Arkady - Brossura

Langley, Patrick

 
9781910695517: Arkady

Sinossi

Brothers Jackson and Frank live on the margins of a big urban sprawl. From abandoned tower blocks to gleaming skyscrapers, their city is brutal, beautiful and divided. As tensions bubble to the surface and the teeming metropolis is pushed to the brink, the young brothers sail off in search of the Red Citadel and its promise of another way of life. A portrait of modern urban living, Patrick Langley’s debut Arkady is a brilliant coming-of-age novel as brimming with vitality as the city itself.

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Informazioni sull?autore

Patrick Langley is a writer who lives in London. He writes about art for frieze, Art Agenda, and other publications. He is a contributing editor at The White Review.

Estratto. © Ristampato con autorizzazione. Tutti i diritti riservati.

“The man lies flat on the sand, legs outstretched, arms at rest. His eyes are closed but his mouth is open, slack lips parted on the dark red muscle of his tongue. In the sockets of his eyes, the flesh is patterned with shades of lavender, ash, and sulphur, the soft meat swollen and deeply bruised. Weeds, sprouting from a slope of shingle, form a crooked halo around his head. Their bony trunks pierce a tangle of rust-coloured seaweed, which is shrivelled-up, jewelled with salt. Jackson inspects the plants. The brittle canes are hung with rattling seedpods, spiked with thorny leaves and needles pale as bone. Harsh gusts quicken the churning waves. The dry weeds shiver, hiss.
Jackson turns to his younger brother, who is standing a short way further down the beach. ‘Is he really dead?’ Frank asks. His voice is thin, distant.
‘I don’t know,’ Jackson replies.
‘Is he breathing?’
‘Doesn’t look like he’s breathing.’
‘We need a mirror.’
Dawn is breaking on the estuary, wads of cloud soaked in colourless light. Black hair sprawls across Frank’s forehead, reaching into his eyes. Squinting at the rain, he looks askance at Jackson.
‘A mirror?’
‘You’re meant to hold one up to his mouth,’ says Jackson. ‘See if you get condensation. That’s how you know for sure.’ He clutches himself, a reflex. He is cold to his marrow.
‘Says who?’ Jackson shrugs.
‘Can’t remember.’
The shoreline is wind-scoured, blasted, bleak. Old battlements hunker down the sand, obsolete defences that resemble totems now, crumbled by age and weather. Their innards are riddled with nets of wire and mottled with luminous algae. Frank runs a hand through his wet black hair. Raindrops leap and seethe as they hit the sand.
‘We don’t have a mirror,’ says Frank. He folds his arms, copying Jackson, to preserve what little warmth is left in his shivering body. ‘We don’t need a mirror.’ He recoils a few inches, snarling. ‘Look at him,’ he says. ‘Look.’”

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