Les disparus de Dublin

She heard what he was really saying - honestly, he was jealous of everyone! - and she sighed and gave him a look.
"He's a priest, Andy. He was just paying a visit."
"Well, I hope he don't visit too often. I don't like priests in the house. My old Ma always said it was a bad luck."
There were quite a few things Claire could say about Andy's old Ma, if only she dared.

- La bombe pèse plus lourd que la plume, je vous le garantis.

He took a violent draught of his drink, throwing back his head and opening his mouth wide, the cords of his throat pulsing as he swallowed. "I'm writing poetry again," he said, wiping his bulbous red lip with the back of his hand. "In Irish, that lovely language that I learned in jail, the university of the working classes."

Il lui restait si peu d'avenir que désormais ses préoccupations se focalisaient principalement sur le passé.

They were both silent for a time, then Quirke lifted a hand and made a gesture indicating the statue, the sanctuary lamp, the altar with its gold-embroidered white cloth, and said:
"Tell me, Mal, do you really believe in all this?"
Mal considered. "I try to," he said. He looked sidelong at his brother-in-law. "And you - what do you believe in?"
"I was cured of believing in things a long time ago."

The corpse was that of a young woman, slim and yellow-haired; she had been pretty, but death had robbed her of her features and now she might be a carving in soapstone, primitive and bland. Something, his pathologist's instinct perhaps, told him what the name would be before he looked at the label tied to her toe. 'Christine Falls,' he murmured. 'You were well named.' Looking more closely he noticed the dark roots of her hair at forehead and temples: dead, and not even a real blonde.

Pour Quirke, ce n'était pas tant les morts que les vivants qu'il trouvait inquiétant.

Quirke did not consider himself to be a brave man, maybe not even a courageous one. The fact was, his physical courage or otherwise had never been tested, and he had always assumed it never would be. Wars, murders, violent robberies, assaults with blunt instruments, the newpapers were full of such things, but they seemed to take place elsewhere, in a sort of parallel world ruled and run by a different, more violent, altogether more formidable and vicious species of human being than the ones he normally encountered.

«Dans le service de médecine légale, il faisait toujours nuit. C'était un des trucs qui plaisaient à Quirke dans son boulot - avec cette impression d'y perpétuer des pratiques ancestrales, des techniques secrètes, une oeuvre trop sombre pour être accomplie en pleine lumière.

C’était l’obstétricien le plus couru de la ville. En dépit de sa formidable réputation, il avait une certaine timidité qui attirait toutes ces futures mères. Pendant des heures de visite, les maris soupiraient quand leurs épouses commençaient à discourir sur M. Griffin et de nombreux petits garçons nés à l’hôpital Holy Family se voyaient contraints de s’aventurer dans la course d’obstacles que représentait l’existence affublés du prénom de Malachy, handicap loin d’être négligeable, de l’avis de Quirke.