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Also noteworthy were a few Irish classics. Walter Macken's The Silent People. The Siege of Krishnapur by J. G. Farrell. Dracula by Irish novelist Bram Stoker. (Which is- not common knowledge, d'oh!- an epistolary novel. Composed of journals, letters, compiled recordings. Thus 2005's text message and transcript review.)
By the way... ROMANIA ROCKS! Though not a book, Romania is one of my best discoveries in 2005. Reserve yourself on the night train from Budapest to Brasof before McDonalds gets in there and the beautiful, fascinating borderland becomes just like every other place in the EU.
Future Irish classics 1: A Haunted Heart by John MacKenna made an impression, and his play "Breathless" has really stuck with me. Will deffo pick up his forthcoming memoir in '06.
Future Irish classics 2: The Broken Cedar. One night in Newbridge, County Kildare I had the good fortune to make an idiot of myself to Martin Malone. Great stuff. Every awkward occasion I bounce into that soldier who also dropped out of the Judo class, I keep wanting to ask him how accurate is Malone's story of peacekeeping in Lebanon. But I can't recall if his name's Dave or Paul. He can't remember my name's Mick either. The Broken Cedar was nominated for the IMPAC €100,000.00 literary award, and is worth every 1 eurocent.
I also managed to make an idiot of myself when meeting revered wordcarver Eugene McCabe. Doh! Is it that I'm like Dave Barry, only able to say "Nice hat!" when meeting Abraham Lincoln? Or am I an Average Joe without depths to Plum? Fuckit, with beercan balanced on insole I'll hit both bases plugging the wondrous Carl Hiassen and Elizabeth McCracken.
Keep an ear on writingshow.com at the end of January 2006 (or, hell, any archived point forever after January 2006) for my interview with Kevin Stevens. In December we met for a few pints and a chat about his novels, background in the publishing industry, opinions on today's trends, and a comparison of a rich niche market like Ireland to the wider world of book lovers. Don't worry. I edited out the evident "making an idiot of myself" parts.
Kevin Stevens was one of only two authors whose novels make the 2005 list twice (The other? Dermot Bolger.) Though I got crucial details wrong, Stevens dropped me a short thank-you for covering The Rizzoli Contract. When his new Cold War novel, Song For Katya, appeared in September, he mailed me a review copy. I'm very glad, because S4K is an excellent and - unless I'm way off a thumpin' Jazz bass riff - important novel. A book to read twice, as (in retrospect) Rizzoli is.
In my back-assed way I've hit my most FAQ here at the end. "What's the best crime fiction you've read this year, Mick?" Motherless Brooklyn, by Mr. Jonathan Lethem. Hands deep downtown. Hands deep in suspicious orphan-pants pockets. The mo-fo is known for his sci-fi, as I now well believe. Trust me: Mr. Letham's Motherless Brooklyn opened up a whole new dimension in crime.
"No, dumb ass. I meant the best IRISH crime fiction."
Oh!... Mary, Mary by Julie Parsons. Up-and-comer Kate Dempsey revealed that she abandoned Parsons' novel midway through. Hard to believe. Sure, look no further than Lynda LaPlante to see that most crime fic ends with the outcome of a trial. That point only reaches half of what's interesting for Julie Parsons. Life goes on after. And so does the story. Masterly, in a different groove than Mr. Lethem.
John Connolly's two-parter Every Dead Thing comes in a Critical Mick second. Then follows a lot of adeqaute Irish crime fiction.
Lemme highlight Dermot Bolger's Father's Music. It is registers beyond the shelves heavy with fraud. I wouldn't classify FM as crime, though. Though it keeps readers guessing to the last page about the nature of a supposed crime figure, the novel is mainly about Ireland. Um. Irish. Fiction about crime. Fuck it, yeah, Father's Music. It meets the crime-fic definition and exceeds it in the same way Motherless Brooklyn did. Read it, mickhalpin.com fans.
Gotta make a mention of Erin Hart's world-class Lake of Sorrows while on that subject.
Time to lop the tendrils off a stereotype, here: January 2006 arrived in Dublin no more savage than it is in Orlando, Florida. Wind and rain but it's 12 degrees Centigrade, whatever the hell 12 degrees Centigrade translates to in American temperature. No matter. I've got five books piled on my nightstand and a sheaf printed off from critters.org. The bio of Johnny Cash is a hearty read so far. I'll let you know if it ends up any good. Or if it's loo roll.
(Irish for toilet paper)
Peace
Yer Friend Mick Halpin
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