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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Oh, he says, well youse don't own it now and goes down on one knee and starts hacking away at the bit of paper.

I went into Mickey Traynor's shop. There was a big picture of Our Lord hanging on the wall. It said; Buy a television or else you bastard! No it didn't it said Our Saviour looks after us all.

His daughter was on her knees saying the rosary with a whole load of saint pictures spread out on top of a radio cabinet. I met her on the street one day and she told me she hated Romans because they killed Thaddeus the Christian boy whoever the fuck Thaddeus was. Mm mm mm she says the next sorrowful mystery of the holy rosary Jesus prays in the garden. Good man Jesus but you daren't say that or Mickey'd throw you out on the street on the spot. Well Mickey I said will you ever forget the days of the old television? He stuck the pencil behind his ear what television would that be now he says. Oh the one that got broke, I says, the one da gave out yards about. Did he not come up to you about it? Naw, says Mickey, I don't remember your da coming in at all now he says and goes back to his work, hoking away at the inside of another telly. Without the back on it looked like one of these cities of the future you'd see in Dan Dare. Sure bring it up and we'll have a look at it, he says. Ah no, never mind about it Mickey, says I, that was all in the old days. I'm far too busy these times to be bothered worrying my head about televisions. Well, whatever you think yourself now, says Mickey as this fart comes out of the loudspeaker. Bejasus! he says then I laughed and off I went. It sure was good to be back in the old town. Into the shop I went and who was there only Mrs Connolly and the women but they weren't expecting me this time you could tell that all right the way they were looking at me: But we thought you were away in the industrial school!

H'ho no ladies, I'm back in action yes indeed a puff of smoke and here he is again the incredible Francie Brady – How are you ladies?

They couldn't make up their minds who was going to speak. Little coughs and all this and one looking at the other – you say hello to him. No – you do! It went on like that for a minute or two. I think they thought I was going to pull a machine gun out from under my coat drrr die you dogs.

I had a good laugh thinking that. When I started laughing so did they and before we knew it we were all talking away about the old days and the pigs and all that. Anything I could think of we talked about it there was so many things in my head after the school for pigs. The laughs we had in those days, I says. Oh now they said, don't be talking! You're back for good now Francis is that right says one of them and the other two gave her a look – Don't ask him that! For the love of God don't ask him that!

Why not? Them old women could ask me anything they liked. I am indeed, back in the old home town. That's what Audie Murphy says on the horse looking down on the sleeping western village from the hill – it shore is good to be back in the old home town. Yup! I says. All you could see was these three smiles just hanging there in mid-air. The shopgirl never opened her mouth. No, that's not true, she did. That was all she did, open her mouth. She just stood there behind the counter looking at us with her mouth open. It was nice talking to them there beside the cornflakes shelf, it was as if they hadn't moved an inch since I left still saying President Kennedy was a lovely man and something would have to be done about the price of butter. It would but I had more important things to talk about than that, the old days the old pig days we could have talked for hours about all that. Will you ever forget them old pig days I says. Oh now Francie, says Mrs Connolly, don't be talking! Ha ha they said, they were good days all right. Ah well, I said, that's all over, you can't be a pig all your life isn't that right ladies?

They said it was.

I said to Mrs Connolly: Isn't that right Mrs Connolly.

That's right Francis she says, that's very true.

It is indeed I says.

Ha ha says Mrs Connolly.

Ha ha says the other women.

Oh now says I.

We could have gone on talking there for hours there was so much to say but it was getting near time for me to move on and see what else I could discover on my travels. Well good day now ladies, I said, I guess I gotta mosey on. Ha ha mosey on!

Mrs Connolly was saying to herself I wonder was it all right to laugh at mosey on. Of course it was. I didn't care. They could laugh themselves stupid if they wanted to. Then I says well ladies I'd best be on my way. Yes Francis, says Mrs Connolly, you have to see all your pals. I have indeed I said. The smiles I had to laugh at them too – they weren't like smiles at all more like elastic bands pulled tight. Twang! and back they'd go. But sure no matter – they could smile whatever way they liked, I wasn't going to stop them. Right so ladies, I guess ah'll jest mosey along I says we'll see you soon please God says Mrs Connolly. Yup I says. When I was going by the window I gave it a rap Jesus! says one of them I think it was Mrs Connolly twang! goes the smile and the other women – are you all right Mrs Connolly? I says to myself: I never knew there was so many things in this town would make you laugh.

There was a tin can lying there. Flip, over the hedge it went. You never know, I might play for the town yet I thought.

The fountain wasn't frozen it was spraying away goodo on the Diamond so I sat down beside it for a while. There was one thing I knew about that fountain. They had put it there for Queen Victoria the same time as they built the Jubilee Road in honour of her visit to the town that year. Except for one thing – she never came. It was a beautiful fountain well it was then. But a lorry backed into it one night and knocked all the angels and that off it and now there was a big plaster crack running up the side of it like a cut. I dropped a spit onto a fag box and thought of all the school kids and old folks Hooray for Queen Victoria! Except for one thing – where the fuck is she?

I couldn't stop chuckling the more I thought of it and them all going home in a huff – we've gone and built a fountain and a new road for fuck all!

But of course that wasn't true – I could sit on it couldn't I?

And the drunk lad could piss into it on his way home from the Tower. He sure could. So well done town and Queen Victoria I said to myself.

The big wheel of the carnival turned at the far end of the town, tossing hysterical people across the sky, people pretending to be hysterical that is. Well would you believe it – who comes along then only himself, old Father Dom, flap in his skirts and the shoes like little black paws peeping out. You got on well, at the em industrial school he says, I did indeed I said and who does he know it turns out, only our old friend Tiddly. Ah yes, he says, Father Sullivan, a very good friend of mine. How is he at all at all? Oh he's the best, I said, never better. An awful man for the books!, laughed Dom. A terror!, I says, a holy terror for the books! Matt Talbot, I said. Ah yes, poor Matt Talbot, sighed Father Dom and crossed himself. He was delighted at all this me knowing Tiddly and Matt Talbot and everything so we stayed there for a long time talking drum drum on the missal the weather has got very cold now and how's your father and I wonder what we can talk about now? I never seen you looking as well Francis he said, you've got so tall! I'm glad things have worked out for you. I must drop down and say hello one of these days. Do indeed Father, I said and saluted and off he went. I was wondering did he ever sit on Tiddly's knee? Are you comfortable there Dommie? Yes Father I am are you? Ah I am, I'm grand, grand now altogether. But I knew old Dom wouldn't do that. I'd say the worst thing Dom ever did in his whole life was say to his mother: No ma – I won't go to the shop for you!

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