By Thomas E. Kennedy
Beneath the Neon Egg is a unique of jazz, violence, intercourse, dying, love, and the underbelly of existence, set within the low gentle of a Copenhagen wintry weather. it's the tale of Patrick Bluett, a forty-three-year-old Irish-American in Denmark, divorced and navigating his courting along with his college-age childrens, trying to find existence in a brand new state. it's also the tale of his neighbor, a guy in an analogous situation who turns into his friend-and turns into entangled with a Russian prostitute.
The novel borrows its four-part constitution from John Coltrane's majestic jazz symphony A Love Supreme, which Patrick Bluett listens to as he gazes out the window on the frozen streets of his followed urban, blind to occasions within the condominium around the corridor, and ignorant of the implications his pal will meet-or will, maybe, escape.
The ultimate novel of Thomas E. Kennedy's acclaimed Copenhagen Quartet-four self reliant novels concerning the seasons and souls of Copenhagen-Beneath the Neon Egg cements Kennedy's attractiveness as a literary revelation.
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Additional info for Beneath the Neon Egg: A Novel
It wasn’t even a line. however it led that day to their fucking 4 occasions in her west-side room, and to extra ardour and to romance, it resulted in marriage, to immigration, to young children. after which the fervour burned out, and what the warmth hid used to be the whole lot approximately one another that they can no longer endure and, in time, in two decades, it resulted in divorce. Lurid mild is seeping within the home windows over the frozen lake, and Bluett feels grief and remorse and guilt seeping into his blood, and he can decide to stuff his face underneath the pillow, yet he judges by way of the sunshine that it really is nearing ten, and his belly growls. He thinks of the brunch at O’s, down the road, thinks in their eggs and bacon and beans and residential fries and a major glass of tomato juice—maybe a bloody Mary—pictures himself munching fortunately whereas he leafs in the course of the Saturday morning tabloid with its stories of violence and injustice and intercourse and pictures of scantily clad women . . . stored by way of urge for food. three. It’s really easy to Fall in Love what's time? he wonders. a piece week isn't see you later. nor is a weekend. A bottle of vodka isn't really so deep, a drink is shallow. yet as he steps out of the bathe, towels himself dry with Getz’s “Sweet Rain” at the CD participant, douses his jowls with the agreeable sting of his Armani aftershave, garbs himself in fresh Calvin Klein briefs, Boss wife-beater, pin-striped Marimekko, binds a part Windsor in his outdated silk favourite, steps into fresh-pressed black denims, bit worn concerning the cuffs, pulls on a sweater the colour of the wine-dark sea and his trusty outdated lambskin, black Kangol backward on his pate, the realm is so new back and entire of desire. it usually starts off back with wish. Friday, blessed Friday. Time to open the gates of the realm hidden at the back of the veil of topic. With the purest of elixirs. The sacrament of vodka. An allergist printed this mystery to him as soon as while he used to be struggling with a bout of rhinitis. in case you needs to drink, drink vodka. The purest of beverages. Her face rapt as she instructed him, her elephantine face like Lord Ganesha, remover of stumbling blocks. there were situations of sufferers with acute, close to deadly bronchial asthma assaults cured by means of vodka, one girl who needed to drink wine glasses of chilled vodka each hour to maintain her lungs functioning below a drastic assault. give it some thought. Bluett thinks approximately it as he we could himself out the door, thinking about what Sam is making plans for the night. I met somebody. He descends the wood staircase from his condominium and enters the freezing gloam of afternoon. A thief’s begin on l’heure bleue: crimson sunlight nonetheless hangs at the smoky horizon of the frozen lake. He waits a couple of respectful moments, staring at his breath, observing the crimson glare from the a long way fringe of Saint George’s Lake, the previous leper colony, because it stains the ice of Black Dam Lake. In medieval occasions, Copenhagen stopped the following, the place he stands. not anyone used to be allowed to dwell past the lakes, in basic terms the lepers or a number of tinkers whose shacks have been razed in the course of danger of invasion. Now, with Copenhagen now not a gated urban, this can be a part of the town heart, this aspect of the lakes, and 1000000 humans live to tell the tale the opposite facet, the leper colony has been close down, and Saint George, their client, has joined the lengthy line of useless saints.