John Connolly

I have been devouring John Connolly novels.

Connolly walks a neat line between hard-boiled, straight-up noir and Dean Koontz horror. If he favors one of the two, it is the detective. He shys away from true horror at the last minute, side stepping the supernatural in favor of the macabre, the paranormal in favor of the demented.

His works remind me of the tie between the two, detective fiction and horror. They are siblings--products of a romantic vision of the world. At times, I would prefer something a bit darker and a bit less explained. As I have mentioned elsewhere, I appreciate Tolkein's and Gaiman's willingness to leave something unexplained, unexplored.

At times his characters are almost types, visiting his novels from a host of other works--films, stories, novellas, and novels. As with any noir fiction, posturing is inevitable. But Connolly never slips into parody or simplistic mimicry. Charlie Parker is distinct; he emerges as a round, complex character with a clear voice. And that in part, is Parker's draw.

Sometimes--sometimes--Parker's thoughts echo my own. (He drives a Mustang, wondering if it makes him feel 10 years younger or 10 years less mature. A distinction only a 40 something year old male would consider.) When I hear Parker give voice to my middle age follies, I flatter myself with the thought that I too could deal out some serious hurt on ghostly stalkers, trollish serial killers, and ghoulish assassins.

A good summer read.

Bayard