One of the most enjoyable things about reading Tana French’s novels is her wonderful language. I’ve been thinking a little though about whether or not the vivid, sensory voice always fits with her characters.

Take, for example, Broken Harbor‘s  narrator Scorcher Kennedy. A driven and compulsive murder detective, he has (no big surprise in a Tana French book) a terrible childhood secret that, when revealed, does a lot to explain his manic-defense-mode working style and his need to alphabetize his bookshelves. OK, he reads, but check out this description of early-morning drive back into Dublin from a mostly-abandoned housing development thirty minutes outside of town:

The haunted blackness of the estate, scaffolding bones looming up out of nowhere, stark against the stars; then the smooth speed of the motorway, cat’s-eyes flicking in and out of existence and the moon keeping pace off to one side, huge and watchful; then, gradually, the colors and movement of town building up around us, drunks and fast-food joints, the world coming back to life outside our sealed windows. (p. 169)

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I started reading Tana French’s books at the beginning of December, and just finished the last one, Broken Harbor. Looking back it seems like there should have been more than just four others; I figure that’s because they’re so dense and full.

Perhaps it’s a cliché of police procedurals and psychological thrillers–the damaged cop driven by self-loathing and dark hidden secrets. French however turns up the intensity level. She goes so deeply into each person’s motivations and feelings, with such an intricate and plausible level of detail, that at times it can be almost overwhelming.

Her gorgeous writing is an important part of this; she’s a poet and don’t I know it. However, the total effect does leave me wondering how realistic it is to have a murder detective who is so self-aware. If he feels everything so strongly as she describes, it’s amazing that he hasn’t given in to his frequent thoughts of suicide (an important theme in this book for other reasons).

When I think about the…case, from deep inside endless nights, this is the moment I remember. Everything else, every other slip and stumble along the way, could have been redeemed. This is the one I clench tight because of how sharp it slices. Cold still air, a weak ray of sun glowing on the wall outside the window, smell of stale bread and apples.

There’s at least one other example I want to cite but can’t find it at the moment. I also want to come back to the narrative structure of her books — usually a story told in retrospect. Often there is foreshadowing similar to the excerpt above; sometimes it’s successful, and some times it’s not.

I’ve ordered all four of her other books again from the library, and will be writing more about her work later.