I have tremendous affection for noir crime fiction, both on the screen and in book form. Contrary to commonly held belief, these stories are not cynical at all, but instead tend to be extremely romantic, and one of my (many) flaws as a human being is that, ever since I was a little child, I’ve been a romantic.

I don’t mean only about love, the way it’s usually taken. I mean in the Ayn Randian sense of the belief (I would be tempted to amend that to “hope”) that Man is better than he actually is.

In the darkest films noir, some tough guy invariably falls hopelessly in love with the wrong woman. As we watch the story unfold, we know – absolutely know – that it’s all going to go wrong. But the good filmmakers set us up, just as the femme fatale has set up her poor sap. We believe, because we want to believe, that there is hope for happiness at the end of the day, only to have those hopes dashed.

In crime fiction there appears to be something about the darkness that lends itself to beautiful prose that grazes at the edge of poetry. Raymond Chandler stands at the pinnacle of this literary monument. His book are the perfect amalgamation of storytelling excitement and a prose style that exalts metaphor and imagery to heights never achieved before or since.

In the world of the dark crime novel, several writers have aspired to that Chandleresque ideal, and even occasionally come close. Ross Macdonald is the first to come to mind, as he so consciously emulated the master. Other frequently superb practitioners of this demanding literature include James Crumley, Dashiell Hammett, James Ellroy, Dennis Lehane, Michael Connelly, and Robert B. Parker.

Only in the past few years have I become aware of another superb writer who is, believe it or not, darker than any of these writers. He is darker than Cornell Woolrich and Jim Thompson, too. His name is Ken Bruen, and his books are – let me see, how can I say this? – dark.

It’s easy to write dark books. Okay, I take it back. It’s not easy to write a book, any book, not even one where a house pet solves the crime. What’s really hard is to write a dark book that aspires to, and achieves, a sort of poetry – a novel with lines that force you to stop, go back, and reread them. Or, if you’re around someone you care about, that compel you to interrupt whatever they’re doing and say, hey, listen to this. This is what Mr. Bruen does.

My wife is not happy when I pick up yet another book by Mr. Bruen (and I’ve read six in the past month, since I can’t get enough). She’s pretty content to read books by a woman whose name I won’t mention because she’s too odious to acknowledge more than once in this column (which I’ve already done). But I am so impressed by some sentences that I can’t contain my enthusiasm, and she has to patiently listen. When I’m done, she reluctantly admits it was worth the interruption.

Here’s a paragraph I hit her with a few nights ago, from Mr. Bruen’s most recent novel, “The Magdalen Martyrs” (St. Martins, 274 pages, $22.95):

December is a rough month. Screw all that festive preparation. If you’re on your own, it mocks you at every turn. You open an old book and find a list of friends you once sent cards to. Now, they’re all dead or disappeared. The television is crammed with toys for children you never had, and boy, is it ever too late. The radio is playing ballads that once held significance or even hope.

“The Magdalen Martyrs” is the latest entrant in his series about Jack Taylor, a former member of the Irish Guards, from which he was booted for that all too common Irish affliction – especially in literature – excessive booze. It is not the darkest of his books, and by that I mean not everybody dies. Not quite, anyway.

As in so much of the best noir fiction, a story in the present relates to events of the past. Set in Galway, the book tells of a place called the Magdalen laundry where, years ago, young wayward girls were sent as prisoners.

The Magdalen was run by truly brutal nuns, most notoriously one called Lucifer (behind her back, to be sure) who scarred the young faces with beatings from her rosary beads, among other cruelties. The laundry is gone now, and the new Galway, which depends to a large degree on its vibrant tourism, doesn’t want to be reminded that it ever existed.

“The Magdalen Martyrs” opens with a portrait of one of the girls in the laundry polishing a floor. She reflects. “The baby she’d had to give up hung like a wound on her soul, searing the very prayers she was trying to mouth.” A dizzy spell hits, and she doubles over, catching the eye of Lucifer, who immediately beats her.

The ramifications of that act, and innumerable others like it, resonate a half-century later. Taylor, brought in by one of Galway’s “hard men” to repay a debt, is merely asked to find someone. He has no clue that it somehow connects to events that occurred a long time ago.

A pretty hard man himself, Taylor is filled with a sense of hopelessness, largely brought on by the addictions he can’t control. “So I drink,” he says. “I’m way past my sell-by date and am on precious borrowed time. I should have gone down a long time ago. Lots of days, I wish I had.”

He’s probably right about his future. Bleak. But speaking for those readers who find him, if not likable, at least moral and interesting – filled with a love of books as well as alcohol and drugs – we hope he hangs on for a while yet, as we follow him down alleys so mean they make Elm Street seem like Sesame Street.

Mr. Penzler is the proprietor of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan and the series editor of the annual “Best American Mystery Stories.” He can be reached at openzler@nysun.com.