The “troubled genius” trope is so common in detective fiction that Monk seems no more than an average example to me! It’s as though you have to go as horrific as Blank Slate’s example of Ash Henderson to make the misery notable.
James Lee Burke’s Dave Robicheaux is another example – long-term alcoholic who has lost something like 3 wives to murder or accidents. And his best friend Clete Purcell, a private eye, is even more messed up. And they’re both Vietnam vets who somehow are still getting into fistfights and chasing baddies well into the 2010s.
Here we go
Great!
I’d nominate Dirk Gentley of the Dirk Gentley books. Been a while since I read them, but he was pretty miserable in all aspects. No friends, no money, a feud with his house cleaner over his refrigerator, and his clients seemed to have a tendency to die before they had a chance to pay, when he did have clients.
I nominate John River, whose only friend is the ghost of his former partner.
I don’t think Monk is particularly miserable. He has lots of issues but he mostly deals with them, he’s in therapy, and he gets a fair amount of pleasure out of life. Yes, his wife was murdered. There’s lots worse in a lot of other detectives’ lives.
The Irish detectives that I have read seem especially unable to be happy. There’s Ed Loy, in a series by Declan Hughes, who seems to not only be pretty miserable himself, but brings misery to those around him. Then there’s Quirke, in a series by Benjamin Black; he’s the Dublin forensic pathologist who drinks too much and can’t seem to keep his nose out of things that get him beaten up.
But the most miserable detective of all is Ian Rutledge, Scotland Yard inspector. An officer in WWI, he survived physically but his mental state is crippling. In the war he had to execute his Scottish sergeant for failure to order his men to charge as ordered, and now he carries the sergeant’s voice in his head. The voice gives him no peace and no quarter, although it also occasionally warns him of danger, since the sergeant knows if Rutledge dies he dies finally too. Rutledge is a very good detective but he gets no kudos because of bureaucratic jealousies, and he can never allow himself to get close to anyone lest they discover his secret – the voice in his head would get him diagnosed with shell shock and sent to an institution.
The guy had a really positive attitude! That’s because of the whole holistic thing. He knew stuff would just work out.
Some of Douglas Adams quirks leaked into him, but not as much as Mr. Adams lived with.
Batman.
No mention yet of Harry Bosch?
Depends on which Batman. In some depictions of superheroes (including Batman), they seem to be having a pretty good time being superheroes.
There are also various Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and James Ellroy detectives among whom it would be difficult to choose.
There was a good one from 30 ears ago, The Crosskiller, by Marcel Montecino, and his veteran police detective Jack Gold certainly qualifies.
But he’s quite happy (after his own fashion) when he is working. He has a highly rewarding life, he lives comfortably, he has at least one friend (in his own fashion), and is the subject of public adulation. He’s actually doing extremely well for a fictional detective.
How do you figure? Near as I can tell, he seems to genuinely like his job — and he seems genuinely fond of his wife, and of his favorite restaurant, and of his dog, and of the music he listens to, and so on; and he doesn’t seem to drink to dull the pain, but because he just enjoys it, same way he just enjoys ice cream. Or reminiscing about old times. Or watching a good film. Or hearing a good joke.
Most of the time, he just strikes me as an upbeat guy.
James Bond, in the books, was generally pretty miserable. He hated his job, hated his boss, and continually tried to drown his sorrows with whatever alcoholic beverage was handy. Didn’t have to be a vodka martini, either.
Either of the two protagonists from Kill the Father.
I agree with this. Plus Monk has the advantage of living and working in San Francisco. Wallander, for instance, is Swedish, so he has that whole Scandinavian depression thing going and Sherlock Holmes was living and working in gloomy, foggy London.
Well, there was ‘the woman’.
So? Every detective has one of those.
Bruce Wayne as they’ve been interminably writing him. Back when he was a smiling, happy psychopath…enjoying his wealth…trading quips with his ward while they laughingly maimed criminals…he had a certain joie de vivre. Now? Not an ounce of happiness in the man’s lives.