By Patrick McCabe
From the winner of the Irish instances Award for Fiction 1992 and the Booker Prize shortlisted writer of The Butcher Boy.
It appeared as though the city of Carn, a huddled clump of windswept gray constructions break up in by way of a muddied major highway, had by some means been lively away and supplanted by way of a thriving, bustling position which bore no resemblance no matter what to it. For a cut up moment, she observed her personal dying, a gunmetal face mounted at the sky, everywhere in the faces and voices of Carn as she had recognized it. Josie Keenan had come domestic to the city of Carn, the one domestic she knew’
‘A special list through an individual who knows that the truth of small-town lifestyles is as very important in literature as any point of eire . . . a savage, uncooked and sour honesty . . . i do know no Irish author with such an visible, awesome talent’
Dermot Bolger, Sunday Independent
‘Powerful, particular writing – Patrick McCabe’s Carn introduces essentially the most promising writers in a protracted, lengthy time’ invoice Buford, Granta
‘Resolute . . . the writing is uncooked and didactic. His tale bears the hideous ring of authenticity’
‘Stylishly narrated, yet with the chronological forthrightness that comes as a benison after a few smooth novels’
London evaluate of Books
Read Online or Download Carn PDF
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Additional resources for Carn
Said Ford suddenly to Arthur. Arthur, struggling through his third pint, looked round at him. “Why? ” He had given up being surprised, there didn’t seem to be any point any longer. Ford clicked his tongue in irritation. “Drink up,” he urged. At that moment the dull sound of a rumbling crash from outside filtered through the low murmur of the pub, through the sound of the jukebox, through the sound of the man next to Ford hiccupping over the whisky Ford had eventually bought him. Arthur choked on his beer, leaped to his feet.
For instance, he had spent those fifteen years pretending to be an out-of-work actor, which was plausible enough. He had made one careless blunder though, because he had skimped a bit on his preparatory research. The information he had gathered had led him to choose the name “Ford Prefect” as being nicely inconspicuous. He was not conspicuously tall, his features were striking but not conspicuously handsome. His hair was wiry and gingerish and brushed backward from the temples. His skin seemed to be pulled backward from the nose.
3. If you don’t have any friends in the White House, phone the Kremlin (ask the overseas operator for 0107-095-295-9051). They don’t have any friends there either (at least, none to speak of), but they do seem to have a little influence, so you may as well try. 4. If that also fails, phone the Pope for guidance. His telephone number is 011-39-6-6982, and I gather his switchboard is infallible. 5. If all these attempts fail, flag down a passing flying saucer and explain that it’s vitally important you get away before your phone bill arrives.