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Nuala Casey

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Influences
Virginia Woolf; Paul Auster; James Joyce; Henry James; Dorothy Richard ...more

Member Since
June 2013


Nuala Casey graduated from Durham University in 2001 and moved to London to pursue a career as a singer-songwriter. However, her experiences living in Soho, where she chronicled the comings and goings of the people around her, took her life in a different direction. She went on to work as a copywriter and was awarded an MA in Creative Writing.Her debut novel Soho, 4am was published by Quercus in 2013 and was described by the Huffington Post as 'the London Novel revived' and by the Psychogeographic Review as 'a welcome addition to the canon of London novels.' London and the voices of the city continue to provide inspiration for her writing. Her latest novel, Summer Lies Bleeding is out now (Quercus)and has been described by the Irish Examine ...more

Average rating: 3.43 · 67 ratings · 21 reviews · 2 distinct works
Summer Lies Bleeding

3.51 avg rating — 35 ratings — published 2014 — 2 editions
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Soho, 4am

3.34 avg rating — 32 ratings — published 2013 — 2 editions
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Nuala’s Recent Updates

Nuala Casey is now friends with Rosamund
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Nuala Casey rated a book it was amazing
You, Me and Other People by Fionnuala Kearney
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This is a deeply moving tale of a marriage in free fall and Kearney sketches, with painful honesty, the journey from betrayal to redemption. You, Me & Other People is a stunning debut from a fresh and exciting new talent.
Summer Lies Bleeding by Nuala   Casey
"This book brings back a number of the Characters from Casey's first book 'Soho 4am'. While this in itself makes it an interesting book for anyone who read the first, it is a self contained novel that could be read on its own and wouldn't loose any..." Read more of this review »
Summer Lies Bleeding by Nuala   Casey
"Good, fast read.
Enjoyed the twists and turns of different characters interlinking.
May try the other book by this author "
Summer Lies Bleeding by Nuala   Casey
"This was a quick, easy read. I thought the book was okay, however I found it difficult to relate to some of the characters. I liked the concept of the story, with the four main characters stories interconnecting with each other. I would probably t..." Read more of this review »
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The Definite Article by Ali Smith
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Empty Roads & Broken Bottles; in search for The Great Perhaps by Charlotte Eriksson
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Lights Out for the Territory by Iain Sinclair
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London Writing by Merlin Coverley
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You by Caroline Kepnes
You (You, #1)
by Caroline Kepnes (Goodreads Author)
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More of Nuala's books…
“This is life, in all its gruesome, lovely, neon-lit glory.”
Nuala Casey, Soho, 4am
tags: london

“This is life, in all its gruesome, lovely, neon-lit glory.”
Nuala Casey, Soho, 4am
tags: london

“Numbers are the only things you can trust in this life, Kerstin; they will keep you sane.’
Summer Lies Bleeding”
Nuala Casey

“LONDON. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes — gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another’s umbrellas in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if the day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.

Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time — as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look.

The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln’s Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.”
Charles Dickens, Bleak House

“One might fancy that day, the London day, was just beginning. Like a woman who had slipped off her print dress and white apron to array herself in blue and pearls, the day changed, put off stuff, took gauze, changed to evening, and with the same sigh of exhilaration that a woman breathes, tumbling petticoats on the floor, it too shed dust, heat, colour; the traffic thinned; motor cars, tinkling, darting, succeeded the lumber of vans; and here and there among the thick foliage of the squares an intense light hung. I resign, the evening seemed to say, as it paled and faded above the battlements and prominences, moulded, pointed, of hotel, flat, and block of shops, I fade, she was beginning. I disappear, but London would have none of it, and rushed her bayonets into the sky, pinioned her, constrained her to partnership in her revelry.”
Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

London

I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow.
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,
In every Infants cry of fear,
In every voice: in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear

How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackning Church appalls,
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls

But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.”
William Blake, Songs of Innocence and of Experience




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