My guilty reading pleasure is gritty crime novels, and it is a singular pleasure to come across one so beautifully written and constructed that there is nothing to feel guilty about. But maybe this isn't even a crime novel?

Tom Kettle is a retired detective who has spent the first 9 months after leaving his job peacefully sitting in a wicker chair smoking cigarillos and looking out at Dublin Bay. He's alone. His wife, daughter, and son are dead from various tragic events during his life, but he thinks he might be coming to terms with his losses. Until two detectives pound on his door one evening and reopen some very old wounds that force him to dig deep into his past and struggle with how much he is going to share and with whom. Relationships with the people in his life suddenly become important in a way that they weren't when he was working and needed to keep distant and detached.

Child abuse by Irish priests figures in this story, with the historical figure of Archbishop McQuaid and his refusal to pursue allegations against some of his priests as a backdrop. So yes, there is crime in this book, but much more important are the impacts of love and loss and old, indefensible actions of the Irish Catholic Church on a retired, grieving detective.

This is my first Barry novel, and the writing often feels like sleight of hand. The book moves back and forth in time, and melds hallucinatory happenings in Kettle's mind with the story's action so deftly that it is hard to separate them. This creates a cryptic, otherworldly mood. It's really well done and a bit creepy.

I like this book a lot, don't feel a bit guilty, and now have eight other Sebastian Barry books going on my ever expanding to read list. My only criticism is that although his similes and metaphors are mostly gorgeous, they seem laid on a bit thick at times and can feel overworked.