In Defense of Classical Liberalism: An Economic Analysis

Did the Pedestrian Die?: Insights from the World's Greatest Culture Guru

Review "...lively and informative read...an excellent introduction to the issues of transcultural management..." (People Management, 10 July 2003) "...essential reading for those concerned with cultural issues..." (Long Range Planning, Vol 37, 2004) From the Inside Flap The Dilemma  You are a passenger in a car driven by a close friend. He hits a pedestrian. You know he was going at least 35 miles per hour in an area of the city where the maximum speed allowed is 20 miles per hour. There are no witnesses. His lawyer says that if you are prepared to testify under oath that he was only driving at 20 miles per hour it may save him from serious consequences. What right has your friend to expect you to protect him? a: My friend has a DEFINITE right to expect me to testify to the lower figure. b: He has SOME right to expect me to testify to the lower figure. c: He has NO right to expect me to testify to the lower figure. Fons Trompenaars has put this dilemma to some 70,000 managers in over 65 countries. The responses vary tremendously and will often change when Fons then reveals a further important factor - that the pedestrian is indeed very? dead! But there is one thread that remains common no matter where and to whom Fons is posing this dilemma: regardless of their culture, people would like to help their friends as well as respect the truth and support laws that protect pedestrians. Culture is the way one solves dilemmas. That is, the way one resolves dilemmas is culturally determined. Did the Pedestrian Die? is an accumulation of a decade of research into cultural diversity across the globe with a wide range of client organizations. Trompenaars and his research team have identified the issues that really make a difference at the level of the individual and the organization as whole. In addition to his well-established cross-cultural database of 70,000 managers from across the world, more recently Trompenaars has interviewed thousands of business leaders and managers to understand the challenges and concerns they face, the tensions between competing priorities, demands and values. Often humorous, always inspiring, Did the Pedestrian Die? collects the insights of the world?s most sought-after culture guru and shows how they can be put to immediate effect in any organization. From the Back Cover ?Most decisions that managers face involve objectives that are in apparent conflict; they constitute the horns of a dilemma. By the use of numerous examples Trompenaars shows how managers can escape these horns. The examples are invaluable for every manager.? RUSSEL L. ACKOFF, author of Creating the Corporate Future ?Dilemma identification is an elegant method for appreciating and transcending the complexity that paralyzes strategic thinking, as Trompenaars' Did the Pedestrian Die? elegantly shows.? PETER SENGE, author of The Fifth Discipline PRAISE FOR 21 LEADERS FOR THE 21ST CENTURY: "?this is an important book" BUSINESS LIFE PRAISE FOR BUILDING CROSS CULTURAL COMPETENCE: "...You will gain fascinating insights into literature, philosophy, economics, ancient and modern history and obscure Japanese films. It is not like a management book at all. I recommend it." DAILY TELEGRAPH "There are lots of fascinating stories about how we differ, and we are encouraged to respect all forms of diversity. The book will give people working internationally a deeper level of understanding of the issues, pitfalls and potential ways to reconcile cultural differences at work." PEOPLE MANAGEMENT About the Author Fons Trompenaars is founder and Managing Director of Trompenaars Hampden-Turner (THT), an innovative centre of excellence for intercultural management issues ? for both globalization and managing diversity. He is the author and co-author of several books, including the worldwide bestseller, Riding the Waves of Culture and 21 Leaders for the 21st Century . Visit www.thtconsulting.com for more information on Fons and THT. Read more

Land of the Blind: A Novel

Amazon.com Review Jess Walter, a reporter whose first novel fictionalized the true crime story of a serial killer in Spokane, Washington, ( Over Tumbled Graves ) has penned a riveting, elegiac thriller about a middle-aged man who wants Spokane police detective Caroline Mabry to witness his confession to a crime that hasn't yet been discovered. As Clark Mason writes the long story of a childhood friendship gone horribly wrong, readers will shudder, remembering their own tortured adolescence and revisiting it in that of Eli Boyle, whose physical and social awkwardness made him a natural target for his peers. Back then, even Clark joined the crowd in making fun of Eli. But he also showed him some kindness--enough to make Eli agree to let Clark turn his fantasy game, Empire, into a high-tech start-up years later, and to bankroll Clark's run for Congress. But when the technology boom goes bust and Clark's dreams run out of steam, Eli makes a last, frightening bid for what he's always wanted--revenge on those who made his childhood hell, including the woman Clark has loved since high school. Walter's abilities as a prose stylist and his sense of narrative tension shine through in this extremely well written novel, which is far stronger than his first, but shares its deep sense of time and place. --Jane Adams --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From Booklist *Starred Review* Caroline Mabry, Spokane homicide detective recently demoted to the swing shift, dubs the vagrant with the eye patch the "Loon." In fact, he's Clark Mason, a recently failed candidate for Congress, and he wants to confess to a homicide. His confession reads like an autobiography: Mason didn't want to be the poor kid from Spokane; he wanted to be the rich guy, the guy on the news, the guy who got all the girls. He succeeded, after a fashion, always reinventing himself to fit the impressions of others. His confession fills up pad after legal pad as he recounts his high-school years and his friendship with the class geek, Eli Boyle. Mason, with his law degree and connections to the dot-com world of venture capital and quick fortunes, ensnares his old friend Eli in the development of a computer game called Empire. It's a con, but the money flows. Until it stops. Caroline eventually finds a body, but can you charge someone with a homicide for what he didn't do, for the person he never became, for the truths he never uttered? Walter, the critically praised author of Over Tumbled Graves (2001), also featuring Caroline Mabry, raises these and other profound questions in a mystery novel of uncommon depth. Despite themselves, readers will question their own self-images and assess just how far they've really come from the scared high-school kid who wanted to be exactly like everyone else but somehow still unique. A haunting, deeply troubling novel. Wes Lukowsky Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From Publishers Weekly Spokane detective Caroline Mabry, the heroine of Walter's acclaimed debut, Over Tumbled Graves, returns in a supporting role in this new thriller. Burned out on the job and stuck in the night shift, Caroline is in the station house when Clark Mason stumbles in after midnight, needing to confess to a murder. With his fitted shirt, long tousled hair and eye patch (all three black), Clark intrigues Caroline, even as she chastises herself for the vague attraction. Before long, he's frenziedly writing his story on a series of legal pads, and she's following up on the leads that spill from his lips as he writes. His flashbacks stretch as far back as childhood, when Clark alternately befriends and betrays the intense misfit Eli Boyle. The first betrayal occurs when Clark is caught between scapegoat Eli and scary preteen bully Pete Kramer. Adolescence, with its romantic predicaments, only complicates the relationship between these three. As Clark's narrative rolls slowly forward in time, Caroline tracks down the people he mentions. Walter is at his incisive best juxtaposing the characters in the present with their childhood selves. Spokane is carefully rendered in all its moody complexity. Wracked by urban blight and an inferiority complex (it's no Seattle), the city holds an ineffable attraction for both Caroline and Clark. Similarly, Walter's novel takes sketchy detours and its characters repel as much as compel, but lucid writing and a palpable sense of nostalgia make it hypnotically compelling. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Review An exceptional crime novel that transcends the mystery of crime and takes a courageous look at an even more profound mystery- the mystery of what it takes to continue living. As Jess Walter probes the nature of evil and its impact, he challenges his readers to reconsider their own complexity. Totally absorbing. * Ursula Hegi on Over Tumbled Graves * 'Walter renders his blind land with a clear-eyed, compassionate vision. * Kirkus Reviews * A most accomplished debut. * Sunday Telegraph on Over Tumbled Graves * A home run off the first pitch...a tremendous debut, full of pace and tension and unexpected twists, but also full of depth and quiet intelligence that together lift it head and shoulders above the pack. * Lee Child on Over Tumbled Graves * Jess Walter has just about lapped the field with his superior first novel OVER TUMBLED GRAVES. The suspense and surprises are terrific, but best of all are the characters he has managed to create. * James Patterson * --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From the Inside Flap While working the weekend night shift, Caroline Mabry, a weary Spokane police detective, encounters a seemingly unstable but charming derelict who tells her, I'd like to confess. But he insists on writing out his statement in longhand. In the forty-eight hours that follow, the stranger confesses to not just a crime but an entire life--spinning a wry and haunting tale of youth and adulthood, of obsession and revenge, and of two men's intertwined lives. Fiendishly clever and darkly funny, Land of the Blind speaks to the bonds and compromises we make as children--and to the fatal errors we can make at any time. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From the Back Cover In this fiendishly clever and darkly funny novel, Jess Walter speaks deeply to the bonds and compromises we make as children -- and the fatal errors we can make at any moment in our lives. While working the weekend night shift, Caroline Mabry, a weary Spokane police detective, encounters a seemingly unstable but charming derelict. "I'd like to confess," he proclaims. But he insists on writing out his confession in longhand. In the forty-eight hours that follow, the stranger admits to not just a crime, but an entire life: a wry and haunting tale of poverty and politics, of obsession and revenge. And as he writes, Caroline pushes herself to near collapse, racing against the clock to investigate not merely a murder, but the story of two men's darkly intertwined lives. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author Jess Walter is the author of six novels, including the bestsellers Beautiful Ruins and The Financial Lives of the Poets , the National Book Award finalist The Zero , and Citizen Vince , the winner of the Edgar Award for best novel. His short fiction has appeared in Harper's , McSweeney's , and Playboy , as well as The Best American Short Stories and The Best American Nonrequired Reading . He lives in his hometown of Spokane, Washington. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Read more

Shame the Devil: A Novel (DC Quartet Book 4)

About the Author George Pelecanos is the bestselling author of twenty novels set in and around Washington, D.C. He is also an independent film producer, and a producer and Emmy-nominated writer on the HBO series The Wire , Treme , and The Deuce . He lives in Maryland. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From AudioFile A botched robbery at a DC pizzeria leaves six people--including the driver of the getaway car--dead. For the next three years, the people who lost friends and loved ones in the incident struggle to heal from the tragedy. Then the killers return to DC to avenge their partner's death. The story is a tight, dark thriller peopled by very human--and some very evil--characters. Actor Richard Brewer reads the text in a steady staccato, but his attempts at underworld street talk and some of his pronunciation of ethnic words miss the mark. S.E.S. © AudioFile 2002, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From the Back Cover The boys are back in town Frank Farrow is a natural-born killer. Roman Otis is a fine-looking crooner who does his killing on the side. On a hot D.C. afternoon Frank and Roman hit a pizza shop called May's. When the hit was over, four people were executed. A cop was shot. A boy was dead. And when the sirens stopped wailing and the killers vanished into the heat, dozens of lives were shattered forever. Now it's three years later, and Dimitri Karras, who lost a son, is starting to live again. But Dimitri's old acquaintance, a P.I. named Nick Stefanos, has just unburied the past--by discovering the killers' identity. Suddenly the second act of a crime story is about to be told. Because the May's pizza parlor killers are coming back into town: where they'll be greeted with open arms, broken hearts, and at least one loaded gun. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Shame the Devil By George P. Pelecanos Little, Brown Books for Young Readers Copyright © 2011 George P. PelecanosAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-0-316-13340-1 CHAPTER 1 The car was a boxy late-model Ford sedan, white over black, innocuous borderingon invisible, and very fast. It had been a sheriff's vehicle originally, boughtat auction in Tennessee, and further modified for speed. The car rolled north on Wisconsin beneath a blazing white sun. The men insidewore long-sleeved shirts, tails out. Their shirtfronts were spotted with sweatand their backs were slick with it. The black vinyl on which they sat was hot tothe touch. From the passenger seat, Frank Farrow studied the street. Thesidewalks were empty. Foreign-made automobiles moved along quietly, theiroccupants cool and cocooned. Heat mirage shimmered up off asphalt. The city wasnarcotized—it was that kind of summer day. "Quebec," said Richard Farrow, his gloved hands clutching the wheel. He pushedhis aviator shades back up over the bridge of his nose, and as they neared thenext cross street he said, "Upton." "You've got Thirty-ninth up ahead," said Frank. "You want to take that shoot-off,just past Van Ness." "I know it," said Richard. "You don't have to tell me again because I know." "Take it easy, Richard." "All right." In the backseat, Roman Otis softly sang the first verse to "One in a MillionYou," raising his voice just a little to put the full Larry Graham inflectioninto the chorus. He had heard the single on WHUR earlier that morning, and thetune would not leave his head. The Ford passed through the intersection at Upton. Otis looked down at his lap, where the weight of his shotgun had begun to etch adeep wrinkle in his linen slacks. Well, he should have known it. All you had todo was look at linen to make it wrinkle, that was a plain fact. Still, aman needed to have a certain kind of style to him when he left the house forwork. Otis placed the sawed-off on the floor, resting its stock across the toesof his lizard-skin monk straps. He glanced at the street-bought Rolex strappedto his left wrist: five minutes past ten A.M. Richard cut the Ford up 39th. "There," said Frank. "That Chevy's pulling out." "I see it," said Richard. They waited for the Chevy. Then Frank said, "Put it in." Richard swung the Ford into the space and killed the engine. They were at theback of a low-rise commercial strip that fronted Wisconsin Avenue. The doorleading to the kitchen of the pizza parlor, May's was situated in the center ofthe block. Frank wiped moisture from his brush mustache and ran a hand throughhis closely cropped gray hair. "There's the Caddy," said Otis, noticing the black DeVille parked three spacesahead. Frank nodded. "Mr. Carl's making the pickup. He's inside." "Let's do this thing," said Otis. "Wait for our boy to open the door," said Frank. He drew two latex examinationgloves from a tissue-sized box and slipped them over the pair he already had onhis hands. He tossed the box over his shoulder to the backseat. "Here. Doubleup." Roman Otis raised his right hand, where a silver ID bracelet bearing theinscription "Back to Oakland" hung on his wrist. He let the bracelet slip downinside the French cuff of his shirt. He put the gloves on carefully, thenreflexively touched the butt of the .45 fitted beneath his shirt. He caught aglimpse of his shoulder-length hair, recently treated with relaxer, in therearview mirror. Shoot, thought Otis, Nick Ashford couldn't claim to have afiner head of hair on him. Otis smiled at his reflection, his one gold toothcatching the light. He gave himself a wink. "Frank," said Richard. "We'll be out in a few minutes," said Frank. "Don't turn the engine over untilyou see us coming back out." "I won't," said Richard, a catch in his voice. The back kitchen door to May's opened. A thin black man wearing a full apronstepped out with a bag of trash. He carried the trash to a Dumpster and swung itin, bouncing it off the upraised lid. On his way back to the kitchen he eye-swept the men in the Ford. He stepped back inside, leaving the door ajar behindhim. "That him?" asked Otis. "Charles Greene," said Frank. "Good boy." Frank checked the .22 Woodsman and the .38 Bulldog holstered beneath his oxfordshirt. The guns were snug against his guinea-T. He looked across the bench athis kid brother, sweating like a hard-run horse, breathing through his mouth,glassy eyed, scared stupid. "Remember, Richard. Wait till you see us come out." Richard Farrow nodded one time. Roman Otis lifted the shotgun, slipped it barrel down into his open shirt,fitting it in a custom-made leather holster hung over his left side. It wouldshow; there wasn't any way to get around it. But they would be going straightin, and they would move fast. "Let's go, Roman," said Frank. Otis said, "Right." He opened the car door and touched his foot to the street. "C'MON," SAID Lisa Karras, "put your arms up, Jimmy." Lisa's son raised his hands and then dropped them as she tried to fit themaroon-and-gold shirt over his head. He wiggle-wormed out of the shirt, giggledas he backed up against a scarred playroom wall. Looking at him, Lisa laughedtoo. There were mornings when she would be trying to get him off to school or getherself to an appointment and Jimmy would keep pushing her buttons until she'dlose her temper in a big way. But this was not one of those mornings. Jimmy hadbeen out of kindergarten since June, and Lisa had not picked up any freelancedesign work in the last month. This was just a slow morning on a hot summer day.The two of them had nothing but time. "Hey, kiddo, I thought you said you wanted some ice cream." Jimmy Karras zoomed over and raised his arms. Lisa got the short-sleevedRedskins jersey on him before he had a chance to squirm out of it, then sat himdown and fitted a pair of miniature Vans sneakers on his feet. "Double knots, Mom." "You got it." Jimmy stood up and raced off. He skipped once, something he did without thoughtwhen he was happy, on the way to the door. Ice cream at ten A.M. Lisa almost laughed, thinking of what her peers would haveto say about that. Most of the other mothers in the neighborhood were content tosit their kids down in front of the television set on hot days like this. ButLisa couldn't stand to be in the house all day, no matter the weather. And sheknew that Jimmy liked to get out too. A trip to the ice cream store would bejust fine. Jimmy stood on his toes at the front door, trying to turn the lock. A rabbit'sfoot hung from a key chain fixed to a belt loop of his navy blue shorts. Therabbit's foot was white and gray, with toenails curling out of the fur. Lisa hadgiven her husband, Dimitri, a few sharp words when he had brought it home fromthe surplus store, but she had let the matter drop when she saw her son's eyeswiden at the sight of it. The rabbit's foot was one of those strangeitems—pocketknives, lighters, firecrackers—that held a mutualfascination for fathers and sons. She had long since given up on trying tounderstand. "Help me, Mom." "You got it." She rested the flat of her palm on his short, curly brown hair as she turned thelock. His scalp was warm to the touch. "Mom, can we go for a Metro ride today?" "One thing at a time, okay, honey?" "Could we take the Metro to the zoo?" "I don't think so. Anyway, it's too hot. The animals will all be inside." "Aw," said Jimmy, flipping his hand at the wrist. "Gimme a break!" Jimmy ran down the concrete steps as she locked the front door of the colonial.She watched him bolt across the sidewalk and head toward the street. "Jimmy!" she yelled. Jimmy stopped short of the street at the sound of her voice. He turned, pointingat her and laughing, his eyes closed, his dimples deeply etched in a smooth ovalface. Mrs. Lincoln, the old woman next door, called from her porch, "You better watchthat boy!" Lisa smiled and said cheerfully, "He's a handful , all right." And underher breath she added, "You dried-up old crow." As Lisa got down to the sidewalk of Alton Place, Jimmy said, "What'd you say,Mom?" "Just saying hello to Mrs. Lincoln." "You mean Mrs. Stinkin'?" "Now, don't you ever say that except in our house, honey. Daddy was just kiddingwhen he made up that name for her. It's not nice." "But she does smell funny, though." "Old people have a different smell to them, that's all." "She smells." "Jimmy!" "Okay." They walked a bit. They stopped at the corner of 38th Street, and Jimmy said,"Where we goin' for ice cream, Mom?" "That store next to the pizza parlor." "Which pizza parlor?" said Jimmy. "You know," said Lisa Karras. "May's." ROMAN OTIS went in first, putting a hard shoulder to the door. Frank Farrowstepped in next, cross-drawing the .22 and the .38 revolver at once. He kickedthe door shut behind him as Otis drew the sawed-off and pumped a shell into thebreech. "All right," said Otis. "Don't none a y'all move." Charles Greene, the pizza chef, stood still behind the kitchen's stainless steelprep table and raised his hands. Mr. Carl, a short man with a stub of unlitcigar wedged in the side of his liver-lipped mouth, stood to the side of thetable. On the tiled floor beside him sat an olive green medium-size duffel bag,zipped shut. "What is this?" said Mr. Carl, direct and calm, looking at the armed white manwith the gray hair. Frank up-jerked the .38. "Raise your hands and shut your mouth." Carl Lewin raised his arms very slowly, careful not to let his sport jacketspread open and reveal the .32 Davis he carried wedged against his right hip onpickup day. "Against the wall," said Frank. Greene and Mr. Carl moved back. Frank holstered the .22, stepped over to theduffel bag, and opened it. He had a quick look inside at the stacks of green:tens, twenties, and hundreds, loosely banded. He ran the zipper back up its neckand nodded at Otis. "Okay, pizza man," said Otis. "Who we got in the front of the house?" Charles Greene licked his dry lips. "The bartender. And the day waiter's out inthe dining room, setting up." "Go out there and bring the waiter back with you," said Otis. "Don't be funny,neither." Greene hesitated, and Otis said, "Go on, boy. Let's get this over withso we can all be on our way." Greene had a look at Mr. Carl before hurrying from the kitchen. Mr. Carl staredat the gray-haired white man without speaking. Then they heard footstepsreturning to the kitchen and a chiding young voice saying, "What could be soimportant, Charlie? I've got side work." The waiter, who was named Vance Walters, entered the kitchen with Greene behindhim. At the sight of the men and their guns, Walters nearly turned to run, thenswallowed and breathed out slowly. The moment had passed, and now it was toolate. He wondered, as he always did, what his father would have done in asituation such as this one. He raised his hands without a prompt. If he'd justcooperate, they wouldn't hurt him, whoever they were. "What's your name?" said Frank. "Vance," said the waiter. "Over there against the wall with your boss," said Frank. Otis watched the waiter with the perfect springy haircut hurry around the preptable. One of those light-steppin' mugs. Vance with the tight-ass pants. Otisknew the look straightaway. Marys like Vance got snatched up on the cell blockright quick. "I'll get the bartender," said Frank to Otis. Frank Farrow left the kitchen. Otis pointed the shotgun at each of the three menagainst the wall in turn. He began to sing "One in a Million You" under hisbreath. As he sang, he smiled at Mr. Carl. DETECTIVE WILLIAM Jonas cruised up Wisconsin in his unmarked and made the turnup 39th. The cold air felt good blowing against his torso, and for a change hewas fairly relaxed. It wasn't often that he rolled on the clean, white-breadstreets of upper Northwest's Ward 3. Most of his action was in neighborhoodslike Trinidad, Petworth, LeDroit Park, and Columbia Heights. But this morning hehad an interview with a teenage kid who worked at the chain video store overnear Wilson High. The kid lived in Shaw, and he had grown up with a couple ofyoung citizens charged with beating a pipehead to death outside a plywood-doorhouse east of 14th and Irving. Jonas hated to roust the kid at work, but theyoung man had been uncooperative on his home turf. Jonas figured that the kidwould talk, and talk quick, at his place of employment. William Jonas had two sons at Wilson himself. They took the bus across town fromJonas's house on Hamlin Street, over in Brookland. It wouldn't be too long before he had his boys in college and could retire hisshield. The money was already put away for their schooling. He'd been saving onan automatic-withdrawal plan since they were boys. Thank the good Lord for bluechips. With his pension and the house damn near 75 percent paid off, he and Deecould enjoy themselves for real. He'd be in his middle fifties bythen—retired and still a relatively young man. But it was a little earlyto be dreaming on it. He had a few years left to go. As he went slowly up 39th, Jonas noticed a parked car on his right, lookedalmost like an old cop car, with a man behind the wheel, sitting there with allfour windows rolled down. The man was pockmarked and sweating something awful;his sunglasses slipped down to the end of his nose as he bent forward, trying toput a match to a cigarette. Looked like his hand was shaking, too, and ... damn ifhe wasn't wearing some kind of rubber gloves. As Jonas passed, the man glancedout the window and quickly averted his eyes. In the rearview Jonas saw Virginiaplates on the front of the car—a Merc, maybe. No, he could see thefamiliar blue oval on the grillwork: a Ford. Veazy Street, Warren, Windom ... Now that had to be the only car he'd seen allmorning with the windows down on a hotter-than-the-devil day like today.Everyone else had their air-conditioning on full, and what car didn't have air-conditioning these days? And the man behind the wheel, white like everyone inthis neighborhood but still not like them, had seemed kind of nervous.Like he didn't belong there. Wearing those gloves, too. Twenty-five years on theforce and Bill Jonas knew . He had a few minutes before his interview with the video-store kid. Maybe he'dcruise around the block, give that Ford another pass. RICHARD FARROW hotboxed his smoke while watching the black car hang a left a fewblocks up 39th. Any high school kid with an ounce of weed in his glove box wouldhave spotted the unmarked car. And the driver, some kind of cop, had given himthe fish-eye as he passed. The question was, Was the black cop in the black car going to come around theblock and check him out again? Richard touched the grip of the nine millimeter tucked between his legs. The wayhe had it, snug up against his rocks and pressing on his blue jeans, it had feltgood. But now the sensation faded. He grabbed the Beretta and tapped the barrelagainst his thigh. He dragged hard on his cigarette and flicked the butt out tothe street. God, it was hot. What the fuck was he doing here, anyway? Sure, he'd done his share of small-timeboosts—car thefts, smash-and-grabs, like that—with his older brotherwhen they were in their teens. Back between Frank's reform school years and hisfirst four-year jolt. Then Frank got sent up for another eight, and during thattime Richard went from one useless job to the next, fighting his variousaddictions—alcohol, crystal meth, coke, and married women—along theway. The funny thing was, when Frank got out of the joint the last time, he wassmarter, tougher, and more connected than Richard would ever be. Yeah, crime andprison had been good to Frank. So when Frank had phoned and asked his littlebrother if he would be interested in a quick and easy score that he and Otiswere about to pull off, Richard had said yes. He saw it as a last chance to turnhis life around. And to be on a level playing field—to be a success, foronce—with Frank. Richard looked in the rearview. The black car had circled and was coming upbehind him on 39th. Richard turned the key in the ignition. A natural reaction, that's all. Herealized Frank had told him not to, but ... fuck it, it wouldn't do anygood to get himself down about it now. He'd done it. The cop car was slowing down. It was crawling. "Come on, Frank," said Richard. He heard the high pitch of his own voice and wasashamed. Richard stared straight ahead as the cop car accelerated and passed. Richardexhaled, removed his glasses, wiped at the sweat that stung his eyes. (Continues...) Excerpted from Shame the Devil by George P. Pelecanos . Copyright © 2011 George P. Pelecanos. Excerpted by permission of Little, Brown Books for Young Readers. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From Publishers Weekly When the shooting stops on a blistering summer day at May's Pizza Parlor in Washington, D.C., in 1995, five people lie dead, a policeman is left crippled and robber Frank Farrow speeds off with his loot and not a trace of regret. But Farrow, the main villain in Pelecanos's fine new addition to his hard-boiled lineup, still isn't satisfied. He wants to return to finish off the injured cop, who killed Farrow's brother during the shoot-out. Farrow doesn't anticipate, however, the burning desire for revenge harbored by the family and friends of those butchered in the notorious pizza bloodbath. Chief among them is 50-ish Dimitri Karras, whose five-year-old son died when he was mowed down by the getaway vehicle Farrow was driving. Now, three years later, Karras is just getting his life back together, much like the other survivors, all of whom meet regularly to share their grief and soothe their torment. By chance, Karras teams up with Nick Stephanos, a freelance investigator who finds out Farrow is back in town to exact his twisted vengeance. Stephanos tries to dissuade Karras from tracking down Farrow, but even he understands the urge for retaliation. Karras and Stephanos, who have starred in several of Pelecanos's earlier books (King Suckerman; The Sweet Forever), deepen considerably as characters in this hard-driving story of heartache, Stephanos's adjustment to the new-found maturity of middle age and Dmitri's search for some small relief in revenge. Set against a backdrop of greasy-spoon diners, church basements, dive bars and sparsely furnished apartments, the narrative is unsettlingly harsh yet captivatingly tender, the gritty back-and-forth of everyday urban life vividly etched. 11-city author tour. (Jan.) Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Review "For some time George P. Pelecanos has been the best-kept secret in crime fiction -- maybe all fiction ... The word among writers and those in the know has long been 'Read Pelecanos.'"-- Michael Connelly, author of Void Moon "One of the best crime novelists alive, George Pelecanos is an American original."-- Dennis Lehane, author of Prayers for Rain "Tough and skillful...there are action scenes as fierce as any you will read and street talk that hits the ear as smart and accurate." -- San Francisco Chronicle Also by George P. Pelecanos: The Sweet Forever "Brilliant." -- The Dallas Morning News " The Sweet Forever is the bomb!"-- The Seattle Times King Suckerman " King Suckerman 's got jive, juice, and a whole lotta justice." -- Time Out "A great read ... stunning and forceful."-- Michael Connelly, author of Void Moon Available from Dell --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Amazon.com Review Penzler Pick, February 2000 : Just as Robert B. Parker and Dennis Lehane have made Boston their own and Los Angeles has been the distinct province of a lineage leading from Raymond Chandler and Ross Macdonald to Michael Connelly and Robert Crais, so is George Pelecanos the storyteller who's put Washington, D.C., on the noir map. Once considered "the best-kept secret in crime fiction" by his peers, he is now fast leaving behind those days of strictly word-of-mouth fame and cult status. Telling it like he sees it, and looking fearlessly into those dark, forgotten alleyways that lay too far beyond the corridors of power to make it into any guidebooks, Pelecanos conjures up a gritty, ghostly Washington of working-class neighborhoods and aging suburbs and shoots it through with chillingly unpredictable menace. Most Washington natives probably wouldn't recognize the place--but they couldn't stop trying either, knowing that they've at least glimpsed (out of the corners of their eyes) those environs where a Pelecanos character is most at home. In Shame the Devil , we find a society of grieving men and women connected by loss, betrayal, the need for revenge, and the shadowy presence of evil. As in other Pelecanos tales, the heroes are not easily identified, love is a coming together of wounded souls, and answers are found where least expected. In the aftermath of a botched armed robbery, a fair number of lives have been thrown into a downward spiral. The problems, however, come on faster and with more fury once the status quo sustaining the survivors has been breached by an ill-wishing and unwanted addition to their little group. Here are two favorite moments. In one, protagonist Dimitri Karras asks the name of a fellow bar patron. Hearing that he's called Happy, Karras comments that he doesn't look too happy. The answer: "He's pacing himself." The other: we hear the thoughts of the sociopathic villain: "Some believed that incarceration was a mark of failure, but Frank disagreed. Prison was an essential element of any career criminal's education." With Shame the Devil , Pelecanos solidifies his position among the elite of the brilliant coterie of young noir writers who are creating the emerging classics of the genre. --Otto Penzler --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From the Inside Flap back in townFrank Farrow is a natural-born killer. Roman Otis is a fine-looking crooner who does his killing on the side. On a hot D.C. afternoon Frank and Roman hit a pizza shop called May's. When the hit was over, four people were executed. A cop was shot. A boy was dead. And when the sirens stopped wailing and the killers vanished into the heat, dozens of lives were shattered forever.Now it's three years later, and Dimitri Karras, who lost a son, is starting to live again. But Dimitri's old acquaintance, a P.I. named Nick Stefanos, has just unburied the past--by discovering the killers' identity. Suddenly the second act of a crime story is about to be told. Because the May's pizza parlor killers are coming back into town: where they'll be greeted with open arms, broken hearts, and at least one loaded gun. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From Library Journal The setting is Washington, DC, where everybody lies, cheats, and steals, but the characters of Pelecanos's (King Suckerman) new novel would have a tough time wangling an invite to the White House. This time the robbery of a pizza parlor in 1995 leads to the death of an innocent boy, the son of Dimitri Karras, back from earlier efforts by Pelecanos. The plot is the very leisurely working out of the aftermath of that robbery. Much of the action (and talk) center on The Spot, a neighborhood bar/gathering place where Karras gets a job as a dishwasher. The talkAwhich, with Pelecanos's ear for dialog, is goodAmoves from family to neighborhood and sometimes even to the Pizza Parlor murders. A bit of Dashiell Hammett as filtered through the lens of Spike Lee, Shame the Devil can be recommended to anyone who fancies neighborhood stories exchanged on the stoop at sunset. Those looking for a fast-paced page-turner might pass. For urban and larger public libraries. -ABob Lunn, Kansas City P.L., MO Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

Five Night Stand: A Novel

Review “In Five Night Stand , Memphis author Richard J. Alley tells the story of three people whose lives intersect over the course of five nights in New York City―a debut novel set to a pounding jazz beat of triumphs, failings, uncertainties, secret sins, and tragedies.” ―Chapter16 About the Author Richard J. Alley, a longtime freelance writer and editor, was born and raised in Memphis, Tennessee, where he lives with his wife and four children.

On Writing: A Memoir Of The Craft (A Memoir of the Craft (Reissue))

Review "A one-of-a-kind classic." — The Wall Street Journal "This is a special book, animated by a unique intelligence, and filled with useful truth." —Michael Chabon " On Writing had more useful and observant things to say about the craft than any book since Strunk and White's The Elements of Style ." —Roger Ebert “The best book on writing. Ever.” — The Plain Dealer (Cleveland) About the Author Stephen King is the author of more than sixty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. His recent work includes Holly , Fairy Tale , Billy Summers , If It Bleeds , The Institute , Elevation , The Outsider , Sleeping Beauties (cowritten with his son Owen King), and the Bill Hodges trilogy: End of Watch , Finders Keepers , and Mr. Mercedes (an Edgar Award winner for Best Novel and a television series streaming on Peacock). His novel 11/22/63 was named a top ten book of 2011 by The New York Times Book Review and won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Mystery/Thriller. His epic works The Dark Tower , It , Pet Sematary , Doctor Sleep , and Firestarter are the basis for major motion pictures, with It now the highest-grossing horror film of all time. He is the recipient of the 2020 Audio Publishers Association Lifetime Achievement Award, the 2018 PEN America Literary Service Award, the 2014 National Medal of Arts, and the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. He lives in Bangor, Maine, with his wife, novelist Tabitha King. From Publishers Weekly As his diehard fans know, King is a member of a writers-only rock 'n' roll band (Amy Tan is also a member), and this recording starts off with a sampling of their music. It may sound unsettling to some, but King quickly puts listeners at ease with his confident, candid and breezy tone. Here, King tells the story of his childhood and early influences, describes his development as a writer, offers extensive advice on technique (read: write tight and no bullshit) and finally recounts his well-known experience of being hit by a drunk driver while walking on a country road in 1999 and the role that his work has played in his rehabilitation. While some of his guidance is not exactly revolutionary (he recommends The Elements of Style as a must-have reference), other revelations that vindicate authors of popular fiction, like himself, as writers, such as his preference for stressing character and situation over plot, are engrossing. He also offers plenty of commonsense advice on how to organize a workspace and structure one's day. While King's comical childhood anecdotes and sober reflections on his accident may be appreciated while driving to work or burning calories on a treadmill, the book's main exercise does not work as well in the audio format. King's strongest recommendation, after all, is that writers must be readers, and despite his adept performance, aspiring authors might find that they would absorb more by picking up the book. Based on the Scribner hardcover (Forecasts, July 31, 2000). Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Review " A one-of-a-kind classic. " -- "Wall Street Journal " " This is a special book, animated by a unique intelligence, and filled with useful truth. " -- "Michael Chabon" " On Writing had more useful and observant things to say about the craft than any book since Strunk and White's The Elements of Style . " -- "Roger Ebert" "The best book on writing. Ever. " -- "Cleveland Plain Dealer" "Tthis combination of memoir and masterclass by fiction's most successful modern storyteller showcases the blunt, casual brilliance of King at his best. As well as being genuinely useful, it's a fascinating chronicle of literary persistence and of a lifelong love affair with language and narrative." -- "The Guardian (London)" "With examples that reach from T. S. Eliot to pulp fiction, there's much trenchant material here on how to construct a story, how to revise, and how to go about building a career...This is unmistakably King: friendly, sharply perceptive, cheerfully vulgar, sometimes adolescent in his humor, sometimes impatient with fools, but always sincere in his love of language and writing. " -- "Kirkus Reviews" --This text refers to the audioCD edition. From AudioFile When Stephen King says "blood" or "lips," his Bangor, Maine, accent drags the "l" into his own dialect. Disguised as a writer's manual, King's latest yarn spills out the story of his life, which happens to revolve around writing. Fans will be eager to hear the master tell where his stories, his dialogue, his characters, and his language began. And, more than in any previous narration, King's energy and emotion radiate around his favorite subject, literature. At the end he relives a recent bone-crushing accident, precipitated by a character right out of one of his own novels. The author/patient recounts his discovery that his passionate mania for writing helps mend both bones and heart. J.A.H. © AudioFile 2001, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Amazon.com Review Short and snappy as it is, Stephen King's On Writing really contains two books: a fondly sardonic autobiography and a tough-love lesson for aspiring novelists. The memoir is terrific stuff, a vivid description of how a writer grew out of a misbehaving kid. You're right there with the young author as he's tormented by poison ivy, gas-passing babysitters, uptight schoolmarms, and a laundry job nastier than Jack London's. It's a ripping yarn that casts a sharp light on his fiction. This was a child who dug Yvette Vickers from Attack of the Giant Leeches , not Sandra Dee. "I wanted monsters that ate whole cities, radioactive corpses that came out of the ocean and ate surfers, and girls in black bras who looked like trailer trash." But massive reading on all literary levels was a craving just as crucial, and soon King was the published author of "I Was a Teen-Age Graverobber." As a young adult raising a family in a trailer, King started a story inspired by his stint as a janitor cleaning a high-school girls locker room. He crumpled it up, but his writer wife retrieved it from the trash, and using her advice about the girl milieu and his own memories of two reviled teenage classmates who died young, he came up with Carrie . King gives us lots of revelations about his life and work. The kidnapper character in Misery , the mind-possessing monsters in The Tommyknockers , and the haunting of the blocked writer in The Shining symbolized his cocaine and booze addiction (overcome thanks to his wife's intervention, which he describes). "There's one novel, Cujo , that I barely remember writing." King also evokes his college days and his recovery from the van crash that nearly killed him, but the focus is always on what it all means to the craft. He gives you a whole writer's "tool kit": a reading list, writing assignments, a corrected story, and nuts-and-bolts advice on dollars and cents, plot and character, the basic building block of the paragraph, and literary models. He shows what you can learn from H.P. Lovecraft's arcane vocabulary, Hemingway's leanness, Grisham's authenticity, Richard Dooling's artful obscenity, Jonathan Kellerman's sentence fragments. He explains why Hart's War is a great story marred by a tin ear for dialogue, and how Elmore Leonard's Be Cool could be the antidote. King isn't just a writer, he's a true teacher. --Tim Appelo From Booklist King could write a phone book and make it not only a best-seller but also gripping reading. So expect his fiction-writing how-to to be a megahit that reaches plenty of readers besides wanna-be novelists. It is riveting, thanks to King's customary flair for the vernacular and conversational tone, and to the fact that he flanks his advice with two memoirs, the latter recalling his near-fatal 1999 stint as the victim of a bad driver. The first memoir, "C.V.," concentrates on his life as a writer, which began in childhood. It took some time to publish for money, but ever since Carrie garnered $400,000 for paperback rights, he has been the Stephen King. He loves to write, though he emphasizes it is far more work than play. Loving it is essential, though, and having a good "toolbox," full of vocabulary, grammar, and the usage and mechanics prescribed by Strunk and White's perdurable Elements of Style , is next most important. It is invaluable to read a lot, and the key to novel writing is following the story--not a plot that can be charted or outlined, but the developments natural for the characters, given the situation they are in. For himself, King says, good health and a good marriage have been crucial, never more so than during his recovery from the accident. Good advice and a good, ordinary life, relayed in spunky, vivid prose, are the prime ingredients of what must be considered not at all the usual writer's guide. Ray Olson Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved From Kirkus Reviews Generous, lucid, and passionate, King ( Hearts in Atlantis , 1999, etc.) offers lessons and encouragement to the beginning writer, along with a warts-and-all account of a less-than-carefree life. The composition of this memoir, King's first nonfiction work since Danse Macabre , was interrupted when he was almost killed by a drunk driver in 1999. The first portion of it shares the making of the writer: his impoverished but experientially rich childhood, his first efforts and influences, the threadbare existence he and his wife Tabitha lived until the publication of Carrie , and his remarkable success thereafter. There are some delightful anecdotes here. In a late-night creative frenzy, his wife sleeping in their London hotel room, King asks the concierge for a place to write and is led to Rudyard Kipling's desk. Though intimidated, King proceeds to write the beginnings of Misery , then thanks the concierge, who tells him, "Kipling died there actually. . . . While writing." King discusses his problems with drugs and alcohol and offers an assessment of his own work (he doesn't think much of Insomnia or Rose Madder , but he liked Cujo and regrets that he was too drunk at the time to remember writing any of it). Written largely while recovering from his accident, the rest of the memoir answers the questions King hears from aspiring writers, as well as the questions they should be asking, but don't. With examples that reach from T.S. Eliot to pulp fiction, there's much trenchant material here on how to construct a story, how to revise, and how to go about building a career. King stresses character and situation over plotting, and insists on basics-like Strunk and White and, above all, endless reading and writing. While his proposed output might intimidate some, his enthusiasm wins out.A useful book for any young writer, and a must for fans, this is unmistakably King: friendly, sharply perceptive, cheerfully vulgar, sometimes adolescent in his humor, sometimes impatient with fools, but always sincere in his love of language and writing -- Copyright © 2000 Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved. From Library Journal In 1981 King penned Danse Macabre, a thoughtful analysis of the horror genre. Now he is treating his vast readership to another glimpse into the intellect that spawns his astoundingly imaginative works. This volume, slim by King standards, manages to cover his life from early childhood through the aftermath of the 1999 accident that nearly killed him. Along the way, King touts the writing philosophies of William Strunk and Ernest Hemingway, advocates a healthy appetite for reading, expounds upon the subject of grammar, critiques a number of popular writers, and offers the reader a chance to try out his theories. But most important, we who climb aboard for this ride with the master spend a few pleasant hours under the impression that we know what it!s like to think like Stephen King. Recommended for anyone who wants to write and everyone who loves to read. -"Nancy McNicol, Hagaman Memorial Lib., East Haven, CT Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc. From School Library Journal Adult/High School-By the time King was 14, the scads of rejection slips he'd accumu-lated grew too heavy for the nail in the wall on which they were mounted. He replaced the nail with a spike and went on writing. This straight-up book inspires without being corny, and teens suspicious of adult rhap-sodies to perseverance will let down their guard and be put at ease by the book's gritty conversational tone. The first 100 pages are pure memoir-paeans to the horror movies and fanzines that captivated King as a child, the expected doses of misadventure (weeks of detention for distributing his own satirical zine at school; building an electromagnet that took out the electricity of half a street), and hard times. King writes just as passion-ately in the second half of the book, where the talk turns to his craft. He provides plenty of samples of awkward or awful writing and contrasts them with polished versions. Hand this title to reluctant readers and reluctant writers, sit back, and watch what happens.-Emily Lloyd, Fairfax County Public Library, VA Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information, Inc. Review ""On Writing" had more useful and observant things to say about the craft than any book since Strunk and White's "The Elements of Style"."--Roger Ebert"A one-of-a-kind classic."--"The Wall Street Journal""The best book on writing. Ever."--"The Plain Dealer" (Cleveland)"This is a special book, animated by a unique intelligence, and filled with useful truth."--Michael Chabon --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

Provinces of Night: A Novel

Review “An extremely seductive read.”– The Washington Post Book World “Gay is unafraid to tackle the biggest of the big themes, nor does he shy away from the grand gesture that makes those themes manifest.”– The New York Times Book Review “There is much to admire here: breathtaking, evocative writing and a dark, sardonic humor.”– USA Today “Earthily idiosyncratic, spookily Gothic . . . an author with a powerful vision.” – The New York Times From the Trade Paperback edition. Amazon.com Review In his second novel, Provinces of Night , William Gay re-creates the oppressive, evocative atmosphere of the American Deep South that he first explored in his debut novel, The Long Home . Against the backdrop of rural Tennessee in the 1950s, our teenage protagonist, Fleming Bloodworth, finds himself alone in the family home after his father, Boyd, abandons him to hunt down and kill his wife's lover. At the same time, Fleming's grandfather decides to return to his family after 20 years of self-imposed exile. He returns to discover that his remaining two sons, Warren and Brady, are in turn an alcoholic womanizer and a Bible-quoting fantasist who enjoys putting curses on his enemies. This is a self-consciously big novel in the Southern tradition that could easily have buckled under the weight of its own ambition. Instead, Gay pulls it off with ease, presenting us with a stream of unforgettable characters. While the central themes of love, loyalty, and forgiveness are explored seriously and sensitively, the finely wrought prose is also sprinkled with moments of genuine humor as Gay proves that he's not afraid to gently mock his gang of Southern eccentrics. This is a wonderful novel and a worthy successor to the tradition it so obviously admires. --Jane Morris, Amazon.co.uk --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author William Gay is the author of the novel The Long Home. His short stories have appeared in Harper's, Atlantic Monthly, GQ, and New Stories from the South 1999 and 2000. He was awarded the 1999 William Peden Award and the 2000 James A. Michener Memorial Priz --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Publishers Weekly Like one of Wallace Stevens's best-known poems, Gay's (The Long Home) second novel begins with a jar on a hill in TennesseeDonly this one appears to contain tiny human bones. That's a suitably ominous prelude to the dark saga of the Bloodworth clan, which revolves mostly around 17-year-old Fleming, an aspiring writer trying to evade the family legacy of violence and self-destruction. It is 1952 and his father, Boyd, has left their decrepit mountain home "seventy miles back of Nashville" for Detroit, not to work in an automobile factory like the other "hillbillies" but to search forDand killDthe peddler who has run off with his wife. Meanwhile, Fleming's grandfather, E.F. Bloodworth, a blues musician, is on his way home after having suffered a "stroke of paralysis" 20 years earlier. His handsome Uncle Warren, a former war hero now at loose ends, is a dissipated womanizer with an even more dissolute and unstable son, and his Uncle Brady "witches" for water, tells fortunes and casts hexes on those who do him wrong. Even as the Tennessee Valley Authority is moving in to clear and flood their valley and bring in "the electricity," Fleming's relatives and neighbors live by the backwoods code of violence exemplified by E.F., a man whose exploits are legendary among the locals. Only Raven Lee Halfacre, the 16-year-old daughter of a promiscuous alcoholic and the "prettiest girl in a three county area," offers the boy a glimpse of another way of life. Fleming's name echoes that of one of Faulkner's most memorable characters, and Gay's prose resembles that of Faulkner at his most florid. His stylistic quirksDespecially his refusal to set off dialogue with quotation marksDtake some getting used to, but the pitch-perfect rendition of the cadences of Southern speech and deeply poetic descriptions of the landscape more than compensate. (Dec. 26) Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Booklist In his 1950 Nobel Prize acceptance speech, William Faulkner urged future writers to remember "the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself, which alone can make good writing." Gay must have listened, because his second novel is a powerful story of honor, love, and other conflicts of the human heart. E. F. Bloodsworth returns to his dying hometown in Tennessee after 20 years away. His wife has grown old. His oldest child drinks and philanders up and down the East Coast, while his youngest child sits on his front porch, hexing the mailman. His middle son, Boyd, has left town to kill his wife's lover. Only Boyd's son, the bookish Fleming, gives E. F. his due respect. These two members of the cursed and broken Bloodsworth family, grandfather and grandson, must carve out some redemption in the little time they have left. The story that unfolds offers southern writing at its very finest, soaked through with the words and images of rural Tennessee, packed full of that which really matters, the problems of the human heart. John Green Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From the Inside Flap 952, and E.F. Bloodworth is finally coming home to Ackerman’s Field, Tennessee. Itinerant banjo picker and volatile vagrant, he’s been gone ever since he gunned down a deputy thirty years before. Two of his sons won’t be home to greet him: Warren lives a life of alcoholic philandering down in Alabama, and Boyd has gone to Detroit in vengeful pursuit of his wife and the peddler she ran off with. His third son, Brady, is still home, but he’s an addled soothsayer given to voodoo and bent on doing whatever it takes to keep E.F. from seeing the wife he abandoned. Only Fleming, E.F.’s grandson, is pleased with the old man’s homecoming, but Fleming’s life is soon to careen down an unpredictable path hewn by the beautiful Raven Lee Halfacre.In the great Southern tradition of Faulkner, Styron, and Cormac McCarthy, William Gay wields a prose as evocative and lush as the haunted and humid world it depicts. Provinces of Night is a tale redolent --This text refers to the paperback edition. From Library Journal After a hugely successful debut with The Long Home, Gay delivers another remarkable literary powerhouse. Gay re-creates the sights and sounds of rural Tennessee, which soon becomes home for the reader. Home, in this case, is a place of great emotional turmoil as three generations of Bloodworths struggle to love and leave one another. All of the Bloodworths but young Fleming seem to be either crazy or on their way there. Fleming, however, is captivated by his infamous grandfather, a crusty, caustic blues guitarist, who after 20 years of wandering has returned to settle his affairs before he dies. Even as he struggles to understand his family's irreconcilable views of the old man, Fleming grows attached to him. It is through his grandfather's music that Fleming encounters the beautiful and careless Raven Lee, who offers him the only chance he has ever had to change his future. Full to the hilt with deeply engrossing characters and surroundings, this novel will surely capture the hearts and minds of any reader.DShannon Haddock, Bellsouth Corporate Lib. & Business Research Ctr., Birmingham, AL Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From the Back Cover It's 1952, and E.F. Bloodworth is finally coming home to Ackerman's Field, Tennessee. Itinerant banjo picker and volatile vagrant, he's been gone ever since he gunned down a deputy thirty years before. Two of his sons won't be home to greet him: Warren lives a life of alcoholic philandering down in Alabama, and Boyd has gone to Detroit in vengeful pursuit of his wife and the peddler she ran off with. His third son, Brady, is still home, but he's an addled soothsayer given to voodoo and bent on doing whatever it takes to keep E.F. from seeing the wife he abandoned. Only Fleming, E.F.'s grandson, is pleased with the old man's homecoming, but Fleming's life is soon to careen down an unpredictable path hewn by the beautiful Raven Lee Halfacre. In the great Southern tradition of Faulkner, Styron, and Cormac McCarthy, William Gay wields a prose as evocative and lush as the haunted and humid world it depicts. Provinces of Night is a tale redolent of violence and redemption-a whiskey-scented, knife-scarred novel whose indelible finale is not an ending nearly so much as it is an apotheosis." --This text refers to the paperback edition. Read more

Markets in Profile

From the Inside Flap Fifteen years since publishing Mind over Marketstheir seminal work on markets and investor behaviorDalton, Jones, and Dalton have greatly expanded their scope, delving deeply into the ways in which the auction process reveals the actions of all investor time frames. They believe that by understanding timeframe behavior through developing market structure, it is possible to identify asymmetric opportunities that can ameliorate risk and help ensure financial dominance. This book is a bold call to action for all investorsfrom day traders through the longest-term individual investors, to traditional asset managers and hedge funds that control trillions of dollars. It challenges serious traders, investors, and researchers to reach beyond price-based market analysis and traditional fundamental research for a more contextual approach . . . an approach that translates the principles of behavioral finance into actionable reality by examining the relationship between price, time, and volume. The authors take a profoundly different approach toward the traditional separation between day, short-, intermediate-, and long-term investors, pointing out that even the longest-term professional investor is a day trader on the day they enter, exit, trim, or add to a position. Lead author Jim Dalton and coauthor Eric Joneshaving been heavily involved in selecting hedge funds and traditional managers for a leading Wall Street financial services firmcan attest to the importance of each basis point of performance in a world where one quarter's results can trigger financial triumph or a quick exodus. In May of 2006, two months before the book was to be delivered to the publisher, the U.S. stock market broke eight percent in a matter of dayssending investors and the media into a tailspin. The authors saw this as an opportunity to demonstrate their theories in real-time, as opposed to cherry-picking historical events that supported their claims. The event unfolds in Chapter 6 and the authors offer sound advice and strategies on how to navigate market activity yet to unfold. The results are summarized in the Appendix, which was written after the book was submitted to the publisher. You be the judge. Filled with in-depth insight and expert advice, Markets in Profile teaches you the market's basic auction process, redefines how to view and conduct research, separates the markets into different time frames, illustrates the importance of inventory imbalances, and, in sum, demystifies market behavior by showing you how to organize the market's auction process in a scientific, systematic way. From the Back Cover Praise for MARKETS in PROFILE "Good books teach, but the best books enlighten. Markets in Profile is much more than a lucid explanation of the Market Profile and its application; it is an enlightening perspective on auction markets and the principles underlying all trading, regardless of time frame. Clearly written with many practical examples, Markets in Profile moves seamlessly from trading how-to's to trading psychology and back again, emphasizing the trader's dual challenge of understanding markets and understanding self. In so doing, authors Dalton, Dalton, and Jones have produced a worthy successor to their classic Mind over Markets." ―Brett N. Steenbarger, PhD, author of The Psychology of Trading and Enhancing Trader Performance " Markets in Profile is a brilliant, insightful work that should be required reading for any trader. Dalton, Dalton, and Jones will transform your trading technique through their unique knowledge of the markets and understanding of trading psychology." ―Martin Sheridan, commodities trader, NYMEX member "This book provides a fresh approach to behavioral finance―ideas that I have used to great benefit." ―Gregory A. Ehret, Senior Managing Director, State Street Global Advisors "Few people understand the dynamics of the auction process as well as Jim Dalton. Market Profile offers a graphic representation of this process and Markets in Profile illustrates Jim's mastery of it." ―Steve Dickey, Vice President of Market Data Products, Chicago Board of Trade "Market data speak volumes and Jim Dalton has deciphered the code. In Markets in Profile, Jim shares his techniques of profitable trading in a most readable and entertaining format. Serious traders, both professional and amateur, should benefit from the application of Jim's volumetric approach to reading what investors are telling us through their collective buy-sell transactions." ―Walter Sall, professional investor About the Author JAMES F. DALTON has been a pioneer in the popularization of the Market Profile, a unique method of identifying trading/investment opportunities. Most recently, Mr. Dalton was director of research for managed accounts at UBS Financial Services. He began his career in the investment industry as a broker with Merrill Lynch and Shearson Lehman. ROBERT BEVAN DALTON is a freelance writer and creative director for a variety of agencies, organizations, and nonprofits in the great northwest. ERIC T. JONES has observed markets and investors throughout his twenty-three years of developing investment products and leading investment manager research teams. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Markets in Profile Profiting from the Auction Process By James F. Dalton Robert Bovan Dalton Eric T. Jones John Wiley & Sons Copyright © 2007 John Wiley & Sons, LtdAll right reserved. ISBN: 978-0-470-03909-0 Chapter One The Only Constant It is not necessary to change. Survival is not mandatory. -W. Edwards Deming My first car was a used '49 Chevy. We could pull it into the garage and change the plugs, set the timing, clean the carburetor and be on our way. Back then, it was relatively easy to understand engines and how to keep them running smoothly. Today, if someone asked me to explain the first thing about what's happening under the hood of my car, I wouldn't have a clue. There's a parallel between that Chevy and my first excursion into the world of investing. When I became a stockbroker in the late sixties, my choices were pretty simple: common stocks, preferreds, a few warrants, limited over-the-counter options, U.S. government treasuries, municipals and corporate bonds, and cash. While there were mutual funds, they were extremely limited and many brokerage firms discouraged brokers from selling them to customers. The financial markets have moved from simple to complex at a rate of change that is impossible to fully grasp. This accelerating complexity has been multiplied by the Internet explosion, global expansion, and myriad other factors, leaving individual traders and investors bewildered and grasping at narrow fragments of the larger picture, or subscribing to the beliefs of supposed experts who promise clarity and shelter from the information maelstrom. It's no wonder that the current financial atmosphere is one of continual change and uncertainty. In his landmark book, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1962), Thomas S. Kuhn examines the way change realigns the "received beliefs" of any given community; because a community's participants define themselves according to the ideas they share, they often take great pains to defend those ideas. In fact, it's not uncommon for this defensive posture to result in the active suppression of new theories that undermine reigning assumptions. Therefore research, Kuhn writes, is not about discovering new truths, but rather "a strenuous and devoted attempt" to force new data into accepted conceptual boxes. In short, change threatens the very terms with which we identify who we are (and how we invest our money). But history has proved that in all things stasis never lasts-eventually an anomaly arises that is so compelling it cannot be ignored or dismissed as a "radical theory." Inevitably, the anomaly unseats the norm, resulting in a paradigm shift in shared assumptions. These shifts, as Kuhn describes them, are nothing short of revolutionary. Paradigm shifts force a community to reconstruct its foundation of belief. Facts are reevaluated. Data are examined through new lenses and, despite vehement resistance by those who refuse to let go of outdated ideas, the old paradigm is overthrown. A new community is established, and the "radical theories" are accepted as the new normative establishment. The cycle of change begins again. How important is change? Think about the many powerful institutions and intrepid individuals that once lead the fray and who are now long gone; those who recognize change early can take advantage of change, those who can't overturn their past beliefs get left behind. That pattern repeats itself endlessly in all human endeavors. In The Tipping Point: How Little Things Can Make a Big Difference (Boston: Little, Brown, 2000), Malcolm Gladwell defined the way people react to change by classifying them on a spectrum: innovators : early adopters : early majority : late majority : laggards We are going to show you how to use market-generated information to identify and adapt to change before your competitors-once the majority recognizes that change is occurring, all assymetric opportunity is lost. This book challenges you to be an innovator, to overturn (change) many of the assumptions that now guide your perception of economic and market conditions. You may be faced with information that runs counter to the prevailing beliefs of those whom you have trusted for guidance. Daniel Kahneman said it best: "Resistance is the initial fate of all new paradigms. Often this resistance is strongest among the institutions responsible for teaching and upholding the status quo." To begin, we address change in the financial markets from the broadest perspective, which is from the point of view of investors who operate in the longest timeframe. But it is important to note that this same process occurs for traders/investors of all timeframes-those who capitalize on five-minute price swings, day traders who make several daily decisions, short-term traders who hold positions for several days, intermediate-term traders who track bracket extremes, as well traders who hold their positions for several months or even years. What we are addressing, across all timeframes, is how change occurs. We believe that the financial markets-and therefore all participants, businesses, and industries dependent on the markets-are at the vortex of a truly significant change. Over the coming years, investors, traders, portfolio managers, financial advisors, pension consultants, and even academics will all have to pick their spot on the spectrum of change ... and win or lose because of it. There is no single key driver behind the change we're experiencing. Rather, a series of developments-some connected and some not-over the past 30 years have created the evolution that is now underway. The balance of this chapter introduces these events and their implications on the financial markets and those who operate within them (traders, portfolio managers, advisors, etc.). To help you visualize the following discussion, Figure 1.1 illustrates several key developments of recent market history in the context of the U.S. equity market. THE CREATION OF ERISA The first serious change in the modern financial services business took place in the early seventies, partly as a result of the U.S. bear market that culminated in October 1974. Leading to the trend's nadir, equity valuation had decreased by approximately 40 percent (see Figure 1.1), the bond market had dropped an equivalent amount, and there was an estimated 35 percent decline in purchasing power. It should come as no surprise that innovation flourished under these extreme conditions; change demands the surrender of security, and in 1974 the very notion of security was cast in doubt. Not surprisingly, new government regulations designed to protect employees' hard-earned retirement funds followed closely on the heels of this cataclysmic plunge. Enter ERISA (Employee Retirement Income Security Act), enacted in 1974 and designed to protect employee pensions. While performance measurement had got under way in the 1960s, ERISA increased focus on return relative to risk, which jumpstarted a new era of corporate accountability. While this new accountability was clearly needed, ERISA was concerned more with the process by which pension-investment decisions were made, rather than with the investments themselves, which had the effect of ushering in an industry that focused on asset allocation, manager selection, and performance evaluation. Pension funds began to exercise more prudence when selecting money managers, hiring consultants to assist them in meeting their fiduciary responsibilities. The pension-consulting industry-began to boom. On the surface, ERISA had many positives-it improved diversification and disclosure and promoted standards that enabled investors to better understand and compare investment performance. However, lurking below the surface was a negative that would take years to fully reveal itself: many of the processes implemented as a result of ERISA served to stifle innovation and creativity in the investment management business. THE RISE AND FALL OF RELATIVE PERFORMANCE The push toward improved diversification and process transparency resulted in managers developing extremely specific approaches to investing (see Figure 1.2). In turn, consultants needed improved ways to judge how individual managers were performing relative to the market, and relative to each other. Consultants initially used broad markets indices to gauge performance. However, as more and more specialty managers began to appear, benchmarks began to evolve and, as with all change, these evolutions became increasingly complex. Specialized market indexes were employed to gauge performance. Categories were formed so that managers could be compared against their peers. Consultants pigeonholed asset managers into distinct styles so they could more easily monitor their activity and fire them (or not hire them) if they didn't fit neatly into preconceived categories. Over time, this forced many money managers to become highly specialized, focusing on individual styles like growth or value, which in turn were further broken down into large-cap, mid-cap, and small-cap strategies, as well as a host of other variations. Throughout the Great Bull market that began in 1982 and ran for almost 20 years, managers that attempted to be creative and innovative sometimes found that their ability to raise assets diminished-even if they had stellar track records-because they no longer fit within a convenient category. The perceived institutional need to compare performance to peers and market benchmarks resulted in most of the focus being on relative performance , rather than absolute performance . (In short, "relative return" has to do with how an asset class performs relative to a benchmark, such as the S&P 500. "Absolute return" speaks to the absolute gain or loss an asset or portfolio posts over a certain period.) The relativistic approach to evaluating performance proved to be a boon for asset managers, in that they could now focus on constructing portfolios that had only to equal or perform marginally better than market benchmarks- regardless of whether performance was positive or negative . Relativism provided a windfall for asset managers, in that it often masked poor absolute performance; an asset manager with a negative return could still win the Boeing pension fund simply by outperforming peers and benchmarks! As long as performance was measured on a relative basis, the money management industry continued to raise significant assets (upon which fees could be charged). While this wasn't so detrimental during the rising markets of the time, the relative-performance crutch did little to prepare managers to compete in the less certain markets that followed the end of the great bull market in 2000. The tide would soon turn: Once it was clear that the market was no longer going up, clients would begin to demand that their managers do more than simply match the market. THE FALL OF THE GREAT BULL Coupled with an extended bull market, the enactment of ERISA had the effect of codifying modern portfolio theory (MPT) in the eyes of the majority of investors and investment managers. (In a nutshell, MPT emphasizes that risk is an inherent part of higher reward, and that investors can construct portfolios in order to optimize risk for expected returns.) For fiduciaries, the concept of controlled risk through diverse asset allocation is certainly appealing. When markets are "behaving" (as they were for nearly two bullish decades) the return, risk, and correlation assumptions used to generate asset allocation analyses tend to sync relatively well with market activity; a trend is predictable as long as it continues. In this environment, modern portfolio theory became the comfortable thread that held the financial markets' complex patchwork quilt together. Within this model, asset managers that performed well on a relative basis within a single, easily identifiable style could consistently raise assets. Once they stepped away from their advertised style, however, their opportunities became limited. An unfortunate result of this phenomenon was that this narrow, restrictive environment tended to limit the growth of asset managers' skill base. It's difficult to understand how talented, competitive individuals allowed themselves to remain locked into one specific management style for so long, especially when that style had clearly fallen out of favor. I saw managers literally go out of business rather than change their investment approach. As the great bull began to show signs of strain and the equity markets began to behave with far less certainty (no longer trending up). It became apparent that the relativistic, MPT-driven business model embraced by traditional asset managers-one in which money was managed on a relative basis, track records were marketed based on relative performance, and performance was measured in relative terms-was plagued by significant weaknesses. Alexander M. Ineichen of Union Bank of Switzerland (UBS) estimated that total global equity peaked at a little over $31 trillion at the top of the bull market, falling to approximately $18 trillion at the 2002 low-a decline of approximately 42 percent. As during the 1974 period, the investment community reluctantly began to embrace change in order to cope with the divide that opened between the objectives of traditional money managers and the needs of their clients. One of the prime causes for this divide was that MPT depends on "reasonable" assumptions for each asset class. Implicitly, this requires a very long-term view; investors must plan on holding their investments for a long time in order to reap the desired rewards. Unfortunately, when markets failed to cooperate toward the end of the bull market, it became evident that most individuals and institutions have a vastly different perspective of what "long-term" means, especially when short-term performance is on the line. During times of market stress, the correlations between asset classes often fall apart, which often results in unexpectedly poor performance. THE RISE OF ABSOLUTE RETURN There appears to be a dearth of insight into how investors respond when the shorter timeframe delivers significantly different results than was advertised and expected for the longer term. But there is no lack of evidence that long-term-minded investors, when confronted with unexpectedly poor short-term results, tend to liquidate their holdings at precisely the wrong time. As the markets became more volatile and uncertain, traders and investors who had broken free of the relativistic herd, embracing an absolute-return philosophy, continued to produce positive returns at a time when the majority of traditional asset managers were posting consistently negative returns (along with the market). Because absolute-return investors measure themselves against the risk-free rate, rather than relative to a market index, they must be more flexible and nimble. They must have the ability to employ a much broader arsenal of investment strategies in order to achieve their goal of delivering consistently positive performance. This group can employ all styles across all capitalizations. They can also short securities, which creates even more opportunities and enables portfolio managers to exploit both overpriced as well as underpriced securities. (Continues...) Excerpted from Markets in Profile by James F. Dalton Robert Bovan Dalton Eric T. Jones Copyright © 2007 by John Wiley & Sons, Ltd. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. Read more

Ratio: The Simple Codes Behind the Craft of Everyday Cooking (1) (Ruhlman's Ratios)

Review "Cooking, like so many creative endeavors, is defined by relationships. For instance, knowing exactly how much flour to put into a loaf of bread isn't nearly as useful as understanding the relationship between the flour and the water, or fat, or salt. That relationship is defined by a 'ratio,' and having a ratio in hand is like having a secret decoder ring that frees you from the tyranny of recipes. Professional cooks and bakers guard ratios passionately so it wouldn't surprise me a bit if Michael Ruhlman is forced into hiding like a modern-day Prometheus, who in handing us mortals a power better suited to the gods, has changed the balance of kitchen power forever. I for one am grateful. I suspect you will be too." —Alton Brown, author of I'm Just Here for the Food About the Author Michael Ruhlman is the author of award-winning cookbooks and nonfiction narratives. He is the author of chef Thomas Keller’s seminal The French Laundry Cookbook as well as the highly successful series about the training of chefs: The Making of a Chef , The Soul of a Chef , and The Reach of a Chef . He is also the author of The Elements of Cooking and Ratio . Ruhlman has worked at The New York Times and as a food columnist for the Los Angeles Times . He has attended the Culinary Institute of America and is the author of eighteen books—about food and cooking, and also such wide ranging subjects as a pediatric heart surgeon and building wooden boats. Michael lives with his wife in New York City and Providence, Rhode Island.

Ruins

From Publishers Weekly In 1994 Havana, times are hard: for maladroitly named Usnavy and his family, home is one windowless, sparsely furnished room, and rationing is so tight that pieces of a blanket... beaten and marinated in spices and a little beef broth pass for sandwich meat. When not managing the local bodega or playing dominoes with childhood friends, earnest Usnavy tries to keep his out-of-work wife and 14-year-old daughter from despair and disillusionment. His one treasure, as precious as his mother's legacy, is a most extraordinary lamp… of multicolor stained glass and shaped like an oversized dome. Around this lamp (a genuine Tiffany?), poet and novelist Obejas spins a mystery with political ramifications. Keeping within the tight frame of Usnavy's day-to-day life, Obejas confronts the ruin of Cuba; the fate of those who escape to the States, and those who remain; and broad issues of religious and sexual identity. With the deft and evocative detail of a poet's, Obejas's prose is as illuminating and honest as her struggling protagonist. (Mar.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From the Publisher Ruins has been selected for the Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers program! About the Author Achy Obejas is the award-winning author of Days of Awe, Memory Mambo, We Came all the Way from Cuba So You Could Dress Like This?, and editor of Havana Noir. A long-time contributor to the Chicago Tribune, she was part of the 2001 investigative team that earned a Pulitzer Prize for the series, 'Gateway to Gridlock.' From Booklist *Starred Review* A fatherless child named in honor of the big U.S. Navy ships in Guantánamo Bay, Usnavy, weary and destitute at 54 in 1994, still believes fervently in Cuba’s Communist mission even though his neighbors are fleeing to the U.S. under the cover of darkness on anything that will float. Usnavy works, navigates state bureaucracy, plays dominos in the square with his ribald buddies, and basks in the radiance of his only treasure, an opulent, Tiffany-like stained-glass lamp. A rare object of beauty, an embodiment of light and transcendence, it links humble and honest Usnavy to a hidden facet of Cuban history, and to the freer world of creativity and its shadow side of greed and desperation, deception and secret justice. Following the substantial Days of Awe (2001), prizewinning, ever-innovative Cuban American writer Obejas evinces a new, focused lyricism as she penetrates to the very heart of the Cuban paradox in a story as pared down and intense as its narrator’s life. Inlaid with images of transformation, this Havana story in the Hemingway mode illuminates the tragedies and resiliency of a twilight land caught in the spell of a failed dream and portrays with exquisite sensitivity a man reaching toward the light. --Donna Seaman Read more

Review “When [Hills] writes about writing, we should all pay close attention.” —Richard Yates   “Admirable, wise, and comradely.” —John Leggett   “Every aspiring fiction writer ought to read this.” — Writer’s Digest About the Author L. Rust Hills (1924–2008) was best known as the longtime fiction editor of Esquire . He was also the author of the trilogy The Memoirs of a Fussy Man . Amazon.com Review "There are now not enough commercial magazines regularly publishing literary fiction to count on the fingers of a single hand," says Rust Hills. So why bother writing literary short stories, or books about doing so? Because, says Hills, a longtime fiction editor at Esquire , "what young writers want to write, or ought to want to write, is literature." In Writing in General and the Short Story in Particular , Hills examines "the essential techniques of fiction and how they function." The short story is a tricky form, with no margin for error: "The successful contemporary short story," says Hills, "will demonstrate a more harmonious relationship of all its aspects than will any other literary art form, excepting perhaps lyric poetry." Many of the fictional elements discussed in this book will not be new to most fiction writers. We know that stories must have beginnings, middles, and ends; we know about epiphany and suspense and stock characters. But Hills claims that much of how we look at fiction derives from drama theory and from the formulas of "slick fiction" (fiction that once served the purpose mindless television now serves). Learned but not pedantic, Hills addresses these elements strictly in terms of literary short fiction. An interesting side note here is Hills's discussion of the shift in support for American writers. "It is no longer the book publishers and magazines," he says, "but rather the colleges and universities that ... provide the major financial support for the great majority of American writers today." Given that, we might find it odd that this book comes from a man best known for his magazine editing. But we shouldn't. "Teaching fiction writing and editing magazine fiction have ... the same rather odd ultimate purpose in common: trying to get someone else to produce a fine short story." One caveat emptor: our copy of this edition fell quite apart upon our first, gentle reading of it. --Jane Steinberg --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Read more

Understanding Price Action: practical analysis of the 5-minute time frame

Review About the Author Bob Volman (1961) is an independent trader working solely for his own account. He is the author of Forex Price Action Scalping , a book widely acclaimed by active scalpers for its ingenuity and practical usefulness, and in steady demand since its first publication in 2011. Understanding Price Action is his second volume on price technical trading, containing all the insights and practicalities any trader could ever hope to find within a single trading guide. Free excerpts (PDF) can be downloaded from www.upabook.wordpress.com

Balance Sheet Basics: Financial Management for Nonfinancial Managers

About the Author Ronald C. Spurga , CFP, has worked as an investment banker and Wall Street analyst for several decades. He received his graduate degree from Dartmouth College and taught at Rutgers University, Fordham University, and New York University.

Citizen Vince: An Edgar Award Winner

From Booklist It's October 1980, and laid-back loner Vince Camden never misses a morning making maple bars at the doughnut shop he manages in Spokane, Washington. And he rarely misses a night relieving locals of their bankrolls at an after-hours poker game, selling his hooker pals pot at cost, and running a lucrative credit-card theft ring. Vince has landed in eastern Washington via the witness-protection plan, and he is starting to like the simple pleasures, including receiving his first voter-registration card. So even when a hit man, a local cop, and Mob-boss-in-waiting John Gotti get Vince in their crosshairs, he keeps trying to figure out if he should pull the lever for Reagan or Carter. This tale of unlikely redemption works because of Walter's virtuoso command of character and dialogue--along with a wicked second-act twist. The novel is also a gritty love letter to Spokane and all the other second-tier cities where residents don't realize how good they've got it, and with its Capara-like spirit, it serves as a surprisingly satisfying antidote to the avalanche of cynical chatter emanating from this year's political campaigns and commentators. Frank Sennett Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Review “(An) immensely entertaining crime thriller and wry social commentary.” (Chicago Tribune)“Rich in robust characters ad wry dialogue, with agile prose, a big heart and a finely tuned plot.” (Seattle Times)“A splendidly entertaining, thoughtful book ... Jess Walter continues to impress.” (Sunday Telegraph)“What makes Walter’s third novel so enjoyable is Vince, a flawed but sympathetic character trying to find redemption.” (Library Journal)1st Place, General Trade-Jacket, New York Book Show (No Source) --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From Bookmarks Magazine Jess Walter, who steps back in history for his third novel, brings back an "utterly inventive" tale of crime and politics ( Washington Post ). Walter, whose previous books include Land of the Blind and a non-fiction account of the Ruby Ridge massacre, Every Knee Shall Bow , seems to have found his stride as a novelist. Critics praise the author’s ability to straddle—or shatter—the conceits of the mystery novel, while offering a sincere, at times hilarious, rumination on the challenges of citizenship and the price of freedom. Except for the Seattle Times ’s vote against the stream of consciousness chapters that delve into Reagan and Carter’s minds, the pundits all agree: Citizen Vince is the real deal. Copyright © 2004 Phillips & Nelson Media, Inc. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From the Back Cover At 1:59 a.m. in Spokane, Washington—eight days before the 1980 presidential election—Vince Camden pockets his stash of stolen credit cards and drops by an all-night poker game before heading to his witness-protection job dusting crullers at Donut Make You Hungry. Along with a neurotic hooker girlfriend, this is the total sum of Vince's new life. But when a familiar face shows up in town, Vince realizes his sordid past is still too close behind him. During the next unforgettable week, he'll negotiate a coast-to-coast maze of obsessive cops, eager politicians, and assorted mobsters—only to find that redemption might exist, of all places, in the voting booth. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From the Inside Flap At 1:59 a.m. in Spokane, Washington--eight days before the 1980 presidential election--Vince Camden pockets his stash of stolen credit cards and drops by an all-night poker game before heading to his witness-protection job dusting crullers at Donut Make You Hungry. Along with a neurotic hooker girlfriend, this is the total sum of Vince's new life. But when a familiar face shows up in town, Vince realizes his sordid past is still too close behind him. During the next unforgettable week, he'll negotiate a coast-to-coast maze of obsessive cops, eager politicians, and assorted mobsters--only to find that redemption might exist, of all places, in the voting booth. -- Library Journal --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Citizen Vince By Jess Walter HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. Copyright © 2008 Jess WalterAll right reserved. ISBN: 9780061577659 Chapter One One day you know more dead people than live ones. The thought greets Vince Camden as he sits up in bed, frantic, casting around a dark bedroom for proof of his existence and finding only props: nightstand, dresser, ashtray, clock. Vince breathes heavily. Sweats in the cool air. Rubs his eyes to shake the dust of these musings, not a dream exactly, this late-sleep panic -- fine glass thin as paper, shattered and swirling, cutting as it blows away. Vince Camden pops his jaw, leans over, and turns off the alarm just as the one, five, and nine begin their fall. Each morning at 1:59 he sits up like this and turns off the clock radio in the split second before two and the shrill blast of alarm. He wonders: How is a thing like that possible? And yet ... if you can manage such a trick -- every morning waking up a few ticks before your alarm goes off -- why couldn't you count all the dead people you know? Start with Grandparents. Two sets. One grandfather had a second wife. That's five. Vince runs a toothbrush over his molars. Mother and father. Seven. Does a stillborn sister count? No. A person has to have been alive to be dead. By the time he finishes his shower, blow-dries his hair, and gets dressed -- gray slacks, longsleeve black dress shirt, two buttons open -- he's gone through family, neighbors, and former associates: already thirty-four people he knows to be dead. Wonders if that's high, if it's normal to know so many dead people. Normal. That word tails him from a safe distance most days. He opens a drawer and pulls out a stack of forged credit cards, looks at the names on the cards: Thomas A. Spaulding. Lane Bailey. Margaret Gold. He imagines Margaret Gold's lovely normal life, a crocheted afghan tossed over the back of her sofa. How many dead people could Margaret Gold possibly know? Vince counts out ten credit cards -- including Margaret Gold's -- and puts these in the pocket of his windbreaker. Fills the other pocket with Ziploc bags of marijuana. It's 2:16 in the morning when Vince slides his watch onto his wrist, careful not to catch the thick hair on his forearm. Oh yeah, Davie Lincoln -- retarded kid used to carry money in his mouth while he ran errands for Coletti in the neighborhood. Choked on a half-dollar. Thirty-five. Vince stands in the tiny foyer of his tiny house, if you can call a coatrack and a mail slot a foyer. Zips his windbreaker and snaps his cuffs out like a Vegas dealer leaving the table. Steps out into the world. About Vince Camden: he is thirty-six and white. Single. Six feet tall, 160 pounds, broad-shouldered and thin, like a martini glass. Brown and blue, as the police reports have recorded his hair and eyes. His mouth curls at the right corner, thick eyebrows go their own way, and this casts his face in perpetual smirk, so that every woman who has ever been involved with him eventually arrives at the same expression, hands on hips, head cocked: Please. Be serious . Vince is employed in midlevel management, food industry: baking division -- donuts. Generally, there is less to making donuts than one might assume. But Vince likes it, likes getting to work at 4:30 in the morning and finishing before lunch. He feels as if he's gotten one over on the world, leaving his place of employment for lunch and simply not coming back. He's realizing this is a fixed part of his personality, this desire to get one over on the world. Maybe there is a hooky gene. Outside, he pulls the collar of his windbreaker against his cheeks. Cold this morning: late October. Freezing, in fact -- the steam leaks from his mouth and reminds him of an elementary school experiment with dry ice, which reminds him of Mr. Harlow, his fifth-grade teacher. Hanged himself after it became common knowledge that he was a bit too fond of his male students. Thirty-six. It's a serene world from your front steps at 2:20 in the morning: dim porch lights on houses black with sleep; sidewalks split the dark dewed lawns. But the night has a grimmer hold on Vince's imagination, and he shivers with the creeping sensation -- even as he reminds himself it's impossible -- that he's on the menu tonight. " So what ... YOU want me to do this thing or not?" The two men stare across the bench seat of a burgundy Cadillac Seville. The driver asks: "How much would something like that cost?" The bigger man, in the passenger seat, is impatient, restless, but he pauses to think. It's a fair question. After all, it is 1980, and the service industries are mired in this stagnant economy, too. Are the criminal sectors subject to the same sad market forces: inflation, deflation, stagflation? Recession? Do thugs suffer double-digit unemployment? Do criminals feel malaise? "Gratis," quotes the passenger. "Gratis?" repeats the driver, shifting in the leather seat. "Yeah." And after a pause: "Means free." "I know what it means. I was just surprised. That's all. You're saying you'll help me out with this guy for free?" "I'm saying we'll work something out." "But it won't cost me anything?" "We'll work it out." And it says something about the man driving the Cadillac that in addition to not knowing what the word gratis means, he also doesn't realize that nothing is free. Continues... Excerpted from Citizen Vince by Jess Walter Copyright © 2008 by Jess Walter. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. About the Author Jess Walter est né en 1965. En tant que journaliste, il a collaboré à Neewsweek, au Washington Post et au Boston Globe. Il vit à Spokane, Washington. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

Lord Jim

From the Publisher This book is in Electronic Paperback Format. If you view this book on any of the computer systems below, it will look like a book. Simple to run, no program to install. Just put the CD in your CDROM drive and start reading. The simple easy to use interface is child tested at pre-school levels. Windows 3.11, Windows/95, Windows/98, OS/2 and MacIntosh and Linux with Windows Emulation. Includes Quiet Vision's Dynamic Index. the abilty to build a index for any set of characters or words. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One HE WAS an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built, and he advanced straight at you with a slight stoop of the shoulders, head forward, and a fixed from-under stare which made you think of a charging bull. His voice was deep, loud, and his manner displayed a kind of dogged self-assertion which had nothing aggressive in it. It seemed a necessity, and it was directed apparently as much at himself as at anybody else. He was spotlessly neat, apparelled in immaculate white from shoes to hat, and in the various Eastern ports where he got his living as ship-chandler's water-clerk he was very popular.A water-clerk need not pass an examination in anything under the sun, but he must have Ability in the abstract and demonstrate it practically. His work consists in racing under sail, steam, or oars against other water-clerks for any ship about to anchor, greeting her captain cheerily, forcing upon him a card--the business card of the ship-chandler--and on his first visit on shore piloting him firmly but without ostentation to a vast, cavern-like shop which is full of things that are eaten and drunk on board ship; where you can get everything to make her seaworthy and beautiful, from a set of chain-hooks for her cable to a book of gold-leaf for the carvings of her stern; and where her commander is received like a brother by a ship-chandler he has never seen before. There is a cool parlour, easy-chairs, bottles, cigars, writing implements, a copy of harbour regulations, and a warmth of welcome that melts the salt of a three months' passage out of a seaman's heart. The connection thus begun is kept up, as long as the ship remains in harbour, by the daily visits of the water-clerk. To the captain he is faithful like a friend and attentive like a son, with the patience of Job, the unselfish devotion of a woman, and the jollity of a boon companion. Later on the bill is sent in. It is a beautiful and humane occupation. Therefore good water-clerks are scarce. When a water-clerk who possesses Ability in the abstract has also the advantage of having been brought up to the sea, he is worth to his employer a lot of money and some humouring. Jim had always good wages and as much humouring as would have bought the fidelity of a fiend. Nevertheless, with black ingratitude he would throw up the job suddenly and depart. To his employers the reasons he gave were obviously inadequate. They said "Confounded fool!" as soon as his back was turned. This was their criticism on his exquisite sensibility.To the white men in the waterside business and to the captains of ships he was just Jim--nothing more. He had, of course, another name, but he was anxious that it should not be pronounced. His incognito, which had as many holes as a sieve, was not meant to hide a personality but a fact. When the fact broke through the incognito he would leave suddenly the seaport where he happened to be at the time and go to another--generally farther east. He kept to seaports because he was a seaman in exile from the sea, and had Ability in the abstract, which is good for no other work but that of a water-clerk. He retreated in good order towards the rising sun, and the fact followed him casually but inevitably. Thus in the course of years he was known successively in Bombay, in Calcutta, in Rangoon, in Penang, in Batavia--and in each of these halting-places was just Jim the water-clerk. Afterwards, when his keen perception of the Intolerable drove him away for good from seaports and white men, even into the virgin forest, the Malays of the jungle village, where he had elected to conceal his deplorable faculty, added a word to the monosyllable of his incognito. They called him Tuan Jim: as one might say--Lord Jim.Originally he came from a parsonage. Many commanders of fine merchant-ships come from these abodes of piety and peace. Jim's father possessed such certain knowledge of the Unknowable as made for the righteousness of people in cottages without disturbing the ease of mind of those whom an unerring Providence enables to live in mansions. The little church on a hill had the mossy greyness of a rock seen through a ragged screen of leaves. It had stood there for centuries, but the trees around probably remembered the laying of the first stone. Below, the red front of the rectory gleamed with a warm tint in the midst of grass-plots, flower-beds, and fir-trees, with an orchard at the back, a paved stable-yard to the left, and the sloping glass of greenhouses tacked along a wall of bricks. The living had belonged to the family for generations; but Jim was one of five sons, and when after a course of light holiday literature his vocation for the sea had declared itself, he was sent at once to a "training-ship for officers of the mercantile marine."He learned there a little trigonometry and how to cross top-gallant yards. He was generally liked. He had the third place in navigation and pulled stroke in the first cutter. Having a steady head with an excellent physique, he was very smart aloft. His station was in the fore-top, and often from there he looked down, with the contempt of a man destined to shine in the midst of dangers, at the peaceful multitude of roofs cut in two by the brown tide of the stream, while scattered on the outskirts of the surrounding plain the factory chimneys rose perpendicular against a grimy sky, each slender like a pencil, and belching out smoke like a volcano. He could see the big ships departing, the broad-beamed ferries constantly on the move, the little boats floating far below his feet, with the hazy splendour of the sea in the distance, and the hope of a stirring life in the world of adventure.On the lower deck in the babel of two hundred voices he would forget himself, and beforehand live in his mind the sea-life of light literature. He saw himself saving people from sinking ships, cutting away masts in a hurricane, swimming through a surf with a line; or as a lonely castaway, barefooted and half naked, walking on uncovered reefs in search of shell-fish to stave off starvation. He confronted savages on tropical shores, quelled mutinies on the high seas, and in a small boat upon the ocean kept up the hearts of despairing men--always an example of devotion to duty, and as unflinching as a hero in a book."Something's up. Come along."He leaped to his feet. The boys were streaming up the ladders. Above could be heard a great scurrying about and shouting, and when he got through the hatchway he stood still--as if confounded.It was the dusk of a winter's day. The gale had freshened since noon, stopping the traffic on the river and now blew with the strength of a hurricane in fitful bursts that boomed like salvoes of great guns firing over the ocean. The rain slanted in sheets that flicked and subsided, and between whiles Jim had threatening glimpses of the tumbling tide, the small craft jumbled and tossing along the shore, the motionless buildings in the driving mist, the broad ferryboats pitching ponderously at anchor, the vast landing-stages heaving up and down and smothered in sprays. The next gust seemed to blow all this away. The air was full of flying water. There was a fierce purpose in the gale, a furious earnestness in the screech of the wind, in the brutal tumult of earth and sky, that seemed directed at him, and made him hold his breath in awe. He stood still. It seemed to him he was whirled around.He was jostled. "Man the cutter!" Boys rushed past him. A coaster running in for shelter had crashed through a schooner at anchor, and one of the ship's instructors had seen the accident. A mob of boys clambered on the rails, clustered round the davits. "Collision. Just ahead of us. Mr. Symons saw it." A push made him stagger against the mizzen-mast, and he caught hold of a rope. The old training-ship chained to her moorings quivered all over, bowing gently head to wind, and with her scanty rigging humming in a deep bass the breathless song of her youth at sea. "Lower away!" He saw the boat, manned, drop swiftly below the rail, and rushed after her. He heard a splash. "Let go; clear the falls!" He leaned over. The river alongside seethed in frothy streaks. The cutter could be seen in the falling darkness under the spell of tide and wind, that for a moment held her bound, and tossing abreast of the ship. A yelling voice in her reached him faintly: "Keep stroke, you young whelps, if you want to save anybody! Keep stroke!" And suddenly she lifted high her bow, and, leaping with raised oars over a wave, broke the spell cast upon her by the wind and tide.Jim felt his shoulder gripped firmly. "Too late, youngster." The captain of the ship laid a restraining hand on that boy, who seemed on the point of leaping overboard, and Jim looked up with the pain of conscious defeat in his eyes. The captain smiled sympathetically. "Better luck next time. This will teach you to be smart."A shrill cheer greeted the cutter. She came dancing back half full of water, and with two exhausted men washing about on her bottom boards. The tumult and the menace of wind and sea now appeared very contemptible to Jim, increasing the regret of his awe at their inefficient menace. Now he knew what to think of it. It seemed to him he cared nothing for the gale. He could affront greater perils. He would do so--better than anybody. Not a particle of fear was left. Nevertheless he brooded apart that evening while the bow-man of the cutter--a boy with a face like a girl's and big grey eyes--was the hero of the lower deck. Eager questioners crowded round him. He narrated: "I just saw his head bobbing, and I dashed my boat-hook in the water. It caught in his breeches and I nearly went overboard, as I thought I would, only old Symons let go the tiller and grabbed my legs--the boat nearly swamped. Old Symons is a fine old chap. I don't mind a bit him being grumpy with us. He swore at me all the time he held my leg, but that was only his way of telling me to stick to the boat-hook. Old Symons is awfullyexcitable--isn't he? No--not the little fair chap--the other, the big one with a beard. When we pulled him in he groaned, 'Oh, my leg! oh, my leg!' and turned up his eyes. Fancy such a big chap fainting like a girl. Would any of you fellows faint for a jab with a boat-hook?--I wouldn't. It went into his leg so far." He showed the boat-hook, which he had carried below for the purpose and produced a sensation. "No, silly! It was not his flesh that held him--his breeches did. Lots of blood, of course."Jim thought it a pitiful display of vanity. The gale had ministered to a heroism as spurious as its own pretence of terror. He felt angry with the brutal tumult of earth and sky for taking him unawares and checking unfairly a generous readiness for narrow escapes. Otherwise he was rather glad he had not gone into the cutter, since a lower achievement had served the turn. He had enlarged his knowledge more than those who had done the work. When all men flinched, then--he felt sure--he alone would know how to deal with the spurious menace of wind and seas. He knew what to think of it. Seen dispassionately, it seemed contemptible. He could detect no trace of emotion in himself, and the final effect of a staggering event was that, unnoticed and apart from the noisy crowd of boys, he exulted with fresh certitude in his avidity for adventure, and in a sense of many-sided courage. Chapter Two AFTER TWO years of training he went to sea, and entering the regions so well known to his imagination, found them strangely barren of adventure. He made many voyages. He knew the magic monotony of existence between sky and water: he had to bear the criticism of men, the exactions of the sea, and the prosaic severity of the daily task that gives bread--but whose only reward is in the perfect love of the work. This reward eluded him. Yet he could not go back, because there is nothing more enticing, disenchanting, and enslaving than the life at sea. Besides, his prospects were good. He was gentlemanly, steady, tractable, with a thorough knowledge of his duties; and in time, when yet very young, he became chief mate of a fine ship, without ever having been tested by those events of the sea that show in the light of day the inner worth of a man, the edge of his temper, and the fibre of his stuff; that reveal the quality of his resistance and the secret truth of his pretences, not only to others but also to himself.Only once in all that time he had again the glimpse of the earnestness in the anger of the sea. That truth is not so often made apparent as people might think. There are many shades in the danger of adventures and gales, and it is only now and then that there appears on the face of facts a sinister violence of intention--that indefinable something which forces it upon the mind and the heart of a man, that this complication of accidents or these elemental furies are coming at him with a purpose of malice, with a strength beyond control, with an unbridled cruelty that means to tear out of him his hope and his fear, the pain of his fatigue and his longing for rest: which means to smash, to destroy, to annihilate all he has seen, known, loved, enjoyed, or hated; all that is priceless and necessary--the sunshine, the memories, the future,--which means to sweep the whole precious world utterly away from his sight by the simple and appalling act of taking his life.Jim, disabled by a falling spar at the beginning of a week of which his Scottish captain used to say afterwards, "Man! it's a pairfect meeracle to me how she lived through it!" spent many days stretched on his back, dazed, battered, hopeless, and tormented as if at the bottom of an abyss of unrest. He did not care what the end would be, and in his lucid moments overvalued his indifference. The danger, when not seen, has the imperfect vagueness of human thought. The fear grows shadowy; and Imagination, the enemy of men, the father of all terrors, unstimulated, sinks to rest in the dullness of exhausted emotion. Jim saw nothing but the disorder of his tossed cabin. He lay there battened down in the midst of a small devastation, and felt secretly glad he had not to go on deck. But now and again an uncontrollable rush of anguish would grip him bodily, make him gasp and writhe under the blankets, and then the unintelligent brutality of an existence liable to the agony of such sensations filled him with a despairing desire to escape at any cost. Then fine weather returned, and he thought no more about it.His lameness, however, persisted, and when the ship arrived at an Eastern port he had to go to the hospital. His recovery was slow, and he was left behind. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Review Novel by Joseph Conrad, published in 1900. Originally intended as a short story, the work grew to a full-length novel as Conrad explored in great depth the perplexing, ambiguous problem of lost honor and guilt, expiation and heroism. The title character is a man haunted by guilt over an act of cowardice. He becomes an agent at an isolated East Indian trading post. There his feelings of inadequacy and responsibility are played out to their logical and inevitable end. -- The Merriam-Webster Encyclopedia of Literature ''Lord Jim belongs to no era because it is timeless, novelistic art at its most sublime. . . Narrator Frederick Davidson is nothing short of perfection in his portrayal of Marlowe's complex persona. . . . '' -- Library Journal --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Book Description An authoritative and closely annotated scholarly edition of Conrad's modernist masterpiece. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. About the Author Joseph Conrad (1857-1924) was born into a Polish family who lived in the Ukraine. At the age of sixteen he went to sea, and later joined the British Merchant Navy, becoming a Master Mariner and a British citizen in 1886. After twenty years at sea, he came to live in England, where he wrote many famous novels, including Lord Jim, Nostromo, Heart of Darkness, and The Secret Agent. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From AudioFile Conrad's haunting story of adventure turned tragedy portrays a young man's struggle against his own weaknesses. Because of its complex characters, shifting settings and roving points of view, Lord Jim needs an attentive and insightful narrator. Nigel Graham is just such a performer. Keeping a cool, steady tone, Graham captures the excitement and terror of the story. Listeners are lead in and out of grueling psychological sketches which run side by side with scenes of intense characterizations and action. Graham handles all with expertise. Vocal characterizations and accents are present but not overwhelming; the narrator ensures the story's continuity. J.S.G. (c)AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Review "One always learns from Cedric Watts. True to form, he provides a reliable text, cogent annotations, and a stimulating, eminently readable introduction to this enigmatic novel. Better still, the selections illustrating Conrad's sources, his reception by contemporaries, and the historical context of his ambivalence about colonialism are rich yet frequently unfamiliar. Is there room for yet another Lord Jim? In the case of Broadview's excellent new edition, the answer is emphatically yes." (Laurence Davies )"Professor Watts's assiduity and thoroughness make this edition of Lord Jim a delight. The edition is meticulous and informed in its comments on the novel, scrupulously but unobtrusively annotated, and offers a judicious selection of supporting material. In short, this edition of the novel sets the standard for its successors to follow." (Allan Simmons, General Editor of The Conradian ) --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Book Description This edition, established through modern textual scholarship, presents an authoritative text of Conrad's novel. The Introduction traces its sources and contemporary reception. The explanatory notes identify literary and historical references and real-life places and indicate Conrad's main influences. Glossaries, maps and illustrations are provided for further context. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Amazon.com Review This compact novel, completed in 1900, as with so many of the great novels of the time, is at its baseline a book of the sea. An English boy in a simple town has dreams bigger than the outdoors and embarks at an early age into the sailor's life. The waters he travels reward him with the ability to explore the human spirit, while Joseph Conrad launches the story into both an exercise of his technical prowess and a delicately crafted picture of a character who reaches the status of a literary hero. A classic novel. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From the Inside Flap Lord Jim is a classic story of one man's tragic failure and eventual redemption, told under the circumstances of high adventure at the margins of the known world which made Conrad's work so immediately popular. But it is also the book in which its author, through a brilliant adaptation of his stylistic apparatus to his obsessive moral, psychological and political concerns, laid the groundwork for the modern novel as we know it. With An Introduction By Norman Sherry An expert on the works of Joseph Conrad, Professor Norman Sherry is the author of Conrad's Eastern World, Conrad's Western World and Conrad and His World. He is also the editor of Conrad: The Critical Heritage, and the official biographer of Graham Greene. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From the Back Cover One of Joseph Conrad’s greatest novels, Lord Jim brilliantly combines adventure and analysis. Haunted by the memory of a moment of lost nerve during a disastrous voyage, Jim submits to condemnation by a Court of Inquiry. In the wake of his disgrace he travels to the exotic region of Patusan, and as the agent at this remote trading post comes to be revered as ‘Tuan Jim.’ Here he finds a measure of serenity and respect within himself. However, when a gang of thieves arrives on the island, the memory of his earlier disgrace comes again to the fore, and his relationship with the people of the island is jeopardized. This new Broadview edition is based on the first British edition of 1900, which provides the historical basis for the accompanying critical and contextual discussions. The appendices include a wide variety of Conrad’s source material, documents concerning the scandal of the Jeddah, along with other materials such as a substantial selection of early critical comments. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Review Novel by Joseph Conrad, published in 1900. Originally intended as a short story, the work grew to a full-length novel as Conrad explored in great depth the perplexing, ambiguous problem of lost honor and guilt, expiation and heroism. The title character is a man haunted by guilt over an act of cowardice. He becomes an agent at an isolated East Indian trading post. There his feelings of inadequacy and responsibility are played out to their logical and inevitable end. -- The Merriam-Webster Encyclopedia of Literature ''Lord Jim belongs to no era because it is timeless, novelistic art at its most sublime. . . Narrator Frederick Davidson is nothing short of perfection in his portrayal of Marlowe's complex persona. . . . '' -- Library Journal --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

Thunderstruck

Review NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER “Larson is a marvelous writer...superb at creating characters with a few short strokes.” — The New York Times Book Review “Larson's gift for rendering an historical era with vibrant tactility and filling it with surprising personalities makes Thunderstruck an irresistible tale...He beautifully captures the awe that greeted early wireless transmissions on shipboard...he restores life to this fascinating, long-lost world.” — Washington Post “A ripping yarn of murder and invention.” —Los Angeles Times “Of all the non-fiction writers working today, Erik Larson seems to have the most delicious fun...for his newest, destined-to-delight book, Thunderstruck , Larson has turned his sights on Edwardian London, a place alive with new science and seances, anonymous crowds and some stunningly peculiar personalities.” —Chicago Tribune “[Larson] interweaves gripping storylines about a cryptic murderer and the race for technology in the early 20th century. An edge-of-the-seat read.” — People “Captivating...with Thunderstruck , Larson has selected another enthralling tale—two of them, actually...[he] peppers the narrative with an engaging array of secondary figures and fills the margins with rich tangential period details...Larson has once again crafted a popular history narrative that is stylistically closer to a smartly plotted novel.” — Miami Herald “As he did with The Devil in the White City , Larson has created an intense, intelligent page turner that shows how the march of progress and innovation affect both the world at large and the lives of everyday people.” — Atlanta Journal-Constitution“ Captivating...with Thunderstruck , Larson again demonstrates that he's one of the best nonfiction writers around and proves that real-life murders can be as compelling to read about as fictional ones.” —Dallas/Forth Worth Star-Telegram “[Larson] captures the human capacity for wonder at the turn of the century...[he] has perfected a narrative form of his own invention.” —Cleveland Plain Dealer “An enthralling narrative and vivid descriptions...Larson has done a marvelous job of bringing the distinct stories together in his own unique way. Simply fantastic!” — Library Journal “Splendid, beautifully written... Thunderstruck triumphantly resurrects the spirit of another age, when one man's public genius linked the world, while another's private turmoil made him a symbol of the end of "the great hush" and the first victim of a new era when instant communication, now inescapable, conquered the world.” — Publishers Weekly About the Author Erik Larson is the author of six New York Times bestsellers, most recently The Splendid and the Vile: A Saga of Churchill, Family, and Defiance During the Blitz, which examines how Winston Churchill and his “Secret Circle” went about surviving the German air campaign of 1940-41. Larson’s The Devil in the White City is set to be a Hulu limited series; his In the Garden of Beasts is under option by Tom Hanks for a feature film. He recently published an audio-original ghost story, No One Goes Alone , which has been optioned by Chernin Entertainment, in association with Netflix. His Thunderstruck has been optioned by Sony Pictures Television for a limited TV series. Larson lives in Manhattan with his wife, who is a writer and retired neonatologist; they have three grown daughters. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 Ghosts and Gunfire Distraction In the ardently held view of one camp, the story had its rightful beginning on the night of June 4, 1894, at 21 Albemarle Street, London, the address of the Royal Institution. Though one of Britain’s most august scientific bodies, it occupied a building of modest proportion, only three floors. The false columns affixed to its facade were an afterthought, meant to impart a little grandeur. It housed a lecture hall, a laboratory, living quarters, and a bar where members could gather to discuss the latest scientific advances. Inside the hall, a physicist of great renown readied himself to deliver the evening’s presentation. He hoped to startle his audience, certainly, but otherwise he had no inkling that this lecture would prove the most important of his life and a source of conflict for decades to come. His name was Oliver Lodge, and really the outcome was his own fault— another manifestation of what even he acknowledged to be a fundamental flaw in how he approached his work. In the moments remaining before his talk, he made one last check of an array of electrical apparatus positioned on a demonstration table, some of it familiar, most unlike anything seen before in this hall. Outside on Albemarle Street the police confronted their usual traffic problem. Scores of carriages crowded the street and gave it the look of a great black seam of coal. While the air in the surrounding neighborhood of Mayfair was scented with lime and the rich cloying sweetness of hothouse flowers, here the street stank of urine and manure, despite the efforts of the young, red-shirted “street orderlies” who moved among the horses collecting ill-timed deposits. Officers of the Metropolitan Police directed drivers to be quick about exiting the street once their passengers had departed. The men wore black, the women gowns. Established in 1799 for the “diffusion of knowledge, and facilitating the general introduction of useful mechanical improvements,” the Royal Institution had been the scene of great discoveries. Within its laboratories Humphry Davy had found sodium and potassium and devised the miner’s safety lamp, and Michael Faraday discovered electromagnetic induction, the phenomenon whereby electricity running through one circuit induces a current in another. The institution’s lectures, the “Friday Evening Discourses,” became so popular, the traffic outside so chaotic, that London officials were forced to turn Albemarle into London’s first one-way street. Lodge was a professor of physics at the new University College of Liverpool, where his laboratory was housed in a space that once had been the padded cell of a lunatic asylum. At first glance he seemed the embodiment of established British science. He wore a heavy beard misted with gray, and his head—“the great head,” as a friend put it—was eggshell bald to a point just above his ears, where his hair swept back into a tangle of curls. He stood six feet three inches tall and weighed about 210 pounds. A young woman once reported that the experience of dancing with Lodge had been akin to dancing with the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Though considered a kind man, in his youth Lodge had exhibited a cruel vein that, as he grew older, caused him regret and astonishment. While a student at a small school, Combs Rectory, he had formed a club, the Combs Rectory Birds’ Nest Destroying Society, whose members hunted nests and ransacked them, smashing eggs and killing fledglings, then firing at the parent birds with slingshots. Lodge recalled once beating a dog with a toy whip but dismissed this incident as an artifact of childhood cruelty. “Whatever faults I may have,” he wrote in his memoir, “cruelty is not one of them; it is the one thing that is utterly repugnant.” Lodge had come of age during a time when scientists began to coax from the mists a host of previously invisible phenomena, particularly in the realm of electricity and magnetism. He recalled how lectures at the Royal Institution would set his imagination alight. “I have walked back through the streets of London, or across Fitzroy Square, with a sense of unreality in everything around, an opening up of deep things in the universe, which put all ordinary objects of sense into the shade, so that the square and its railings, the houses, the carts, and the people, seemed like shadowy unrealities, phantasmal appearances, partly screening, but partly permeated by, the mental and spiritual reality behind.” The Royal Institution became for Lodge “a sort of sacred place,” he wrote, “where pure science was enthroned to be worshipped for its own sake.” He believed the finest science was theoretical science, and he scorned what he and other like-minded scientists called “practicians,” the new heathen, inventors and engineers and tinkerers who eschewed theoretical research for blind experimentation and whose motive was commercial gain. Lodge once described the patent process as “inappropriate and repulsive.” As his career advanced, he too was asked to deliver Friday Evening Discourses, and he reveled in the opportunity to put nature’s secrets on display. When a scientific breakthrough occurred, he tried to be first to bring it to public notice, a pattern he had begun as early as 1877, when he acquired one of the first phonographs and brought it to England for a public demonstration, but his infatuation with the new had a corollary effect: a vulnerability to distraction. He exhibited a lofty dilettantism that late in life he acknowledged had been a fatal flaw. “As it is,” he wrote, “I have taken an interest in many subjects, and spread myself over a considerable range—a procedure which, I suppose, has been good for my education, though not so prolific of results.” Whenever his scientific research threatened to lead to a breakthrough, he wrote, “I became afflicted with a kind of excitement which caused me to pause and not pursue that path to the luminous end. . . . It is an odd feeling, and has been the cause of my not clinching many subjects, not following up the path on which I had set my feet.” To the dismay of peers, one of his greatest distractions was the world of the supernatural. He was a member of the Society for Psychical  Research, established in 1882 by a group of level-headed souls, mostly scientists and philosophers, to bring scientific scrutiny to ghosts, séances, telepathy, and other paranormal events, or as the society stated in each issue of its Journal, “to examine without prejudice or prepossession and in a scientific spirit, those faculties of man, real or supposed, which appear to be inexplicable on any generally recognized hypothesis.” The society’s constitution stated that membership did not imply belief in “physical forces other than those recognized by Physical Science.” That the SPR had a Committee on Haunted Houses deterred no one. Its membership expanded quickly to include sixty university dons and some of the brightest lights of the era, among them John Ruskin, H. G. Wells, William E. Gladstone, Samuel Clemens (better known as Mark Twain), and the Rev. C. L. Dodgson (with the equally prominent pen name Lewis Carroll). The roster also listed Arthur Balfour, a future prime minister of England, and William James, a pioneer in psychology, who by the summer of 1894 had been named the society’s president. It was Lodge’s inquisitiveness, not a belief in ghosts, that first drove him to become a member of the SPR. The occult was for him just one more invisible realm worthy of exploration, the outermost province of the emerging science of psychology. The unveiling during Lodge’s life of so many hitherto unimagined physical phenomena, among them Heinrich Hertz’s discovery of electromagnetic waves, suggested to him that the world of the mind must harbor secrets of its own. The fact that waves could travel through the ether seemed to confirm the existence of another plane of reality. If one could send electromagnetic waves through the ether, was it such an outrageous next step to suppose that the spiritual essence of human beings, an electromagnetic soul, might also exist within the ether and thus explain the hauntings and spirit rappings that had become such a fixture of common legend? Reports of ghosts inhabiting country houses, poltergeists rattling abbeys, spirits knocking on tables during séances—all these in the eyes of Lodge and fellow members of the society seemed as worthy of dispassionate analysis as the invisible travels of an electromagnetic wave. Within a few years of his joining the SPR, however, events challenged Lodge’s ability to maintain his scientific remove. In Boston William James began hearing from his own family about a certain “Mrs. Piper”—Lenore Piper—a medium who was gaining notoriety for possessing strange powers. Intending to expose her as a fraud, James arranged a sitting and found himself enthralled. He suggested that the society invite Mrs. Piper to England for a series of experiments. She and her two daughters sailed to Liverpool in November 1889 and then traveled to Cambridge, where a sequence of sittings took place under the close observation of SPR members. Lodge arranged a sitting of his own and suddenly found himself listening to his dead aunt Anne, a beloved woman of lively intellect who had abetted his drive to become a scientist against the wishes of his father. She once had told Lodge that after her death she would come back to visit if she could, and now, in a voice he remembered, she reminded him of that promise. “This,” he wrote, “was an unusual thing to happen.” To Lodge, the encounter seemed proof that some part of the human mind persisted even after death. It left him, he wrote, “thoroughly convinced not only of human survival, but of the power to communicate, under certain conditions, with those left behind on the earth.” Partly because of his diverse interests and his delight in new discoveries, by June 1894 he had become one of the Royal Institution’s most popular speakers. The evening’s lecture was entitled “The Work of Hertz.” Heinrich Hertz had died earlier in the year, and the institution invited Lodge to talk about his experiments, a task to which Lodge readily assented. Lodge had a deep respect for Hertz; he also believed that if not for his own fatal propensity for distraction, he might have beaten Hertz to the history books. In his memoir, Lodge stopped just short of claiming that he himself not Hertz, was first to prove the existence of electromagnetic waves. And indeed Lodge had come close, but instead of pursuing certain tantalizing findings, he had dropped the work and buried his results in a quotidian paper on lightning conductors. Every seat in the lecture hall was filled. Lodge spoke for a few  moments, then began his demonstration. He set off a spark. The gun- shot crack jolted the audience to full attention. Still more startling was  the fact that this spark caused a reaction—a flash of light—in a distant, unattached electrical apparatus. The central component of this apparatus was a device Lodge had designed, which he called a “coherer,” a tube filled with minute metal filings, and which he had inserted into a conventional electric circuit. Initially the filings had no power to conduct electricity,  but when Lodge generated the spark and thus launched electromag- netic waves into the hall, the filings suddenly became conductors—they “cohered”—and allowed current to flow. By tapping the tube with his finger, Lodge returned the filings to their nonconductive state, and the circuit went dead. Though seemingly a simple thing, in fact the audience had never seen anything like it: Lodge had harnessed invisible energy, Hertz’s waves, to cause a reaction in a remote device, without intervening wires. The applause came like thunder. Afterward Lord Rayleigh, a distinguished mathematician and physicist and secretary of the Royal Society, came up to Lodge to congratulate him. He knew of Lodge’s tendency toward distraction. What Lodge had just demonstrated seemed a path that even he might find worthy of focus. “Well, now you can go ahead,” Rayleigh told Lodge. “There is your life work!” But Lodge did not take Lord Rayleigh’s advice. Instead, once again exhibiting his inability to pursue one theme of research to conclusion, he left for a vacation in Europe that included a scientific foray into a very different realm. He traveled to the Ile Roubaud, a small island in the Mediterranean Sea off the coast of France, where soon very strange things began to happen and he found himself distracted anew, at what would prove to be a critical moment in his career and in the history of science. For even as Lodge conducted his new explorations on the Ile Roubaud, far to the south someone else was hard at work—ingeniously, energetically, compulsively—exploring the powers of the invisible world, with the same tools Lodge had used for his demonstration at the Royal Institution, much to Lodge’s eventual consternation and regret. The Great Hush It was not precisely a vision, like some sighting of the Madonna in a tree trunk, but rather a certainty, a declarative sentence that entered his brain. Unlike other lightning-strike ideas, this one did not fade and blur but retained its surety and concrete quality. Later Marconi would say there was a divine aspect to it, as though he had been chosen over all others to receive the idea. At first it perplexed him—the question, why him, why not Oliver Lodge, or for that matter Thomas Edison? The idea arrived in the most prosaic of ways. In that summer of 1894, when he was twenty years old, his parents resolved to escape the extraordinary heat that had settled over Europe by moving to higher and cooler ground. They fled Bologna for the town of Biella in the Italian Alps, just below the Santuario di Oropa, a complex of sacred buildings devoted to the legend of the Black Madonna. During the family’s stay, he happened to acquire a copy of a journal called Il Nuovo Cimento, in which he read an obituary of Heinrich Hertz written by Augusto Righi, a neighbor and a physics professor at the University of Bologna. Something in the article produced the intellectual equivalent of a spark and in that moment caused his thoughts to realign, like the filings in a Lodge coherer. “My chief trouble was that the idea was so elementary, so simple in logic that it seemed difficult to believe no one else had thought of putting it into practice,” he said later. “In fact Oliver Lodge had, but he had missed the correct answer by a fraction. The idea was so real to me that I did not realize that to others the theory might appear quite fantastic.” What he hoped to do—expected to do—was to send messages over long distances through the air using Hertz’s invisible waves. Nothing in the laws of physics as then understood even hinted that such a feat might be possible. Quite the opposite. To the rest of the scientific world what he now proposed was the stuff of magic shows and séances, a kind of electric telepathy. His great advantage, as it happens, was his ignorance—and his mother’s aversion to priests. Read more

A Time for You: A Red Hat Novel

About the Author Jack R. Pyle was born in a no-longer-in existence company coal town in the Mid-West and he was reared in the South by a family of strong women and storytellers. In the spirit of that tradition, Jack writes of the Blue Ridge mountains, the piney flats of Florida and the folklore of moon signs, with an authority that has its deep roots in experience. He is the winner of the 1999 Book of the Year award of the AWA for his novel, The Sound of Distant Thunder, an Appalachian tale of mountain revenge. The real world, warts and all, is his world.

365 Stories and Rhymes (Deluxe Edition): Tales of Action and Adventure (365 Treasury)