By John Banville
John Banville’s attractive powers of mimicry are brilliantly on show during this engrossing novel, the darkly compelling confession of an incredible murderer.
Freddie Montgomery is a hugely cultured guy, a husband and father dwelling the lifetime of a dissolute exile on a Mediterranean island. whilst a debt comes due and his spouse and baby are held as collateral, he returns to eire to safe money. That pursuit ends up in homicide. And this is his try and current proof, no longer of his innocence, yet of his existence, of the occasions that result in the homicide he dedicated simply because he may. Like a hero out of Nabokov or Camus, Montgomery is a chillingly articulate, self-aware, and amoral being, whose humanity is painfully on exhibit.
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Extra resources for The Book of Evidence
He was totally stupid, no doubt. Twice stupid, as a matter of fact. ” “And we know he’s cleaned up . . ” “Because,” Brian said, “the Tigers wouldn’t have signed him if he hadn’t. ” She smiled now, mostly to herself, and said, “That’s what I keep trying to be. ” Brian leaned forward, hands out, almost like he was reaching for her. “Mom,” he said, “you get why this is a totally cool 31 M i k e L upi ca thing, right? What a cool thing this can be for Hank and the Tigers? Because if he has a good season, then all the drug stuff and the way he’s messed up won’t be the last thing people remember about him.
Finn’s chair was down the third-base line, at the point where the stands were closest to the ﬁeld. Finn had told Brian his name for the summer should be Foul Ball Simpkins. For now, though, the two of them got to enjoy watching batting practice. Brian still felt stupid excited as he watched Hank Bishop get ready to take his cuts with the rest of the regulars. Davey Schoﬁeld would be using him as his DH tonight and batting him ﬁfth in the order. The Tigers’ ﬁrst-base coach, Rudy Tavarez, was throwing batting practice today.
Stinking . . way,” Brian said. “Way,” Kenny said. ” Hank Bishop had been out of baseball for a year and a half, ﬁrst because of a ﬁfty-game steroids suspension, then because no club in either league had signed him this spring when he was eligible to play again. He was thirty-ﬁve now, about to turn thirty-six on the Fourth of July. Brian knew that the way he knew everything there was to know about Hank Bishop. But now the Tigers, who needed a right-handed bat to come off the bench and act as a designated hitter occasionally, had brought him back to Detroit, given him one last chance to be something close to what he was.