Wet an spectacular wreckage leads to 'powerful forgetting' which leads to 'periodics' which lead to the 'dry drunks' which go to 'immersion' an 'enabler' an 'therapeutic alliance' an any alternative, any fuckin alternative atropine aversion therapy or Antabuse or ECT or acufuckinpuncture or snakepits or swimming with dolphins an all of that all of it comes completely back to this one pure irreducible phenomenon: a booming heart that burns to drink.
It took the loss of a limb and the death threat from the mob to make one Liverpudlian dry out and move to a small seaside town in Wales. Here he tends to his garden, watches a one-eyed fox hunt for prey, feeds his rabbit celery. But his past life is a recurring nightmare-filth, desperation, and blackouts. More trouble, however, is only one hundred miles away. Darren and Alistair leave Liverpool, heading south in a rickety old car. They have been sent by their gang-boss to wreak terrible, violent revenge, but have only a rough idea of their quarry: a one-armed man.
Interspersed between the scabrous banter and a pitch-perfect street dialect, Griffiths offers stunning, lyrical descriptions of the Welsh landscape and a dark, knowing humor. And despite the ever-present drugs, violence, and anger, he reveals a fragile humanity. Graywolf is proud to introduce this striking, distinctive voice to American readers.