By Alistair McCartney
This isn't any traditional novel. An encyclopedia of memory—from A to Z—The finish of the realm Book deftly intertwines fiction, memoir, and cultural background, reimagining the tale of the realm and one man’s lifestyles as they either hurtle towards a daunting destiny. Alistair McCartney’s alphabetical consultant to the apocalypse layers pictures like a prose poem, construction from Aristotle to da Vinci, hip-hop to lederhosen, plagues to zippers, whereas barreling from antiquity to the current. during this profound booklet approximately mortality, McCartney composes an irreverent archive of philosophical obsessions and homoerotic fixations, demonstrating the trouble of setting apart what's genuine from what's imagined. Finalist, Edmund White Award for Debut Fiction, The Publishing Triangle
Finalist, PEN united states Literary Award for Fiction
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I actually like it. the single caring issue is the query: whilst can we have the subsequent one? ?? ?? Let's wish ii will not be in a few mild years. .. .
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Additional info for The End of the World Book: A Novel
Then I cut back to Saturday nights. Lately, I have been going out dancing less and less. Before I know it, I will no longer go dancing. This doesn’t really worry me, because I ﬁgure I can dance when I’m dead. When I am dead, I’ll have far less to do. Therefore I’ll have more time and energy to dance. The issue of whether or not I’m too old to go out dancing will no longer be an issue. I’ll also weigh less and therefore be a better dancer. All you need to dance is a bit of music, the wind tapping against your skeleton, your skeleton keeping time with the wind; all you need is your bones.
My mother and I held hands, chatting about our separate days, and walked directly into the cyclone. C I am glad that Franz Kafka did not live to see the rise of Czech gay porn and so-called gay Euro porn. For surely he would have been utterly dismayed by the sight of such vigor, such glowing health, such strapping, cheerful boys, and such ceaseless gratiﬁcation of desire. I suspect that right away he would have perceived there was something sinister going on beneath the surface of all those ruddy, rosy cheeks, and that something evil was dwelling within all the pastoral settings of so many of the earliest ﬁlms.
That was quite appealing. I began to have recurring fantasies that I was growing up in a Communist regime, one that was highly oppressive and took boys away from their families almost immediately. Although today I am still a fan of Communism, I have to say that Marx perhaps focused too much on the bourgeoisie and the proletariat. He overlooked the truly revolutionary class: the heartbroken, the romantically rejected—surely the most lumpen of the lumpen. I think he would have had more lasting success if < 35 = he had taken unrequited love into account, formulating a systematic theory of heartbreak.
The End of the World Book: A Novel by Alistair McCartney