The Wrecking Ball: A Novel (P.S.) by Christiana Spens

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By Christiana Spens

Armed with belief money and pedigrees yet bent on uprising, twenty-somethings Alice, Harry, Rose, and Hugo are teetering near to self-destruction. With ny and London as their playgrounds, they chase oblivion—and their subsequent high—through a glittering blur of nightclubs, decadent events, haute couture, and underground tune scenes, hard-partying at the razor's aspect with a endless cocktail of gear and booze. Insomniacs and unstoppable, those 4 misplaced souls experience the intense highs and devastating lows of a summer season that speedy reaches a crescendo of song, warmth, and hedonism. Wavering among moments of revelation and destroy, they remove darkness from a iteration given everything—except a solution to the undying query: Who am I?

From a awesome new literary voice comes a startling, clean, strikingly candid novel of dependancy and extra.

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So we would talk of the island together, flirt with the idea that I might live there soon, when I was older than eighteen, and then you never know what might happen on that fringe of ingenuity on an edge of the island. ” asked Hugo. Yes, no . . “I just came by myself. ” I smiled at the man. He had a kind expression . . It was all so much revelry. ” He seemed to say no. ” Hugo smoked a little, so did I, then he threw it into the street, and I followed, like it was a dart, the sparks flying out over the dark pavement.

The bright-eyed independence of rapturous dancers . . I’m lying on my back in a field with a slumbering crowd, another summer’s day in Hyde Park, some kind of pastoral scene in the middle of the city. I chase the pills with a song, clamber into the lifeboat of a tune, its beat is ceaseless as the oars of a boat beating the 46 Ch rist ia n a Spen s ocean and a shovel cutting into the soil of a cemetery. The voice keeps digging at melancholy like the gravedigger . . Despair is buried with a tune—bad memories and serotonin smothered by dust and medications .

Some yellow roses stood in a vase on the chest of drawers in my room, between the two arched windows, and the edges of petals picked up light from either side. The window on the left had a tendency to open spontaneously in the night and sent a cool breeze into the room. Beams of blue light from the Tour Eiffel cast over the dark sky slowly, picking up light clouds. In the daytime, the light shone rays into the room so that the walls were bright and illuminated, and I was deliriously happy because I was free in Paris and out of the net of neurosis and sadness back home.

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