Jeffrey Archer, who died at 86 suddenly and with as little fuss as possible, just like how he wrote his thrillers, was a rare man of many parts. With worldwide fame as a storyteller, who was embraced by both the high-brow and the plebeian reader, he cut a large swathe through the consciousness of this world.
Along with American thriller writer John Grisham and a few others, they took reading to the masses and their nail-bitingly thrilling stories to their hearts. His prose was sparse but often hit with a loud bang and precious wit.
A Master Of The One-Liner
In his latest novel, Adam and Eve, released ironically and maybe fittingly on the day he died (he would have loved to go out to the Pearly Gates on such a big day), there is a scene where a doctor is summoned to attend to the labour pains of the Earl’s wife at 4 am, with loud banging at his door.
The doctor rushes out and, taking a look at his wife, who hadn’t stirred, thinks, “But then, not even a world war could wake Edna”. Which reader wouldn’t laugh out loud at such casually thrown lines?
It is a cliché, but writers like Archer, or for that matter Grisham, cannot be replaced. They played with language as if it were a toy; they imbibed it from the street, just as they did from aristocratic life, and they had the confidence that their stories would stay long and would be read and retold.
Grisham mostly wrote legal thrillers, but like Archer, he also moved in all directions. Grisham’s latest novel, The French Illusion, also released last fortnight, is on espionage, maybe to leave one last mark in the genre dominated by John Le Carre.
Writer, Politician And Tabloid Target
Archer inhabited the difficult tri-junction of life as a writer-politician and some manly weaknesses—just the right person to become a target of the tabloids. His closeness to a sex worker was exposed by a tabloid.
As if that turmoil was not enough, further exposes revealed that he had lied in court and paid off the sex worker to keep quiet. Archer was sent to jail for 10 years, but he was released after two years. He promptly wrote his jail diaries, but the enclosed world of the jail was not his mind’s fiefdom.
Archer actually did not care. He went on writing, and the fact that he wrote till his last day is testimony to his energy and self-belief. Archer was the largest seller ever, with 300 million copies of his books sold (not counting rip-off versions). Cane and Abel itself sold 50 million copies. It still sells.
A Storyteller Beyond The Literati
Archer and other thriller writers cared two hoots for the literati, who looked down upon their books as cheap entertainment. No one awarded him for his writings, nor did prime ministers and kings summon him to entertain them, and no teacher asked his students to read Archer to improve their English. Archer was a storyteller who kept us glued to his books all through the night and took us to other worlds.
