The solivagant walks the streets of Edinburgh, the voice in his head incessantly active as, unbidden and unrelenting, it dissects his inner life. Occasionally other voices intervene but whether these are constructs of his own consciousness, or extraneous to it, he cannot tell. He appears to be losing control of himself, on the brink of madness even, but is this really the case, or is it just the state we like to call sanity laid bare? The novel is a psychological investigation of how a passer by navigates his way through another aimless day, and poses the question of whether the solivagant is merely a disconnected individual or might he be representative of us all.
What would you do to escape the grinding poverty of life in a Dublin slum in the 1930s? What chance do you have to break out of its debilitating and mind-numbing hold on you? Would you kill to survive? This is the dilemma facing Francis Reagan. He has a run-in with a paedophile priest whose subsequent murder unleashes for him a lifelong odyssey. Wherever he goes, he can't find peace as his past continuously haunts him and further crimes entrap him. He trusts only his instincts-- his sixth sense-- which enable him to keep one step ahead of his pursuers, or does he? In order to escape the hangman in Ireland, Francis volunteers as an ambulance driver for the Republican Army in Spanish Civil War. He is recruited by the Germans and reconnoitres the poor air-raid defences in Belfast. A significant German bombing raid occurred in April 1941, when some 1,000 people lost their lives and thousands were displaced. Francis was devastated and blamed himself for the many city-wide deaths, particularly those of his close friends. A disillusioned Francis escapes from the clutches of the Abwehr and from a suspicious British military intelligence officer by moving to Britain's Lake District. Francis finally finds a peaceful oasis as a Church of England vicar first in the racial cesspool that is Notting Dale, London, in the late 1950s, and then in quiet Branton, Devon. His first fifteen years there sees him at peace with his past, but his paranoia grows with the arrival in the village of the same intelligence officer who had been tasked to capture him during the war. Francis's life finally begins to unravel. A series of murders leads the police to focus on the amiable vicar and his past.
He is a man who lied, who told a story, a wild, fanciful story, about the death of a child, a hard and unyielding story. It is that, he finds, that he hates most. The story that was told.' In 1983 Paul Hyde, aged ten, dies falling from a ledge in the mountains of the Karoo. His older brother Peter, who falls at the same time, survives but loses all memory of the event. The youngest brother, John, is the only witness. Many years later, John is living in London. He and his wife Rachel, who knows nothing of the tragedy of his past and nothing of his family, make plans to have children of their own. Their life together is disrupted when Peter arrives in London and claims his memory is returning. Pulled back in spite of himself, John returns to South Africa and the home he grew up in. His return makes him question his recollection of the tragedy. Can we ever be certain of events that happened that far in the past, certain we have not completely changed their meaning and our part in them?
Ranging from astrology to neuroscience and cosmology, from homelessness to love and the fragility of human fellowship, the scope of Horace Hardcover's browser is unusually wide for a philosopher these days. His iconoclastic message is that uncertainty reveals more than the elimination of doubt. The light irony of Alastair Hannay's novella hands on this truth to the reader: Does it matter that we cannot decide whether its portrait of a philosopher is pure fiction, drawn from life or not even fictionally real? One thing is made clear: the dynamic of doubt and certainty when ripped from the deadpan pages of philosophy can play havoc with a life.
The wind was from the sea and the smoke drifted over the links to the land beyond. He had noted the wind. The air never seemed still here. He had learned his bride’s name from Morfor. She was called Mairwen, the fair one. He would soon see. He hoped for some signs of the fairness, for so far she had been so cloaked and covered in feathers that he could not say, except that her eyes were of amber and the lips nicely shaped. Thick dark hair had strewn out below the feathers indicating vigour
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