The Endless Sea
A novel about love, lies and beauty...
The Endless Sea is a literary thriller and love story set in London. It explores friendship, betrayal, passion and loyalty...
Luc drives into a deserted London during a prolonged heatwave. He wants to start a new life and leave the past behind, but his childhood friends have secrets here, secrets that span generations. While his new home and governmental occupation boast unsettling opulence and power, and his neighbour, Mer, remains a woman who will not open herself to him, yet, has him as though under a spell.
During an intense summer, Luc strives to unravel the secrets around him, and so, help his friends whose lives are under threat. Yet, all the while he wishes he could find his way to the new and untroubled life he sought in the first place, by falling in love with Mer...
Zara Alam paints with a vivid brush, to create a heightened, stylised, world. Her use of symbolism is not only beautiful, but also explores the psychology and internal landscapes of her characters. While poetically evocative, and resonating with collective ideas and feelings, her prose still then tells a tale of love, spies, beauty and hope.
REVIEW ON AMAZON.COM !
'I highly urge the reading and purchasing of The Endless Sea. First you're supporting an independent author. With that support she will hopefully continue to write and publish her work, because she can write, and it should be published. This is a thriller, but it reads like literature. Her characters are layered and textured, and the environment in which the story takes place is clear in your mind. The story is not only well written, it is captivating, and I read it in one sitting. As a fan of thrillers I am picky because they can all start to become alike, and this thriller I very much enjoyed. I recommend this book as both a librarian and as an independent bibliophile'
-Review on Amazon.com by Miss Emeline,
More reviews can be found at amazon.co.uk
Extract from the Prologue:
'The black suited man stepped off the train, bearing quietly in his left breast pocket, a beginning; although he did not know it. The photograph was all he had found at the home of a young traitor who had not betrayed him or his masters, but instead, had quite elegantly ruined himself. Yet the man, known in his dark circle as Maurice, had not lingered upon why he had taken the train from France to London in such haste, he had been instead compelled by a conviction; after one look at her face, the photograph had borne him on...'