2015, ISBN: 9780312034030

Pasta dura

Berkley. Very Good. 5.07 x 1.18 x 8.26 inches. Paperback. 2011. 544 pages. <br>The #1 New York Times bestselling novel and basis for the Academy Award-winning film--a timeless and … Más…

Berkley. Very Good. 5.07 x 1.18 x 8.26 inches. Paperback. 2011. 544 pages. <br>The #1 New York Times bestselling novel and basis for the Academy Award-winning film--a timeless and universal stor y about the lines we abide by, and the ones we don't--nominated a s one of America's best-loved novels by PBS's The Great American Read. Aibileen is a black maid in 1962 Jackson, Mississippi, who 's always taken orders quietly, but lately she's unable to hold h er bitterness back. Her friend Minny has never held her tongue bu t now must somehow keep secrets about her employer that leave her speechless. White socialite Skeeter just graduated college. She' s full of ambition, but without a husband, she's considered a fai lure. Together, these seemingly different women join together to write a tell-all book about work as a black maid in the South, t hat could forever alter their destinies and the life of a small t own... Editorial Reviews Review Praise for The Help The two pr incipal maid characters...leap off the page in all their warm, th ree dimensional glory...[A] winning novel.--The New York Times T his could be one of the most important pieces of fiction since To Kill a Mockingbird...If you read only one book...let this be it. --NPR.org Wise, poignant...You'll catch yourself cheering out lo ud.--People Graceful and real, a compulsively readable story.--E ntertainment Weekly A beautiful portrait of a fragmenting world. --The Atlanta Journal-Constitution The must-read choice of every book club in the country.--The Huffington Post At turns hilario us and heart-warming.--Associated Press In a page-turner that br ings new resonance to the moral issues involved, Stockett spins a story of a social awakening as seen from both sides of the Ameri can racial divide.--The Washington Post About the Author Kathryn Stockett was born and raised in Jackson, Mississippi. After grad uating from the University of Alabama with a degree in English an d creative writing, she moved to New York City, where she worked in magazine publishing and marketing for sixteen years. She curre ntly lives in Atlanta with her husband and daughter. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Two days later, I s it in my parent's kitchen, waiting for dusk to fall. Igive in and light another cigarette even though last night the surgeongenera l came on the television set and shook his finger at everybody,tr ying to convince us that smoking will kill us. But Mother once to ldme tongue kissing would turn me blind and I'm starting to think it'sall just a big plot between the surgeon general and Mother t o make sureno one ever has any fun. At eight o'clock that same n ight, I'mstumbling down Aibileen's street as discreetly as one ca n carrying afifty-pound Corona typewriter. I knock softly, alread y dying foranother cigarette to calm my nerves. Aibileen answers and I slipinside. She's wearing the same green dress and stiff bl ack shoes aslast time. I try to smile, like I'm confident it wil l workthis time, despite the idea she explained over the phone. C ould we...;sit in the kitchen this time? I ask. Would you mind? Alright. Ain't nothing to look at, but come on back. The kitchen is about half the size of the living room and warmer. It smellsl ike tea and lemons. The black-and-white linoleum floor has beensc rubbed thin. There's just enough counter for the china tea set. I setthe typewriter on a scratched red table under the window. Aib ileenstarts to pour the hot water into the teapot. Oh, nonefor m e, thanks, I say and reach in my bag. I brought us some Co-Colasi f you want one. I've tried to come up with ways to make Aibileen morecomfortable. Number One: Don't make Aibileen feel like she ha s to serveme. Well, ain't that nice. I usually don't take my tea tilllater anyway. She brings over an opener and two glasses. I d rink minestraight from the bottle and seeing this, she pushes the glasses aside,does the same. I called Aibileen after Elizabeth gave me thenote, and listened hopefully as Aibileen told me her i dea-for her towrite her own words down and then show me what she' s written. I triedto act excited. But I know I'll have to rewrite everything she'swritten, wasting even more time. I thought it mi ght make it easier ifshe could see it in type-face instead of me reading it and telling herit can't work this way. We smile at ea ch other. I take a sip of my Coke, smooth my blouse. So...; I say . Aibileen has a wire-ringed notebook in front of her. Want me t o...;just go head and read? Sure, I say. We both take deep brea ths and she begins reading in a slow, steady voice. Myfirst whit e baby to ever look after was named Alton Carrington Speers.It wa s 1924 and I'd just turned fifteen years old. Alton was a long,sk inny baby with hair fine as silk on a corn...; I begin typing as she reads, her words rhythmic, pronounced more clearly thanher u sual talk. Every window in that filthy house was painted shut ont he inside, even though the house was big with a wide green lawn. Iknew the air was bad, felt sick myself...; Hang on, I say. I've typed wide greem. I blow on the typing fluid, retype it. Okay, g o ahead. When the mama died, six months later, she reads, of the lung disease, theykept me on to raise Alton until they moved awa y to Memphis. I lovedthat baby and he loved me and that's when I knew I was good at makingchildren feel proud of themselves...; I hadn't wanted toinsult Aibileen when she told me her idea. I tri ed to urge her out ofit, over the phone. Writing isn't that easy. And you wouldn't havetime for this anyway, Aibileen, not with a full-time job. Can't be much different than writing my prayers e very night. It was the first interesting thing she'd told me abo ut herself since we'dstarted the project, so I'd grabbed the shop ping pad in the pantry.You don't say your prayers, then? I never told nobody that before. Not even Minny. Find I can get my point across a lot better writing em down. Sothis is what you do on t he weekends? I asked. In your spare time? Iliked the idea of capt uring her life outside of work, when she wasn'tunder the eye of E lizabeth Leefolt. Oh no, I write a hour, sometimes two ever day. Lot a ailing, sick peoples in this town. I was impressed. That was more than I wrote on some days. I told her we'd try it just t o get the project going again. Aibileen takes a breath, a swallo w of Coke, and reads on. Shebacktracks to her first job at thirt een, cleaning the Francis the Firstsilver service at the governor 's mansion. She reads how on her firstmorning, she made a mistake on the chart where you filled in the numberof pieces so they'd k now you hadn't stolen anything. I comehome that morning, after I been fired, and stood outside my house withmy new work shoes on. The shoes my mama paid a month's worth a lightbill for. I guess that's when I understood what shame was and the colorof it too. S hame ain't black, like dirt, like I always thought it was.Shame b e the color of a new white uniform your mother ironed all nightto pay for, white without a smudge or a speck a work-dirt on it. A ibileenlooks up to see what I think. I stop typing. I'd expected the storiesto be sweet, glossy. I realize I might be getting more than I'dbargained for. She reads on. ...;so I go on and get the chiffarobe straightened out and before I know it, that little whi te boydone cut his fingers clean off in that window fan I asked h er to takeout ten times. I never seen that much red come out a pe rson and I grabthe boy, I grab them four fingers. Tote him to the colored hospitalcause I didn't know where the white one was. But when I got there, acolored man stop me and say, Is this boy whit e? The typewriterkeys are clacking like hail on a roof. Aibileen is reading faster and Iam ignoring my mistakes, stopping her only to put in another page.Every eight seconds, I fling the carriage aside. And I says Yessuh, and he say, Is them his white fingers ? And I say, Yessuh, and he say, Well you better tell them he you r high yellow cause that colored doctor won't operate on a white boy in a Negro hospital. And then a white policemangrab me and he say, Now you look a here- She stops. Looks up. The clacking cea ses. What? The policeman said look a here what? Well, that's al l I put down. Had to catch the bus for work this morning. I hit the return and the typewriter dings. Aibileen and I look each oth er straight in the eye. I think this might actually work. Chapte r 12 Everyother night for the next two weeks, I tell Mother I'm off to feed thehungry at the Canton Presbyterian Church, where we , fortunately, knownot a soul. Of course she'd rather I go down t o the First Presbyterian,but Mother's not one to argue with Chris tian works and she nodsapprovingly, tells me on the side to make sure I wash my handsthoroughly with soap afterward. Hour after h our, inAibileen's kitchen, she reads her writing and I type, the detailsthickening, the babies' faces sliding into focus. At first , I'mdisappointed that Aibileen is doing most of the writing, wit h me justediting. But if Missus Stein likes it, I'll be writing t he other maids'stories and that will be more than enough work. If she likes it...; I find myself saying this over and over in my h ead, hoping it might make it so. Aibileen's writing is clear, ho nest. I tell her so. Well, look who I been writing to. She chuck les. Can't lie to God. BeforeI was born, she actually picked cot ton for a week at Longleaf, my ownfamily's farm. Once she lapses into talking about Constantine withoutmy even asking. Law, that Constantine could sing. Like apurebred angel standing in the fron t a the church. Give everbodychills, listening to that silky voic e a hers and when she wouldn't singno more after she had to give her baby to- She stops. Looks at me. She says, Anyway. Itell my self not to press her. I wish I could hear everything she knowsab out Constantine, but I'll wait until we've finished her interview s. Idon't want to put anything between us now. Any word fromMinn y yet? I ask. If Missus Stein likes it, I say, practicallychantin g the familiar words, I just want to have the next interviewset u p and ready. Aibileen shakes her head. I asked Minny three times and she still say she ain't gone do it. I spec it's time I belie ved her. Itry not to show my worry. Maybe you could ask some oth ers? See ifthey're interested? I am positive that Aibileen would have better luckconvincing someone than I would. Aibileen nods. I got some more I can ask. But how long you think it's gone take for this lady to tell you if she like it? I shrug. I don't know. If we mail it next week, maybe we'll hear fromher by mid-Februar y. But I can't say for sure. Aibileen presses herlips together, l ooks down at her pages. I see something that I haven'tnoticed bef ore. Anticipation, a glint of excitement. I've been sowrapped up in my own self, it hasn't occurred to me that Aibileen mightbe as thrilled as I am that an editor in New York is going to read her story. I smile and take a deep breath, my hope growing stronger. On our fifth session, Aibileen reads to me about the day Treelor e died.She reads about how his broken body was thrown on the back of a pickupby the white foreman. And then they dropped him off a t the coloredhospital. That's what the nurse told me, who was sta nding outside. Theyrolled him off the truck bed and the white men drove away. Aibileendoesn't cry, just lets a parcel of time pass while I stare at thetypewriter, she at the worn black tiles. On the sixth session,Aibileen says, I went to work for Miss Leefolt in 1960. When MaeMobley two weeks old, and I feel I've passed th rough a leaden gate ofconfidence. She describes the building of t he garage bathroom, admitsshe is glad it is there now. It's easie r than listening to Hillycomplain about sharing a toilet with the maid. She tells me that I oncecommented that colored people atte nd too much church. That stuck withher. I cringe, wondering what else I've said, never suspecting the helpwas listening or cared. One night she says, I was thinking...; But then she stops. I lo ok up from the typewriter, wait. It took Aibileen vomiting on her self for me to learn to let her take her time. I's thinking I ou ght to do some reading. Might help me with my own writing. Go do wn to the State Street Library. They have a whole room full of So uthern writers. Faulkner, Eudora Welty- Aibileen gives me a dry cough. You know colored folks ain't allowed in that library. Isi t there a second, feeling stupid. I can't believe I forgot that.T he colored library must be pretty bad. There was a sit-in at thew hite library a few years ago and it made the papers. When the col oredcrowd showed up for the sit-in trial, the police department s implystepped back and turned the German shepherds loose. I look a t Aibileenand am reminded, once again, the risk she's taking talk ing to me. I'llbe glad to pick the books up for you, I say. Aibi leen hurries to the bedroom and comes back with a list. I better mark theones I want first. I been on the waiting list for To Kill a Mockingbird at the Carver Library near bout three months now. Less see...; I watch as she puts checkmarks next to the books: T he Souls of Black Folk by W.E.B. Du Bois, poems by Emily Dickinso n (any), The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I read some a that back in school, but I didn't get to finish. She keeps marking, st opping to think which one she wants next. You want a book by...; Sigmund Freud? Oh,people crazy. She nods. I love reading about h ow the head work. Youever dream you fall in a lake? He say you dr eaming about your own selfbeing born. Miss Frances, who I work fo r in 1957, she had all thembooks. On her twelfth title, I have t o know. Aibileen, howlong have you been wanting to ask me this? I f I'd check these books outfor you? A while. She shrugs. I guess I's afraid to mention it. Did you...;think I'd say no? These i s white rules. I don't know which ones you following and which on es you ain't. We look at each other a second. I'm tired of the r ules, I say. Aibileen chuckles and looks out the window. I reali ze how thin this revelation must sound to her. ., Berkley, 2011, 3, Berkley. Very Good. Paperback. 2010. 592 pages. <br>In this provocative thriller, forensic expert Kay Scarpetta is surrounded by familiar faces, yet traveling down the unfamiliar road of fame.... It is the week before Christmas. A tanking economy has prompted Dr. Kay Scarpetta--despite her busy schedule and her continuing work as the senior forensic analyst f or CNN--to offer her services pro bono to New York City's Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. In no time at all, her increased v isibility seems to precipitate a string of unexpected and unsettl ing events, culminating in an ominous package--possibly a bomb--s howing up at the front desk of the apartment building where she a nd her husband, Benton, live. Soon the apparent threat on Scarpet ta's life finds her embroiled in a surreal plot that includes a f amous actor accused of an unthinkable sex crime and the disappear ance of a beautiful millionaire with whom her niece, Lucy, seems to have shared a secret past. Scarpetta's CNN producer wants he r to launch a TV show called The Scarpetta Factor. Given the biza rre events already in play, she fears that her growing fame will generate the illusion that she has a special factor, a mythical a bility to solve all her cases. She wonders if she will end up lik e other TV personalities: her own stereotype. Editorial Reviews Review Praise for The Scarpetta Factor [An] insistent and gripp ing thriller.--The Star-Ledger A finely crafted, pulse-racing th riller that readers won't wantto put down.--Library Journal Abou t the Author Patricia Cornwell is considered one of the world's b estselling crime writers. Her intrepid medical examiner Kay Scarp etta first appeared on the scene in 1990 with Postmortem--the onl y novel to win the Edgar, Creasey, Anthony, and Macavity awards a nd the French Prix du Roman d'Aventure in a single year--and Crue l and Unusual, which won Britain's prestigious Gold Dagger Award for the best crime novel of 1993. Dr. Kay Scarpetta herself won t he 1999 Sherlock Award for the best detective created by an Ameri can author. Ms. Cornwell's work is translated into 36 languages a cross more than 120 countries. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permissio n. All rights reserved. Voltaire,Oeuvres Complètes 1785 A frigid wind gusted in from the East River, snatching at Dr. Kay Scarpet ta's coat as she walked quickly along 30th Street. It was one we ek before Christmas without a hint of the holidays in what she th ought of as Manhattan's Tragic Triangle, three vertices connected by wretchedness and death. Behind her was Memorial Park, a volum inous white tent housing the vacuum-packed human remains still un identified or unclaimed from Ground Zero. Ahead on the left was t he Gothic redbrick former Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital, now a sh elter for the homeless. Across from that was the loading dock and bay for the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, where a gray s teel garage door was open. A truck was backing up, more pallets o f plywood being unloaded. It had been a noisy day at the morgue, a constant hammering in corridors that carried sound like an amph itheater. The mortuary techs were busy assembling plain pine coff ins, adult-size, infant-size, hardly able to keep up with the gro wing demand for city burials at Potter's Field. Economy-related. Everything was. Scarpetta already regretted the cheeseburger and fries in the cardboard box she carried. How long had they been i n the warming cabinet on the serving line of the NYU Medical Scho ol cafeteria? It was late for lunch, almost three p.m., and she w as pretty sure she knew the answer about the palatability of the food, but there was no time to place an order or bother with the salad bar, to eat healthy or even eat something she might actuall y enjoy. So far there had been fifteen cases today, suicides, acc idents, homicides, and indigents who died unattended by a physici an or, even sadder, alone. She had been at work by six a.m. to g et an early start, completing her first two autopsies by nine, sa ving the worst for last-a young woman with injuries and artifacts that were time-consuming and confounding. Scarpetta had spent mo re than five hours on Toni Darien, making meticulously detailed d iagrams and notes, taking dozens of photographs, fixing the whole brain in a bucket of formalin for further studies, collecting an d preserving more than the usual tubes of fluids and sections of organs and tissue, holding on to and documenting everything she p ossibly could in a case that was odd not because it was unusual b ut because it was a contradiction. The twenty-six-year-old woman 's manner and cause of death were depressingly mundane and hadn't required a lengthy postmortem examination to answer the most rud imentary questions. She was a homicide from blunt-force trauma, a single blow to the back of her head by an object that possibly h ad a multicolored painted surface. What didn't make sense was eve rything else. When her body was discovered at the edge of Central Park, some thirty feet off East 110th Street shortly before dawn , it was assumed she had been jogging last night in the rain when she was sexually assaulted and murdered. Her running pants and p anties were around her ankles, her fleece and sports bra pushed a bove her breasts. A Polartec scarf was tied in a double knot tigh tly around her neck, and at first glance it was assumed by the po lice and the OCME's medicolegal investigators who responded to th e scene that she was strangled with an article of her own clothin g. She wasn't. When Scarpetta examined the body in the morgue, s he found nothing to indicate the scarf had caused the death or ev en contributed to it, no sign of asphyxia, no vital reaction such as redness or bruising, only a dry abrasion on the neck, as if t he scarf had been tied around it postmortem. Certainly it was pos sible the killer struck her in the head and at some point later s trangled her, perhaps not realizing she was already dead. But if so, how much time did he spend with her? Based on the contusion, swelling, and hemorrhage to the cerebral cortex of her brain, she had survived for a while, possibly hours. Yet there was very lit tle blood at the scene. It wasn't until the body was turned over that the injury to the back of her head was even noticed, a one-a nd-a-half-inch laceration with significant swelling but only a sl ight weeping of fluid from the wound, the lack of blood blamed on the rain. Scarpetta seriously doubted it. The scalp laceration would have bled heavily, and it was unlikely a rainstorm that was intermittent and at best moderate would have washed most of the blood out of Toni's long, thick hair. Did her assailant fracture her skull, then spend a long interval with her outside on a rainy winter's night before tying a scarf tightly around her neck to m ake sure she didn't live to tell the tale? Or was the ligature pa rt of a sexually violent ritual? Why were livor and rigor mortis arguing loudly with what the crime scene seemed to say? It appear ed she had died in the park late last night, and it appeared she had been dead for as long as thirty-six hours. Scarpetta was baff led by the case. Maybe she was overthinking it. Maybe she wasn't thinking clearly, for that matter, because she was harried and he r blood sugar was low, having eaten nothing all day, only coffee, lots of it. She was about to be late for the three p.m. staff m eeting and needed to be home by six to go to the gym and have din ner with her husband, Benton Wesley, before rushing over to CNN, the last thing she felt like doing. She should never have agreed to appear on The Crispin Report. Why for God's sake had she agree d to go on the air with Carley Crispin and talk about postmortem changes in head hair and the importance of microscopy and other d isciplines of forensic science, which were misunderstood because of the very thing Scarpetta had gotten herself involved in-the en tertainment industry? She carried her boxed lunch through the loa ding dock, piled with cartons and crates of office and morgue sup plies, and metal carts and trollies and plywood. The security gua rd was busy on the phone behind Plexiglas and barely gave her a g lance as she went past. At the top of a ramp she used the swipe card she wore on a lanyard to open a heavy metal door and entered a catacomb of white subway tile with teal-green accents and rail s that seemed to lead everywhere and nowhere. When she first bega n working here as a part-time ME, she got lost quite a lot, endin g up at the anthropology lab instead of the neuropath lab or the cardiopath lab or the men's locker room instead of the women's, o r the decomp room instead of the main autopsy room, or the wrong walk-in refrigerator or stairwell or even on the wrong floor when she boarded the old steel freight elevator. Soon enough she cau ght on to the logic of the layout, to its sensible circular flow, beginning with the bay. Like the loading dock, it was behind a m assive garage door. When a body was delivered by the medical exam iner transport team, the stretcher was unloaded in the bay and pa ssed beneath a radiation detector over the door. If no alarm was triggered indicating the presence of a radioactive material, such as radiopharmaceuticals used in the treatment of some cancers, t he next stop was the floor scale, where the body was weighed and measured. Where it went after that depended on its condition. If it was in bad shape or considered potentially hazardous to the li ving, it went inside the walk-in decomp refrigerator next to the decomp room, where the autopsy would be performed in isolation wi th special ventilation and other protections. If the body was in good shape it was wheeled along a corridor to the right of the b ay, a journey that could at some point include the possibility of various stops relative to the body's stage of deconstruction: th e x-ray suite, the histology specimen storage room, the forensic anthropology lab, two more walk-in refrigerators for fresh bodies that hadn't been examined yet, the lift for those that were to b e viewed and identified upstairs, evidence lockers, the neuropath room, the cardiac path room, the main autopsy room. After a case was completed and the body was ready for release, it ended up fu ll circle back at the bay inside yet another walk-in refrigerator , which was where Toni Darien should be right now, zipped up in a pouch on a storage rack. But she wasn't. She was on a gurney pa rked in front of the stainless-steel refrigerator door, an ID tec h arranging a blue sheet around the neck, up to the chin. What a re we doing? Scarpetta said. We've had a little excitement upsta irs. She's going to be viewed. By whom and why? Mother's in the lobby and won't leave until she sees her. Don't worry. I'll take care of it. The tech's name was Rene, mid-thirties with curly bl ack hair and ebony eyes, and unusually gifted at handling familie s. If she was having a problem with one, it wasn't trivial. Rene could defuse just about anything. I thought the father had made the ID, Scarpetta said. He filled out the paperwork, and then I showed him the picture you uploaded to me-this was right before y ou left for the cafeteria. A few minutes later, the mother walks in and the two of them start arguing in the lobby, and I mean goi ng at it, and finally he storms out. They're divorced? And obvi ously hate each other. She's insisting on seeing the body, won't take no for an answer. Rene's purple nitrile-gloved hands moved a strand of damp hair off the dead woman's brow, rearranging sever al more strands behind the ears, making sure no sutures from the autopsy showed. I know you've got a staff meeting in a few minute s. I'll take care of this. She looked at the cardboard box Scarpe tta was holding. You didn't even eat yet. What have you had today ? Probably nothing, as usual. How much weight have you lost? You' re going to end up in the anthro lab, mistaken for a skeleton. W hat were they arguing about in the lobby? Scarpetta asked. Funer al homes. Mother wants one on Long Island. Father wants one in Ne w Jersey. Mother wants a burial, but the father wants cremation. Both of them fighting over her. Touching the dead body again, as if it were part of the conversation. Then they started blaming ea ch other for everything you can think of. At one point Dr. Edison came out, they were causing such a ruckus. He was the chief med ical examiner and Scarpetta's boss when she worked in the city. I t was still a little hard getting used to being supervised, havin g been either a chief herself or the owner of a private practice for most of her career. But she wouldn't want to be in charge of the New York OCME, not that she'd been asked or likely ever would be. Running an office of this magnitude was like being the mayor of a major metropolis. Well, you know how it works, Scarpetta s aid. A dispute, and the body doesn't go anywhere. We'll put a hol d on her release until Legal instructs us otherwise. You showed t he mother the picture, and then what? I tried, but she wouldn't look at it. She says she wants to see her daughter and isn't leav ing until she does. She's in the family room? That's where I le ft her. I put the folder on your desk, copies of the paperwork. Thanks. I'll look at it when I go upstairs. You get her on the li ft, and I'll take care of things on the other end, Scarpetta said . Maybe you can let Dr. Edison know I'm going to miss the three-o 'clock. In fact, it's already started. Hopefully I'll catch up wi th him before he heads home. He and I need to talk about this cas e. I'll tell him. Rene placed her hands on the steel gurney's pu sh handle. Good luck on TV tonight. Tell him the scene photos ha ve been uploaded to him, but I won't be able to dictate the autop sy protocol or get those photos to him until tomorrow. I saw the commercials for the show. They're cool. Rene was still talking a bout TV. Except I can't stand Carley Crispin and what's the name of that profiler who's on there all the time? Dr. Agee. I'm sick and tired of them talking about Hannah Starr. I'm betting Carley' s going to ask you about it. CNN knows I won't discuss active ca ses. You think she's dead? Because I sure do. Rene's voice follo wed Scarpetta into the elevator. Like what's-her-name in Aruba? N atalee? People vanish for a reason-because somebody wanted them t o. Scarpetta had been promised. Carley Crispin wouldn't do that to her, wouldn't dare. It, Berkley, 2010, 3, London, United Kingdom: Manchester United Books, 2001. Includes season review, a quiz, profiles of various players (and a feature on bald players) and more. There is something for every Red fan in The Official Manchester United Annual 2002. Go on a guided tour - behind the scenes - at Old Trafford: see inside the changing rooms; look around the jam-packed trophy room; and even take a peek inside Sir Alex Ferguson's office. You can also find out all the latest news from Manchester United's Carrington Training Centre and on Manchester United's academy teams. Read the profiles of all the top players including David Beckham, Ryan Giggs and Andy Cole. Solve the many word and picture puzzles and quizzes, all based around Old Trafford and the team, and enjoy the stunning action moments captured on camera (by United's official photographer). Plus, Fred the Red returns for more of his hilarious adventures around Old Trafford. It's bigger and better than ever before - with fan pages, fun pages, Fred pages, puzzle pages - all this and more in an annual not to be missed. hardcover. Very Good/No Dust Jacket., Manchester United Books, 2001, 3, Toronto, Ontario, Canada: Doubleday Canada, 1982. Oversized softcover, 303 pages, "Illustrated with more than four hundred [black-and-white] advertisements, drawings and photographs---"; spine creases, other light shelf and reading wear, but very clean and unmarked. PLEASE NOTE: the Stock Image provided by next to my listing is of an ex-library copy, NOT an image of my copy, and is not reflective of my far better copy. . First Edition. Soft Cover. Very Good., Doubleday Canada, 1982, 3, #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLERA Reese Witherspoon Book Club Pick"Beautifully written and incredibly funny, Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine is about the importance of friendship and human connection. I fell in love with Eleanor, an eccentric and regimented loner whose life beautifully unfolds after a chance encounter with a stranger; I think you will fall in love, too!" Reese WitherspoonNo one's ever told Eleanor that life should be better than fine. Meet Eleanor Oliphant: She struggles with appropriate social skills and tends to say exactly what she's thinking. Nothing is missing in her carefully timetabled life of avoiding social interactions, where weekends are punctuated by frozen pizza, vodka, and phone chats with Mummy. But everything changes when Eleanor meets Raymond, the bumbling and deeply unhygienic IT guy from her office. When she and Raymond together save Sammy, an elderly gentleman who has fallen on the sidewalk, the three become the kinds of friends who rescue one another from the lives of isolation they have each been living. And it is Raymond's big heart that will ultimately help Eleanor find the way to repair her own profoundly damaged one.Soon to be a major motion picture produced by Reese Witherspoon, Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine is the smart, warm, and uplifting story of an out-of-the-ordinary heroine whose deadpan weirdness and unconscious wit make for an irresistible journey as she realizes. . .The only way to survive is to open your heart., 6, Numbered N 2761Individual 4 page program from Sunday, April 22, 2001Paperback8.5 x 11 inches, 116 pagesThe Red Bluff Round-Up is a major stop on the professional rodeo circuit that takes place in Red Bluff, California, United States. It began in 1921 and was inducted to the ProRodeo Hall of Fame in 2015.---------------------------A LITTLE ROUND-UP HISTORY...1918 CLOUGH RANCH PICNIC - TEHAMA COUNTY'S FIRST RECORDED RODEOImagine Tehama County cattlemen and their hands gathering together, after the spring round-up of their herds, to hold a picnic and informal rodeo. The first of its kind was held in 1918 at the A.H.Clough Ranch in Los Molinos, and it drew a crowd from near and far. The cowhands tried their luck at roping contests, bulldogging, and riding saddle broncs and wild steers.In 1919, Jess Bennett and Ivy Bell, who ran a cattle ranch near Vina, decided to have an informal bronc riding and roping contest on their ranch. The event was so successful, that it was followed by the Vina Festival in 1920. That same year, a group of ranchers and businessmen from Red Bluff and Chico started the Northern California Round-Up Association.THE FIRST RED BLUFF ROUND-UPAfter the success of a spring Northern California Round-Up held in Deer Creek, it was decided to form a Red Bluff Round-Up Association, and hold a rodeo during the Tehama County Fair in October. Seventeen events were scheduled for the track and infield. Seven thousand attendees cheered contestants. While this rodeo proved to be a financial flop, the Board of Directors decided to hold another rodeo the following September. This event also proved a financial liability, so no rodeo was held in 1923. In 1924 a hoof and mouth disease epidemic cancelled all rodeos. The Northern California Round-Up Association held its last rodeo in 1925. So, in March of 1926, the Red Bluff Round-Up Association decided to reorganize and hold a two-day spring show. Thanks in part to the efforts of traveling advertising man Don Tait (alias Montana Red), the 1926 rodeo hosted over 10,000 in attendance."I've ridden at Pendelton, Salinas, Cheyenne and many big shows in the country - talk about salty birds and rough bronc rules - you fellows have them all in one bunch you have every bit as much, if not better, than those other shows."-1926 Rodeo ContestantTHE CARAVAN CARRIES THE MESSAGEIn 1928, the Rodeo Committee formed its own publicity caravan which consisted of fifty cars. They drove down the west side to Corning, Orland, and Willows then came back on the east side of the Sacramento River through Hamilton City and Chico. In the first caravan, led by Undersheriff Walter Williams, the car's screeching siren led the way along with a saddle over the hood for Mike Fish to ride on. Megaphone in hand, Mike would climb on the "hurricane deck" to make his announcements while, at the end of the caravan, forty-nine cars back, he would be echoed by another megaphone. This caravan effort would continue throughout the 1960's.Because of the depression, no rodeo was held in 1933. Also, World War II cancelled the 1942-45 rodeos. However, in all other years, the Red Bluff Round-Up has prevailed.CURRENT ROUND-UPEvent includes a week of events throughout the community including a bowling tournament, foot race, pancake breakfast, street dance, antique shows, Chamber mixer, golf tournament, chili cook-off, parade, dances and more. The event is a major income booster to the community filling hotels, restaurants and gasoline stations like few other weeks of the year. Being a major PRCA spring rodeo, its timing is ideal for securing top stock contractors as well as world class contestants hungry for season points.-----------------------In October 2001 the 4000 square foot Red Bluff Roundup Museum building was completed through the hard work of the Red Bluff Roundup Board of Directors, many community volunteers, building contractors, and interested North Valley firms.The building houses the Red Bluff Roundup office including the ticket office, the museum proper, the directors meeting room, and the Red Bluff Bull & Gelding Sale office. In 2006 the Red Bluff Tehama County Chamber of Commerce presented the Spirit of Red Bluff Award to the museum in recognition of outstanding contributions to our community, for the completion of the landscaping surrounding the property.The main goal of the museum is to preserve the history of the Red Bluff Round-Up for generations to come. Included are displays of pictures starting with the 1918 Play day held at the Clough Ranch in Los Molinos up to the present-day. Also on display is a 15-foot picture of the 1925 Red Bluff Round-Up grand entry, saddles, chaps, several bronze figurines, signs, Lane Frost and Red Rock pictures and various books telling about the cowboy lifestyle. The family of rodeo clown Homer Holcomb donated his saddle, Baggy pants, had, and the miniature of homer and his donkey Parkurarcus that were displayed at the worlds fair on Treasure Island in 1936 and was built by Levi Strauss. There is also a display of the trophy, Certificate of recognition, from the 2015 Red Bluff Round-Up induction into the PRCA Hall of Fame in Colorado Springs, Colorado., 2001, 0, NY: Marvel, 1990. A better than near fine copy .The rear cover shows the lightest of shelf wear. There are no other marks of any kind.. First Printing. Stiff Card Wraps. Near Fine in Wraps. 6 1/2" By 10" Tall., Marvel, 1990, 4, More than 4,000 quotations from the silent era to the present day. Excellent for trivia buffs!!! Copyright date - 1988, stated first U.S. edition St. Martin's, New York, # Pages - 244, hardcover with dust jacket. Includes Index, Bibliography.Good - structurally intact, slight yellowing to pages, minimal soil and wear, library system withdrawn with typical markings and pocket, cello cover over dust jacket has kept book in better overall condition.Online booksellers for over 7 years, we fully guarantee every book we sell. Buy with confidence here!, St. Martin's Press, 1988, 2.5<

2007, ISBN: 9780312034030

Pasta dura

Southern Illinois University Press, 2007. 1st edition.. Hardback. Imitation cloth, F. x+246pp, 10 b/w illustrations, index, a fine copy. New. A critical study of the films of 100 Britis… Más…

Southern Illinois University Press, 2007. 1st edition.. Hardback. Imitation cloth, F. x+246pp, 10 b/w illustrations, index, a fine copy. New. A critical study of the films of 100 British film directors, including Lindsay Anderson, Stephen Frears, Alfred Hitchcock, Derek Jarman, David Lean, Michael Powell, Sally Potter, Ken Russell, John Schlesinger & Michael Winterbottom., Southern Illinois University Press, 2007, 0, Lindsay Drummond, 1976 Ex library. White blank oblong sticker on ffep. 1 library stamp verso title page.Very narrow vertical line on endpapers, (faint on rear endpaper) offset from removed tape. 33 photographs. Dustjacket in such lovely condition as was kept under protective covering. Bright, tight, clean copy of this interesting life, at Merton, Oxford, then BBC radio and TV as a naturalist, ornithologist and director of it's wildlife programmes.192 pp including index. Size: 8vo - over 7¾" - 9¾". First.. Blue Board. Very Good/Near Fine. Illus. by Bl/white Photographs. Hard Cover., Lindsay Drummond, 1976, 3.5, More than 4,000 quotations from the silent era to the present day. Excellent for trivia buffs!!! Copyright date - 1988, stated first U.S. edition St. Martin's, New York, # Pages - 244, hardcover with dust jacket. Includes Index, Bibliography.Good - structurally intact, slight yellowing to pages, minimal soil and wear, library system withdrawn with typical markings and pocket, cello cover over dust jacket has kept book in better overall condition.Online booksellers for over 7 years, we fully guarantee every book we sell. Buy with confidence here!, St. Martin's Press, 1988, 2.5<

1988, ISBN: 9780312034030

More than 4,000 quotations from the silent era to the present day. Excellent for trivia buffs!!! Copyright date - 1988, stated first U.S. edition St. Martin's, New York, # Pages - 244, ha… Más…

More than 4,000 quotations from the silent era to the present day. Excellent for trivia buffs!!! Copyright date - 1988, stated first U.S. edition St. Martin's, New York, # Pages - 244, hardcover with dust jacket. Includes Index, Bibliography.Good - structurally intact, slight yellowing to pages, minimal soil and wear, library system withdrawn with typical markings and pocket, cello cover over dust jacket has kept book in better overall condition.Online booksellers for over 7 years, we fully guarantee every book we sell. Buy with confidence here!, St. Martin's Press, 1988, 2.5<

1989, ISBN: 9780312034030

New York: St. Martin's Press, 1989. 1st American Edition . Hardcover. Fine/Fine. Sharleen Smith dj. Gold-stamped black bds. Nearly perfect dust jacket. No names, clean text. Index, … Más…

New York: St. Martin's Press, 1989. 1st American Edition . Hardcover. Fine/Fine. Sharleen Smith dj. Gold-stamped black bds. Nearly perfect dust jacket. No names, clean text. Index, extensive bibliography. Entries from Brian Aherne to George Zucco. 32965 shelf, St. Martin's Press, 1989, 5<

1989, ISBN: 0312034032

Pasta dura

[EAN: 9780312034030], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: St. Martin's Press, New York, New York, U.S.A.], MOTION PICTURE INDUSTRY, Jacket, Very good condition with little wear; very good… Más…

[EAN: 9780312034030], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: St. Martin's Press, New York, New York, U.S.A.], MOTION PICTURE INDUSTRY, Jacket, Very good condition with little wear; very good dj with some wear, now in a protective plastic cover., Books<