait for #TheRunningGrave ...

If you have taken this rubble for my past

raking though it for fragments you could sell

know that I long ago moved on

deeper into the heart of the matter

If you think you can grasp me, think again:

my story flows in more than one direction

a delta springing from the riverbed

with its five fingers spread

Delta, by Adrienne Rich

[105nt]

6 days! A #Poem while we wait for #TheRunningGrave ...

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver

[105nt]

9 days! A #Poem while we wait for #TheRunningGrave ...

Halfway down the trail to Hell,

In a shady meadow green

Are the Souls of all dead Troopers camped,

Near a good old-time canteen.

And this eternal resting place

Is known as Fiddlers’ Green.

Marching past, straight through to Hell

The Infantry are seen.

Accompanied by the Engineers,

Artillery and Marines,

For none but the shades of Cavalrymen

Dismount at Fiddlers’ Green.

Though some go curving down the trail

To seek a warmer scene.

No Trooper ever gets to Hell

Ere he’s emptied his canteen.

And so rides back to drink again

With friends at Fiddlers’ Green.

And so when man and horse go down

Beneath a saber keen,

Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee

You stop a bullet clean,

And the hostiles come to get your scalp,

Just empty your canteen,

And put your pistol to your head

And go to Fiddlers’ Green.

Fiddler's Green, anon

[105nt]

10 days! A #Poem while we wait for #TheRunningGrave ...

Your father's gone," my bald headmaster said.

His shiny dome and brown tobacco jar

Splintered at once in tears. It wasn't grief.

I cried for knowledge which was bitterer

Than any grief. For there and then I knew

That grief has uses – that a father dead

Could bind the bully’s fist a week or two;

And then I cried for shame, then for relief.

I was a month past ten when I learnt this:

I still remember how the noise was stilled

in school-assembly when my grief came in.

Some goldfish in a bowl quietly sculled

Around their shining prison on its shelf.

They were indifferent. All the other eyes

Were turned towards me. Somewhere in myself

Pride, like a goldfish, flashed a sudden fin.

The Lesson, by Edward Lucie-Smith

[105nt]

11 days! A #Poem while we wait for #TheRunningGrave ...

When things go wrong and will not come right, Though you do the best you can, When life looks black as the hour of night – A pint of plain is your only man.

When money’s tight and hard to get And your horse has also ran, When all you have is a heap of debt – A pint of plain is your only man.

When health is bad and your heart feels strange, And your face is pale and wan, When doctors say you need a change, A pint of plain is your only man.

When food is scarce and your larder bare And no rashers grease your pan, When hunger grows as your meals are rare – A pint of plain is your only man.

In time of trouble and lousey strife, You have still got a darlint plan You still can turn to a brighter life – A pint of plain is your only man.

The Workman’s Friend, by Flann O’Brien

https://x.com/missedith01/status/1702600333212504262?s=20

[105nt]

12 days! A #Poem while we wait for #TheRunningGrave ...

WE'RE married, they say, and you think you have won me,- Well, take this white veil from my head, and look on me; Here's matter to vex you, and matter to grieve you, Here's doubt to distrust you, and faith to believe you,- I am all as you see, common earth, common dew; Be wary, and mould me to roses, not rue!

Ah! shake out the filmy thing, fold after fold, And see if you have me to keep and to hold,- Look close on my heart- see the worst of its sinning,- It is not yours to-day for the yesterday's winning- The past is not mine- I am too proud to borrow- You must grow to new heights if I love you to-morrow.

I have wings flattened down and hid under my veil: They are subtle as light- you can never undo them, And swift in their flight- you can never pursue them, And spite of all clasping, and spite of all bands, I can slip like a shadow, a dream, from your hands.

Nay, call me not cruel, and fear not to take me, I am yours for my life-time, to be what you make me,- To wear my white veil for a sign, or a cover, As you shall be proven my lord, or my lover; A cover for peace that is dead, or a token Of bliss that can never be written or spoken.

The Bridal Veil, by Alice Cary

https://x.com/missedith01/status/1702226817346654366?s=20

[105nt]

13 days! A #Poem while we wait for #TheRunningGrave ...

St. Lucy’s day is brief and bright with frost,

In round cupped dew ponds shallow waters freeze,

Delicate fronds and rushes are held fast,

The low sun brings a contrast to the trees

Whose naked branches, dark against the skies

And fringed with glory by the light behind,

In patterns too severe for tired eyes,

Burn their bright beauty on the weary mind.

Saint Lucy’s sun still bathes these abbey walls

And in her garden rose stalks stark and bare

Shine in a frosty light that yet recalls

The glory of the summer roses there.

Though winter night will soon surround us here,

Another Advent comes, Dayspring is near.

Launde Abbey on St. Lucy’s day, by Malcolm Guite

https://x.com/missedith01/status/1701855494665584819?s=20