Clown Girl: A Novel by Monica Drake

By Monica Drake

Clown lady lives in Baloneytown, a seedy local the place medications, balloon animals, or even rubber chickens give a contribution to the neighborhood foreign money. opposed to a backdrop of petty crime, she struggles to reside her goals, calling on cultural masters Charlie Chaplin, Kafka, and da Vinci for notion. with a purpose to help herself and her layabout performance-artist boyfriend, Clown lady unearths herself unwittingly remodeled right into a "corporate clown," trapping herself in a cycle of meaningless, high-paid gigs that veer dangerously as regards to prostitution. Monica Drake has created a singular that riffs at the excessive comedy of early movie stars — so much particularly Chaplin and W. C. Fields — to elevate questions of sophistication, gender, economics, and prejudice. Resisting effortless category, this debut novel blends the weird, the funny, and the gritty with lovely ability.

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I gathered up the pages and handed them to him, not daring to meet his gaze. Don Basilio sat down at the next table and turned on the lamp. His eyes skimmed the text, betraying no emotion. Then he rested his cigar on the end of the table for a moment, glared at me, and read out the first line: Night falls on the city and the streets carry the scent of gunpowder like the breath of a curse. Don Basilio looked at me out of the corner of his eye and I hid behind a smile that didn’t leave a single tooth uncovered.

He then hugged me until there was no strength left in his arms and lay down, stretched out on the floor with the hypodermic needle still stuck in his skin. I pulled out the needle and covered him with a blanket. After that, he began to lock himself in. We lived in a small attic suspended over the building site of the new auditorium, the Palau de la Música. It was a cold, narrow place in which wind and humidity seemed to mock the walls. I used to sit on the tiny balcony with my legs dangling out, watching people pass by and gazing at the battlement of weird sculptures and columns that was growing on the other side of the street.

And you’ll be right to do so, because you’re not a journalist and you never will be. But you’re not a crime novelist yet, even if you think you are. ” At that moment, my guard down, I was so overwhelmed by gratitude that I wanted to hug that great bulk of a man. Don Basilio, his fierce mask back in place, gave me a steely look and pointed toward the door. “No scenes, please. Close the door. ” … The following Monday, when I arrived at the editorial room ready to sit at my own desk for the very first time, I found a coarse gray envelope with a ribbon and my name on it in the same recognizable type that I had been typing out for years.

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