Book 2 in the Simon Serrailler crime series is starting to feel a little like a cross between The Archers and Midsomer Murders. It’s not quite a domestic drama and it’s not quite driven by the police procedural elements.
I’m wondering whether poor Martha Serrailler is long for this world… angels of death seem to be working her care home.
So, reading this for my book group. It’s not my usual reading material: non-fiction, no plot or chronology, written by an eighty-two year-old playwright and Jungian psychologist.
It’s not an autobiography, not even a memoir. It is, according to itself, a notebook containing her observations on age and on society. Rambling. Unstructured. Containing a lifetime of knowledge, experience and opinion ruminated upon in the isolation of age.
It’s essentially a blog. And so far we have considered the nature of evil, humanity and age.
As an example, I’ll leave this snippet which I found quite moving.