Well, a couple of sentences, really. I’m in the middle of Benjamin Black’s latest crime novel, “A Death in Summer” (Black is the pseudonym for Irish novelist John Banville), and I don’t know why nobody’s clamoring to make these books into movies. (I’m thinking, hmm, Ciaran Hinds for Quirke?) Anyway, these novels, set in 1950s Dublin, are beautifully written and a joy to read. Here’s one passage that made me pause to appreciate:
Minor was absurdly well named, for he was a tiny fellow, with thin red hair that came to a widow’s peak and a pinched little bloodless face blotched all over with big shapeless freckles. He wore faded corduroy trousers and a tweed sports jacket and a tightly knotted narrow green tie that had the look of a wilted vegetable. He was smoking a cigarette with grim distaste, as if it were a task he had been unfairly assigned but that he must not shirk.
That last sentence is just perfect.