A satisfying yarn. The Deep Atlantic deserves to saty in print as long as tourists visit Ireland and seek insights into the people and places of the west country. I bought a copy at The Four Masters bookshop while on holiday in Ireland.
It is a whodunit, an accuarate history of the final IRA peace, and overall, in classic Greek terms, a comedy where things all turn out well. But it is also a trajedy, as a codicil to World War II and to the passing of the old times, when roads were bad but at least men were heroic and stoical and could at least afford a few pints of Guiness in the local pub.
The pace and excitement is so fast in the first 200 pages, one wonders how the story will stretch out to 425 pages!! But the drama indeed builds to an astonishing denouement, in the grisly time capsule of the Third Reich.
The blurb says Peter Dillon was born in Sligo and now lives in Dublin. Mysterious!! Reminds me of Melville writing Moby Dick while working in the customs office; some day job that supports a technical mastery on the level of a Tom Clancy novel. It could only be told by someone who has braved storms to sail to the islands of Mayo and Donegal.
In the end, the heroes get the girls they deserve, the mad bomber of the IRA gets a satisfying disposition. The reader gets the feeling that Peter Dillon might almost be a newJames Joyce. Like the current Bloomsday, some day the tourist bureaus of Dublin, Castlebar and Kilebegs mayorganize itineraries for Peter Dillon fans to retrace his old haunts.
Like the Leopard about Lampedusa, The Deep Atlantic is a one-of-a-kind classic waiting to be discovered.
Reader in Minnesota