![]() ![]() ![]() Slade House is David Mitchell’s seventh book, and it’s the first I’ve read. Whispers warning guests that Slade House is the flytrap, and they are the flies. But the strain that ties them together is the mysterious house, a staircase full of paintings, faint echoes of the ones that came before. Some seek friends, others seeking love and lust. ![]() One by one, decade after decade, the flows and eddies of their life bring them to the mysterious house. Slade House is a compilation of the tales of five guests. Rumor has it that once you enter Slade House, you never leave. Rumor has it that Slade House is a luxury villa, a roaring house-party, the home of a lonely widow. Rumor has it that once every nine years, around the corner from a dive bar, down a cramped alley and through a black iron door, Slade House makes itself known to an unwary wanderer. “Tonight feels like a board-game designed by M C Escher on a bender and Stephen King in a fever.” ![]()
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