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Zusatztext Publishers Weekly There is never a dull moment in this charming story...Hamill has perfectly captured the trill of an Irish brogue! and he loads the plot with remarkable twists! keeping readers in suspense until the final page of this lively! sad! humorous tale. Informationen zum Autor Denis Hamill is the author of ten novels, including two previous novels featuring Bobby Emmet--3 Quarters and Throwing 7's, as well as Fork in the Road, Long Time Gone, Sins of Two Fathers, and his Brooklyn Christmas fable, Empty Stockings. He currently writes a column for the New York Daily News, and he has been a columnist for New York magazine, the Los Angeles Herald Examiner, and the Boston Herald American. Klappentext With this stunning literary portrait of ill-fated love played out amid the romantic squalor and violent underpinnings of contemporary Dublin and New York, Denis Hamill has crafted a work of greater resonance than anything he has yet written.When Colin Coyne, a young American filmmaker seeking aesthetic inspiration in Ireland, catches a pickpocket red-handed in a hotel pub, all it takes is one look into her dazzling eyes for him to fall hard. Purely for the sake of research -- or so he tells himself -- he hurtles headlong into the bewitching world of Gina Furey, a stunningly beautiful, iron-willed denizen of Dublin's gypsy criminal underground. Before he knows what's happening, he finds himself a star player in a Pygmalion-like relationship rich with dramatic film possibilities: the earnest Yankee auteur woos and wins the dangerous gypsy thief. But the tenuous lines separating art and reality soon dissolve and the neatly linear screenplay unfolding inside Colin's head is eclipsed by the brutal chaos and unpredictability of true life.By turns devastating and hopeful, bittersweet and hilarious, Fork in The Road is both a tragic love story and the riveting drama of one man's heartbreaking journey from exhilaration to desolation. Chapter One December 20 Someone is picking my pocket, he thought. For Colin Coyne, the beginning, those first days in Dublin were indelibly suspended in time, always as immediate and vivid as a movie. Maybe it wasn't a pickpocket, Colin thought, standing at the two-deep bar of the Shelbourne hotel, gagging down a pint of Guinness. Maybe it was just an accident, a bump in the crowd. He clutched the mug in his big right fist, hungover and jet-lagged after his first night on the town in Dublin. Then he felt it again. Right cheek of my ass, he thought. Under my fucking wallet. His buttocks were sensitive from flying coach, sitting in a middle seat, sandwiched between a fat nun who'd mumbled the rosary all the way across the Atlantic and a snoring old farmer with hairy ears, who smelled like unwashed feet. Colin had squirmed for a position of comfort and wound up pinching a sciatic nerve in his right ham muscle, which now made him very sensitive to someone touching him back there. He waited for a second touch. It didn't come. Colin shrugged, took another sip of his stout. This was Holy Hour, that terribly thirsty time in the Dublin afternoon when the regular pubs shut for an hour in supposed deference to the Angelus that peals from every church spire in the city. The hotel bars were exempt from the Holy Hour rule so the afternoon barroom of the elegant four-star Shelbourne was packed. Smoky. Loud. Cross-pollinated conversations, a jumble of American, British, Irish, French, German voices, simultaneously gabbing about the always fragile peace in the long troubled North, the booming Irish economy, starvation in Africa, and the latest White House scandal. Colin was in Ireland to research a movie he wanted to direct about a young Irish-American filmmaker from Queens, New York, who has failed miserably in every relationship with American women, and so travels ...
