![]() ![]() All the things she has secretly promised tend to feature in her books: intricately-drawn characters, a dysfunctional family, lots of riding, snappy dialogue, a teaser followed by a flashback, “sexy mens”, on-the-money descriptions, multiple converging plotlines and unabashed Irishisms – or Keyes-isms. She knows who she’s writing for and we know why we love her. Part of the draw is the unspoken pact she seems to have with her readers. She doesn't allow a character cross the threshold of her books without excavating their psyche The thing about Keyes is that she gets people. On a dull winter night or in the depths of a hangover, there’s no better cure than a Keyes. We tuck them into our schoolbags when we should be studying loftier things. We reach for them, like a spouse’s hand, from sun loungers and hospital beds. In fact, there must be a great many, since she’s Ireland’s bestselling living author. ![]() I’m sure there are many readers like me, who turn to Keyes when no one else will do. I was exhausted by literature – exasperated with its coolness and impenetrability – and my tattered paperback of The Mystery of Mercy Close (found left behind in a holiday home), my earmarked copy of Angels, and my never-returned library copy of Rachel’s Holiday felt like literature’s last remaining bastions proof that words could still hold me and lift my spirits. Some time ago I went through a spell where I could only read books by Marian Keyes. ![]()
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