Timoleon Vieta Come Home: A Sentimental Journey
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In this acclaimed novel, Dan Rhodes, one of Granta's Best Young British Novelists, has created a tragicomic work of macabre beauty that both amuses and moves in equal measure.
antenna from its bed of black and grey hairs. The Bosnian pressed his lips against its tip, then enveloped the whole thing with his mouth. The old man gasped. ‘Less teeth. Less teeth,’ he said. ‘OK,’ spluttered the Bosnian, the penis still in his mouth. He was trying to find the right angle of approach, and withdrew to reassess the situation. ‘Don’t stop – please. You’re doing well.’ ‘Do not worry. I am making a new position. I will suck.’ He put his mouth back down over the penis. It was easy
keep us, you and me, happy.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘Easy. I will kill the dog right now. Because if I am staying here he will be biting me, right? And when he bite me I kill him, right? So I kill him right now. I have killed many dogs already. I don’t know how many, I lose the count, but a lot of. It is easy. In Bosnia we learn about it in school.’ Cockroft was speechless. ‘You snap the dog’s neck in one simple movement, or grab the dog at back of dog’s neck and hit it on the front of the neck a couple
was hoping you could make it.’ ‘I am thirsty. It was a long walk from the town. Maybe one hour. More. Maybe five or six kilometres. I don’t know.’ ‘Of course. Where are my manners? Do sit down.’ He gestured towards his deckchair. As the young man moved towards it Timoleon Vieta exploded with rage, his hackles raised and his barks piercing the still evening air. ‘Oh, Timoleon Vieta, please,’ said Cockroft, almost firmly. Again Timoleon Vieta moved away and lay down, but he resumed his low growl.
the car with boxes and bags, instead of simply driving away to Montevardi and the body of the little girl, the family went back into the house and shut the door. With nothing left to watch the boy became restless. He took the Thank you note out of his pocket, turned it over on to its blank side, and took the girl’s pen from her hand. He wrote, YOU ARE DEAF, and gave the piece of paper back to her. He remembered an afternoon three or four years before, when he and some friends had walked behind
burst with love. As soon as the people who had been giving him snacks went back in to their guest house, the dog turned and headed straight back towards his home. By sunset he was in the countryside. Running and walking, and hunting, and finding and stealing food, he made his way east-south-east in as straight a line as he could, sometimes being chased and sometimes not, through gardens and farms, through towns and villages, along quiet and busy roads, through woods, around the edges of lakes,