- Marco Rubio: U.S. at social, moral crossroads
- ‘We’re coming for you, Barack Obama’: Top U.S. official discloses threat from ISIL
- White flags baffle NYPD: ‘We’re lucky it wasn’t a bomb’
- N.Y. Gov. Cuomo’s office interfered with, pressured corruption commission: report
- Brit lawmaker: I would fire on Israel if I lived in Gaza
- VA apologizes to forgotten Marine veteran locked in Fla. clinic, forced to call 911
- U.S. social and economic trends on worrisome track, survey finds
- McDonald nomination unanimously referred to full Senate
- Chuck Norris honorary chairman of NRA voter registration campaign
- GOP outraged Obamacare investigators able to get coverage with fake IDs
Topic - Quirke
In the rain and the darkness and the remembered misery of a Catholic childhood in Ireland in the 1950s, that is where Quirke belongs. He is as quirky as anyone could want.
There are very few writers who can write elegantly about murder, but there is no question that Benjamin Black is one of them.
He adds dryly, "How quick priests had been, after the English went, to seize the best of what they had left behind."
Quirke has an ambiguous relationship with his daughter as he does with most women, recognizing his capacity to say the wrong thing at the wrong time to most of them.