Your new book, The Drowned, is the latest in your Quirke/Strafford series. Could you give us a glimpse of it?
Definitely. The Drowned remains consistent to its prior editions in the Quirke/Strafford series with its grim theme. I endeavour to incorporate some inimitable, subtle humour to dilute the gloominess, but handling murder as a subject inevitably corners us into a sombre setting.
Could you elaborate on the characters of Detective Inspector Strafford and the pathologist Quirke and their dynamic?
Quirke regards Strafford with a deep skepticism, considering him effeminate and rather inept, though he is far from either. Strafford’s feelings towards Quirke, on the other hand, are a blend of admiration, disapproval, and even slight trepidation.
The Quirke series has originally been brought to the public under the pseudonym Benjamin Black. Why did you decide to switch to your real name?
The shift was motivated by the desire to present these books not only as crime novels but as full-fledged novels. I usually dismiss the concept of ‘genres’. A piece of writing, in my opinion, is either excellent or not, independent of its form. The Quirke series was borne from the inspiration of Simenon, whom I revere as a masterful writer and not merely a genre writer.
How significant is revisiting Ireland’s conflicted history in your work?
I’m not actively insisting on keeping past atrocities alive, as I’m a writer, not a critic. My stories draw material from all facets of life. The phrase to be imprinted on my tombstone might well be: He was a cannibal.
Your writing career began with ‘Long Lankin’ in 1970. How do you look back at your books? Do you have a favourite?
I usually avoid dwelling on my previous works as they remind me of my inevitable shortcomings in achieving perfection. I am comforted by a recent quote I stumbled upon from the poet Philip Larkin: “I don’t think I write particularly well,” he confessed, “only better than everyone else”. As for favourites, I have none. I suppose the well-worn adage is true: The anticipation of the next project is the best part.
As you approach 80, is your zest for writing unwavering?
Indeed, to my own surprise. I had envisioned myself either dead or incapacitated by now. I concluded The Singularities with the phrase “full stop”, intending it to be my swansong in fiction writing. Yet, here I am, tirelessly continuing to pen my stories.
Has the demise of close relatives over the past few years impacted your writing style or your perception of the world?
In my experience, even though your dear ones may pass away, they never truly leave. By the time I was roughly 11, my perspective on life was firmly established.
What is your opinion on Mark O’Connell’s A Thread of Violence, which is about murderer Malcolm Macarthur and draws inspiration from your novel, The Book of Evidence, that is loosely based on his life?
Mark’s book, in my view, is an accomplished and nuanced piece. It was somewhat unsettling to read it as I appear in it. Indeed, as you pointed out, The Book of Evidence indeed has many parallels with the Macarthur case. After the publication, I happened to encounter barrister Paddy McEntee, who informed me that he had enjoyed the book and had decided against suing me for defamation…
Do you still frequently produce reviews? How vital is it?
To me, reviewing books is an honourable profession that I relish. The brilliant aspect of a review is that once it’s completed, it’s finished, which brings about a significant sense of fulfilment.
What projects are currently occupying your time?
Recently, I wrapped up a play about the life, accomplishments and romantic encounters of John Maynard Keynes – an economist yes, but one of the historic figures of the past century. I’m also working on my memoir, for which an old companion supplied the ideal title: Out of True. I anticipate it to transform into a beautiful and profoundly touching piece, likely to appear after my demise…
Have you ever taken part in a literary pilgrimage?
I attempted to visit the location along the Wannsee coast near Berlin where Heinrich von Kleist decided to end his life in a suicide pact with a female companion. Regrettably, our chauffeur couldn’t find the way and we didn’t get there. I can almost hear Kleist’s dry chuckle.
When questioned about the best writing instruction I’ve come across, it’s the advice by the old Roman, Cato the Censor, who directed budding writers to concentrate on the core of the story, and the words will naturally follow.
The most striking place I’ve ever been to is the Greco-Roman temple at Segesta in Sicily. The most precious belonging I have is my ink pen. On asking about the most exquisite book I own, it is the The Very Rich Hours of the Duc du Berry, decorated by the Limbourg Brothers. Please, note it’s not an original version.
At a dream dinner party, the guests I would choose to invite include both living and dead authors like William James, Emily Dickinson, Wallace Stevens, and also Isaiah Berlin for some juicy rumours.
The place I live in has its own pros and cons – I absolutely enjoy the seaside; however, the area is thronged by tourists. My favourite quote comes from WC Fields on his deathbed, who said, “I’d rather be in Philadelphia.” As for a favourite fictional character, I don’t really have any as I regard them all as chimaeras, embodiments of words.
A book that can make me chuckle would be ‘Lolita.’ Interestingly, it’s also a book that can make me weep. Faber & Faber publishes ‘The Drowned.’