By Sebastian Faulks
A strong modern novel set in London from a grasp of literary fiction.
London, the week sooner than Christmas, 2007. Over seven days we stick to the lives of 7 significant characters: a hedge fund supervisor attempting to convey off the most important exchange of his occupation; a certified footballer lately arrived from Poland; a tender legal professional with little paintings and an excessive amount of time to invest; a scholar who has been led off beam through Islamist conception; a hack book-reviewer; a schoolboy addicted to skunk and fact television; and a Tube teach motive force whose Circle Line teach joins those and numerous different lives jointly in a regular loop.
With bold ability, the radical items jointly the advanced styles and crossings of recent city existence. Greed, the dehumanising results of the digital age and the fragmentation of society are a few of the issues handled during this savagely funny booklet. The writing at the wall seems in letters ten ft excessive, however the characters refuse to determine it — and occasion on as if the next day is a dream.
Sebastian Faulks probes not just the self-deceptions of this intensely realised team of individuals, yet their hopes and loves besides. because the novel strikes to its gripping climax, they're compelled, one after the other, to confront the genuine nature of the realm they inhabit.
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Extra info for A Week in December
Gennaro Iovene closed the case of veterinary instruments, and headed for the stable door. The intense light dazzled him as soon as he was outside. He hesitated for a moment, then took the path to the right, towards the tracks, seeing the horses entering the gates in the distance. The man in the black coat, hands in his pockets, turned his back on the track. Iovene merely nodded at him, and when the man lit a cigarette he knew that his signal had reached its target. He walked on without turning around, hearing the mounting excitement of the public ‘The horses are in the starting gates.
But some of them do, like the filuzzi dancers, for example, show up looking like they’ve stepped out of an American movie, with their mackintoshes on and smoking their cigarettes without their hands, and you’d think they were about to order a whisky, and instead it’s always a Fernet or a Sambuca. Afterwards off they go to the dance hall, and some of them have routines that would put Fred Astaire to shame. We like it when they drop in to have a drop before going dancing, because we all feel a bit like those men with their towels over their shoulders who massage boxers before they go into the ring.
Pierre stayed at the bar for at least three or four numbers, sipping a vermouth. He knew very well that there was a girl waiting just for him. Even now, when she was dancing with a guy, she made eyes at him each time she span. Apart from anything else, she moved better than all the rest. Pierre figured she would be a fantastic filuzzi dancer as well, chucked away his cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe. He crossed the floor as though it were Piazza Maggiore on a Sunday morning, keeping his hand in his trouser pocket, under his jacket, more Cary Grant than ever.