Pink Fluffy Hearts: Diary of a Coffee Addict: Promotional Event: The Last Gentle Dentist

September 5, 2013

Promotional Event: The Last Gentle Dentist

The Last Gentle Dentist by Oliver Pearl
Age Group: Adult
Genre: Contemporary Fiction
Release Date: August 25, 2012
Buy Links:

Amazon ♥ B & N

Book Description:

Based on actual events, spanning continents from San Francisco to Paris, from Amsterdam to Odessa, from New York to Siberia.

The Last Gentle Dentist is a novel about a modern age Casanova, a romantic-vigilante, who is fond of pain medications and elective plastic surgery, whose life is a tumultuous river running with the speed of a putrid pond, which makes an unexpected turn when he goes on the run from the law due to charges of medical fraud. He wanders the streets of Europe looking for ways to stay.

This search throws him into bony arms and narrow beds of people he meets, fugitives in their own right, only to bring to a new light his own immaturity and unscrupulousness he only yesterday called boyishness and charm. He revisits his recent past, ornate with Vicodin fountains and Ecstasy-laced threesome fender-benders, while adding more crumpled and soon blood-stained pages to his love affair with Life.

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Where The Last Gentle Dentist Was During His Disappearance.

I simply don't know. I can only speculate on his whereabouts. I wrote the book overwhelmed by sadness. One morning in the Summer of 2003 I sat up on a mattress in my NYC apartment and started writing. I continued for the next 9 months until the first draft (456 pages) was finished.

The inspiration came from this bright and strange man that I had the great fortune to observe, admire and be to mad at frequently during ten years of my life which ultimately led to the events described in the book.
I struggled with the ending because his very disappearance robbed me of a chance to find a meaningful conclusion to the story. Nobody who knew him could provide clues as to where he went; if he died or decided to remove himself from the circulation one way or another, we did not know.

So the book found its resting place on a floppy disk where it stayed for eight years when finally, out of nowhere I received a phone call, the same phone call I'd been waiting for for years and had gotten sick of waiting for.

Finally, we met again at a Russian Vodka room in midtown Manhattan. He looked different: short hair, muscular physic, intense look, purposeful gestures. He was expensively and impeccably dressed. He had matured. Even so, he spoke in riddles about himself, injecting humorous remarks when he wanted to conceal facts. When I asked him where he was all these years. He squinted and said, "I simply don't know."

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