When her son dies under suspicious circumstances at a spiritual commune on the African island of Ellampore, Ruth St. Just, decides to go there and investigate for herself
Francis Henry King, CBE, was a British novelist, poet and short story writer.
He was born in Adelboden, Switzerland, brought up in India and educated at Shrewsbury School and Balliol College, Oxford. During World War II he was a conscientious objector, and left Oxford to work on the land. After completing his degree in 1949 he worked for the British Council; he was posted around Europe, and then in Kyoto. He resigned to write full time in 1964.
He was a past winner of the W. Somerset Maugham Prize for his novel The Dividing Stream (1951) and also won the Katherine Mansfield Short Story Prize. A President Emeritus of International PEN and a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature, he was appointed an Officer (OBE) of the Order of the British Empire in 1979 and a Commander of the Order (CBE) in 1985.
# 12 in my deep dive into the novels of King, his 21st from 1988.
This one took me a little longer to read, as it was about 100 pages longer than most of his books, and also a mite more complicated - as Publisher's Weekly put it:
King has something more in mind than solving a conventional mystery; and his novel takes several dark and unsettling turns before a shocking ending that suddenly makes the reader reexamine everything that has gone before. A thoroughly gripping performance.
King does something astonishing here - the writing equivalent of a 'triple lutz' in the final 20 pages, with one major twist in the penultimate chapter, a second in the final chapter, and a third in the very last four-word sentence, which does indeed make you reexamine EVERYTHING, and reveals that the title MIGHT not refer to whom you'd assumed it does, up till then. Sheer dazzling brilliance.
Maybe one of the things I like most about his books is that they are very 'cinematic' - I can picture the scenes and characters he writes about very clearly in my mind's eye - I mentioned of a previous book that it would have been an ideal vehicle for Merchant-Ivory; this one cries out for a David Lynch adaptation! :-O!
https://archive.org/details/womanwhow.... The cover of my edition is this one - it's one of the more striking covers I've seen - it depicts James diving off a cliff to his death, whose cliff face is that of the cult leader, 'Mother'!
The reader follows this mother on her quest to discern the truth about her only son's death; the explanation of his death defying what she believes about her son, what she knows, what she remembers. Her single-minded purpose causes her to sell her restaurant and travel to distant places, enduring all manner of inconvenience, discomfort and questionable run-ins with questionable people along the way. We see this journey through her skeptical eyes as she becomes more and more convinced she's been lied to, despite protestations to the contrary.
King's detailed writing draws a clear picture of the surroundings and interactions between characters. One becomes immersed in the environment, and trapped in the mind of this mother as she grapples with the other "Mother" of this story, the leader within a small community her son had joined before his death. The tension grows as one reads, with an ending that psychologically explodes unexpectedly in several quick bursts.
True confession...given my background...I was putting some things together that a different reader might not. But it did not diminish my enjoyment of the story. Or the powerful ending.
The Woman Who Was God is a strange and unsettling novel that pulls you in, at first lightly, then tightening its grip as it goes along. It is not light reading, but the masterful writing keeps the reader engaged. At its heart is a portrait of a woman who feels almost familiar—someone you might recognize, slightly more neurotic, but believable and relatable.
The plot follows a grieving mother who refuses to accept the official account of her son’s death in a distant African country. Determined to uncover the truth, she plunges into the world of the community—or is it a cult?—where her son spent his final days. As the story unfolds, the reader is drawn into forming conclusions, only to have them unsettled again. The novel’s ending is less a dramatic revelation than a quiet but powerful nudge to question your own assumptions and prejudices.
This is masterful, engaging reading. It is not light entertainment, but if you sometimes read to make you think, this one might be for you.