PAPERBACK BOOKS

EVERYONE IS HENRY MILLER


 

Everyone is Henry Miller is set to a backdrop of impending   economic calamity.

It follows the writer of ‘Australian Psycho’ on a six week journey abroad in 2007 to promote his “ironic masterpiece”.

And to pick up.

Everyone is Henry Miller is also the story of the protagonist’s best friend – the money market guru, occultist and libertine Henry Miller – who is living in exile abroad, location unknown, for financial wrongdoings.

Everyone is Henry Miller has much to say about “Bush and the War and the Environment”.

“The rising cost of living”.

And about contributing to internet blogs.

Everyone is Henry Miller is a paean to our search for the artist and true individual within us all.

It is a celebration of doing “zany things”, of pushing boundaries and of living life to the fullest.

Regardless of our age.

Most of all Everyone is Henry Miller is about the financial crisis that will never go away. 

In Store Price: $28.00 
Online Price:   $27.00

ISBN: 978-1-921574-56-6   Format: Paperback
Number of pages: 248
Genre:  Fiction
 

 

 


Author: Jason Dunne
Imprint: Poseidon
Publisher: Poseidon Books
Date Published:  2009
Language: English


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PREVIEW 

The woman sitting three spots to my right and two rows in front of me knew that I had been watching her earlier when we were all outside in the garden. She had been standing within a circle of rigid, formally-dressed people nearest to the one that I had been taken by. Perhaps she had been drawn into it by the same accidental recognition of an acquaintance, of an interesting character, that had conspired against me.

She had not seemed to be with anyone, had not appeared accompanied because of the evenness with which she divided her attention. I had stared through the blathering of an old man, through his stern words about Bush and the War and the Environment – the rising cost of living – and seen her narrow, firm calves taper down perfectly into tiny, spare ankles.

Ankles as tiny and spare as a bird’s.

She had stood with one hand on her right hip and her left leg bent at the knee and turned inward. Her free hand had slowly stroked the end of a necklace that circumnavigated her neck and then merged as a single thread of precious metal slithering down into her chest.

A necklace that said to every healthy man, “I know what you think this looks like.”

And every healthy man did.

She hadn’t appeared to say much but at regular intervals perked her head back with what sounded from ten metres away like incredulous spurts of laughter. Soon every man in her rigid circle had been focused on her.

Even the ones talking amongst themselves inside the circles within circles.

The other women had been the most rigid of all, the most erect. They had been drawn to attention by her presence and had watched her without looking.

It had been too early to assume that anyone had been drinking, yet two men in her circle had made me suspicious with their eager jockeying to shoot off the next morsel of pith.

The next morsel that would be rewarded with incredulous spurts of laughter.

A laughter that said, “Don’t be ridiculous! I am not convinced you really did that…”

Or mean that.

Or can afford that.

It also said, “I think you might be full of shit.”

It made you think that her doubt was an opportunity, a door left slightly open.

She wanted you to prove her wrong.

And you knew that you could.

The taller of the two men had leaned towards her and, with folded arms, said something. He had then smirked. I think he had wobbled his head as well, as if to insinuate that he had been happy with whatever he had just gotten off.

But he had no reason to be happy.

He was more than twice her age, flecks of grey in his uncertain hair, the ruddiness of drink and debt embedded in his face.

Her head had tilted back further to laugh this time and I had thought that her unnecessarily wide hat, like something worn at an important race meet, was going to be launched into the sky with the help of a breeze that had been building off the nearby bay all morning. She hadn’t seemed concerned, hadn’t even looked like placing a hand on top of it just in case.

She had turned abruptly in my direction, the incredulous laugh petering into a satisfied smile just as her eyes found mine.

I had resisted the urge to look away, had resisted the urge to do anything.

I had done the right thing.

She had turned away from me quickly but then revisited my resolute gaze a moment later.

I had recognised her but I hadn’t known from where.

I had recognised the sloping, Slavic eyes, the glow of her light skin and the shimmer of her long chestnut hair.

I had recognised the taunt of a tongue that rested languidly just within a mouth barely ajar.

I had looked her up and down with more intensity, with more yearning to place her within my past.

But still I had not been able to.

I had followed the inappropriate steepness of her black stilettos up along the back of her young legs and been amazed that the cruel sharpness of these shoes had not been swallowed by the smooth lawn.

By the green carpet outside.

All throughout I had continued to nod, to throw in the odd comment or wry remark or to scoff in empathetic contempt with the blathering old man about Bush, the War, the Environment.

The rising cost of living.

From there it had been on past the small arse, the miniscule rump, barely contained by the tight embrace of her dress. A light blue dress that finished earlier on her legs – well above the knees – and lower and wider upon her chest than any of the other women’s.

On I had marched, over the stomach that was as flat as my mood should have been, before coming to a rest upon her breasts.

And upon the sliver of silver metal that dribbled down between them.

Now, inside, with the advantage of my position to the side and to the rear, I could watch the nearly imperceptible rise, quiver and fall of these breasts. I tried to imagine how they would feel if I gently cupped them with my damp hands or lapped at them with my dry mouth.

Slide in between them as she moaned vulgar words of encouragement.

I felt a tug at my shoulder and turned towards the source as LCD Soundsystem pounded in my ears.

They were singing about losing your edge to better-looking people with better ideas.

And more talent.

People that are, in fact, quite nice.

My older brother looked solemn.

He nodded to me.

 

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