The Heart in Winter
There’s a special pleasure in picking up a new Kevin Barry book. I know I’m likely in for a wild ride of a story and sentences that force the English language into strange and musical shapes ... It’s a rollicking, shocking, bloody, gorgeous tale with a heroine who gets the last word.
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Let’s get the bad news out of the way. The Heart in Winter is not top-shelf Kevin Barry. He never quite gets a handle on these characters ... Because Barry is Barry, moments of comic wonderment sneak in through the pantry door ... Perhaps fearing he would give his readers too little, Barry has given them too much. It’s a great quality in a host, except when it isn’t.
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Gets underway with an exhilarating account of a long and riotous night’s journey into day ... Barry is a writer who refuses to be pigeonholed, one whose novels feature fresh displays of stylistic dexterity and explore different fictional terrain ... Barry’s signature touches predominate and render the narrative propulsive and immersive ... Barry’s other main trademark trope is his lyrical prose. We revel in his use of vivid language, whether his characters’ terse, hard-bitten vernacular or his original imagery ... Some of Barry’s scenes are mere snapshot sketches that are too short and impressionistic for their own good. Equally disappointing is the novel’s somewhat abrupt ending. However, these flaws are easily outweighed by the book’s many strengths, in particular its well-drawn fugitives. They run and we keep up, emotionally invested in their shared exploits and their individual fates.
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