Born in 1951 in Galway, Ireland, the city in which he still makes his home, Ken Bruen had his first book published in 1992 and has been extremely prolific since then, producing seven novels in the Jack Taylor series, set in Galway; seven novels about Inspector Brant, set in England; ten stand-alone novels; and five short story collections, as well as uncollected stories. He was the editor of Dublin Noir (2006).
His lean, spare prose places him among the most original stylists in the history of crime fiction. His dark, hopelessly tragic, and violent tales have surprising bursts of absurd humor-moments that more accurately reflect the personality of the author.
Much loved by the mystery community, Bruen has been collecting honors and awards, including a Shamus Award from the Private Eye Writers of America for The Guards, which also received Edgar Allan Poe and Macavity award nominations for best novel of the year; and a Macavity for The Killing of the Tinkers, which was also nominated for an Anthony Award as best novel of the year.
I’m always asked in interviews where this odd, grizzled, grumpy PI Taylor came from.
He is the world’s worst detective. Cases get solved not because of him but despite him.
He’s
Alcoholic
Addict
Rude
Obnoxious
And in very bad shape
And yet… Forster’s famous words.
He gets the job done… somehow, and he so desperately wants to connect, even though he’d never admit it.
Only connect.
Jack does… usually when he least expects to.
His love of books has saved his sanity on so many occasions.
I said on a TV show recently, Jack hasn’t drunk for nigh on three books, and they laughed.
Uproariously.
They would.
Three books…
And not a drink.
For them a joke. For Jack, total hell.
And the reviews say Jack is mellowing.
Like fuck.
They ain’t seen Cross yet.
Or Benediction.
He’s only warming up.
He will bow out on the final book… titled… Amen.
And no one can utter those words with quite such conviction as Jack.
When the end comes, and come it will, no one will be happier than Jack.
Yet…
The Guards… his first outing, he was drinking but still a little in control, and then…
His best friend turns out to be the real psycho and Jack literally drowns him, off Nimmo’s Pier in the Claddagh.
In Galway, an almost mystical place for Irish people… Jack throws a bottle of really good booze in after his friend.
And heads for London.
New start.
The UK loves Micks so much.
Need I add it wasn’t a success?
The sequel,
The Killing of the Tinkers.
They told me I couldn’t write this.
My favorite caution.
This will kill your career.
My career has been killed so often, and I’m always told… Oh, my god, you
can’t
write
this
… and some damn stubborn place in my bedraggled psyche, thought
Can’t?