2010, ISBN: 9780141017891

Speak. Good. 0.9 x 8.4 x 5.5 inches. Paperback. 2010. 320 pages. Cover worn.<br>The critically acclaimed, bestselling n ovel from Gayle Forman, author of Where She Went, Just One Da… Más…

Speak. Good. 0.9 x 8.4 x 5.5 inches. Paperback. 2010. 320 pages. Cover worn.<br>The critically acclaimed, bestselling n ovel from Gayle Forman, author of Where She Went, Just One Day, a nd Just One Year. Soon to be a major motion picture, starring Ch loe Moretz! In the blink of an eye everything changes. Seventeen ­year-old Mia has no memory of the accident; she can only recall what happened afterwards, watching her own damaged body being ta ken from the wreck. Little by little she struggles to put togethe r the pieces- to figure out what she has lost, what she has left, and the very difficult choice she must make. Heartwrenchingly be autiful, this will change the way you look at life, love, and fam ily. Now a major motion picture starring Chloe Grace Moretz, Mia' s story will stay with you for a long, long time. Editorial Revi ews Review Beautifully written.--Entertainment Weekly A beautif ul novel.--Los Angeles Times A do-not-miss story of love, friend ship, family, loss, control, and coping.--Justine Magazine The b rilliance of this book is the simplicity.-- The Wall Street Journ al A touching and thought-provoking novel.--Romantic Times Abou t the Author Gayle Forman is an award-winning, internationally be stselling author and journalist. Her #1 New York Times bestsellin g novel If I Stay was adapted into a film starring Chloë Grace Mo retz. Gayle is also the author of several other bestselling novel s, including Where She Went, I Was Here, the Just One series, I H ave Lost My Way, and Leave Me. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, w ith her husband and daughters. CONNECT WITH GAYLE: Website: Gayle Forman.com Twitter: @GayleForman Instagram: @GayleForman Facebook : Facebook.com/GayleFormanAuthor Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permiss ion. All rights reserved. 7:09 A.M. Everyone thinks it was becau se of the snow. And in a way, I suppose that's true. I wake up t his morning to a thin blanket of white covering our front lawn. I t isn't even an inch, but in this part of Oregon a slight dusting brings everything to a standstill as the one snowplow in the cou nty gets busy clearing the roads. It is wet water that drops from the sky-and drops and drops and drops-not the frozen kind. It i s enough snow to cancel school. My little brother, Teddy, lets ou t a war whoop when Mom's AM radio announces the closures. Snow da y! he bellows. Dad, let's go make a snowman. My dad smiles and t aps on his pipe. He started smoking one recently as part of this whole 1950s, Father Knows Best retro kick he is on. He also wears bow ties. I am never quite clear on whether all this is sartoria l or sardonic-Dad's way of announcing that he used to be a punker but is now a middle-school English teacher, or if becoming a tea cher has actually turned my dad into this genuine throwback. But I like the smell of the pipe tobacco. It is sweet and smoky, and reminds me of winters and woodstoves. You can make a valiant try , Dad tells Teddy. But it's hardly sticking to the roads. Maybe y ou should consider a snow amoeba. I can tell Dad is happy. Barel y an inch of snow means that all the schools in the county are cl osed, including my high school and the middle school where Dad wo rks, so it's an unexpected day off for him, too. My mother, who w orks for a travel agent in town, clicks off the radio and pours h erself a second cup of coffee. Well, if you lot are playing hooky today, no way I'm going to work. It's simply not right. She pick s up the telephone to call in. When she's done, she looks at us. Should I make breakfast? Dad and I guffaw at the same time. Mom makes cereal and toast. Dad's the cook in the family. Pretending not to hear us, she reaches into the cabinet for a box of Bisqui ck. Please. How hard can it be? Who wants pancakes? I do! I do! Teddy yells. Can we have chocolate chips in them? I don't see wh y not, Mom replies. Woo hoo! Teddy yelps, waving his arms in the air. You have far too much energy for this early in the morning , I tease. I turn to Mom. Maybe you shouldn't let Teddy drink so much coffee. I've switched him to decaf, Mom volleys back. He's just naturally exuberant. As long as you're not switching me to decaf, I say. That would be child abuse, Dad says. Mom hands me a steaming mug and the newspaper. There's a nice picture of you r young man in there, she says. Really? A picture? Yep. It's ab out the most we've seen of him since summer, Mom says, giving me a sidelong glance with her eyebrow arched, her version of a soul- searching stare. I know, I say, and then without meaning to, I s igh. Adam's band, Shooting Star, is on an upward spiral, which, i s a great thing-mostly. Ah, fame, wasted on the youth, Dad says, but he's smiling. I know he's excited for Adam. Proud even. I l eaf through the newspaper to the calendar section. There's a smal l blurb about Shooting Star, with an even smaller picture of the four of them, next to a big article about Bikini and a huge pictu re of the band's lead singer: punk-rock diva Brooke Vega. The bit about them basically says that local band Shooting Star is openi ng for Bikini on the Portland leg of Bikini's national tour. It d oesn't mention the even-bigger-to-me news that last night Shootin g Star headlined at a club in Seattle and, according to the text Adam sent me at midnight, sold out the place. Are you going toni ght? Dad asks. I was planning to. It depends if they shut down t he whole state on account of the snow. It is approaching a blizz ard, Dad says, pointing to a single snowflake floating its way to the earth. I'm also supposed to rehearse with some pianist from the college that Professor Christie dug up. Professor Christie, a retired music teacher at the university who I've been working w ith for the last few years, is always looking for victims for me to play with. Keep you sharp so you can show all those Juilliard snobs how it's really done, she says. I haven't gotten into Juil liard yet, but my audition went really well. The Bach suite and t he Shostakovich had both flown out of me like never before, like my fingers were just an extension of the strings and bow. When I' d finished playing, panting, my legs shaking from pressing togeth er so hard, one judge had clapped a little, which I guess doesn't happen very often. As I'd shuffled out, that same judge had told me that it had been a long time since the school had seen an Ore gon country girl. Professor Christie had taken that to mean a gua ranteed acceptance. I wasn't so sure that was true. And I wasn't 100 percent sure that I wanted it to be true. Just like with Shoo ting Star's meteoric rise, my admission to Juilliard-if it happen s-will create certain complications, or, more accurately, would c ompound the complications that have already cropped up in the las t few months. I need more coffee. Anyone else? Mom asks, hoverin g over me with the ancient percolator. I sniff the coffee, the r ich, black, oily French roast we all prefer. The smell alone perk s me up. I'm pondering going back to bed, I say. My cello's at sc hool, so I can't even practice. Not practice? For twenty-four ho urs? Be still, my broken heart, Mom says. Though she has acquired a taste for classical music over the years-it's like learning to appreciate a stinky cheese-she's been a not-always-delighted cap tive audience for many of my marathon rehearsals. I hear a crash and a boom coming from upstairs. Teddy is pounding on his drum k it. It used to belong to Dad. Back when he'd played drums in a bi g-in-our-town, unknown-anywhere-else band, back when he'd worked at a record store. Dad grins at Teddy's noise, and seeing that, I feel a familiar pang. I know it's silly but I have always wonde red if Dad is disappointed that I didn't become a rock chick. I'd meant to. Then, in third grade, I'd wandered over to the cello i n music class-it looked almost human to me. It looked like if you played it, it would tell you secrets, so I started playing. It's been almost ten years now and I haven't stopped. So much for go ing back to sleep, Mom yells over Teddy's noise. What do you kno w, the snow's already melting. Dad says, puffing on his pipe. I g o to the back door and peek outside. A patch of sunlight has brok en through the clouds, and I can hear the hiss of the ice melting . I close the door and go back to the table. I think the county overreacted, I say. Maybe. But they can't un-cancel school. Hors e is already out of the barn, and I already called in for the day off, Mom says. Indeed. But we might take advantage of this unex pected boon and go somewhere, Dad says. Take a drive. Visit Henry and Willow. Henry and Willow are some of Mom and Dad's old music friends who'd also had a kid and decided to start behaving like grown-ups. They live in a big old farmhouse. Henry does Web stuff from the barn they converted into a home office and Willow works at a nearby hospital. They have a baby girl. That's the real rea son Mom and Dad want to go out there. Teddy having just turned ei ght and me being seventeen means that we are long past giving off that sour-milk smell that makes adults melt. We can stop at Boo kBarn on the way back, Mom says, as if to entice me. BookBarn is a giant, dusty old used-book store. In the back they keep a stash of twenty-five-cent classical records that nobody ever seems to buy except me. I keep a pile of them hidden under my bed. A colle ction of classical records is not the kind of thing you advertise . I've shown them to Adam, but that was only after we'd already been together for five months. I'd expected him to laugh. He's su ch the cool guy with his pegged jeans and black low-tops, his eff ortlessly beat-up punk-rock tees and his subtle tattoos. He is so not the kind of guy to end up with someone like me. Which was wh y when I'd first spotted him watching me at the music studios at school two years ago, I'd been convinced he was making fun of me and I'd hidden from him. Anyhow, he hadn't laughed. It turned out he had a dusty collection of punk-rock records under his bed. W e can also stop by Gran and Gramps for an early dinner, Dad says, already reaching for the phone. We'll have you back in plenty of time to get to Portland, he adds as he dials. I'm in, I say. It isn't the lure of BookBarn, or the fact that Adam is on tour, or that my best friend, Kim, is busy doing yearbook stuff. It isn't even that my cello is at school or that I could stay home and wa tch TV or sleep. I'd actually rather go off with my family. This is another thing you don't advertise about yourself, but Adam get s that, too. Teddy, Dad calls. Get dressed. We're going on an ad venture. Teddy finishes off his drum solo with a crash of cymbal s. A moment later he's bounding into the kitchen fully dressed, a s if he'd pulled on his clothes while careening down the steep wo oden staircase of our drafty Victorian house. School's out for su mmer . . . he sings. Alice Cooper? Dad asks. Have we no standard s? At least sing the Ramones. School's out forever, Teddy sings over Dad's protests. Ever the optimist, I say. Mom laughs. She puts a plate of slightly charred pancakes down on the kitchen tab le. Eat up, family. 8:17 A.M. We pile into the car, a rusting B uick that was already old when Gran gave it to us after Teddy was born. Mom and Dad offer to let me drive, but I say no. Dad slips behind the wheel. He likes to drive now. He'd stubbornly refused to get a license for years, insisting on riding his bike everywh ere. Back when he played music, his ban on driving meant that his bandmates were the ones stuck behind the wheel on tours. They us ed to roll their eyes at him. Mom had done more than that. She'd pestered, cajoled, and sometimes yelled at Dad to get a license, but he'd insisted that he preferred pedal power. Well, then you b etter get to work on building a bike that can hold a family of th ree and keep us dry when it rains, she'd demanded. To which Dad a lways had laughed and said that he'd get on that. But when Mom h ad gotten pregnant with Teddy, she'd put her foot down. Enough, s he said. Dad seemed to understand that something had changed. He' d stopped arguing and had gotten a driver's license. He'd also go ne back to school to get his teaching certificate. I guess it was okay to be in arrested development with one kid. But with two, t ime to grow up. Time to start wearing a bow tie. He has one on t his morning, along with a flecked sport coat and vintage wingtips . Dressed for the snow, I see, I say. I'm like the post office, Dad replies, scraping the snow off the car with one of Teddy's pl astic dinosaurs that are scattered on the lawn. Neither sleet nor rain nor a half inch of snow will compel me to dress like a lumb erjack. Hey, my relatives were lumberjacks, Mom warns. No making fun of the white-trash woodsmen. Wouldn't dream of it, Dad repl ies. Just making stylistic contrasts. Dad has to turn the igniti on over a few times before the car chokes to life. As usual, ther e is a battle for stereo dominance. Mom wants NPR. Dad wants Fran k Sinatra. Teddy wants SpongeBob SquarePants. I want the classica l-music station, but recognizing that I'm the only classical fan in the family, I am willing to compromise with Shooting Star. Da d brokers the deal. Seeing as we're missing school today, we ough t to listen to the news for a while so we don't become ignoramuse s- I believe that's ignoramusi, Mom says. Dad rolls his eyes an d clasps his hand over Mom's and clears his throat in that school teachery way of his. As I was saying, NPR first, and then when th e news is over, the classical station. Teddy, we will not torture you with that. You can use the Discman, Dad says, starting to di sconnect the portable player he's rigged to the car radio. But yo u are not allowed to play Alice Cooper in my car. I forbid it. Da d reaches into the glove box to examine what's inside. How about Jonathan Richman? I want SpongeBob. It's in the machine, Teddy s houts, bouncing up and down and pointing to the Discman. The choc olate-chip pancakes dowsed in syrup have clearly only enhanced hi s hyper excitement. Son, you break my heart, Dad jokes. Both Ted dy and I were raised on the goofy tunes of Jonathan Richman, who is Mom and Dad's musical patron saint. Once the musical selectio ns have been made, we are off. The road has some patches of snow, but mostly it's just wet. But, Speak, 2010, 2.5, Penguin. Good. 1.25 x 5 x 7.75 inches. Paperback. 2005. 352 pages. Cover worn.<br>Jeremy Clarkson shares his opinions on just about everything in The World According to Clarkson. Jeremy Clarkson has seen rather more of the world than most. He has, as they say, been around a bit. And as a result, he's got one or two things to tell us about how it all works; and being Jeremy Clark son he's not about to voice them quietly, humbly, and without gre at dollops of humor. In The World According to Clarkson, he revea ls why it is that too much science is bad for our health, 1970s r ock music is nothing to be ashamed of, hunting foxes while drunk and wearing night-sights is neither big nor clever, we must work harder to get rid of cricket, and that he likes the Germans (well , sometimes). With a strong dose of common sense that is rarely, if ever, found inside the M25, Clarkson hilariously attacks the p ompous, the ridiculous, the absurd, and the downright idiotic, wh ile also celebrating the eccentric, the clever, and the sheer blo ody brilliant. Less a manifesto for living and more a road map to modern life, The World According to Clarkson is the funniest boo k you'll read this year. Don't leave home without it. The World A ccording to Clarkson is a hilarious collection of Jeremy's Sunday Times columns and the first in his The World According to Clarks on series which also includes And Another Thing; For Crying Out L oud! and How Hard Can It Be? Editorial Reviews About the Author Jeremy Clarkson made his name presenting a poky motoring program on BBC2 called Top Gear. He left to forge a career in other dire ctions before ending up back on Top Gear again. Excerpt. ® Repri nted by permission. All rights reserved. Another Day's Holiday? P lease, Give Me a Break According to a poll, the vast majority of people questionedas they struggled back to work last week thought that England should have followed Scotland's lead andmade Tuesday a bank holiday.Two things strike me as odd here. First, that any onecould be bothered to undertake such research and,second, that anyone in their right mind could think thatthe Christmas break wa s in some way too short.I took ten days off and by 11 o'clock on the first morningI had drunk fourteen cups of coffee, read all th enewspapers and theGuardian and then . . . and then what?By lunch time I was so bored that I decided to hang afew pictures. So I fo und a hammer, and later a man cameto replaster the bits of wall I had demolished. Then Itried to fix the electric gates, which wor k only whenthere's an omega in the month. So I went down thedrive with a spanner, and later another man came to putthem back toget her again.I was just about to start on the Aga, which had brokend own on Christmas Eve, as they do, when my wife tookme on one side by my earlobe and explained that buildersdo not, on the whole, s pend their spare time writing, sowriters should not build on thei r days off. It's expensiveand it can be dangerous, she said. She' s right. We have these lights in the dining roomwhich are suppose d to project stars onto the table below.It has never really bothe red me that the light seeps outof the sides so the stars are invi sible; but when you arebored, this is exactly the sort of thing t hat gets on yournerves.So I bought some gaffer tape and suddenly my life hada purpose. There was something to do.Mercifully, Chris tmas intervened before I could doany more damage, but then it wen t away again and oncemore I found myself staring at the day throu gh the wrongend of a pair of binoculars. Each morning, bed and th eblessed relief of unconsciousness seemed so far away.I wore a gr oove in the kitchen floor with endless tripsto the fridge, hoping against hope that I had somehowmissed a plateful of cold sausage s on the previous 4,000excursions. Then, for no obvious reason, I decided tobuy a footstool.I took the entire family to the sort o f gifty-wifty shopwhere the smell of pot-pourri is so pungent tha t it makesyou go cross-eyed. Even though the children were lyingo n the floor gagging, I still spent hours deliberatelychoosing a f ootstool that was too small and the wrongcolour so that I could w aste some more time taking itback.The next day, still gently redo lent of Delia Smith'sknicker drawer, I decided to buy the wrong s ort ofantique filing cabinet. But after the footstool debacle myw ife said no. So it seemed appropriate that I shoulddevelop some k ind of illness. This is a good idea whenyou are at a loose end be cause everything, up to andincluding herpes, is better than being bored. ., Penguin, 2005, 2.5<

2005, ISBN: 9780141017891

Pasta blanda

Pocket Star. Good. 4.19 x 0.9 x 6.75 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2001. 432 pages. <br>Booked to Die, the first book in John Dunning's be stselling, award-winning Cliff Janewa… Más…

Pocket Star. Good. 4.19 x 0.9 x 6.75 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2001. 432 pages. <br>Booked to Die, the first book in John Dunning's be stselling, award-winning Cliff Janeway series, is a joy to read f or its wealth of inside knowledge about the antiquarian book busi ness and its eccentric traders (The New York Times Book Review). Denver homicide detective Cliff Janeway may not always play by t he book, but he's an avid collector of rare and first editions. B obby Westfall is a local bookscout, a gentle and quiet man who ha s sold enough valuable books to keep himself and his cats fed and housed. When Bobby is murdered, Janeway would like nothing bette r than to rearrange the suspect's spine. But the suspect, local l owlife Jackie Newton, is a master at eluding the law, and Janeway 's wrathful brand of off-duty justice costs him his badge. Turni ng to his lifelong passion, Janeway opens a small bookshop-all th e while searching for evidence to put Newton away. When prized vo lumes in a highly sought-after collection begin to appear, so do dead bodies. Now Janeway's life is about to change in profound an d shocking ways as he attempts to find out who's dealing death al ong with vintage Chandlers and Twains. One of the most enjoyable books I've read (The Denver Post), Booked to Die is the first in the Cliff Janeway series. It is a standout piece of crime fictio n...Compelling page-turning stuff (The Philadelphia Inquirer). E ditorial Reviews Review New York Times Book Review A joy to read ...[A] whodunit in the classic mode. The Denver Post A knockout. ...One of the most enjoyable books I've read in a long time. The Philadephia Inquirer A standout piece of crime fiction...Compell ing page-turning stuff. The Plain Dealer (Cleveland) Irresistibl e....An outstanding novel. Boston Sunday Globe I am...an unabash ed admirer of John Dunning's Booked to Die. No one...can fail to be delighted by the sort of folkloric advice Janeway carries with him. San Francisco Chronicle Fascinating...Assured and muscular prose...Very cannily and creepily, Dunning shows how quiet men w ith civilized tastes can turn into killers...The payoff, in pleas ure, is for the reader. United Press International Very credible ...An involved tale that satisfies the mystery reader's wants. M ystery Scene Memorable...Compellng...Vivdly realistic...Fascinati ng and utterly convincing...A suspenseful, well-crafted mystery t hat should keep readers guessing right up to the closing paragrap h. This novel, friends, is a keeper. St. Petersburg Times (FL) A perfect mystery. It's intelligently written; the action is baffl ingly logical; the reader learns something, and it's got a sucker punch of a finale. Publishers Weekly (starred review) Crisp, di rect prose and nearly pitch-perfect dialogue enhance this meticul ously detailed page-turner. From the Back Cover Denver homicide detective Cliff Janeway may not always play by the book, but he's an avid collector of rare and first editions. After a local book scout is killed on his turf, Janeway would like nothing better th an to rearrange the suspect's spine. But the suspect, sleazeball Jackie Newton, is a master at eluding murder convictions. Unfortu nately for Janeway, his swift form of off-duty justice costs him his badge. Turning to his lifelong passion, Janeway opens a smal l bookshop -- all the while searching for evidence to put Newton away. But when prized volumes in a highly sought-after collection begin to appear, so do dead bodies. Now Janeway's life is about to change in profound and shocking ways as he attempts to find ou t who's dealing death along with vintage Chandlers and Twains. About the Author John Dunning has revealed some of book collectin g's most shocking secrets in his bestselling series of crime nove ls featuring Cliff Janeway: Booked to Die, which won the prestigi ous Nero Wolfe award; The Bookman's Wake, a New York Times Notabl e Book; and the New York Times bestsellers The Bookman's Promise, The Sign of the Book, and The Bookwoman's Last Fling. He is also the author of the Edgar Award-nominated Deadline, The Holland Su ggestions, and Two O'Clock, Eastern Wartime. An expert on rare an d collectible books, he owned the Old Algonquin Bookstore in Denv er for many years. He lives in Denver, Colorado. Visit OldAlgonqu in.com. About the Author John Dunning has revealed some of book collecting's most shocking secrets in his bestselling series of c rime novels featuring Cliff Janeway: Booked to Die, which won the prestigious Nero Wolfe award; The Bookman's Wake, a New York Tim es Notable Book; and the New York Times bestsellers The Bookman's Promise, The Sign of the Book, and The Bookwoman's Last Fling. H e is also the author of the Edgar Award-nominated Deadline, The H olland Suggestions, and Two O'Clock, Eastern Wartime. An expert o n rare and collectible books, he owned the Old Algonquin Bookstor e in Denver for many years. He lives in Denver, Colorado. Visit O ldAlgonquin.com. Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One The phone rang. It was 2:30 A.M. Normally I am a light sleeper, but that night I was down among the dead. I had just finished a thirteen-hour shift, my fourth day running of heavy overtime, and I hadn't been sleeping well until tonight. A guy named Jackie Newton was haunting my dreams. He was my enem y and I thought that someday I would probably have to kill him. W hen the bell went off, I was dreaming about Jackie Newton and our final showdown. For some reason -- logic is never the strong poi nt of a dream like that -- Jackie and I were in the hallway at Ea st High School. The bell brought the kids out for the change of c lasses; Jackie started shooting and the kids began to drop, and t hat bell kept ringing as if it couldn't stop. In the bed beside me, Carol stirred. Oh, Cliff, she groaned. Would somebody please get that goddamn telephone? I groped for the night table, felt the phone, and knocked the damn thing to the floor. From some dis tant galaxy I could hear the midget voice of Neal Hennessey, sayi ng, Cliff?...Cliff?...Hey, Clifford! I reached along the black fl oor and found the phone, but it was still many seconds later befo re Hennessey took on his bearlike image in my mind. Looks like w e got another one, Hennessey said without preamble. I struggled to sit up, trying to get used to the idea that Jackie Newton hadn 't shot me after all. Hey, Cliffie...you alive yet? Yeah, Neal, sure. First time I been sound asleep in a week. He didn't apolo gize; he just waited. Where you at? I said. Alley off Fifteenth , just up from the Denver Post. This one looks an awful lot like the others. Give me about half an hour. We'll be here. I sat f or another minute, then I got up and went into the bathroom. I tu rned on the light and looked in the mirror and got the first terr ifying look at myself in the cold hard light of the new day. You' re getting old, Janeway, I thought. Old Andrew Wyeth could make a masterpiece out of a face like that. Call it Clifford Liberty Ja neway at thirty-six, with no blemish eliminated and no character line unexplored. I splashed cold water on my face: it had a grea t deal less character after that. To finally answer Hennessey, ye s, I was almost alive again. The vision of Jackie Newton rose up before me and my hand went automatically to the white splash of s car tissue just under my right shoulder. A bank robber had shot m e there five years ago. I knew Jackie Newton would give a lot to put in another one, about three inches to the left and an inch or so down. Man with an old bullet wound, by Wyeth: an atypical wo rk, definitely not your garden-variety Helga picture. When I cam e out of the bathroom Carol was up. She had boiled water and had a cup of instant coffee steaming on my nightstand. What now? she said. As I struggled into my clothes, I told her it looked like another derelict murder. She sighed loudly and sat on the bed. She was lovely even in a semistupor. She had long auburn hair and could probably double for Helga in a pinch. No one but Wyeth wou ld know. Would you like me to come with you? I gave a little la ugh, blowing the steam from my coffee. Call it moral support, sh e said. Just for the ride down and back. Nobody needs to see me. I could stay in the car. Somebody would see you, all right, and then the tongues would start. It'd be all over the department by tomorrow. You know something? I don't even care. I care. What w e do in our own time is nobody's business. I went to the closet and opened it. Our clothes hung there side by side -- the blue un iform Carol had worn on yesterday's shift; my dark sport coat; ou r guns, which had become as much a part of the wardrobe as pants, shirts, ties, badges. I never went anywhere without mine, not ev en to the corner store. I had had a long career for a guy thirty- six: I'd made my share of enemies, and Jackie Newton was only the latest. I put the gun on under my coat. I didn't wear a tie, wa sn't about to at that time of night. I was off duty and I'd just been roused from a sound sleep; I wasn't running for city council , and I hated neckties. I know you've been saying that for a lon g time now, that stuff about privacy, Carol said dreamily. But I think the real reason is, if people know about me, I make you vul nerable. I didn't want to get into it. It was just too early for a philosophical discourse. There was something in what Carol sai d, but something in what I said too. I've never liked office goss ip, and I didn't want people talking about her and me. But Carol had been looking at it from another angle lately. We had been se eing each other, in the polite vernacular, for a year now, and sh e was starting to want something more permanent. Maybe bringing o ur arrangement into the public eye would show me how little there was to worry about. People did it all the time. For most of them the world didn't come to an end. Occasionally something good cam e out of it. So she thought. I'm going back to bed, she said. W ake me when you come in. Maybe I'll have a nice surprise for you. She lay back and closed her eyes. Her hair made a spectacular s unburst on the pillow. I sat for a while longer, sipping my coffe e. There wasn't any hurry: a crime lab can take three hours at th e scene. I'd leave in five minutes and still be well within the h alf hour I'd promised Hennessey. The trouble is, when I have dead time -- even five minutes unfilled in the middle of the night -- I begin to think. I think about Carol and me and all the days to come. I think about the job and all the burned-out gone-forever days behind us. I think about quitting and I wonder what I'd do. I think about being tied to someone and anchoring those ties with children. Carol would not be a bad one to do that with. She's p retty and bright, and maybe this is what love is. She's good comp any: her interests broaden almost every day. She reads three book s to my one, and I read a lot. We talk far into the night. She st ill doesn't understand the first edition game: Hemingway, she say s, reads just as well in a two-bit paperback as he does in a $500 first printing. I can still hear myself lecturing her the first time she said that. Only a fool would read a first edition. Simpl y having such a book makes life in general and Hemingway in parti cular go better when you do break out the reading copies. I liste ned to myself and thought, This woman must think I'm a government -inspected horse's ass. Then I showed her my Faulkners, one with a signature, and I saw her shiver with an almost sexual pleasure as she touched the paper where he'd signed it. Faulkner was her m ost recent god, and I had managed to put together a small but res pectable collection of his first editions. You've got to read thi s stuff, she said to me when she was a month deep in his work. Ho w can you collect the man without ever reading what he's written? In fact, I had read him, years ago: I never could get the viewpo ints straight in The Sound and the Fury, but I had sense enough a t sixteen to know that the problem wasn't with Faulkner but with me. I was trying to work up the courage to tackle him again: if I began to collect him, I reasoned, I'd have to read him sooner or later. Carol shook her head. Look at it this way, I said, the Fa ulkners have appreciated about twenty percent in the three years I've owned them. That she understood. My apartment looked like a n adjunct of the Denver Public Library. There were wall-to-wall b ooks in every room. Carol had never asked the Big Dumb Question t hat people always ask when they come into a place like this: Jeez , d'ya read all these? She browsed, fascinated. The books have a loose logic to their shelving: mysteries in the bedroom; novels o ut here; art books, notably by the Wyeths, on the far wall. There 's no discrimination -- they are all first editions -- and when p eople try to go highbrow on me, I love reminding them that my as- new copy of Raymond Chandler's Lady in the Lake is worth a cool $ 1,000 today, more than a bale of books by most of the critically acclaimed and already forgotten so-called masters of the art-and- beauty school. There's nothing wrong with writing detective stori es if you do it well enough. I've been collecting books for a lo ng time. Once I killed two men in the same day, and this room had an almost immediate healing effect. I've missed my calling, I t hought. But now was probably years too late to be thinking about it. Time to go. Cliff? Her eyes were still closed, but she was not quite asleep. I'm leaving now, I said. You going out to se e Jackie Newton? If this is what it looks like, you better belie ve it. Have Neal watch your flank. And both of you be careful. I went over and kissed her on the temple. Two minutes later I was in my car, gliding through the cool Denver night. Copyright ? 1 992 by John Dunning ., Pocket Star, 2001, 2.5, Penguin. Good. 1.25 x 5 x 7.75 inches. Paperback. 2005. 352 pages. Cover worn.<br>Jeremy Clarkson shares his opinions on just about everything in The World According to Clarkson. Jeremy Clarkson has seen rather more of the world than most. He has, as they say, been around a bit. And as a result, he's got one or two things to tell us about how it all works; and being Jeremy Clark son he's not about to voice them quietly, humbly, and without gre at dollops of humor. In The World According to Clarkson, he revea ls why it is that too much science is bad for our health, 1970s r ock music is nothing to be ashamed of, hunting foxes while drunk and wearing night-sights is neither big nor clever, we must work harder to get rid of cricket, and that he likes the Germans (well , sometimes). With a strong dose of common sense that is rarely, if ever, found inside the M25, Clarkson hilariously attacks the p ompous, the ridiculous, the absurd, and the downright idiotic, wh ile also celebrating the eccentric, the clever, and the sheer blo ody brilliant. Less a manifesto for living and more a road map to modern life, The World According to Clarkson is the funniest boo k you'll read this year. Don't leave home without it. The World A ccording to Clarkson is a hilarious collection of Jeremy's Sunday Times columns and the first in his The World According to Clarks on series which also includes And Another Thing; For Crying Out L oud! and How Hard Can It Be? Editorial Reviews About the Author Jeremy Clarkson made his name presenting a poky motoring program on BBC2 called Top Gear. He left to forge a career in other dire ctions before ending up back on Top Gear again. Excerpt. ® Repri nted by permission. All rights reserved. Another Day's Holiday? P lease, Give Me a Break According to a poll, the vast majority of people questionedas they struggled back to work last week thought that England should have followed Scotland's lead andmade Tuesday a bank holiday.Two things strike me as odd here. First, that any onecould be bothered to undertake such research and,second, that anyone in their right mind could think thatthe Christmas break wa s in some way too short.I took ten days off and by 11 o'clock on the first morningI had drunk fourteen cups of coffee, read all th enewspapers and theGuardian and then . . . and then what?By lunch time I was so bored that I decided to hang afew pictures. So I fo und a hammer, and later a man cameto replaster the bits of wall I had demolished. Then Itried to fix the electric gates, which wor k only whenthere's an omega in the month. So I went down thedrive with a spanner, and later another man came to putthem back toget her again.I was just about to start on the Aga, which had brokend own on Christmas Eve, as they do, when my wife tookme on one side by my earlobe and explained that buildersdo not, on the whole, s pend their spare time writing, sowriters should not build on thei r days off. It's expensiveand it can be dangerous, she said. She' s right. We have these lights in the dining roomwhich are suppose d to project stars onto the table below.It has never really bothe red me that the light seeps outof the sides so the stars are invi sible; but when you arebored, this is exactly the sort of thing t hat gets on yournerves.So I bought some gaffer tape and suddenly my life hada purpose. There was something to do.Mercifully, Chris tmas intervened before I could doany more damage, but then it wen t away again and oncemore I found myself staring at the day throu gh the wrongend of a pair of binoculars. Each morning, bed and th eblessed relief of unconsciousness seemed so far away.I wore a gr oove in the kitchen floor with endless tripsto the fridge, hoping against hope that I had somehowmissed a plateful of cold sausage s on the previous 4,000excursions. Then, for no obvious reason, I decided tobuy a footstool.I took the entire family to the sort o f gifty-wifty shopwhere the smell of pot-pourri is so pungent tha t it makesyou go cross-eyed. Even though the children were lyingo n the floor gagging, I still spent hours deliberatelychoosing a f ootstool that was too small and the wrongcolour so that I could w aste some more time taking itback.The next day, still gently redo lent of Delia Smith'sknicker drawer, I decided to buy the wrong s ort ofantique filing cabinet. But after the footstool debacle myw ife said no. So it seemed appropriate that I shoulddevelop some k ind of illness. This is a good idea whenyou are at a loose end be cause everything, up to andincluding herpes, is better than being bored. ., Penguin, 2005, 2.5<

2005, ISBN: 9780141017891

Penguin. Good. 1.25 x 5 x 7.75 inches. Paperback. 2005. 352 pages. Cover worn.<br>Jeremy Clarkson shares his opinions on just about everything in The World According to Clarkson. J… Más…

Penguin. Good. 1.25 x 5 x 7.75 inches. Paperback. 2005. 352 pages. Cover worn.<br>Jeremy Clarkson shares his opinions on just about everything in The World According to Clarkson. Jeremy Clarkson has seen rather more of the world than most. He has, as they say, been around a bit. And as a result, he's got one or two things to tell us about how it all works; and being Jeremy Clark son he's not about to voice them quietly, humbly, and without gre at dollops of humor. In The World According to Clarkson, he revea ls why it is that too much science is bad for our health, 1970s r ock music is nothing to be ashamed of, hunting foxes while drunk and wearing night-sights is neither big nor clever, we must work harder to get rid of cricket, and that he likes the Germans (well , sometimes). With a strong dose of common sense that is rarely, if ever, found inside the M25, Clarkson hilariously attacks the p ompous, the ridiculous, the absurd, and the downright idiotic, wh ile also celebrating the eccentric, the clever, and the sheer blo ody brilliant. Less a manifesto for living and more a road map to modern life, The World According to Clarkson is the funniest boo k you'll read this year. Don't leave home without it. The World A ccording to Clarkson is a hilarious collection of Jeremy's Sunday Times columns and the first in his The World According to Clarks on series which also includes And Another Thing; For Crying Out L oud! and How Hard Can It Be? Editorial Reviews About the Author Jeremy Clarkson made his name presenting a poky motoring program on BBC2 called Top Gear. He left to forge a career in other dire ctions before ending up back on Top Gear again. Excerpt. ® Repri nted by permission. All rights reserved. Another Day's Holiday? P lease, Give Me a Break According to a poll, the vast majority of people questionedas they struggled back to work last week thought that England should have followed Scotland's lead andmade Tuesday a bank holiday.Two things strike me as odd here. First, that any onecould be bothered to undertake such research and,second, that anyone in their right mind could think thatthe Christmas break wa s in some way too short.I took ten days off and by 11 o'clock on the first morningI had drunk fourteen cups of coffee, read all th enewspapers and theGuardian and then . . . and then what?By lunch time I was so bored that I decided to hang afew pictures. So I fo und a hammer, and later a man cameto replaster the bits of wall I had demolished. Then Itried to fix the electric gates, which wor k only whenthere's an omega in the month. So I went down thedrive with a spanner, and later another man came to putthem back toget her again.I was just about to start on the Aga, which had brokend own on Christmas Eve, as they do, when my wife tookme on one side by my earlobe and explained that buildersdo not, on the whole, s pend their spare time writing, sowriters should not build on thei r days off. It's expensiveand it can be dangerous, she said. She' s right. We have these lights in the dining roomwhich are suppose d to project stars onto the table below.It has never really bothe red me that the light seeps outof the sides so the stars are invi sible; but when you arebored, this is exactly the sort of thing t hat gets on yournerves.So I bought some gaffer tape and suddenly my life hada purpose. There was something to do.Mercifully, Chris tmas intervened before I could doany more damage, but then it wen t away again and oncemore I found myself staring at the day throu gh the wrongend of a pair of binoculars. Each morning, bed and th eblessed relief of unconsciousness seemed so far away.I wore a gr oove in the kitchen floor with endless tripsto the fridge, hoping against hope that I had somehowmissed a plateful of cold sausage s on the previous 4,000excursions. Then, for no obvious reason, I decided tobuy a footstool.I took the entire family to the sort o f gifty-wifty shopwhere the smell of pot-pourri is so pungent tha t it makesyou go cross-eyed. Even though the children were lyingo n the floor gagging, I still spent hours deliberatelychoosing a f ootstool that was too small and the wrongcolour so that I could w aste some more time taking itback.The next day, still gently redo lent of Delia Smith'sknicker drawer, I decided to buy the wrong s ort ofantique filing cabinet. But after the footstool debacle myw ife said no. So it seemed appropriate that I shoulddevelop some k ind of illness. This is a good idea whenyou are at a loose end be cause everything, up to andincluding herpes, is better than being bored. ., Penguin, 2005, 2.5<

2005, ISBN: 0141017899

[EAN: 9780141017891], D'occasion, bon état, [SC: 23.15], [PU: Penguin], AUTOBIOGRAPHY: ARTS & ENTERTAINMENT,DIARIES,LETTERS JOURNALS,MEMOIRS,REPORTAGE COLLECTED JOURNALISM,POPULAR CULTURE… Más…

[EAN: 9780141017891], D'occasion, bon état, [SC: 23.15], [PU: Penguin], AUTOBIOGRAPHY: ARTS & ENTERTAINMENT,DIARIES,LETTERS JOURNALS,MEMOIRS,REPORTAGE COLLECTED JOURNALISM,POPULAR CULTURE,POLITICS GOVERNMENT,MOTOR CARS,FUNNY BOOKS STORIES,HUMOUR COLLECTIONS ANTHOLOGIES,TRAVEL WRITING, 352 pages. Cover worn.Jeremy Clarkson shares his opinions on just about everything in The World According to Clarkson. Jeremy Clarkson has seen rather more of the world than most. He has, as they say, been around a bit. And as a result, he's got one or two things to tell us about how it all works; and being Jeremy Clark son he's not about to voice them quietly, humbly, and without gre at dollops of humor. In The World According to Clarkson, he revea ls why it is that too much science is bad for our health, 1970s r ock music is nothing to be ashamed of, hunting foxes while drunk and wearing night-sights is neither big nor clever, we must work harder to get rid of cricket, and that he likes the Germans (well , sometimes). With a strong dose of common sense that is rarely, if ever, found inside the M25, Clarkson hilariously attacks the p ompous, the ridiculous, the absurd, and the downright idiotic, wh ile also celebrating the eccentric, the clever, and the sheer blo ody brilliant. Less a manifesto for living and more a road map to modern life, The World According to Clarkson is the funniest boo k you'll read this year. Don't leave home without it. The World A ccording to Clarkson is a hilarious collection of Jeremy's Sunday Times columns and the first in his The World According to Clarks on series which also includes And Another Thing; For Crying Out L oud! and How Hard Can It Be? Editorial Reviews About the Author Jeremy Clarkson made his name presenting a poky motoring program on BBC2 called Top Gear. He left to forge a career in other dire ctions before ending up back on Top Gear again. Excerpt. ® Repri nted by permission. All rights reserved. Another Day's Holiday? P lease, Give Me a Break According to a poll, the vast majority of people questionedas they struggled back to work last week thought that England should have followed Scotland's lead andmade Tuesday a bank holiday.Two things strike me as odd here. First, that any onecould be bothered to undertake such research and,second, that anyone in their right mind could think thatthe Christmas break wa s in some way too short.I took ten days off and by 11 o'clock on the first morningI had drunk fourteen cups of coffee, read all th enewspapers and theGuardian and then . . . and then what?By lunch time I was so bored that I decided to hang afew pictures. So I fo und a hammer, and later a man cameto replaster the bits of wall I had demolished. Then Itried to fix the electric gates, which wor k only whenthere's an omega in the month. So I went down thedrive with a spanner, and later another man came to putthem back toget her again.I was just about to start on the Aga, which had brokend own on Christmas Eve, as they do, when my wife tookme on one side by my earlobe and explained that buildersdo not, on the whole, s pend their spare time writing, sowriters should not build on thei r days off. It's expensiveand it can be dangerous, she said. She' s right. We have these lights in the dining roomwhich are suppose d to project stars onto the table below.It has never really bothe red me that the light seeps outof the sides so the stars are invi sible; but when you arebored, this is exactly the sort of thing t hat gets on yournerves.So I bought some gaffer tape and suddenly my life hada purpose. There was something to do.Mercifully, Chris tmas intervened before I could doany more damage, but then it wen t away again and oncemore I found myself staring at the day throu gh the wrongend of a pair of binoculars. Each morning, bed and th eblessed relief of unconsciousness seemed so far away.I wore a gr oove in the kitchen floor with endless tripsto the fridge, hoping against hope that I had somehowmissed a plateful of cold sausage s on the previous 4,000excursions. Then, for no obvious reason, I decided tobuy a footstool.I took the entire family to the sort o f gifty-wifty shopwhere the smell of pot-pourri is so pungent tha t it makesyou go cross-eyed. Even though the child, Books<

2005, ISBN: 0141017899

[EAN: 9780141017891], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: Penguin], AUTOBIOGRAPHY: ARTS & ENTERTAINMENT,DIARIES,LETTERS JOURNALS,MEMOIRS,REPORTAGE COLLECTED JOURNALISM,POPULAR CULTURE,POLITICS… Más…

[EAN: 9780141017891], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: Penguin], AUTOBIOGRAPHY: ARTS & ENTERTAINMENT,DIARIES,LETTERS JOURNALS,MEMOIRS,REPORTAGE COLLECTED JOURNALISM,POPULAR CULTURE,POLITICS GOVERNMENT,MOTOR CARS,FUNNY BOOKS STORIES,HUMOUR COLLECTIONS ANTHOLOGIES,TRAVEL WRITING, 352 pages. Cover worn.Jeremy Clarkson shares his opinions on just about everything in The World According to Clarkson. Jeremy Clarkson has seen rather more of the world than most. He has, as they say, been around a bit. And as a result, he's got one or two things to tell us about how it all works; and being Jeremy Clark son he's not about to voice them quietly, humbly, and without gre at dollops of humor. In The World According to Clarkson, he revea ls why it is that too much science is bad for our health, 1970s r ock music is nothing to be ashamed of, hunting foxes while drunk and wearing night-sights is neither big nor clever, we must work harder to get rid of cricket, and that he likes the Germans (well , sometimes). With a strong dose of common sense that is rarely, if ever, found inside the M25, Clarkson hilariously attacks the p ompous, the ridiculous, the absurd, and the downright idiotic, wh ile also celebrating the eccentric, the clever, and the sheer blo ody brilliant. Less a manifesto for living and more a road map to modern life, The World According to Clarkson is the funniest boo k you'll read this year. Don't leave home without it. The World A ccording to Clarkson is a hilarious collection of Jeremy's Sunday Times columns and the first in his The World According to Clarks on series which also includes And Another Thing; For Crying Out L oud! and How Hard Can It Be? Editorial Reviews About the Author Jeremy Clarkson made his name presenting a poky motoring program on BBC2 called Top Gear. He left to forge a career in other dire ctions before ending up back on Top Gear again. Excerpt. ® Repri nted by permission. All rights reserved. Another Day's Holiday? P lease, Give Me a Break According to a poll, the vast majority of people questionedas they struggled back to work last week thought that England should have followed Scotland's lead andmade Tuesday a bank holiday.Two things strike me as odd here. First, that any onecould be bothered to undertake such research and,second, that anyone in their right mind could think thatthe Christmas break wa s in some way too short.I took ten days off and by 11 o'clock on the first morningI had drunk fourteen cups of coffee, read all th enewspapers and theGuardian and then . . . and then what?By lunch time I was so bored that I decided to hang afew pictures. So I fo und a hammer, and later a man cameto replaster the bits of wall I had demolished. Then Itried to fix the electric gates, which wor k only whenthere's an omega in the month. So I went down thedrive with a spanner, and later another man came to putthem back toget her again.I was just about to start on the Aga, which had brokend own on Christmas Eve, as they do, when my wife tookme on one side by my earlobe and explained that buildersdo not, on the whole, s pend their spare time writing, sowriters should not build on thei r days off. It's expensiveand it can be dangerous, she said. She' s right. We have these lights in the dining roomwhich are suppose d to project stars onto the table below.It has never really bothe red me that the light seeps outof the sides so the stars are invi sible; but when you arebored, this is exactly the sort of thing t hat gets on yournerves.So I bought some gaffer tape and suddenly my life hada purpose. There was something to do.Mercifully, Chris tmas intervened before I could doany more damage, but then it wen t away again and oncemore I found myself staring at the day throu gh the wrongend of a pair of binoculars. Each morning, bed and th eblessed relief of unconsciousness seemed so far away.I wore a gr oove in the kitchen floor with endless tripsto the fridge, hoping against hope that I had somehowmissed a plateful of cold sausage s on the previous 4,000excursions. Then, for no obvious reason, I decided tobuy a footstool.I took the entire family to the sort o f gifty-wifty shopwhere the smell of pot-pourri is so pungent tha t it makesyou go cross-eyed. Even though the child, Books<