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‘McBride is on blistering form.’ Sinéad Gleeson
At the mid-point of her life a woman enters an Avignon hotel room. She’s been here once before – but while the room hasn’t changed, she is a different person now.
Forever caught between check-in and check-out, she will go on to occupy other hotel rooms, from Prague to Oslo, Auckland to Austin, each as anonymous as the last, but bound by rules of her choosing. There, amid the detritus of her travels, the matchbooks, cigarettes, keys and room-service wine, she will negotiate with memory, with the men she sometimes meets, and with what it might mean to return home.
‘Nothing else feels so fresh, so radically new. Strange Hotel challenges and expands my sense of what art can do.’ Garth Greenwell
Strange Hotel already has the stamp of immortality on it. A deep dissection of desire and aloneness, in its familiarity and strangeness, it seems even newer and more radical than McBride’s previous novels. As Anne Enright has said, she is something of a genius.
Nothing else feels so fresh, so radically new. Strange Hotel challenges and expands my sense of what art can do.
You don’t read a McBride novel so much as inhabit it for a brief, intense period; you are given the key-card to her characters’ minds, and suffer their grief and pain with them.
McBride is on blistering form.
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