“Declan Burke is his own genre. The Lammisters dazzles, beguiles and transcends. Virtuoso from start to finish.” – Eoin McNamee “This bourbon-smooth riot of jazz-age excess, high satire and Wodehouse flamboyance is a pitch-perfect bullseye of comic brilliance.” – Irish Independent Books of the Year 2019 “This rapid-fire novel deserves a place on any bookshelf that grants asylum to PG Wodehouse, Flann O’Brien or Kyril Bonfiglioli.” – Eoin Colfer, Guardian Best Books of the Year 2019 “The funniest book of the year.” – Sunday Independent “Declan Burke is one funny bastard. The Lammisters ... conducts a forensic analysis on the anatomy of a story.” – Liz Nugent “Burke’s exuberant prose takes centre stage … He plays with language like a jazz soloist stretching the boundaries of musical theory.” – Totally Dublin “A mega-meta smorgasbord of inventive language ... linguistic verve not just on every page but every line.Irish Times “Above all, The Lammisters gives the impression of a writer enjoying himself. And so, dear reader, should you.” – Sunday Times “A triumph of absurdity, which burlesques the literary canon from Shakespeare, Pope and Austen to Flann O’Brien … The Lammisters is very clever indeed.” – The Guardian

Monday, July 22, 2013

The French Connection

You won’t have noticed, of course, but yours truly and his long-suffering family went off on holidays at the start of July, swanning down to the Cote d’Azur for a fortnight of sun, fun, good food and frolics (sample of said frolics, right, taken on the prom in Monaco).
  To be honest, I’m not the best of it yet – I’m still struggling in low gear and trying to get back into the swing of things, which is why this space will very probably remain quiet for the next few days. That said, I should really kick-start myself: I missed a host of stuff while I was away, including a couple of CWA longlist nominations for Stuart Neville and Michael Russell, the announcement of launches for novels by Louise Phillips and Joe Joyce (both of which appear to be launching on August 7th, which is a pity), and the very quiet release of CUT by Frank McGrath, which I suspect will be a crime novel a cut (oh yes) above the ordinary.
  It was a good fortnight, though, a goodly chunk of which was spent on a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean with a notebook (and perhaps a cold beer or two) on the table, pen in hand, sketching out the next book. All very pleasant, of course, but I’ve been putting off said book for more than a few months now, and I need to buckle down and write it. I’m dreading the prospect of starting it, because it seems forever since I began writing a new book, and I seem to have forgotten how to do so. Happily enough, that’s generally the case, and a couple of weeks of eating my eyebrows in front of a blank page should soon sort that out.
  Anyway, it’s good to be back. Everyone else well, I trust?

No comments: