When the Booker-Prize-winning, seriously literary Irish writer John Banville came out with this mystery novel in 2006, under a new pen name—and declared it would be the first in a series, no less—critics seemed to appreciate the idea and rewarded Banville/Black with praise for writing a kind of literary-mystery hybrid. In the end, the book succeeds as neither. While it contains many well-written scenes, and is certainly oozing with 1950’s atmosphere, it’s all in the service of a slow-moving and unrewarding plot. One chief problem is that the protagonist, a Dublin pathologist named Quirke, is an obstinately unpleasant character to play the lead in a mystery series: a bloated, chain-smoking alcoholic sloth who has nothing serious or interesting to say about any of the events that take place. (For some reason, and absurdly, Banville has nearly every female character in the novel fall for him, more than one directly into bed for drearily described bouts of sex.) Secondly, the plotting can be mind-numbingly slow. Quirke is consistently told to lay off his investigation into the death of the title character, if he knows what’s good for him, even though it’s not clear exactly what he’s doing or asking that would ever bring him any closer to discovering anyone’s secrets before drinking himself into forgetfulness. When the action comes—and there’s action, in the form of murder, rape, and multiple levels of revealed identities—it’s all presented in the same beautiful but turgid prose. And if you haven’t figured out the central mystery and motives, as well as the main culprit, well before the end of the book, perhaps it’s because the characters have put you to sleep. - Gilligan

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