Seated at the kitchen table, with a sandwich and a glass of milk on the white tablecloth, Marcus Conway reads the newspaper and listens to the radio. There's no one else home. We are in Louisburgh, Ireland, it is November 2, All Souls Day, and at noon the church bells ring the Angelus. Those chimes unleash the vertigo of memory, and unresolved conflicts, wounds, irreconcilable loves come to Marcus's mind: the wife he loves and whom he has nevertheless betrayed, the distant son, the artist daughter whom maybe disappointed. For an hour, and until the next news bulletin, Marcus bones the past, mentally reviewing his life as a son, as a husband, as a father, as the civil engineer that he is, marveling at the prodigious construction of the world and at the same time anticipating his soon to be. crumbling.

Written from a single sentence that –like the thread of life, like the fleeting passing of consciousness– meanders unstoppably through these pages, Huesos de sol articulates the existential and the ecological, the intimate and the social, the rural world and the globalized economy, and from that look that encompasses the family, the county, the country, the catastrophes of an era, Mike McCormack builds an epic, tender, emotional work: the life of a man in all its unfathomable depth, in all its irredeemable mystery, in all its infinite fragility. The life of a man in all that it has of everyday, tragic and miraculous.

«Extraordinarily original and unequivocally contemporary, Huesos de sol is a novel indebted to the avant-garde, but with something genuinely its own. Despite its apparent complexity, it is a wonderfully simple book.

Martin Riker, The New York Times Book Review