A gold rush story can be captivating. I loved The Luminaries, I liked Deadwood even more.
Both creations had the same fragrance of fresh-sawn pine hanging in the air, buildings rising in a great flurry, the hapless and over-eager throwing in with the malign and downright evil, all that naivete colliding with all that knowing cynicism, all of them seeking some kind of fortune.
Here’s my theory: it is a far happier experience to take part in a gold rush from the remove of a century or more, comfortable in your armchair, than to be in the midst of one. Sure, you might get rich, but equally you don’t know just how far things might be about to spin altogether out of control. And you don’t know who you can trust. Or rather, you do: no-one, that’s who.
