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A review by ravenousbibliophile
The House of Silk by Anthony Horowitz
3.0
Rating: 3.5/5
Blurb: A story that compels you to finish it.
Imagine, for a moment, that you are starved for a story that is both alien and familiar. A tall-order under the best of circumstances. For most readers, such a mood is the worst kind for they know not where to find a story that delivers the mystery and excitement of the 'new' and at the same time guarantees the satisfaction and entertainment of a well-read story. The House of Silk is an excellent representation of a story that bridges the divide between the 'new' and the 'known'.
Admittedly this is my first experience of Horowitz's works ever since I ended my Alex Rider phase with Snakehead. Since then, I've enjoyed Horowitz's efforts in the realm of Television (Agatha Christie's Poirot, New Blood etc.) that is until I read of and became intrigued by his latest literary achievements. Before long, I found myself in that inescapable limbo between the new and the known, that is until I seized upon a silken thread that was The House of Silk. Yes, I'm well aware how corny that sounds but I wrote it to illustrate the one major criticism that I have with this book. And that is the amount of superfluous detail disguised as 'descriptive narration'.
Horowitz certainly knows what he's doing when it comes to creating a compelling narrative, however, on more than one occasion I felt like I was reading the transcript of a tele-play and not a novel. While Arthur Conan Doyle regaled his readers with intimate descriptions about life in Victorian/Edwardian London, Horowitz's descriptions are merely that. Descriptions. There was a distinct lack of intimacy that made me care about where events were taking place.
That being said, the story is sufficiently intriguing and the ending quite masterfully executed, much in the style of Doyle himself who had a penchant for keeping his readers in the same state as John Watson; frustratingly oblivious to the 'pattern' that was apparent only to Sherlock Holmes and no one else.
Horowitz's book is an admirable pastiche of the stories of Conan Doyle and his famous detective and while the book flounders under the weight of its (sometimes) verbose narrative, I recommend it to anyone who's looking for an escape from the limbo of indecision with regards to their next reading venture.
Blurb: A story that compels you to finish it.
Imagine, for a moment, that you are starved for a story that is both alien and familiar. A tall-order under the best of circumstances. For most readers, such a mood is the worst kind for they know not where to find a story that delivers the mystery and excitement of the 'new' and at the same time guarantees the satisfaction and entertainment of a well-read story. The House of Silk is an excellent representation of a story that bridges the divide between the 'new' and the 'known'.
Admittedly this is my first experience of Horowitz's works ever since I ended my Alex Rider phase with Snakehead. Since then, I've enjoyed Horowitz's efforts in the realm of Television (Agatha Christie's Poirot, New Blood etc.) that is until I read of and became intrigued by his latest literary achievements. Before long, I found myself in that inescapable limbo between the new and the known, that is until I seized upon a silken thread that was The House of Silk. Yes, I'm well aware how corny that sounds but I wrote it to illustrate the one major criticism that I have with this book. And that is the amount of superfluous detail disguised as 'descriptive narration'.
Horowitz certainly knows what he's doing when it comes to creating a compelling narrative, however, on more than one occasion I felt like I was reading the transcript of a tele-play and not a novel. While Arthur Conan Doyle regaled his readers with intimate descriptions about life in Victorian/Edwardian London, Horowitz's descriptions are merely that. Descriptions. There was a distinct lack of intimacy that made me care about where events were taking place.
That being said, the story is sufficiently intriguing and the ending quite masterfully executed, much in the style of Doyle himself who had a penchant for keeping his readers in the same state as John Watson; frustratingly oblivious to the 'pattern' that was apparent only to Sherlock Holmes and no one else.
Horowitz's book is an admirable pastiche of the stories of Conan Doyle and his famous detective and while the book flounders under the weight of its (sometimes) verbose narrative, I recommend it to anyone who's looking for an escape from the limbo of indecision with regards to their next reading venture.