The Life of Polycrates and Other Stories for Antiquated Children
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Myth and imagination are confronted with historical precision in Brendan Connell's newest collection of short fiction, bringing together a number of stories previously published in journals and anthologies as well as never before published material that includes the novella The Life of Polycrates, describing the rise to power of the ancient Greek ruler, his eccentric deeds and the fantastic personalities around him. This is a book of bizarre histories and cerebral studies that explores the darkest passages of the human heart and brightest depravities of the human mind.
to be terminated before long. And then summer ended and it was fall. Rains came, day after day, and washed away the sides of hills, whole houses, parts of small villages. The lake ran over and threw its garbage and driftwood up over the embankments. Claude, during his lunch break, walked along the shore, through the park where he had first met her and then along the Viale Carlo Cattaneo. At the Viale Cassarate he stood on the bridge and stared down into the water. It was chocolate-brown and
woman, they were the same of nose, of gesture, the family’s eyes, brownish beads floating on oval faces, jaws ever so slightly salient. . . . They rise on their toes, their gait uplifting in aspiration, uncapped pride. . . . Sun, moon; organs sexual, jointly different, german; beads quivering down the atavistic rosary, dropped from ovaries consanguineous, spermazoa mutual, produced in similar sessions of grave copulation. II. The child stood alone on the lawn beside the great house. You
Allen asked in a quavering voice. “I hope it’s not some kind of home for the uncontrollably eccentric. You know how much I hate to be around sick people.” “We are going to my house,” said Denny. And they drove, under the soft afternoon sun of late summer; into the city; to Denny’s brownstone. . . . Pellington had been at work all that day, under previous instruction from his new employer. Allen was reluctant at first to even sit at the dining table, but after a rather potent sour sop daiquiri,
Avatar—drowning in the waste and crime of the city—feeding off filth and drinking industrial piss. God, revolution, love, prosperity: words for him as empty as the monotonous tone of a bell drifting through space. The Chymical Wedding of Des Esseintes Holiday was not all it was made out to be and he was no longer a young man and it was difficult for him to find pleasure in tramping about the streets of some foreign city with his nerves grated on at every turn. Des Esseintes sat wearily
ranged beer engines, huge bottles of liquor with Hebrew written on the labels and a table on which sat baskets of bread and three or five cooked cow tongues. A huge man with broad shoulders and a bristling black moustache came and clapped Pernath on the back, crying out in a language Des Esseintes assumed to be Yiddish. “This is my cousin Lipotin,” Pernath said shyly. “He insists on treating us to a drink.” Before Des Esseintes had time to say anything, a huge tankard of beer was thrust into