When Desmond Doyle finds his girlfriend dead in the bath, having cut her wrists, he is devastated. But there are inconsistencies with how suicide wounds would be inflicted and he quickly comes under suspicion and is arrested for murder. Though soon released, Detective Inspector Harry Kneebone is convinced of Doyle’s involvement. As they await the coroner’s verdict, Doyle attempts some semblance of normality by returning to his job as curator for a new restaurant that will display original art. When he meets up with artist Gina Harding, he is deeply disturbed by paintings she has been strangely compelled to create in recent days. He recognises in them the likeness of his girlfriend’s death scene. Can they shed light on Daphne’s death, or is it all a bizarre coincidence? As Doyle’s grip on what is real and unreal becomes increasingly uncertain, a chain of events unfold that lead him to doubt his own sanity. FALLING SLOWLY is a compelling and fast-paced psychological drama that questions the nature of perception and experience, as one man struggles to uncover a dark truth.So there you have it. If anyone – preferably Robert Fannin – can shed some light on who Robert Fannin might be, I’m all ears …
“Burke shows again that he’s not just a comic genius, but also a fine dramatic writer and storyteller.” – Booklist. “Prose both scabrous and poetic.” – Publishers Weekly. “Proust meets Chandler over a pint of Guinness.” – Spectator. “A sheer pleasure.” – Tana French. “Among the most memorable books of the year, of any genre.” – Sunday Times. “A hardboiled delight.” – Guardian. “Imagine Donald Westlake and Richard Stark collaborating on a screwball noir.” – Kirkus Reviews. “A cross between Raymond Chandler and Flann O’Brien.” – John Banville. “The effortless cool of Elmore Leonard at his peak.” – Ray Banks. “A fine writer at the top of his game.” – Lee Child.
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Everything Is Connected To The Kneebone
I have no idea of who Robert Fannin might be, and I don’t even know if FALLING SLOWLY is intended as a crime novel, although it certainly sounds a fascinating prospect, and his DI Harry Kneebone a formidable new name – literally – in the canon of world literature. Certainly, as suicide becomes something of a creeping, invisible epidemic in post-boom Ireland, the novel is a timely one. Quoth the blurb elves: