New York Times bestselling author Nick Hornby explores the minds and emotions of four lonely individuals who unite just as they are about to reach the end of the line in his much anticipated fourth book.
Introducing Maureen, JJ, Martin, and Jess. A mother, a teenage daughter, a musician, and a former TV talk show presenter meet together on New Year's Eve. One is American, while three are British. They meet on the rooftop of Topper's House, a well-known London location known as the last resting place for those contemplating suicide.
Nick Hornby narrates the narrative of four people who are forced to face their own mortality, their circumstances, and their constraints in four unique and compelling first-person perspectives. This is a story about relationships that are built and lost, about painful regrets and the beauty of second chances.
A Long Way Down is a touching, funny, thought-provoking, and intense book about suicide that is unexpectedly vibrant.
What is your starting point?
Maurien
How come it's the greatest sin of all? You've been taught all your life that after you die, you're going to this amazing destination. The only thing you can do to get there a little bit faster is to prevent yourself from there at all. Yes, it seems to be a kind of queue-jumping. However, people tsk when someone skips the line at the post office. Alternatively, they may remark, "Pardon me, I was here first." It is not said, "You will be consumed by hellfire for all eternity." That could be taking it too far.
Martinez
Curious, I had been researching suicides on the Internet for the last several months. The coroner always states the same thing, almost without exception: "He took his own life while the balance of his mind was disturbed." After that, you read the tale of the unfortunate bastard: His daughter had died in a car crash a few months before, his wife was having an affair with his closest friend, and he had lost his job. Good day, Mr. Coroner? I apologize, but my buddy, there isn't a disrupted mental equilibrium here. He nailed it spot on, in my opinion.
Jessie
Below, I was at a party. The party was awful, with old crusties lying on the floor, smoking big spliffs, drinking cider, and listening to bizarre, space-out reggae. When the clock struck twelve, one of them gave a sardonic clap, a few others chuckled, and that was all. Happy New Year to you as well. Even if you had been the happiest person in London when you arrived to the party, by five past twelve you would still have wanted to leap off the roof. And, to be honest, I wasn't the happiest person in London. Of course.
JJ Sentimental losers had a great time on New Year's Eve. I made a foolish mistake. Naturally, there would be a lower-class throng up there. I ought to have chosen a more sophisticated date, such as November 25 (Nick Drake) or March 28, the day Virginia Woolf took her stroll in the river. Should someone have been on the roof on any of those occasions, it is likely that they were kindred spirits rather than delusional jerks who had managed to convince themselves that the end of the year had any kind of importance.