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Kevin Barry

Portrait of Kevin Barry

Kevin Barry est l'auteur des recueils de nouvelles Dark Lies The Island et There Are Little Kingdoms et du roman City Of Bohane. Il a été récompensé par différents prix littéraires, tels que  l'Authors Club Best First Novel Award, le Rooney Prize for Irish Literature, et le Sunday Times EFG Private Bank Short Story Award, et a été nominé pour le Costa First Novel Award. Ses nouvelles ont été publiées dans le New Yorker, le Granta Book of the Irish Story, et dans de nombreux autres journaux. Kevin travaille aussi sur des pièces et des scénarios. Il vit à Sligo.

Winning Book

City of Bohane

Projetons-nous quarante ans en avant. La ville de Bohane, située sur la côte ouest de l’Irlande, et autrefois de bonne réputation, est désormais à genoux, gangrenée par le vice et divisée par les guerres tribales. On y trouve encore des quartiers chics, mais c’est dans les bidonvilles et les rues écartées de Smoketown, dans les tours de Northside Rises and dans les tourbières de Big Nothin’ que bat vraiment le cœur de la cité. Pendant des années, la ville a été dans les mains de Logan Hartnett, le parrain chic du gang Hartnett Fancy. Mais il y a des problèmes dans l’air. On raconte que sa Némésis est de retour en ville; ses fidèles bras droits deviennent ambitieux, et sa dame veut qu’il lâche tout et rentre dans le droit chemin. Et il y a sa mère… City Of Bohane est un roman visionnaire qui mêle diverses influences, le cinéma, le roman graphique, les Trojan beats, les rythmes calypsos, les mythes et légendes celtes, le fado, les sagas, et le fantastique héritage de la littérature irlandaise. Un travail envoûtant d’imagination et d’innovation linguistique de haute voltige, nouveau et superbe.

Cover of City of Bohane

Publishing House

Address: 

20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, Royaume-Uni

Phone No.: 
+44(0)20 7840 8400
Organisation: 
Jonathan Cape, Random House

Agent / Rights Director

Email Address: 
Representative: 
Lucy Luck

Translation Deals

  • Albania: Morava
  • Croatia: Sysprint
  • France: Actes Sud
  • FYROM: Ars Lamina
  • Germany: Klett-Cotta
  • Hungary: Goncol Kiadó
  • Latvia: Lietusdārzs Ltd.
  • Lebanon: All Prints
  • Serbia: Zavet
  • Spain: Rayo Verde SL
  • Ukraine: Astrolabe Publishing

Excerpt

Whatever’s wrong with us is coming in off that river. No argument: the taint of badness on the city’s air is a taint off that river. This is the Bohane river we’re talking about. A blackwater surge, malevolent, it roars in off the Big Nothin’ wastes and the city was spawned by it and was named for it: city of Bohane.

 

He walked the docks and breathed in the sweet badness of the river. It was past midnight on the Bohane front. There was an evenness to his footfall, a slow calm rhythm of leather on stone, and the dockside lamps burned in the night-time a green haze, the light of a sad dream. The water’s roar for Hartnett was as the rushing of his own blood and as he passed the merchant yards the guard dogs strung out a sequence of howls all along the front. See the dogs: their hackles heaped, their yellow eyes livid. We could tell he was coming by the howling of the dogs.

 

Polis watched him but from a distance – a pair of hoss polis watering their piebalds at a trough ’cross in Smoketown. Polis were fresh from the site of a reefing.

 

‘Ya lampin’ him over?’ said one. ‘Albino motherfucker.’

 

‘Set yer clock by him,’ said the other.

 

Albino, some called him, others knew him as the Long Fella: he ran the Hartnett Fancy.

 

He cut off from the dockside and walked on into the Back

 

Trace, the infamous Bohane Trace, a most evil labyrinth, an unknowable web of streets. He had that Back Trace look to him: a dapper buck in a natty-boy Crombie, the Crombie draped all casual-like over the shoulders of a pale grey Eyetie suit, mohair. Mouth of teeth on him like a vandalised grave­yard but we all have our crosses. It was a pair of hand-stitched Portuguese boots that slapped his footfall, and the stress that fell, the emphasis, was money.

 

Hard-got the riches – oh the stories that we told out in Bohane about Logan Hartnett.

 

Dank little squares of the Trace opened out suddenly, like gasps, and Logan passed through. All sorts of quarehawks lingered Trace-deep in the small hours. They looked down as he passed, they examined their toes and their sacks of tawny wine – you wouldn’t make eye contact with the Long Fella if you could help it. Strange, but we had a fear of him and a pride in him, both. He had a fine hold of himself, as we say in Bohane.

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