Fiction General Hawes, J Dead Long Enough

ISBN 13: 9780099759812

Dead Long Enough

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9780099759812: Dead Long Enough

Harry MacDonald had seen plenty of skulls - arsing about with some poor sod or other's skull is what pays Harry's rent - but until the day of his official thirty-ninth birthday (actually, Harry was knocking on forty), which was also the day he met Shnade again, he had never noticed the shape of his own skull-to-be; and until the night of that same day, he had never seen a living skull being crunched deliberately, wetly inwards. Perhaps it all happened because Harry had got lost in his work for too long. Or perhaps because Shnade had got lost doing nothing for too long. Or perhaps because all of us, Harry and Shnade included, are lost full stop. She's not really Shnade, of course. Shnade was what we heard, and is what we called her, and is what she will be, to me any rate, for as long as I have. When Shnade swung round, I saw her dress flick along with the movement of her hips and brush Harry's thigh. It was a light, small, flimsy dress of reddish cotton; she wore it over some kind of black, shiny, strappy, swimsuitish thing. You could see this big tattoo of a lizard that ran right from her shoulder to her wrist. And you could tell that when her dress swished across the thigh of Harry's jeans, it felt to him like it was made of chain-mail. And I think, looking back, we all knew, right then, that Harry was fucked.

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Review:

Our religion is: Life, Liberty and the pursuit of a second chance. We spend our days in mere rehearsal for the time, the great day, when we will iron it all out and start to really live. The great, bright moment when all our daily evasions, compromises and dissatisfactions will all be rewarded and transfigured.
In Dead Long Enough, James Hawes' third novel, he presents the "great day" as a myriad of bewildering choices, hearty arguments, humorous banter and the copious consumption of drugs. Every year, three people meet to celebrate the "false" birthday of their friend Harry McDonald, celebrity archaeologist. Armed only with their toothbrushes, credit cards and cash, they all travel to a destination known only to Harry--an attempt to recapture their youth. This year, however, Harry's life takes an unexpected, hair-raising turn at an IRA pub. Like his two previous novels, Hawes' writing is thoroughly infused with a passionate and sometimes hysterical fear of ageing, creating an atmosphere of aimless urgency. It would be wrong to specifically cast this book to a thirtysomething age group but that is where most empathy will lie. Even so, it will be an attractive and intriguing read for those who are curious about what (possibly) lies ahead, or for others, what they've left behind. -- Danny Graydon

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Book Description Vintage Publishing, United Kingdom, 2001. Paperback. Book Condition: New. 194 x 126 mm. Language: English . Brand New Book. Harry MacDonald had seen plenty of skulls - arsing about with some poor sod or other s skull is what pays Harry s rent - but until the day of his official thirty-ninth birthday (actually, Harry was knocking on forty), which was also the day he met Shnade again, he had never noticed the shape of his own skull-to-be; and until the night of that same day, he had never seen a living skull being crunched deliberately, wetly inwards. Perhaps it all happened because Harry had got lost in his work for too long. Or perhaps because Shnade had got lost doing nothing for too long. Or perhaps because all of us, Harry and Shnade included, are lost full stop. She s not really Shnade, of course. Shnade was what we heard, and is what we called her, and is what she will be, to me any rate, for as long as I have. When Shnade swung round, I saw her dress flick along with the movement of her hips and brush Harry s thigh. It was a light, small, flimsy dress of reddish cotton; she wore it over some kind of black, shiny, strappy, swimsuitish thing. You could see this big tattoo of a lizard that ran right from her shoulder to her wrist. And you could tell that when her dress swished across the thigh of Harry s jeans, it felt to him like it was made of chain-mail. And I think, looking back, we all knew, right then, that Harry was fucked. Bookseller Inventory # AB99780099759812

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Book Description Vintage Publishing, United Kingdom, 2001. Paperback. Book Condition: New. 194 x 126 mm. Language: English . Brand New Book. Harry MacDonald had seen plenty of skulls - arsing about with some poor sod or other s skull is what pays Harry s rent - but until the day of his official thirty-ninth birthday (actually, Harry was knocking on forty), which was also the day he met Shnade again, he had never noticed the shape of his own skull-to-be; and until the night of that same day, he had never seen a living skull being crunched deliberately, wetly inwards. Perhaps it all happened because Harry had got lost in his work for too long. Or perhaps because Shnade had got lost doing nothing for too long. Or perhaps because all of us, Harry and Shnade included, are lost full stop. She s not really Shnade, of course. Shnade was what we heard, and is what we called her, and is what she will be, to me any rate, for as long as I have. When Shnade swung round, I saw her dress flick along with the movement of her hips and brush Harry s thigh. It was a light, small, flimsy dress of reddish cotton; she wore it over some kind of black, shiny, strappy, swimsuitish thing. You could see this big tattoo of a lizard that ran right from her shoulder to her wrist. And you could tell that when her dress swished across the thigh of Harry s jeans, it felt to him like it was made of chain-mail. And I think, looking back, we all knew, right then, that Harry was fucked. Bookseller Inventory # AB99780099759812

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Book Description 2001. Paperback. Book Condition: New. 129mm x 197mm x 22mm. Paperback. Harry MacDonald had seen plenty of skulls - arising wbout with some poor sod or other's skull is what pays Harry's rent - but until the day of his official thirty-ninth birthday (actually,.Shipping may be from multiple locations in the US or from the UK, depending on stock availability. 320 pages. 0.232. Bookseller Inventory # 9780099759812

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Book Description Vintage Publishing. Paperback. Book Condition: new. BRAND NEW, Dead Long Enough, James Hawes, Harry MacDonald had seen plenty of skulls - arsing about with some poor sod or other's skull is what pays Harry's rent - but until the day of his official thirty-ninth birthday (actually, Harry was knocking on forty), which was also the day he met Shnade again, he had never noticed the shape of his own skull-to-be; and until the night of that same day, he had never seen a living skull being crunched deliberately, wetly inwards. Perhaps it all happened because Harry had got lost in his work for too long. Or perhaps because Shnade had got lost doing nothing for too long. Or perhaps because all of us, Harry and Shnade included, are lost full stop. She's not really Shnade, of course. Shnade was what we heard, and is what we called her, and is what she will be, to me any rate, for as long as I have. When Shnade swung round, I saw her dress flick along with the movement of her hips and brush Harry's thigh. It was a light, small, flimsy dress of reddish cotton; she wore it over some kind of black, shiny, strappy, swimsuitish thing. You could see this big tattoo of a lizard that ran right from her shoulder to her wrist. And you could tell that when her dress swished across the thigh of Harry's jeans, it felt to him like it was made of chain-mail. And I think, looking back, we all knew, right then, that Harry was fucked. Bookseller Inventory # B9780099759812

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Book Description Vintage. Paperback. Book Condition: New. UNUSED, LIKE NEW, NOT EX-LIBRARY, 320 pages. Harry MacDonald had seen plenty of skulls - arsing about with some poor sod or other's skull is what pays Harry's rent - but until the day of his official thirty-ninth birthday (actually, Harry was knocking on forty), which was also the day he met Shnade again, he had never noticed the shape of his own skull-to-be; and until the night of that same day, he had never seen a living skull being crunched deliberately, wetly inwards. Perhaps it all happened because Harry had got lost in his work for too long. Or perhaps because Shnade had got lost doing nothing for too long. Or perhaps because all of us, Harry and Shnade included, are lost full stop. She's not really Shnade, of course. Shnade was what we heard, and is what we called her, and is what she will be, to me any rate, for as long as I have. When Shnade swung round, I saw her dress flick along with the movement of her hips and brush Harry's thigh. It was a light, small, flimsy dress of reddish cotton; she wore it over some kind of black, shiny, strappy, swimsuitish thing. You could see this big tattoo of a lizard that ran right from her shoulder to her wrist. And you could tell that when her dress swished across the thigh of Harry's jeans, it felt to him like it was made of chain-mail. And I think, looking back, we all knew, right then, that Harry was fucked. (20000912). Bookseller Inventory # 9082

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