Patrick McCabe - The Butcher Boy

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The Butcher Boy: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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SHORTLISTED FOR THE 1992 BOOKER PRIZE
WINNER OF THE IRISH TIMES-AER LINGUS
LITERATURE PRIZE FOR FICTION
"BRILLIANT, UNIQUE. Patrick McCabe pushes your head through the book and you come out the other end gasping, admiring, and knowing that reading fiction will never be the same again. It's the best Irish novel I've read in years." – Roddy Doyle, Author, Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha
"STUNNING… PART HUCK FINN, PART HOLDEN CAULFIELD, PART HANNIBAL LECTER." – The New York Times Book Review
"AN ALMOST PERFECT NOVEL… A BECKETT MONOLOGUE WITH PLOT BY ALFRED HITCHCOCK… STARTLINGLY ORIGINAL." – The Washington Post Book World
"BRILLIANT… Francie is a shrewd and amusing observer… his voice is mordant, colloquial and brash as a punch in the nose." – Scott Turow
"A ROLLICKING NASTY NOVEL." – The Village Voice
"There are a number of fine novels about violent youth, and Patrick McCabe's frightening and sorrowful The Butcher Boy stands up to any of them… Francie portrays himself in every word he utters, and his language gives Patrick McCabe's The Butcher Boy its valuable dread power." – The Atlanta Journal Constitution
"A CHILLING TALE OF A CHILD'S HELL… OFTEN SCREAMINGLY FUNNY… THE BOOK HAS A COMPELLING AND TERRIBLE BEAUTY." – The Boston Globe
"A tour de force." – Kirkus Reviews
"IT'S AS BRIGHT AS IT IS DEPRESSING, AS FUNNY AS IT IS GRUESOME. We see Francie clearly as psychopath, and we ache with sympathy for him. It's almost impossible to pinpoint the moment in his growing up when the imagination of an ordinary boy shades over into something dangerously loony. The key is Francie's slangy, angry, '60s-flavored voice, which McCabe renders with a minimum of punctuation and a maximum of control." – Los Angeles Times Book Review
"AN UNRELENTING, UPBEAT STREAM OF PATTER. McCabe's acclaimed third novel… walks the path of dementia with remarkable assurance." – Entertainment Weekly
"McCABE'S FRANCIE SPEAKS IN A RICH VERNACULAR SPIRITED BY THE BRASSY AND ENDEARING RHYTHMS OF PERPETUAL DELINQUENCY; even in his gradual unhinging, Francie remains a winning raconteur. By looking so deeply into Francie's soul, McCabe subtly suggests a common source of political and personal violence – lack of love and hope." – Publishers Weekly
"PATRICK McCABE IS AN OUTSTANDING WRITER. The Butcher Boy is fearful, original, compelling and very hard to put out of your mind. American readers should pay close attention to this man." – Thomas McGuane
"A BRILLIANT BOOK SO VERY FUNNY AS WELL AS BEING HEARTRENDINGLY SAD." – J. P. Donleavy
"Written with wonderful assurance and a technical skill that is as great as it is unobtrusive… Perhaps the novel is best read as a twisted coming-of-age story; imagine Huck Finn crossed with Charlie Starkweather, and you have Francie Brady, the young narrator of The Butcher Boy." – The Washington Post Book World
"A POTENT AMALGAM OF COMEDY, HORROR AND PATHOS… The Butcher Boy is a prime slice of modern Gothic… McCabe presents a study in spiritual derangement that rivets." – The Sunday Times (London)
"DEADLY SERIOUS, TERRIFICALLY LOONY AND SCARY, AND ABSOLUTELY HILARIOUS… Francie Brady's story is reminiscent of Samuel Beckett's Molloy, Moran, Malone, and the Unnameable even, with Anthony Burgess's Alex tossed in for good measure." – James McManus
"THE MOST ASTONISHING IRISH NOVEL FOR MANY YEARS, A MASTERPIECE." – Sunday Independent
"A POWERFUL AND DEEPLY SHOCKING NOVEL where the seemingly innocent logic of a child imperceptibly turns into the manic logic of an unhinged mind. Patrick McCabe portrays 1960s small-town life from a bizarre perspective where the aliens from Outer Space on the television are as real as the emotional poverty of one child filled with unconscious envy for another." – Dermont Bolger

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I called down to the house a few more times but there was never any answer they must have been away, at the uncle's or someplace. In the end I waited at the bottom of Church Hill and met Joe coming home from school. He was in the second year in secondary now. He was carrying a big bulging bag of books. There's some amount of books in that bag, Joe, I says laughing. There was some other lad with him I don't know who he was I told him to run on ahead. What? he says. I said: Run on ahead – are you deaf?

I'm back Joe, I said, back from the house of a hundred windows. I laughed myself when I said that it just sounded funny saying it there walking round the road with Joe. I didn't know where to start telling him about all these things. I told him it made no odds about the goldfish or any of that that was all in the past now. Then he looks at me and says: What goldfish? I hit him a thump on the shoulder. What goldfish! I says, for fuck's sake Joe!

It was the first good laugh I had had in I don't know how long. I asked Joe how things were out at the hide. He said he hadn't been out there. Is it still covered over, I said. He said he wasn't sure it was so long since he'd been out there. I said we'll have to make sure its covered over. If the rain gets in it'll ruin it. He said it would. When will we go out and check on it then I said, this evening? He said he couldn't go out that evening. OK, I said tomorrow is fine. But he said he couldn't go out then either so it had to be at the weekend. I had a pain in my stomach waiting for that weekend to come.

Joe made a wind at a gnat, lay back on the bank of the river and I told him more about it, everything I could think of. I told him about the gardener and the Black and Tans and the bogmen and their bony arses and being locked in the boilerhouse and puffing fags and talking to the saints and St Teresa. It sure is some laugh said Joe, what did they lock you in the boilerhouse for? I says oh nothing just messing around, you know. That was all I was going to say but then he says it again but what did they lock you in the boilerhouse for? Then I thought the best thing about friends is you can tell them anything in the whole world and once I thought that I didn't care. As soon as I started the story it ran away with itself. There were tears in my eyes and I couldn't stop laughing the bonnet and Tiddly, I love you! and the whole lot. You want to see the Rolos he gave me I said, I must have ate about two thousand fucking Rolos Joe. Rolos said Joe, he gave you Rolos but what did he give you Rolos for? As far as I could see that was all Joe wanted to hear about. Anytime I went on with the story he kept bringing me back to that part what for, what for? I wanted him to stop going back to that. I wanted to stop talking about the whole thing. I wanted to talk about the hide and the old days and hacking at the ice and whose turn it was to toss the marble and all that, that was what I wanted to talk about. They were the best days. You could see through them days, clear as polished glass. But Joe didn't want to. He kept going back to the other thing so in the end I told him and what does he say then he says Francie he didn't really do that did he? I said what are you talking about Joe he did didn't I just tell you?

The next thing I knew I was in a cold sweat because of the way Joe was looking at me. I could see the flattened spot of the grass where he'd been lying he had moved back from it. He was sitting in a different place now. He hadn't moved back too far in case I'd notice it. But I did. It was only for a split second our eyes met but he knew and I knew. Then I said: I fairly fooled you there Joe. Tiddly! Imagine someone doing the like of that! Tiddly! Rolos – for fuck's sake!

I laughed till the tears ran down my face. I fooled you, I cried out. I had a headache and my face was all flushed. Then Joe said it was time he was getting back he had extra homework to do for the weekend. I said OK, I would see him tomorrow and we'd go to the carnival. Sure, he said, I'll try and I watched him running back into town. I was coming in the road when I seen your man coming with the black bicycle. I says to him: There you are. How are you getting on?

He tugs down the cap and says: I'm in a bit of a hurry. I have to see about the calves.

Then off he goes with the head down. I waited there to see what he'd do and sure enough when he was about fifty yards away he stops and turns to look back. I just stood there with my legs spread like Kirk Douglas. When he saw me staring back at him what does he do only let go of the bike and down it went clattering on the road. I didn't stir I just stood there watching him trying to pick it up. He didn't make much of a fist of it once he knew I was watching. Then the shopping bag came loose off the carrier and something fell out of it I think it was potatoes. What does he do then only try to pick them up too. He was a right-looking sketch with one hand holding the handlebars and the other the spuds. I cupped my hand over my mouth: Don't forget the calves! I says and off he goes with the potatoes another few of them fell and rolled into the ditch.

Then off I went up the street but there was no one around only Grouse and papers sailing like boats down the gutters of Fermanagh Street.

But that didn't last long for soon as Buttsy and Devlin heard I was home from the school for pigs they were round to the house to interrogate me about doing the poo in Nugent's. I heard them forcing the front door the stupid bastards couldn't break into an egg. I was thinking will I tackle these bastards yet or not then I says no not yet so up the chimney I went with an old jackdaw looking down at me as much as to say what are you doing here this our property. Come on now Brady we know you're in here, says Buttsy. If you come out it won't be so bad. Jesus what a stink in this place said Devlin what do you expect when pigs live here says Buttsy. Look at this says Devlin rotten fish in the sink, there's rats in here there's sure to be rats. No says Buttsy only pigs. Ha ha laughs Devlin. Ha ha, that was a good laugh. When I didn't come out they lost the rag. Buttsy swore and broke something. Burn the place says Devlin. He must be here somewhere they said and then I heard them rooting about outside. They came back in and wrecked the kitchen, cursing. Then they went off, fit to be tied, we'll get the bastard sooner or later. I didn't bother coming out and the next morning there was a huge pale sun sitting in the window. That did my heart good. Ah, I says, this is going to be a good day.

Off I went down the fresh, crunchy lane. I stopped just outside the chickenhouse to see if the puddle was frozen over and sure enough it was. I felt warm all over when I seen that. There was hard twisty paper growing out of the white misted ice. I tried to dig it out with my toe but it wouldn't come so I broke off a bit of a twig and hacked away at it. When I looked up there was this young lad standing there like something off a Christmas card with a big stripey scarf round his neck and a hat with tassels on it. What are you doing here Mister he says, that's our puddle. Its your puddle? I says, Yes, he says, we're in charge of it me and Brendy. OK, I says and handed him the stick I won't touch it anymore. All right then mister he says, I won't tell Brendy. All of a sudden I looked at him with his rosy cheeks and the two silver snots at his nose and what did I want to do I wanted to kiss him. Not the way Tiddly did it any of that but just because all of a sudden everything seemed so good. I said to myself: Just being here is so good I could stand here for ever.

Its your puddle now, I says to him but do you know who it used to belong to? He rubbed his face with a mitten and says no – who?

Me and Joe Purcell, I said.

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