Creole Belle by James Lee Burke

There are several reasons I like James Lee Burke's books, and a few reasons why I don't.  First the good. He’s one of a handfull of authors my husband and I agree on listening to while on road trips. Will Patterson narrates all of Burke's books and he is purely splendid.

Also, Burke's writing, when he stops creating characters and circuitous plots and just writes, can be excellent. Every now and then he slips into a soliloquy describing the Louisiana swamp that takes my breath away.  About every third or fourth novel is truly scintillating (e.g., Tin Roof Blowdown).  And lastly, one of Burke's main characters, Detective Clete Purcell, is one of the best-drawn characters I’ve ever read.

Now the bad. Burke (pictured) is pretty much one of those writers who puts out a book so often that you know  the theme and set of bad guys are going to be only slightly different. In Creole Belle he goes after BP (British Petroleum) with the vitriol they deserve. But at some point his attacks began to sound sermon-y.

And then there was the huge cast of characters in Creole Belle, which became so lengthy that we grew weary trying to keep them straight. Unfortunately, by the time the hubby and I finished the audio book, we were almost  indifferent. It just went on too long. 

Burke’s main character, Dave Robicheaux, is too ponderous and philosophical, and he and Clete seem to never learn from their past mistakes, so it is hard to care about them. They should have both been dead several books ago.

Perhaps it is time for Burke to retire Robicheaux and Purcell and just write. Creole Belle is not a bad book, it just isn’t great, and why bother with anything less than great.