Michael Marshall has a knack that few authors possess. In novel after novel, from Only Forward to Blood of Angels and now to The Intruders, he is able to deftly create sharply incisive and deeply observed characters inside the first page and sustain that sense of compassion and understanding throughout the work, no matter the form within which he is working, no matter the subject. Astonishingly, he consistently crafts genre novels that read like literature, with firm, muscular, and often unexpectedly brilliant prose that forcefully carries intricately layered and compelling stories. With genuine humor, natural dialog and sensible emotional reactions to the insensible and the insane, he shames those embarrassingly mediocre bestselling authors who insist on safely repeating themselves when the initial work itself was lacking, hewing close to publisher demands at the literal expense of the public; artlessly churning out inferior work and daring to call it professional; whose personal voice is indistinguishable from narrative to character and back; authors whose intrusions inform us about less than the work in progress and more about their miserably uninteresting selves. One Marshall is worth several dozen Greg Ileses, a bushel of Patricia Cornwalls, a thousand Gregggg Hurwitzes, a million Dean Koontzes and a number that defies notation of the mind blastingly insipid Kyle Mills. The Intruders is nuanced and dark. Deeply felt and bleak. It is extraordinarily well-wrought. At turns melancholy, frantic and angry. And it is haunting. The idea at its core is ancient and well trod ground; but here, miraculously, Michael Marshall has brought forth new life upon it. However dark, his work shines
Astonishingly, he consistently crafts genre novels that read like literature, with firm, muscular, and often unexpectedly brilliant prose that forcefully carries intricately layered and compelling stories