There is a certain kind of book written by a certain kind of author that prompts a certain kind of exasperation: No matter what I say, fans will buy this, read this, worship this. (Please do not throw bricks at my window.) Weary reviewers of Stephenie Meyer’s works – and Nicholas Sparks’ and Dan Brown’s – have uttered variations on this wounded bleat of indignation.
I mention that because of a universe-shifting occasion in the literary world. It involves She Who Need Not Be Named and a Tome of Destiny. Yes. Five years after concluding her Harry Potter series, J.K. Rowling has written a new book.
It is called The Casual Vacancy. It is for adults, and it is not about adult wizards.
At some level, the very existence of The Casual Vacancy represents a truckload of moxie. Namely: If you were Rowling, and you had sold 450 million copies, and your seven HP books had been made into eight blockbuster movies, would you be diligently writing another book or would you be buying Monaco and drinking bottomless Kir Royales on a raft in your Brita-filtered pool? Think of the panic she must feel, hoping readers will judge the work on its own merits, wondering whether she should have released this novel as Joanne Kathleen.
At another level, this book represents a truckload of shrewdness. In her first grown-up novel, Rowling has chosen to construct her plot around a local municipal election – a world so far away from Platform 9 3/4 that it would be unfair and ludicrous to compare it with her previous works.
Except, of course, that Rowling’s signature moves are still there on every page. Just as her boy-wizard series opened with an archly winking look at the upending of the Dursley family’s boring lives, The Casual Vacancy does the same with a town. One man suffers an untimely death, the gossip mill churns and Rowling offers the twinkly observation, It was all immensely exciting.
The dead fellow in question is Barry Fairbrother, whose passing leaves behind one grieving widow, four cameo-appearance children, eight members of the high school crew team he coached, and one empty seat in the town council of Pagford, an English parish girding itself against the encroaching urban sprawl of nearby Yarvil. Several men toss their hats into the election ring for the eponymous casual vacancy on the council: Simon Price, a petty criminal who sees the government position as a means to blackmail and bribery; Colin Wall, a duty-bound school principal; and Miles Mollison, the son of a current council member whose parents want him elected to clinch support for their pet issues.
Pagford’s biggest issue – acreage-wise, at least – is the Fields, a blighted, low-income neighborhood whose residents dare to take advantage of Pagford’s schools and churches, marring the tidy gardens with their grimy poverty. The Mollisons are leading the charge to have the Fields placed under Yarvil’s jurisdiction. The late Barry Fairbrother had been their most vocal opponent, mentoring a potty-mouthed Fields girl named Krystal, who is fooling around with Colin Wall’s son, who is best friends with Simon Price’s son, who is in love with the daughter of the caseworker assigned to Krystal. The younger generation must squirm against the parents’ misdeeds. The storylines interweave as characters interfere with one another’s business. Nearly every character gets a narrative point of view.
Rowling has been heralded more for her world-building skills than her wordsmith ones (her overreliance on adverbs drives fussbudget grammarians mad), but I’ve always loved her nimble voice and the quick way she managed to get inside a character’s head and simultaneously comment on its contents. Krystal’s slow passage up the school had resembled the passage of a goat through the body of a boa constrictor, she writes, and you know exactly the kind of girl and exactly the kind of school system she’s talking about.
In this one 500-page book, Rowling re-traverses the Potter series’ entire tonal journey: a gradual darkening in which snide comments on small stakes give way to sharp commentary on big ones. The election unearths tensions. The tensions ruin lives. No amount of Reparo spells can undo the things that are done; we’re not in Hogwarts anymore.
Which brings up the largest question that every reader will be asking: Can Rowling do it, when it isn’t Harry Potter?
In her magical series, some of her most spellbinding work related to the minutiae of the world she’d created: What is the sickle-to-galleon conversion in wizarding money? What are the Irish team’s odds in the Quidditch World Cup?
Her writing in The Casual Vacancy might be as lively as it ever was, but when the minutiae here include a multipage history of Pagford/Yarvil property lines, I wondered if I shouldn’t just be perusing the minutes of my real-life neighborhood ward’s meetings. A lazy critic might coyly query whether The Casual Vacancy contains enough magic.
Much of the book I admired, even if I didn’t love. There were sentences I underlined for the sheer purpose of figuring out how English words could be combined so delightfully. There were incidents I immediately reread because the developments were surprising or genuinely moving. There were characters that I liked, then disliked, then liked again with reservations.
But throughout The Casual Vacancy, I could not stop from having one overarching thought, which the devoted fan in me loathes to share since I’m certain it’s the one Rowling is most loath to hear: This book would be a little better if everyone were carrying wands.