Tenth of December: Stories by George Saunders (English) Paperback Book

Description: Tenth of December by George Saunders "The stories in this work were originally published in Harpers Magazine, McSweeneys Quarterly Concern, The New Yorker, and Story Magazine"--Title page verso. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • NATIONAL BOOK AWARD FINALIST • NAMED ONE OF TIMES TEN BEST FICTION BOOKS OF THE DECADE • NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE DECADE BY ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY AND BUZZFEED • NAMED ONE OF THE TEN BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEWOne of the New York Timess 100 Best Books of the 21st CenturyA BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR: People, The New York Times Magazine, NPR, Entertainment Weekly, New York, The Telegraph, BuzzFeed, Kirkus Reviews, BookPage, Shelf AwarenessIncludes an extended conversation with David SedarisOne of the most important and blazingly original writers of his generation, George Saunders is an undisputed master of the short story, and Tenth of December is his most honest, accessible, and moving collection yet. In the taut opener, "Victory Lap," a boy witnesses the attempted abduction of the girl next door and is faced with a harrowing choice: Does he ignore what he sees, or override years of smothering advice from his parents and act? In "Home," a combat-damaged soldier moves back in with his mother and struggles to reconcile the world he left with the one to which he has returned. And in the title story, a stunning meditation on imagination, memory, and loss, a middle-aged cancer patient walks into the woods to commit suicide, only to encounter a troubled young boy who, over the course of a fateful morning, gives the dying man a final chance to recall who he really is. A hapless, deluded owner of an antiques store; two mothers struggling to do the right thing; a teenage girl whose idealism is challenged by a brutal brush with reality; a man tormented by a series of pharmaceutical experiments that force him to lust, to love, to kill—the unforgettable characters that populate the pages of Tenth of December are vividly and lovingly infused with Saunderss signature blend of exuberant prose, deep humanity, and stylistic innovation. Writing brilliantly and profoundly about class, sex, love, loss, work, despair, and war, Saunders cuts to the core of the contemporary experience. These stories take on the big questions and explore the fault lines of our own morality, delving into the questions of what makes us good and what makes us human. Unsettling, insightful, and hilarious, the stories in Tenth of December—through their manic energy, their focus on what is redeemable in human beings, and their generosity of spirit—not only entertain and delight; they fulfill Chekhovs dictum that art should "prepare us for tenderness." GEORGE SAUNDERS WAS NAMED ONE OF THE 100 MOST INFLUENTIAL PEOPLE IN THE WORLD BY TIME MAGAZINE Author Biography MacArthur "Genius Grant" fellow George Saunders is the acclaimed author of several collections of short stories, including Pastoralia and CivilWarLand in Bad Decline, as well as a collection of essays and a book for children. He teaches in the creative writing program at Syracuse University. Review "The best book youll read this year."—The New York Times Magazine "A feat of inventiveness . . . This eclectic collection never ceases to delight with its at times absurd, surreal, and darkly humorous look at very serious subjects. . . . George Saunders makes you feel as though you are reading fiction for the first time."—Khaled Hosseini, author of The Kite Runner "The best short-story writer in English—not one of, not arguably, but the Best."—Mary Karr, Time "A visceral and moving act of storytelling . . . No one writes more powerfully than George Saunders about the lost, the unlucky, the disenfranchised."—Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times "Saunderss startling, dreamlike stories leave you feeling newly awakened to the world."—People "Its no exaggeration to say that short story master George Saunders helped change the trajectory of American fiction."—The Wall Street Journal "An irresistible mix of humor and humanity . . . that will make you beam with unmitigated glee. [Grade:] A"—Entertainment Weekly "Saunders captures the fragmented rhythms, disjointed sensory input, and wildly absurd realities of the twenty-first century experience like no other writer."—The Boston Globe"Tenth of December shows George Saunders at his most subversive, hilarious, and emotionally piercing. Few writers can encompass that range of adjectives, but Saunders is a true original—restlessly inventive, yet deeply humane."—Jennifer Egan, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of A Visit from the Goon Squad "George Saunders is a complete original, unlike anyone else, thank god—and yet still he manages to be the rightful heir to three other complete American originals—Barthelme (the lyricism, the playfulness), Vonnegut (the outrage, the wit, the scope), and Twain (the common sense, the exasperation). There is no author I recommend to people more often—for ten years Ive urged George Saunders onto everyone and everyone. You want funny? Saunders is your man. You want emotional heft? Saunders again. You want stories that are actually about something—stories that again and again get to the meat of matters of life and death and justice and country? Saunders. There is no one better, no one more essential to our national sense of self and sanity."—Dave Eggers, author of A Hologram for the King Review Quote "The best book youll read this year." -- The New York Times Magazine "A feat of inventiveness . . . This eclectic collection never ceases to delight with its at times absurd, surreal, and darkly humorous look at very serious subjects. . . . George Saunders makes you feel as though you are reading fiction for the first time." --Khaled Hosseini, author of The Kite Runner "The best short-story writer in English--not one of, not arguably, but the Best." --Mary Karr, Time "A visceral and moving act of storytelling . . . No one writes more powerfully than George Saunders about the lost, the unlucky, the disenfranchised." --Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times "Saunderss startling, dreamlike stories leave you feeling newly awakened to the world." -- People "Its no exaggeration to say that short story master George Saunders helped change the trajectory of American fiction." -- The Wall Street Journal "An irresistible mix of humor and humanity . . . that will make you beam with unmitigated glee. [Grade:] A" -- Entertainment Weekly "Saunders captures the fragmented rhythms, disjointed sensory input, and wildly absurd realities of the twenty-first century experience like no other writer." -- The Boston Globe " Tenth of December shows George Saunders at his most subversive, hilarious, and emotionally piercing. Few writers can encompass that range of adjectives, but Saunders is a true original--restlessly inventive, yet deeply humane." --Jennifer Egan, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of A Visit from the Goon Squad "George Saunders is a complete original, unlike anyone else, thank god--and yet still he manages to be the rightful heir to three other complete American originals--Barthelme (the lyricism, the playfulness), Vonnegut (the outrage, the wit, the scope), and Twain (the common sense, the exasperation). There is no author I recommend to people more often--for ten years Ive urged George Saunders onto everyone and everyone. You want funny? Saunders is your man. You want emotional heft? Saunders again. You want stories that are actually about something--stories that again and again get to the meat of matters of life and death and justice and country? Saunders. There is no one better, no one more essential to our national sense of self and sanity." --Dave Eggers, author of A Hologram for the King Excerpt from Book TENTH of DECEMBER The pale boy with unfortunate Prince Valiant bangs and cublike mannerisms hulked to the mudroom closet and req- uisitioned Dads white coat. Then requisitioned the boots hed spray-painted white. Painting the pellet gun white had been a no. That was a gift from Aunt Chloe. Every time she came over he had to haul it out so she could make a big stink about the wood grain. Todays assignation: walk to pond, ascertain beaver dam. Likely he would be detained. By that species that lived amongst the old rock wall. They were small but, upon emerging, assumed certain proportions. And gave chase. This was just their methodology. His aplomb threw them loops. He knew that. And reveled in it. He would turn, level the pellet gun, intone: Are you aware of the usage of this human implement? Blam! They were Netherworlders. Or Nethers. They had a strange bond with him. Sometimes for whole days he would just nurse their wounds. Occasionally, for a joke, he would shoot one in the butt as it fled. Who henceforth would limp for the rest of its days. Which could be as long as an additional nine million years. Safe inside the rock wall, the shot one would go, Guys, look at my butt. As a group, all would look at Gzeemons butt, exchanging sullen glances of: Gzeemon shall indeed be limping for the next nine million years, poor bloke. Because yes: Nethers tended to talk like that guy in Mary Poppins. Which naturally raised some mysteries as to their ultimate origin here on Earth. Detaining him was problematic for the Nethers. He was wily. Plus could not fit through their rock-wall opening. When they tied him up and went inside to brew their special miniaturizing potion--Wham!-- he would snap their antiquated rope with a move from his self-invented martial arts system, Toi Foi, a.k.a., Deadly Forearms. And place at their doorway an implacable rock of suffocation, trapping them inside. Later, imagining them in their death throes, taking pity on them, he would come back, move the rock. Blimey, one of them might say from withal. Thanks, guvnor. You are indeed a worthy adversary. Sometimes there would be torture. They would make him lie on his back looking up at the racing clouds while they tortured him in ways he could actually take. They tended to leave his teeth alone. Which was lucky. He didnt even like to get a cleaning. They were dunderheads in that manner. They never messed with his peen and never messed with his fingernails. Hed just abide there, infuriating them with his snow angels. Sometimes, believing it their coup de grace, not realizing hed heard this since time in memorial from certain in-school cretins, theyd go, Wow, we didnt even know Robin could be a boys name. And chortle their Nether laughs. Today he had a feeling that the Nethers might kidnap Suzanne Bledsoe, the new girl in homeroom. She was from Montreal. He just loved the way she talked. So, apparently, did the Nethers, who planned to use her to repopulate their depleted numbers and bake various things they did not know how to bake. All suited up now, NASA. Turning awkwardly to go out the door. Affirmative. We have your coordinates. Be careful out there, Robin. Whoa, cold, dang. Duck thermometer read ten. And that was without windchill. That made it fun. That made it real. A green Nissan was parked where Poole dead-ended into the soccer field. Hopefully the owner was not some perv he would have to outwit. Or a Nether in the human guise. Bright, bright, blue and cold. Crunch went the snow as he crossed the soccer field. Why did cold such as this give a running guy a headache? Likely it was due to Prominent Windspeed Velocity. The path into the woods was as wide as one human. It seemed the Nether had indeed kidnapped Suzanne Bledsoe. Damn him! And his ilk. Judging by the single set of tracks, the Nether appeared to be carrying her. Foul cad. Hed better not be touching Suzanne inappropriately while carrying her. If so, Suzanne would no doubt be resisting with untamable fury. This was concerning, this was very concerning. When he caught up to them, he would say: Look, Su- zanne, I know you dont know my name, having misad- dressed me as Roger that time you asked me to scoot over, but nevertheless I must confess I feel there is something to us. Do you feel the same? Suzanne had the most amazing brown eyes. They were wet now, with fear and sudden reality. Stop talking to her, mate, the Nether said. I wont, he said. And Suzanne? Even if you dont feel there is something to us, rest assured I will still slay this fellow and return you home. Where do you live again? Over in El Cirro? By the water tower? Those are some nice houses back there. Yes, Suzanne said. We also have a pool. You should come over this summer. Its cool if you swim with your shirt on. And also, yes to there being something to us. You are by far the most insightful boy in our class. Even when I take into consideration the boys I knew in Montreal, I am just like: No one can compare. Well, thats nice to hear, he said. Thank you for saying that. I know Im not the thinnest. The thing about girls? Suzanne said. Is we are more content-driven. Will you two stop already? the Nether said. Because now is the time for your death. Deaths. Well, now is certainly the time for somebodys death, Robin said. The twerpy thing was, you never really got to save anyone. Last summer thered been a dying raccoon out here. Hed thought of lugging it home so Mom could call the vet. But up close it was too scary. Raccoons being actually bigger than they appear in cartoons. And this one looked like a potential biter. So he ran home to get it some water at least. Upon his return, he saw where the raccoon had done some apparent last-minute thrashing. That was sad. He didnt do well with sad. There had perchance been some pre-weeping, by him, in the woods. That just means you have a big heart, Suzanne said. Well, I dont know, he said modestly. Here was the old truck tire. Where the high-school kids partied. Inside the tire, frosted with snow, were three beer cans and a wadded-up blanket. You probably like to party, the Nether had cracked to Suzanne moments earlier as they passed this very spot. No, I dont, Suzanne said. I like to play. And I like to hug. Hoo boy, the Nether said. Sounds like Dullsville. Somewhere there is a man who likes to play and hug, Suzanne said. He came out of the woods now to the prettiest vista he knew. The pond was a pure frozen white. It struck him as somewhat Switzerlandish. Someday he would know for sure. When the Swiss threw him a parade or whatnot. Here the Nethers tracks departed from the path, as if he had contemplatively taken a moment to gaze at the pond. Perhaps this Nether was not all bad. Perhaps he was having a debilitating conscience-attack vis-a-vis the valiantly struggling Suzanne atop his back. At least he seemed to somewhat love nature. Then the tracks returned to the path, wound around the pond, and headed up Lexow Hill. What was this strange object? A coat? On the bench? The bench the Nethers used for their human sacrifices? No accumulated snow on coat. Inside of coat still slightly warm. Ergo: the recently discarded coat of the Nether. This was some strange juju. This was an intriguing conundrum, if he had ever encountered one. Which he had. Once, hed found a bra on the handlebars of a bike. Once, hed found an entire untouched steak dinner on a plate behind Fresnos. And hadnt eaten it. Though it had looked pretty good. Something was afoot. Then he beheld, halfway up Lexow Hill, a man. Coatless bald-headed man. Super-skinny. In what looked like pajamas. Climbing plodfully, with tortoise patience, bare white arms sticking out of his p.j. shirt like two bare white branches sticking out of a p.j. shirt. Or grave. What kind of person leaves his coat behind on a day like this? The mental kind, that was who. This guy looked sort of mental. Like an Auschwitz dude or sad confused grandpa. Dad had once said, Trust your mind, Rob. If it smells like shit but has writing across it that says Happy Birthday and a candle stuck down in it, what is it? Is there icing on it? hed said. Dad had done that thing of squinting his eyes when an answer was not quite there yet. What was his mind telling him now? Something was wrong here. A person needed a coat. Even if the person was a grown-up. The pond was frozen. The duck thermometer said ten. If the person was mental, all the more reason to come to his aid, as had not Jesus said, Blessed are those who help those who cannot help themselves but are too mental, doddering, or have a disability? He snagged the coat off the bench. It was a rescue. A real rescue, at last, sort of. Ten minutes earlier, Don Eber had paused at the pond to catch his breath. He was so tired. What a thing. Holy moley. When he used to walk Sasquatch out here theyd do six times around the pond, jog up the hill, tag the boulder on top, sprint back down. Better get moving, said one of two guys whod been in discussion in his head all morning. That is, if youre still set on the boulder idea, the other said. Which still strikes us as kind of fancy-pants. Seemed like one guy was Dad and the othe Details ISBN0812984250 Author George Saunders Short Title 10TH OF DECEMBER Language English ISBN-10 0812984250 ISBN-13 9780812984255 Media Book Format Paperback Pages 288 DEWEY 813.54 Year 2014 Imprint Random House Trade Paperbacks Subtitle Stories Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2014-01-07 NZ Release Date 2014-01-07 US Release Date 2014-01-07 Place of Publication New York Publication Date 2014-01-07 UK Release Date 2014-01-07 Publisher Random House USA Inc Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:77802282;

Price: 39.99 AUD

Location: Melbourne

End Time: 2024-12-28T06:28:25.000Z

Shipping Cost: 0 AUD