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About This Book
Something's not right aboard the cruise ship Aurora. Yet that's probably what you would think when you're with the girl you love and everyone else is about fifty years your senior. You're 3000 miles from home, young, and high on emotion. Maybe it just ratchets up the sense of adventure.
And yet perhaps something really is wrong. There's the passenger everyone thought was dead, but who reappears one evening in the lounge without comment or explanation.
And eighty-year-old Celia Soper who reads Tarot cards, but only for 'the history of the world' … whatever that means.
And then, of course, the disappearances. Which, apparently, only you two have noticed.
Above all, there are the bright fish, creatures the size of dolphins that materialise unexpectedly, at intervals, alongside the hull, glowing with indescribable colours. And which never seem to inspire the sort of delight one might expect.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
The Bright Fish is a love story. It deals with what it means to live, lose one's heart, and ultimately, to die in the metaphysically reticent context of the present century. Are we always essentially alone, or is true interdependency possible? Is death our beginning or end? Or both?
Or is the truth stranger than we can possibly imagine?
And yet perhaps something really is wrong. There's the passenger everyone thought was dead, but who reappears one evening in the lounge without comment or explanation.
And eighty-year-old Celia Soper who reads Tarot cards, but only for 'the history of the world' … whatever that means.
And then, of course, the disappearances. Which, apparently, only you two have noticed.
Above all, there are the bright fish, creatures the size of dolphins that materialise unexpectedly, at intervals, alongside the hull, glowing with indescribable colours. And which never seem to inspire the sort of delight one might expect.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
The Bright Fish is a love story. It deals with what it means to live, lose one's heart, and ultimately, to die in the metaphysically reticent context of the present century. Are we always essentially alone, or is true interdependency possible? Is death our beginning or end? Or both?
Or is the truth stranger than we can possibly imagine?
