Neon in Daylight
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A New York Times Book Review Editors' Choice [b]"A radiant first novel. . . . [ Neon in Daylight ] has antecedents in the great novels of the 1970s: Renata Adler’s Speedboat , Elizabeth Hardwick’s Sleepless Nights , Joan Didion’s Play It as It Lays . . . . Precision—of observation, of language—is Hoby’s gift. Her sentences are sleek and tailored. Language molds snugly to thought." —Parul Sehgal, The New York Times [/b][b] "What do you get when a writer of extreme intelligence, insight, style and beauty chronicles the lives of self-absorbed hedonists— The Great Gatsby , Bright Lights, Big City , and now Neon in Daylight . Hermione Hoby paints a garish world that drew me in and held me spellbound. She is a marvel." —Ann Patchett, author of Commonwealth [/b] New York City in 2012, the sweltering summer before Hurricane Sandy hits. Kate, a young woman newly arrived from England, is staying in a Manhattan apartment while she tries to figure out her future. She has two unfortunate responsibilities during her time in America: to make regular Skype calls to her miserable boyfriend back home, and to cat-sit an indifferent feline named Joni Mitchell. The city has other plans for her. In New York's parks and bodegas, its galleries and performance spaces, its bars and clubs crowded with bodies, Kate encounters two strangers who will transform her stay: Bill, a charismatic but embittered writer made famous by the movie version of his only novel; and Inez, his daughter, a recent high school graduate who supplements her Bushwick cafe salary by enacting the fantasies of men she meets on Craigslist. Unmoored from her old life, Kate falls into an infatuation with both of them. Set in a heatwave that feels like it will never break, Neon In Daylight marries deep intelligence with captivating characters to offer us a joyful, unflinching exploration of desire, solitude, and the thin line between life and art.
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For my parents
The apartment was owned by her mother’s onetime best friend, off on the postdivorce cliché of an around-the-world, Thailand et cetera trip. A week ago Kate had stared at this stranger’s face on a Skype screen, a face fussed with earrings and silk scarves, glitching in the sputtering Wi-Fi, exclaiming: “Oh, honey, I can’t believe you’ve never been to New York!” And then: “Oh my god, your mom and I had such adventures when we were your age. Because you gotta travel! You gotta live, you know?” And Kate didn’t know. Didn’t know what live meant, in this context. She suspected, though, that it meant something you’d see on a Pepsi commercial: jumping into a waterfall in your underwear, piling into an open-top car to the beach, that sort of thing. But she’d said “Absolutely” into the screen like she knew, like yeah, she totally knew. As though she were the kind of person who was up for it and down for it. The kind of person who wouldn’t be troubled, for instance, over how those two semantically opposed phrases could have come to mean, in essence, the exact same thing.
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Inez had learned the trick this summer, doing it into her iPhone’s camera, reversed so the screen mirrored her face: a minuscule muscle tensing. That shrinking of her eyes’ lower corners that made them loom larger and lovelier, made some mystery out of them. And then, if you tipped your head forward a little too, so you had to raise your gaze just a few extra millimeters . . . She willed the radiation of hot, grave attention into Dana’s waiting gaze.
“What?” Dana blurted, shifting her bag’s strap.
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