I haven't read John Banville aka Benjamin Black's Christine Falls
yet, so this is totally premature. But when I read a NY Times review
something began to bug me.
It sounds as if the author really loves dark crime fiction and is rolling around in its conventions like a dog that just found something wonderfully dead. The review says it's not just a "seamless performance in fulfilling the demands of its genre," but it's "executed with what feels like authorial delight."
Thank goodness it doesn't transcend the genre. But it still left me strangely uncomfortable. And it took me literally hours before I found the metaphor I was looking for.
So here I am in this scruffy neighborhood of mine, used to having people say it's sort of middle-class and tacky and the crime rate's through the roof. Can't get those pot holes fixed for love nor money, but I still love the place. Sometimes people from the "good" part of town come by the bar when there's some good music going, but they never really relax and keep a bemused and smug look on their faces while trying to pretend they fit in. But you can tell when their eyes are cruising around the room that they think Vinny's too fat and Marjory's laugh is too loud and that the guy in the corner with all the tattoos is a little scary. Authentic, but scary.
So now I hear this guy just bought the house on the corner. They say he's doing wonderful things to it. But does this mean a whole bunch of lawyers will follow suit? Are they going to want a Starbucks?
Better read the book and not jump to conclusions. But if my rent goes up I'm blaming him.