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The book of strange new things6/8/2023 It penetrated his clothing, breathing into the collar of his shirt and down his backbone, making his shoulderblades and chest dewy, making his shirtcuffs adhere to his wrists. The air lapped against his cheeks, tickled his ears, flowed over his lips and hands. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he’d waded into a warm swimming pool. The rain had stopped now, but the atmosphere still seemed substantially composed of water. There were only a few dozen stars visible, far fewer than he was used to, but each one shone brightly, without any flicker, and with a pale green aura. In the dreary environs of the USIC airport, there was nothing much to see anyway, just acres of wet black bitumen, but he’d wanted to walk outside, and so here he was, walking, outside. He strolled into the dark, his way unlit except by several distant lamps. Instead, he was enveloped in a moist, warm breeze, a swirling balm that felt like steam except that it didn’t make his throat catch. Peter stepped through the sliding door into the air of Oasis and, contrary to an irrational apprehension, he did not instantly die, get sucked into an airless vortex, or shrivel up like a scrap of fat on a griddle. Born in Holland, brought up in Australia, he lives in the Scottish Highlands. Faber has written seven other books and has won several short-story awards, including the Neil Gunn, Ian St James and Macallan. The following is from Michel Faber’s The Book of Strange New Things.
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