Is this Easy, or What?

If I have ever written about Walter Mosley, before, I apologize. Because I'm sure I said something nice about his Ezekiel Rawlins detective novels, and made him sound like a talented whodunnit author.

Which he is, but baby, that's just the tip of it.

So I now find after reading "Blue Light." Imagine that all those crazy street preachers, cultists and hippies are right. They have been touched by extraterrestrial, intelligent beams of light, and have instantly evolved into higher beings.

But no one in the mundane world knows it, other than other marginalized street folk. That's one facet inside this geode of a novel, told from the point of view of one of those who knows of the Blue, yet shares it only partially.

Oh, yeah, and there's archetypical struggle between good and evil, and outsized characters out of Kafka or Swift, and refracted glints of love and power and sex. Just your typical, potboiler Dostoyevsky stuff.

Sorry, Walter. I wasn't paying attention before.