Carnival: A Novel

By Rawi Hage

A stirring new masterpiece from the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award–winning writer of Cockroach and De Niro’s Game.

In Carnival, the world over acclaimed writer Rawi Hage takes us into the realm of Fly, a taxi driving force in a crime-ridden apocalyptic city.

Raised within the circus, the son of a golden-haired trapeze artist and a flying-carpet guy, Fly sees every thing, taking in all the city’s carnivalesque attractiveness and ugliness as he roves via its dizzying streets in his taxi. Fly is a reader, too, and whilst he’s no longer in his taxi he's at domestic within the both dizzying labyrinth of books that fills his tiny house. His ally is Otto, a political activist who’s out and in of jails and asylums, mourning his useless spouse and misplaced foster son. On one in a different way tawdry evening Fly meets Mary, a book-loving passenger with a domineering husband. So starts a romance that's, for Fly, a short glimmer of sunshine amid the shadows and grit of the Carnival city.

Along with Otto and Mary, Fly introduces us to madmen and revolutionaries, magicians and prostitutes as he choices them up and drops them off, touring via a nightmarish city that is―we can’t support yet notice―a parable for our personal debauched, unjust world.

Wildly imaginitive and darkly ironic, Carnival is an impressive achievement.

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Mary. Am I right? convinced, omit so-and-so acknowledged. ok, should still I meet him on the St. Mary’s eating place within St. Mary’s clinic? No, you could pass directly to the room. The variety of the room? it's 107. ideal. thanks. God bless you, she stated. I hung up the telephone and went again to the van and mentioned all of it with the pink Brigades woman. Plan B? I stated. She nodded and regarded seductive in her assertive approach. I’ll help you get to St. Mary’s clinic, I stated. shall we continually drop the minister there. And the manifesto, the ransom? she requested. I’ll see if the Church can pay it, I instructed her. The Vatican’s voters are filthy rich. I took my motor vehicle and flew under the clouds. while i noticed the sanatorium, I locked my wheels and took a kamikaze dive in the direction of the lot. I walked inside of nonchalantly and took the steps and entered the room. I hardly ever famous the priest. He appeared as though he were abducted via extraterrestrial beings and tied up in plastic wires, and he additionally regarded frailer and older than he had the final time I’d visible him. in the back of him sprouted a jungle of vegetation and a row of get-well playing cards picturing bowed heads, a set of Marys, and crosses and little homes. I went immediately to the window and checked on my automobile. I had left it parked within the medical professionals simply lot as a protest opposed to favouritism and privilege. to this point, the auto used to be nonetheless there, secure. I stretched my neck and regarded out the window, yet I didn’t see any tow vans coming my method. not anything alarming, purely an ambulance siren dashing in the direction of the emergency doorways. there have been nuns at the back of the room whom, firstly, I didn’t observe, or odor, for that topic. while do you're thinking that the priest will regain attention? I requested them. We don’t understand, they answered in a synchronized refrain. Is he asleep? I requested. sure, he's, they acknowledged. may still I get back later? in case you like, sang the duet. I’ll move down for a cigarette, I acknowledged, and go back in an hour. incidentally, have you ever obvious Mary? Sister Mary? No, that Mary is Caucasian, I acknowledged. Mary the reader, the person who reads for all time. She continually has a ebook in her hand. The nuns checked out one another and acknowledged, You’d higher converse to the daddy. I went right down to the cafeteria, received a espresso, and checked out the narrow rows of books within the reward store. there has been not anything i'll learn there, inferiorities to numb the brain from the rigors of the area. I went outdoor and joined the corporate of the shivering expelled people who smoke. Hospitals are a carnival of loss of life. A masquerade of haggard eyes staring at on the white, purgatorial partitions, a faint chaos of hunchbacked moms chasing orderlies, of medical professionals disguised in aprons, pointing magic wands at nurses in angelic uniforms and muffled faucet sneakers, waving bandages fallacious for egg rolls. Hospitals are asylums with flying ambulances, mattress bells to summon the physician’s spirits, sponge baths above white linen, janitors swinging mops over hazy flooring, night moans on the final sundown, and refrigerators packed with ice for arrested hearts. Sir, I acknowledged, are you up but? Ah, you’ve come, the priest stated with trouble. certain, i'm right here.

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