Regular readers may know that I have quite a liking for John Banville’s work. I haven’t read a Banville book that I didn’t like. Personally, I’ve always considered that there wasn’t a literary foot that Banville could put wrong.

But this is Benjamin Black…

Benjamin Black: The worst-kept secret identity ever. Seriously, Clark Kent pops on some specs and nobody suspects he’s Superman but the Banville-Black connection was the talk of the remotest group of yurts in deepest, coldest Siberia. Incidentally, there are those who are annoyed by the perceived snobbishness of a ‘proper, literary’ author employing a pseudonym to write something as base as some genre, detective-style fiction. While I can concede this to an extent, it wasn’t really something that worried me. I came to Christine Falls with only my usual Banville-Is-Great preconceptions.

For me, though, Benjamin Black, isn’t Banville.

Christine Falls is a dead girl. She died under mysterious circumstances and the novel’s hero, Quirke is a pathologist who finds himself caught up in cover-ups and violence as he tries to unravel the secrets behind her death. This thing goes all the way to the top, to the top of something, that’s for sure.

The book is set, for the most part, in 1950′s Dublin and it’s all drawn quite believably. The atmosphere is thickly coloured throughout—I could smell the smoke and booze in a way I haven’t since the heady, stinky, days before smoking in pubs was banned.

From time to time, however, the action moves to Boston and it was here that my main problem with Christine Falls was most evident.

That problem is that it all feels too hard-boiled. It feels like the dark and sleazy, noir, detective thing is too forced. For me, that seemed most apparent for me in the scenes set in the U.S. but it ran through the book. Dare I use the word cliché? In Dublin, a hard-drinking (too hard) pathologist hero who’s lost his wife and is in love with someone else’s? In Boston, a hard-talking, hard-fighting, hard-loving truck-driver who loves a beer and dreams the American Dream? A tough-as-nails old woman with a heart of gold who helps fallen women? A prissy, couldn’t-be-more-different brother? Etc.

I couldn’t get into it. I kept getting pulled out by the bloody, hard-bitten, tough-bastardness of the thing. Even the hero’s (adoptive) father calls him Quirke, for Christ’s sake. I kept waiting for Quirke to arm-wrestle Sam Spade—winner gets a small figurine of a bird.

Hard-boiled Banville is not for me, I’m afraid. That said, many seem to disagree so go for it if it sounds like your cup of tea (pun intended). For my money, if you want some ‘crime-fiction’ (in that it’s fiction about a crime) from Banville, you’ll stick with the sublime The Book Of Evidence.

Now I have to figure out what to do with the second Benjamin Black novel that I pre-bought.

The Universe and I rarely see eye to eye. I’d have followed the five-second rule if there weren’t jagged shards of porcelain everywhere. Stupid Universe.

Now I’m having cake for lunch.

For measureless aeons it lurked in the pepper, biding its time, awaiting release.

Posted remotely by electronic trickery and magick, possibly involving cats’ souls.

Posted remotely by electronic trickery and magick, possibly involving cats’ souls.

Iain Sinclair: Stone Tape Shuffle.

A collection of readings by Sinclair. It’s got stuff from Lud Heat, Suicide Bridge, Downriver and White Chappell, Scarlet Tracings and was recorded in various places around east London and the City. As well as location noise spill, it’s been mixed with plenty of weird sounds that weave in and out over Sinclair’s unsettling, staccato prose. The end result is wonderfully deranged and eerie.

And it’s on nice, heavy, vinyl. I love those big black circles.

Hat tip to my baby brother for the heads up on the release.

It’s a limited pressing so off you go and get one.

He stops. It’s quiet. Oh, thank Christ. He’s asleep, finally asleep. Your shoulders slowly relax. Your jaw unclenches.

Then he starts crying again. He was toying with you.

Cruelty is innate.

On the other hand, yesterday, New Kid broke wind loudly and laughed mightily at the amusing noise.

Amusement at fart jokes is also innate.

Swings and roundabouts.

I’m relatively certain that’s a rare enough skill now but, next time you’re out for a drink, keep an eye on any pair of people in the pub. When one leaves to use the bathroom or queue for a pint, the person left behind immediately pulls out a smart-phone and reads emails or news or declares themselves mayor of Shitsville on Foursquare or something (I don’t know how Foursquare works). The same obviously holds for those individuals waiting for someone.

I’ve caught myself doing it and, while I’m ok with this occasionally, I’m actually forcing myself not to do it all the time. In the days before smart phones, I was ok with sitting quietly, watching the world go by, thinking, plotting, etc. I don’t want that to change.

I’m not some crazy, torch-wielding, luddite, by the way. I don’t think we should ban all iPhones in pubs and Tea Shoppes and opium dens and whatnot. I just think it’s pleasant—and actually useful—to be alone sometimes.

Listen to your thoughts. Cultivate your alone time, people. Your brain doesn’t need to be crammed with input every single second. Take a few to process what’s already in there. It’s a good thing.

*They also won’t know how to read a map, just looking for that blue, you-are-here, GPS dot or listening to Brian Blessed bellow instructions from the Celebrity Voice add-on of their sat-nav.

Posted remotely by electronic trickery and magick, possibly involving cats’ souls.