The Saturday Night Ghost Club
A Novel
(Sprache: Englisch)
An irresistible and bittersweet coming-of-age story in the vein of Stranger Things and Stand by Me about a group of misfit kids who spend an unforgettable summer investigating local ghost stories and urban legends
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An irresistible and bittersweet coming-of-age story in the vein of Stranger Things and Stand by Me about a group of misfit kids who spend an unforgettable summer investigating local ghost stories and urban legends"A celebration of the secret lives of children, both their wonders and their horrors . . . Immensely enjoyable, piercingly clever, and satisfyingly soulful." -Jason Heller, NPR
Growing up in 1980s Niagara Falls - a seedy but magical, slightly haunted place - Jake Baker spends most of his time with his uncle Calvin, a kind but eccentric enthusiast of occult artifacts and conspiracy theories. The summer Jake turns twelve, he befriends a pair of siblings new to town, and so Calvin decides to initiate them all into the "Saturday Night Ghost Club." But as the summer goes on, what begins as a seemingly light-hearted project may ultimately uncover more than any of its members had imagined. With the alternating warmth and sadness of the best coming-of-age stories, The Saturday Night Ghost Club is a note-perfect novel that poignantly examines the haunting mutability of memory and storytelling, as well as the experiences that form the people we become, and establishes Craig Davidson as a remarkable literary talent.
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1.MONSTERS
Most people believe the human brain is solid. They imagine a loaf of bread soaked in gelatin: you can hack off quivering slices, same as you would with a Jell-O mold at a family picnic. But the truth is, the brain's texture is more like toothpaste. Brain matter will squeeze through a keyhole. In cases of severe cranial swelling, surgeons use a drill-I prefer the RA-II, a Korean model: 30,000 rpm, with silicone handgrips for comfort-to bore into the skull. If the swelling cannot be stopped, the living brain will project from the hole in an inverted funnel. This is called a "coning," and it marks an end.
Most people also believe the brain is gray. Its cells are called gray matter, after all, and isn't that how the organ looks in horror flicks: a slaty walnut floating in a jar of formaldehyde in some mad scientist's lab? But a sheathed brain is bracingly pink. The tissue only turns gray once the cerebrospinal sac has been perforated, once the air hits it. When a brain cones, the tissue changes color; traceries of ash thread through that bubblegum pink as a million thoughts flicker and die.
People think neurosurgeons cut into brains with a scalpel. Another myth. How can you carve toothpaste? An infant's brain matter is even less substantial than an adult's, like pancake batter. I operate with a sucker wand, a tool that is exactly as it sounds. As I investigate the runnels of a patient's brain, it grips me that something unforgivingly solid-my wand-is moving through something ephemeral, dreamlike: a patient's memories. Though I work carefully and with a keen knowledge of the cerebral topography, my wand remains a beast blundering through fields of budding shoots. If I trample something critical, the patient may awaken lacking a vital memory. That one where they gazed into the sky as a child wondering how a star might taste, settling on breathtaking wintergreen. The smell of their newborn
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daughter's scalp, or that haunting tingle on their lips following their first kiss.
I navigate the storerooms of a patient's consciousness, passing memories in their golden vaults, my wand clumsily bayoneting-it often seems-the pink jelly that holds everything the patient is or will ever be. Hard as I try not to disturb the furniture, things happen. I am forced to accept these tragic outcomes for the same reason that the patients on my table must accept their own lot: we are only human, a condition of perpetual uncertainty and failure.
The brain is the seat of memory, and memory is a tricky thing. At base level, memories are stories-and sometimes these stories we tell allow us to carry on. Sometimes stories are the best we can hope for. They help us to simply get by, while deeper levels of our consciousness slap bandages on wounds that hold the power to wreck us. So we tell ourselves that the people we love closed their eyes and slipped painlessly away from us. That our personal failures are the product of external forces rather than unfixable weaknesses. That we were too damn good for the rat-assed bastards who jilted us, anyway. Tell yourself these stories long enough and you will discover they have a magical way of becoming facts.
But a secret can be hidden from everyone save its holder, and the brain is not only a storyteller, it is a truth-seeking organ. If the stories we tell are no more than an overlay, the equivalent of six feet of caliche covering a pool of toxic sludge, something's bound to bubble up, right? And the most awful truths will do so in the darkest hours of night, when we're most vulnerable.
If you bury those secrets so deep that you forget they ever happened, okay, maybe you've beat the devil. But the truth is a bloodhound. That's something I can tell you with certainty. The truth is that abandoned dog following you over sea and land, baying from barren clifftops, never tiring and never quitting, forever pining after you-and the day will c
I navigate the storerooms of a patient's consciousness, passing memories in their golden vaults, my wand clumsily bayoneting-it often seems-the pink jelly that holds everything the patient is or will ever be. Hard as I try not to disturb the furniture, things happen. I am forced to accept these tragic outcomes for the same reason that the patients on my table must accept their own lot: we are only human, a condition of perpetual uncertainty and failure.
The brain is the seat of memory, and memory is a tricky thing. At base level, memories are stories-and sometimes these stories we tell allow us to carry on. Sometimes stories are the best we can hope for. They help us to simply get by, while deeper levels of our consciousness slap bandages on wounds that hold the power to wreck us. So we tell ourselves that the people we love closed their eyes and slipped painlessly away from us. That our personal failures are the product of external forces rather than unfixable weaknesses. That we were too damn good for the rat-assed bastards who jilted us, anyway. Tell yourself these stories long enough and you will discover they have a magical way of becoming facts.
But a secret can be hidden from everyone save its holder, and the brain is not only a storyteller, it is a truth-seeking organ. If the stories we tell are no more than an overlay, the equivalent of six feet of caliche covering a pool of toxic sludge, something's bound to bubble up, right? And the most awful truths will do so in the darkest hours of night, when we're most vulnerable.
If you bury those secrets so deep that you forget they ever happened, okay, maybe you've beat the devil. But the truth is a bloodhound. That's something I can tell you with certainty. The truth is that abandoned dog following you over sea and land, baying from barren clifftops, never tiring and never quitting, forever pining after you-and the day will c
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Autoren-Porträt von Craig Davidson
Craig Davidson has published five other books of literary fiction: Rust and Bone, which was made into a Golden Globe nominated feature film, The Fighter, Sarah Court, the Scotiabank Giller Prize nominated Cataract City, and Cascade. Davidson is a graduate of the Iowa Writers Workshop, and his articles and journalism have been published in Esquire, GQ, and The Washington Post, among other places. He lives in Toronto, Canada, with his partner and their child. He also publishes bestselling horror fiction under the pseudonym Nick Cutter.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Craig Davidson
- 2019, 224 Seiten, Maße: 13,2 x 19,5 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: PENGUIN BOOKS
- ISBN-10: 0143133934
- ISBN-13: 9780143133933
- Erscheinungsdatum: 06.01.2020
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
[Davidson s] powers of description poetically evoke the magic of youth The masterful segues between the narratives of child Jake and adult Jake shimmer. And even more profoundly, the book is a celebration of the secret lives of children, both their wonders and their horrors...Immensely enjoyable, piercingly clever, and satisfyingly soulful, Saturday Night Ghost Club is an exquisite little talisman of a book, one that doesn't flinch as it probes the dark underside of nostalgia." -Jason Heller, NPR"This compact novel is reminiscent of Ray Bradbury's Dandelion Wine and Stephen King's The Body: dark and unforgettable coming-of-age stories." -Shelf Awareness
"If you like darkness poured out like molasses from a bucket,you ll love this novel."-BookPage
"Davidson makes beautifully clear how the ghoulish tales we feared when we were young can't compare to the blood-bathed teeth we eventually encounter as adults. The Saturday Night Ghost Club is a tale for those who like their Stranger Things spiked, Stand by Me charred, and who are battered enough yet still brave enough to revisit that moment when made-up horrors finally come to root in a world beyond invention. A novel that both stabs and breaks your heart." -Mark Z. Danielewski, bestselling author of House of Leaves
"The Saturday Night Ghost Club is not only creepy and chills-down-your-spine fun, it's also incredibly poignant and heartwarming. This is a tender coming-of-age story that isn't afraid to face the darkness in the world or meditate on the power of memory and the mysteries of the human brain. Craig Davidson is such a nimble storyteller and his latest novel is proof of his remarkable gift."-Edan Lepucki, New York Times bestselling author of California and Woman No. 17
"A moving, delightful, thrillingly unexpected coming-of-age story about the irresistible collision of childhood's dark wonders and adulthood's haunting mysteries."
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-Elan Mastai, author of All Our Wrong Todays
"A delightfully creepy tale of misfits and misadventures, The Saturday Night Ghost Club perfectly captures the ache and wonder of growing up. In this trim, accomplished novel, Craig Davidson sheds brilliant light on the ways that scary stories can not only make us shudder, but can also lead us down unexpected paths and foster our most meaningful connections." -Matthew Sullivan, author of Midnight at the Bright Ideas Bookstore
A well-crafted, whimsical coming-of-age tale Davidson creates a quirky landscape and colorful characters, resulting in a novel that will entertain readers while providing a nice dose of nostalgia. Publishers Weekly
"A lovely book that proves how a good storyteller requires only a big heart to resonate with readers. The Saturday Night Ghost Club has a lot of heart, and it carries these characters through every tender page." -Locus
"Through the intensity of his characters' experiences, Davidson reconnects us to our own memories of growing up. Kirkus Reviews
"A delightfully creepy tale of misfits and misadventures, The Saturday Night Ghost Club perfectly captures the ache and wonder of growing up. In this trim, accomplished novel, Craig Davidson sheds brilliant light on the ways that scary stories can not only make us shudder, but can also lead us down unexpected paths and foster our most meaningful connections." -Matthew Sullivan, author of Midnight at the Bright Ideas Bookstore
A well-crafted, whimsical coming-of-age tale Davidson creates a quirky landscape and colorful characters, resulting in a novel that will entertain readers while providing a nice dose of nostalgia. Publishers Weekly
"A lovely book that proves how a good storyteller requires only a big heart to resonate with readers. The Saturday Night Ghost Club has a lot of heart, and it carries these characters through every tender page." -Locus
"Through the intensity of his characters' experiences, Davidson reconnects us to our own memories of growing up. Kirkus Reviews
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