“Declan Burke is his own genre. The Lammisters dazzles, beguiles and transcends. Virtuoso from start to finish.” – Eoin McNamee “This bourbon-smooth riot of jazz-age excess, high satire and Wodehouse flamboyance is a pitch-perfect bullseye of comic brilliance.” – Irish Independent Books of the Year 2019 “This rapid-fire novel deserves a place on any bookshelf that grants asylum to PG Wodehouse, Flann O’Brien or Kyril Bonfiglioli.” – Eoin Colfer, Guardian Best Books of the Year 2019 “The funniest book of the year.” – Sunday Independent “Declan Burke is one funny bastard. The Lammisters ... conducts a forensic analysis on the anatomy of a story.” – Liz Nugent “Burke’s exuberant prose takes centre stage … He plays with language like a jazz soloist stretching the boundaries of musical theory.” – Totally Dublin “A mega-meta smorgasbord of inventive language ... linguistic verve not just on every page but every line.Irish Times “Above all, The Lammisters gives the impression of a writer enjoying himself. And so, dear reader, should you.” – Sunday Times “A triumph of absurdity, which burlesques the literary canon from Shakespeare, Pope and Austen to Flann O’Brien … The Lammisters is very clever indeed.” – The Guardian

Monday, January 21, 2008

The Best Things In Life Are Free … Books

Dying was the easy bit. It was during my life after death that things started to go wrong. A conspiracy of coincidences perhaps or else maybe some higher power was having a laugh at my expense. But when I returned from the other side I brought something fearful back with me …”
So beginneth Ronan O’Brien’s CONFESSIONS OF A FALLEN ANGEL, which sounds to us like an intriguing premise and vaguely reminiscent of the crime / supernatural crossover work of one John Connolly. Happily, the ever-lovely folk at Hodder Headline Ireland are offering three copies of said opus free, gratis and for nothing so that you don’t have to depend on our shoddy opinions, and all you have to do to get your grubby mitts on one is answer the following question:
If an angel falls in the forest and there’s no one around to hear its confession, does it:
(a) evaporate in a puff of celestial smoke;
(b) make like a tree and hope there’s a logger nearby;
(c) schlep out of the forest all the way to Ronan O’Brien’s house and dictate its memoirs to his secretary?
Answers to dbrodb(at)gmail.com before noon on Wednesday January 23, putting ‘Milton me arse’ in the subject line. Et bon chance, mes amis ...

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