On September 5, 2003, illusionist David Blaine entered a small Perspex box adjacent to London's Thames River and began starving himself. Forty-four days later, on October 19, he left the box, fifty pounds lighter. That much, at least, is clear. And the rest? The crowds? The chaos? The hype? The rage? The fights? The lust? The filth? The bullshit? The hypocrisy? Nicola Barker fearlessly crams all that and more into this ribald and outrageous peep show of a novel, her most irreverent, caustic, up-to-the-minute work yet, laying bare the heart of our contemporary world, a world of illusion, delusion, celebrity, and hunger. “An exasperating, beguiling, and occasionally damn-ner perfect piece of work [by an] infuratingly talented British author.” - Kirkus Reviews on Behindlings “Nicola Barker’s is a singular world, a hectic place of uncommon characters and naughty, memorable prose.… Her style is fast, funny, profound, and sharp.” - Newsday “Barker’s narrative draws us in with the disturbing, surreal touch of a latter-day Lewis Carroll.” - Sunday Times (London) “Dazzling...She celebrates the complexity of human experience.” - London Times “The plot doesn’t just twist, it leaps and back-flips and does triple somersaults...” - New York Times Book Review “Nicola Barker has a rare writing talent.” - Time Out (London) “Barker’s weird imagination works wonders...Exceptional.” - Elle “The brilliance of Barker’s style is beyond question.” - The Spectator “The diversity of Barker’s imagination is stunning; her language, witty and exact.” - Daily Telegraph (London) “Barker’s earthy, inventive, hilarious, and wickedly satirical novel is enormously entertaining.” - Booklist “Her vision is unique, funny, dark, sarcastic and clever.” - Alain de Botton On September 5, 2003, illusionist David Blaine entered a small Perspex box adjacent to London's Thames River and began starving himself. Forty-four days later, on October 19, he left the box, fifty pounds lighter. That much, at least, is clear. And the rest? The crowds? The chaos? The hype? The rage? The fights? The lust? The filth? The bullshit? The hypocrisy? Nicola Barker fearlessly crams all that and more into this ribald and outrageous peep show of a novel, her most irreverent, caustic, up-to-the-minute work yet, laying bare the heart of our contemporary world, a world of illusion, delusion, celebrity, and hunger. Nicola Barker is one of Britain's most original and exciting literary talents. She is the author of two short-story collections: Love Your Enemies [winner of the David Higham Prize and the Macmillan Silver Pen Award] and Heading Inland [winner of the John Llewellyn Rhys Prize]. Her previous novels are Reversed Forecast, Small Holdings, Wide Open Behindlings and Clear, the last of which was long-listed for the 2005 Booker Prize. Her work is translated into twenty languages, and in 2000, she won the IMPAC Award for Wide Open . In 2003, Nicola Barker was named a Granta Best of British Novelist. She lives in London. Clear A Transparent Novel By Nicola Barker HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. Copyright © 2006 Nicola Barker All right reserved. ISBN: 0060797576 Chapter One I couldn't even begin to tell you why, exactly, but my head was suddenly buzzing with the opening few lines of Jack Schaefer's Shane (his 'Classic Novel of the American West'. Remember?). I was thinking how incredibly precise those first lines were, and yet how crazily effortless they seemed; Schaefer's style (his -- ahem -- 'voice'), so enviably understated, his artistic (if I may be so bold as to use this word, and so early in our acquaintance) 'vision' so totally (and I mean totally ) unflinching. 'I have huge balls.' That's what the text's shouting: 'I have huge balls, d'ya hear me? I have huge fucking balls , and I love them, and I have nothing else to prove here.' The rest -- as they say -- is all gravy. Because let's face it, when you've got balls that size, you automatically develop a strange kind of moral authority, a gung-ho -ness (for want of a better word), a special intellectual certainty , which is very, very seductive to all those tight-arsed and covetous Princess-Tiny-Meats out there (the Little-Balls, and the No-Balls -- Good God , let's not forget about them, eh?). I don't make the rules, okay? I'm just a dispassionate observer of the Human Animal. If you feel the urge to argue this point (you're at perfect liberty to do so), then why not write a detailed letter to Ms Germaine Greer? (That's it, love, you run off and fetch your nice, green biro ... Yeah . And I'm sure she'd just love to read it, once she's finally finished rimming that gorgeous teenager ...) Schaefer (to get back to my point), as a writer , simply jumps, feet-first, straight into the guts of the thing. If I might just ... uh ... quote something, to try and illustrate (and this is entirely from memory, so bear with me) ... 'He rode into our Valley in the