Robert B. Parker, author of almost 70 books, died yesterday morning. When I read the news this morning, I was stunned. I knew he was getting up in years, but I just couldn’t wrap my head around the idea. A few moments later I was hit by a powerful sense of loss — it was like I’d lost a friend.
Many others have — and will — detail the impact Parker had on American publishing, the development of detective fiction in this country (particularly through the authors he inspired), the relative merits of his work. I just want to talk a little about what he meant to me, haphazardly thrown together.
Since the summer of 1987 (or maybe 1988, I’m not sure) I’ve spent hundreds–probably thousands–of hours with Parker. With the exception of the last two years of work, I’ve read nearly all of his books multiple times–many countless times. Each year in college (while I was single, anyway), after my last class on Friday before President’s Day weekend I’d say goodbye to the world and read through the Spenser series in order–this was back before he branched out to other detectives–and many other times throughout the year I’d turn to Parker and Spenser if I needed a good read. And then he brought us Sunny and Jesse (and the Westerns, the baseball book, and the YA novels)–even more sources of enjoyment.
There’s really only one other fiction writer I’ve spent more time with–and I bet it’s a close race. More than once when I needed sanctuary from the world, I’d retreat to Parker. When I needed a comfort read, a quick read, something to break me out of a slump, or when there was a new volume published–and many other times, Parker’s world and words were there. In between those covers was a home away from home, members of my extended family and friends.
Sure, in recent years, I’ve been disappointed, even annoyed by some of his work — but I’m always back for the next go ’round, eager to forgive and forget and move on. Usually, I’ve been rewarded for that–even in his most problematic output, he could bring a smile to my face with a turn of a phrase. I’m so looking forward to the last three (I think) books coming out this year (even if I’m really sick and tired of the Cole/Hitch series, I’ll eagerly snap it up)–but I can’t imagine a year where more of my bookshelves aren’t occupied with 3+ new volumes with his name on them.
I owe Dr. Parker a deep debt of gratitude for the impact he’s made on my life, my thinking, for some great stories, essentially for some great times.
But perhaps what Parker was best at creating were characters that were well-rounded, flawed (but not irredeemably so), basically, human (not that all of his characters fit this, many were more thinly drawn than a stick figure). So for all the characters great and small, like Virgil Cole, Everett Hitch, Martin Quirk, Frank Belson, Rita Fiore, Chollo, Henry Cimoli, Joe Broz, Tony Marcus, The Grey Man, Spike, even Sunny and her family, Rosie, Pearl (both of them), Suitcase, Molly, Jesse, Paul Giacomin, Susan, Hawk (naturally), and most of all, for Spenser, I want to thank you, Dr. Parker.
You will be missed.
Rex Stout’s Fer-de-Lance is the first of 40+ books (novels or short story collections) featuring the exploits of private investigator Archie Goodwin (2 parts Huck Finn, 1 part Philip Marlowe) and his eccentric employer, Nero Wolfe (1 part Sherlock Holmes, 1 part Mycroft Holmes)–yes, I am one of those who think that Archie’s the main character in the mis-nomered Nero Wolfe Mysteries. 
This is pretty much all we’ve seen over the last week of Frodo. It’s mostly encouraging, but a little strange at the same time.
Cracked this open for the first time last night, shortly after my shift started. At 6:25, when I had to take care of some end-of-shift chores, I had 100 pages left.
