John Connolly was born in Dublin, Ireland, studied English in
Trinity College and journalism at Dublin City University, then spent
five years working as a freelance journalist for the Irish Times, to which he continues to contribute occasionally. His first novel, Every Dead Thing,
was published in 1999 and introduced the character of Charlie Parker, a
former policeman hunting the killer of his wife and daughter. Six
Charlie Parker novels followed, most recently The Unquiet, published this year by Atria. He has also written three stand-alones: Bad Men, Nocturnes (novellas and short stories) and The Book of Lost Things, a story about fairy stories and the power that books have to shape our world and our imaginations. He is currently working on The Reapers,
which, if he stops pfaffing about, will be published next year. Here he
continues to procrastinate by answering questions we put to people in
the book business:
On your nightstand now:
Pegasus Descending by James Lee Burke and Perfect From Now: How Indie Rock Saved My Life by John Sellers.
Favorite book when you were a child:
Gosh, I think that varied according to my mood. The first book I ever
read was an Enid Blyton book, so I guess that started me on the reading
path, but I can remember being hugely fond of a book of children's
verse, mainly because it had one poem about a child being sick in bed
that was illustrated with a drawing of said kid surrounded by toy
soldiers that were carefully balanced on the bedclothes. I used to do
that when I was sick. It was desperately hard to get the soldiers to
stay upright, and if you sneezed, they all fell over. The kid in the
picture was having the same problems, I seem to recall . . .
Other than those two, I loved novelizations of Doctor Who,
John Wyndham's science fiction novels, Alistair Maclean adventures and,
from about the age of nine, Ian Fleming's James Bond books, although
the dodgy sex scenes largely went over my head.
Your top five authors:
Charles Dickens, followed in no particular order by Ross Macdonald, James Lee Burke, Cormac McCarthy, P.G. Wodehouse.
Book you've faked reading:
Men Withering by Francis Macmanus. It was on the reading list in school when I was 14 and remains my most intensely disliked book, as it put me off reading for months. I got about halfway through and then skimmed the rest. Even the title is depressing: it sounds like some form of sexual dysfunction.
Books you are an evangelist for:
The Chill by Ross Macdonald, which I think is one of the most perfectly constructed, and unsettling, mystery novels ever written. I've pressed Ben Hamper's Rivethead on quite a number of people, as it's a brilliant book about how rotten it can be to have to work for a living, and I love Giles Smith's Lost in Music. It's one of the best books ever written about how popular music can shape young men. Oh, and Bleak House by Charles Dickens, which is my favourite novel in English.
Book you've bought for the cover:
Most of them, I imagine. Never judge a book by the cover is one of those pieces of advice that's true about everything except books. I have a copy of Salammbo by Flaubert that has a nude woman apparently being threatened by a big snake, which I bought as an adolescent. I imagine that says more about my pubescent state of mind than about any great appreciation of classic French literature.
Books that changed your life:
The Great Shark Hunt by Hunter S. Thompson confirmed in me my desire to be a journalist, although Thompson's journalism has been a blight upon the trade. It wasn't his fault, but he did spawn a legion of inferior imitators. Reading James Lee Burke's Black Cherry Blues made me realize that mystery fiction could be as beautifully written as any literary fiction. I'd also have to go for E. E. Cummings's Collected Poems, as he remains my favourite poet and gave me a new appreciation for the form, since he was the first poet I discovered for myself. (His love poems are also very useful for seducing women. Er, I'm told.)
Favorite line from a book:
" 'Well, tinkerty-tonk,' I said. And I meant it to sting." That's Bertie Wooster, from one of P.G. Wodehouse's novels or stories. I'm not sure that it's my favourite line from a book, but it's one of the most memorable, and it always makes me smile.
Books you have re-read:
The Last of the Mohicans; Wuthering Heights; The Good Soldier; six nonlectures by E. E. Cummings.
Book you most want to read again for the first time:
It's probably a short story rather than a book: "Jeeves and the Yuletide Spirit." If that one doesn't make you laugh, then I suspect nothing ever will.
Book that you bought with every good intention of reading but that you suspect you never will:
Proust's A La Recherche du Temps Perdu. I bought all three volumes when I was in my early 20s, and they still mock me from the bookshelf in a French accent every time I pass them. " 'ey, Monsieur, bet you thoughz you were cleverrrr. If you are so cleverrrr, zen 'ow come you 'ave not read uzzz . . .?"
Book that you thought you'd find difficult, but didn't:
War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy, the rather dull bit about Pierre and the Masons, and the even duller essay at the end apart.
Book you lost, then bought another copy of just so that you could finish it:
The Three Musketeers by Dumas. I think I left it on the bus with about 50 pages to go. I immediately went out and bought another copy. It was money well spent as it remains one of the best books I've ever read.
Book that you've read and deeply regret reading, knowing that you'll want the time back on your death bed and you won't get it:
The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown, the only consolation being that I read it in proof and therefore didn't have to pay for it.
Book or books that are your guilty pleasure:
Wilbur Smith novels. I had to interview him a few years back and read
Monsoon. It was a big book, but I flew through it, and now I go out and
buy his historical novels as soon as they appear. The modern ones
aren't quite as palatable because the dialogue is so clunky. Mind you,
he writes even ropier sex scenes than Ian Fleming. I'm always faintly
embarrassed when I read them, although some are hilariously funny. I
will forever be haunted by the line: "She gasped at the sight of Tom's
wondrous man thing." Why was it wondrous, I wondered? Did it light up?
Did it play a tune?