My Revolutions: A Novel
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?Powerful? (The New Yorker), ?extraordinary? (The New York Times Book Review), and ?brilliant? (Entertainment Weekly)?you won?t be able to put down this new novel by the award-winning bestselling author of The Impressionist
Critics have compared him to Martin Amis, Zadie Smith, Tom Wolfe, and Don DeLillo. Granta dubbed him ?one of the twenty best fiction writers under forty.? Now Hari Kunzru delivers his best novel yet.
Chris Carver is living a lie. His wife, their teenage daughter, and everyone in their circle know him as Michael Frame, suburban dad. They have no idea that as a radical student during the sixties he briefly became a terrorist? protesting the Vietnam War by setting off bombs. Until one day a ghost from his past turns up on his doorstep, forcing Chris on the run.
Chichester. “All this. I have to say—it’s not what I’d have guessed.” “No, I suppose not.” “You know, it’s amazing to see you. I always wondered what had happened to you. I assumed you’d gone abroad—and then—well, I don’t know what I’d assumed, but I never thought I’d see you again. Certainly not—well, not in such ordinary circumstances. But here you are. You haven’t changed, by the way.” “Bollocks, Miles. All bollocks, from start to -nish.” “No, I mean it. You look just the same. You’re looking
have night terrors, not quite dreams, more semiconscious imaginings that took on narrative form, like scenes from -lms. In one recurrent situation I was wedged under the .oorboards, holding my breath and waiting for the German soldiers to stop searching the attic where I was hiding. I could hear the clatter of their boots, a guttural voice barking orders. I used to lie rigid under the covers, the blood pounding in my head, my entire consciousness occupied by the e,ort of not making a noise. I
spent the night. Above me looms a row of huge housing blocks, slabs of seventies concrete faced with cheerless primary-colored panels. The rest area is a dumping ground for HGV tires and building waste. The policemen ask me to walk up and down, checking, I think, to see if I’m drunk. I see a row of long black scratches on the car’s paintwork where I hit the barrier. So do they, but -nally they let me go, repeating the word hôtel, clearly and patiently, as one would to a child. I drive away,
junior, looked on with the requisite expressions of bovine admiration. Miles had positioned me so I was directly in her line of vision. Once, twice, she looked directly at me, but there was no .icker of recognition. *** OCCUPATION OF CHATSWORTH MANSIONS: HOUSE THE HOMELESS! Nowhere to live? Come to Chatsworth Mansions: 120 luxury ﬂats built three years ago are lying empty while thousands in this country are homeless or live in slums. 1868: The Workhouse 1968: Local Government Hostels Some
new society. The question of violence had started to raise its head. We wanted change. We felt it was part of our duty to sharpen contradictions, to make the di,erence between the rulers and the ruled glaring and unambiguous, impossible to ignore. This meant confrontation. At meetings or demos we adopted a deliberately aggressive attitude, trying to provoke people and intensify whatever was going on. Our behavior often brought us up against other activists. If they criticized us, we were