By Iain Sinclair
Eating on Stones is Iain Sinclair's sharp, edgy secret of London and its environs. Andrew Norton, poet, visionary and hack, is passed a mysterious package deal that sees him hand over London and head out alongside the A13 on an as but undefined quest. Holing up in a roadside inn, not able to make experience of his seek, he's haunted through ghosts: of the lifeless and the not-so lifeless; difficult other halves and ex-wives; East finish gangsters; even competing types of himself. moving from Hackney to Hastings and all locations in-between, whereas dissecting a man's fractured psyche piece by way of piece, eating on Stones is a puzzle and a quest - for either author and reader. "Exhilarating, splendidly humorous, drastically unsettling - Sinclair on best form". (Daily Telegraph). "Prose of virtually incantatory energy, reduce with Chandleresque pithiness". (Sunday Times). "Spectacular: the paintings of a guy with the facility to work out issues as they're, and amplify that imaginative and prescient with a readability that's instantly hallucinatory and forensic". (Independent on Sunday). Iain Sinclair is the writer of Downriver (winner of the James Tait Black Memorial Prize and the Encore Award); Landor's Tower; White Chappell, Scarlet Tracings; lighting fixtures Out for the Territory; Lud warmth; Rodinsky's Room (with Rachel Lichtenstein); Radon Daughters; London Orbital, eating on Stones, Hackney, that Rose-Red Empire, and Ghost Milk. he's additionally the editor of London: urban of Disappearances.
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Extra resources for Dining on Stones
A hair-trigger seethe of autos on Hackney highway (the simply position in London the place pedestrian crossings function on a twice-daily basis). stressed people. teams forming, breaking, touching knuckles, open air the pub (the pool hall), grunting obscenities into unusual mobiles. the second one puppy, an Alsatian with dry snout and the eyes of Neville Chamberlain, used to be being teased, in the course of the bars of the gate, by way of a tender woman whose boredom used to be encroaching on hysteria. She poked, prodded, smooched endearments, made kissy-kissy sounds. The puppy stayed aloof. yet its smaller affiliate, given the run of the backyard, went loopy: yelped, bounced off the wall of tyres, rushed at its tormentor, skidded, rolled, wallowed in dust, shook itself, sponsored away to the shed … leapt, snarling, at a frayed end-of-rope, putting from a tarpaulin sheet: in order that a puddle of trapped rainwater cascaded over its filthy fur. the woman, who could have been as outdated as 8 or 9, became her again at the spectacle, to bum a cigarette from her distracted mom. This girl, now not dressed for outdoor, the elements, rattled a warder-sized bunch of keys … smoke-breathing, gazing her little crimson mobile: a powder compact replicate with the incorrect face. The gates to the backyard have been open however the girl wouldn’t cross within, circulation out of sight of her car. Chilled nipples, mature, renowned, the color of wealthy chocolate, diverted a carload of excitable Brick Laners. Parked around the ramp, neither in nor out, denying entry to different capability consumers, primed for swift retreat, used to be a motor stacked with ostentatiously hormonal Asian men. Senior impolite boys. fats, white-wall tyres: the nearside entrance, detumescent. home windows like gun-ports. Loud anti-music: a problem. The youths twitched, suffered, the cranked-up adolescent’s lack of ability to sit down nonetheless: 3 out, one in. All in, all out … And down the line in the direction of the pub, again. Shoulder-shuffling, nudging. a short dart to the shed on the finish of the backyard. No signal of the mechanic. Peep via soiled window, go back to base, whack up the sound approach. Scratch scrota. In unison. not anything is going on right here and taking place very quick. A cleaning soap opera badly mangled in an enhancing go well with. important plot traces were misplaced or suppressed, leaving a non-specific air of mystery of panic that turns out to hinge at the lacking tyre technician. exchange frames of EastEnders minimize opposed to structuralist slomo. whereas I’m observing all this loose tv, Jimmy Seed is tapping a coin at the pad that cushions his hobbled electrical window. The unofficial armrest has a groove geared up accurately to the form of a pound coin, major me to imagine, through the deductive equipment of Sherlock Holmes, that he retains a mistress, or hideaway, at the south coast. The coin is the cost for the QEII Bridge, Purfieet to Dartford. yet i used to be incorrect. He did go water regularly, yet his function used to be hypothesis: ex-industrial houses within the Thames Gateway quarter. Bounty-hunting with a Polaroid. Jimmy had a expertise for sniffing out devices that might rather be wasted on housing financial migrants or Balkan intercourse slaves.
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