By Rawi Hage
"Funny and sharp . . . playful and erotic."—New York instances e-book Review
In Montreal's stressed immigrant group, our unnamed narrator resides in depression. compelled to go to a therapist after a suicide try, he brings us again to his formative years in a war-torn state, ahead into his present lifestyles within the smoky émigré cafés the place everybody has a story, and out into the frozen night streets of Montreal, the place he imagines himself to be a cockroach invading the lives of the privileged, yet willfully blind, voters who encompass him. Cockroach is a carnivalesque, philosophical novel that weaves darkish humor with an accusatory, satirical voice, spawning from the subsurface to problem humanity and its downfall.
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Additional resources for Cockroach: A Novel
Fresh morning sunlight lights up the scene. Almost blinding, but gentle somehow, the light is different from what I was used to in Tokyo. I glance at my watch. 6:32. “Gosh, what a long trip,” she says tiredly. “I thought my lower back was going to give out. And my neck’s killing me. You aren’t going to catch me on an all-night bus again. I’m taking the plane from now on, even if it’s more expensive. Turbulence, hijackings—I don’t care. ” I lower her suitcase and my backpack from the overhead rack.
I was concerned about that myself, so I took several deep breaths to see if I could detect any unusual odor. But it was just the ordinary smell of a woods in the hills. It was a bracing scent, the fragrance of trees. Nothing unusual about the plants and flowers around there, either. Nothing had changed shape or been discolored. One by one I examined the mushrooms the children had been picking. There weren’t all that many, which led me to conclude that they’d collapsed not long after they began picking them.
I have a friend there. A girlfriend of mine. ” I see, her nod says. No more questions. “I’ve got a younger brother the same age as you,” she suddenly tells me, as if she’d just remembered. . You know something? You look a lot like that guy. ” “You know, the guy who sings in that band! As soon as I saw you in the bus I thought you looked like him, but I just can’t come up with his name. I must have busted a hole in my brain trying to remember. That happens sometimes, right? It’s on the tip of your tongue, but you just can’t think of it.
Cockroach: A Novel by Rawi Hage