Amsterdam Stories by Joseph O'Neill, Nescio, Damion Searls

By Joseph O'Neill, Nescio, Damion Searls

Nobody has written extra feelingly and extra superbly than Nescio concerning the insanity and disappointment, braveness and vulnerability of juvenile: its giant plans and obscure longings, let alone the binges, crashes, and marathon walks and talks. not anyone, for that subject, has written with such pristine readability in regards to the radiating canals of Amsterdam and the cloud-swept panorama of the Netherlands.

Who was once Nescio? Nescio--Latin for "I don't know"--was the pen identify of J.H.F. Grönloh, the hugely winning director of the Holland--Bombay buying and selling corporation and a father of four--someone who knew good enough approximately first rate adulthood. merely in his spare time and lower than the canopy of a pseudonym, as though commemorating a misplaced self, did he allow himself move, generating over the process his lifetime a handful of completely unique tales that include essentially the most luminous pages in glossy literature.

This is the 1st English translation of Nescio's tales.

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And then explosions of something, flesh crashing against flesh, a rush of blood, a gasp, strange country here, nothing legit, nothing too terribly clear. After the sex I watch him dress. ” And just like that, a sour subject rises out of a casual conversation and takes on a life of its own. The women, the ghosts of his past, they populate the air between us like an invocation gone awry. All at once, unseen and unexpected, they seep out of his mouth, toxic presences infecting his words, seeking abode in my lungs.

I ask. ” He laughs and kisses me on the cheek. “You don’t look like your picture,” I tell him. ” “He’d have been pleased, I’m sure,” Kyle says. He motions me to a seat and asks me if I want a drink. I should say no. I’m a bad drinker. Fall on my back like nothing. But I’m reassured by Kyle’s good cheer. He breathes color and noise, like a television set. I’m hypnotized. I’ll drink slowly, I tell myself. I’m thirty-three years old this week, and this makes me eight years older than my date. Marriage isn’t exactly the best prep work for dating.

There he is! ” He strode up to the bar and set the helmet right up on the counter. He slid his hand into his back pocket for his wallet and made eye contact with a woman. She smiled at him through the opaque mirror behind the bar. He recognized her but didn’t know her name. His hand was still in his back pocket when someone’s fingers wrapped around his wrist. ” And then a female hand was in his back pocket, sliding up and down over his buttock. It was Magda. 26 Whatever He Did, He Did Enough She always knew when to find him, how to make him feel good when he needed it.

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