Kevin Barry has, for almost two decades now, been heralded as one of Ireland’s most dazzlingly gifted fiction writers. Whether he’s conjuring a dystopian city on Ireland’s Atlantic coast, imagining John Lennon’s post-Beatles island pilgrimage, or following a group of middle-aged ale enthusiasts on a train journey to Wales, Barry writes with incomparable brio and achingly melancholy humanity. Perhaps most impressively, the man is (as Robert Hass once said of Cormac McCarthy) incapable of writing a boring sentence. (Choose a few at random if you think I’m being hyperbolic.)
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