Snow

Friedrich Dürrenmatt wannabe though he evidently is, Banville doesn\’t measure up. Still, the prose is good; and the detective Strafford (with an \”r\” — the jest wears thin) has the makings of an interesting character. Like many detective stories, the third-person narrator tells and withholds whatever he chooses. But even so it was quickly evident who the perpetrators of the crime were. The narrator keeps Strafford at center stage almost throughout — almost as if Strafford were telling the tale. But there are a couple of clumsy departures in point of view: a cut to a nasty but not credible sex scene in a tinker\’s caravan and a first-person monologue from the murderer near the end of the novel (the mutilated paedophile priest speaking/writing? from who knows where or when or to whom — maybe from beyond the grave? It\’s a 16-page confession just sandwiched into the narrative near the end, but without any transition or explanation of origin). These sudden shifts in POV seem very maladroit as a technique of exposition. Stafford\’s incidentally seeing the caravan occupant driving away in a meat van is clumsy and labored. As is the coda in Dublin ten years on (1967), where all is tied up and revealed — as if you didn\’t already guess the answer to the riddle. General corruption is the theme — analogous to Joyce\’s line \”snow was general all over Ireland.\” A line you knew had to be waiting in the wings: Banville drops it in a way evidently designed to make his literate readers feel good about themselves (a sly but obvious bit of pandering). Everything is corrupt or fraudulent: the Irish state (then in the waning years of the de Valera era), the Church, the Church hierarchy and clergy, social services, the Uprising, the Civil War, the remnants of the Anglo-Irish ascendancy (saving only Strafford), the Garda Síochána — and so it goes. And perhaps they were, but the novel really isn\’t worth your time.

This is the first murder mystery Banville has put out over his true name instead of Benjamin Black. This is not one of his literary novels though, so I don\’t know why anyone is comparing it to Nabokov. It is a wonderful branching off of the world of Quirke to a new character, a detective who is both insider and outsider, so with a fascinating point of view. Another dark tale of repressed 1950s Ireland. Banville is such a marvelous writer, you are always in a safe pair of hands to let yourself go into the tale. Sensitive subject matter.

I don\’t get the raves about this book. The detective simply wandered through the story, described as a slogger with no skill at understanding other people. So true! And side stories that were irrelevant to the main story, such as an interminably boring encounter with a Catholic archbishop. And why bother to write about the meeting with the sister of the dead guy? She served no purpose to the story. The sudden wrenches in time…going back and forth from 1957 to 1947 to 1967 and switching the point of view of the narrator served no purpose whatsoever. Ending completely unsatisfying. Yes, some nice descriptions of the cold bleak landscape. But not enough to make me like this book.

I can\’t believe I\’m as old as I am and haven\’t read John Banville until now. I started reading Irish newspapers online and saw he\’s considered a legend so I ordered this book, and I\’m thrilled. This is a very seriously disturbing but beautifully written take on the old country house mystery. I want to say it will be triggering for people who were abused in childhood. That is not meant as a spoiler, it\’s extremely graphic in a few scenes so be warned. I can\’t wait to read more from Banville, he\’s a master craftsman.

The New York Times recommended this book, so I thought it would be good. It wasn’t. Very trite plot, with no innovation. The writing was fine, although at times I was aware of the author trying too hard to be clever or poetic.

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