By Assaf Gavron
"[An] unique and robust writer…. His transparent and sincere writing blasts all over the clichés and the politically right floor to the touch the chaotic and ambiguous middle of the Israeli identity.” —Etgar Keret
“In a stunning show of empathy, Gavron creates both compelling narrators, the bomber and his sufferer. this can be a virtuoso paintings; a pitch-perfect rendering of actual Israeli lifestyles in all its chaos, power, humor and terror. I couldn’t positioned it down.” — Geraldine Brooks
Politically mistaken, provocative, and steeped in wit and irony, Almost Dead is a fast paced tragicomic novel in regards to the completely traditional insanity in today’s center East.
Read Online or Download Almost Dead: A Novel PDF
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Extra resources for Almost Dead: A Novel
It was evening when the phone woke him. The golfers on the screen didn’t seem to have made any progress since Max had dropped off several hours before. Perhaps it was a long hole. He turned off the TV and picked up the phone. “There you are, you old bugger. I tried you at the office, but they said you’d left early. ” It was Charlie, his closest friend and ex-brother-in-law. Max yawned. “I’m fine. No, actually, I’m not fine. ” “It’s going to start getting better. Tonight, you and I are celebrating the promotion of Charles Willis, real estate’s rising star.
I could never stand her anyway; you’re better off without her. And so their friendship had survived the marriage, if anything stronger than before. “Now then,” said Charlie, pouring champagne, “listen to this. They’ve doubled my salary, given me a Mercedes and full partnership shares, and told me the world’s my oyster. ” He raised his glass. ” “Congratulations, Charlie. ” Max sipped his wine and studied the bubbles spiraling up from the base of his glass. Champagne, he thought, was always associated with good times—a drink for optimists.
Three Standing in the shower after his morning run, hot water beating down on a skull tenderized by alcohol, Max reviewed the changes that had occurred during the past twenty-four hours, and found them all good. Lucky, lucky bastard, he thought while he was getting dressed, and caught himself whistling the “Marseillaise” as he walked up to Knightsbridge for a cup of coffee. The day was gray but dry, and he sat at one of the tables that had been placed on the pavement as part of London’s effort, at least for the summer, to imitate the cafés of Paris.