Oneworld Beginner's Guides
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ONEWORLD NEW BOOKS PUBLICATIONS July–DecemBER 2013 HIGHLIGHTS FICTION | 4 FICTION | 12 FICTION | 14 HISTORY | 18 POPULAR PSYCHOLOGY | 20 POLITICS | 22 HISTORY | 24 POPULAR PSYCHOLOGY | 34 POPULAR SCIENCE | 42 CONTENTS CONTENTS FICTION New 2 Recently Published 9 Backlist 16 NON-FICTION New 18 New in Paperback 46 Recently Published 49 Select Backlist 62 BEGINNER’S GUIDES New 57 Complete List 60 DISTRIBUTORS & REPRESENTATIVES 64 —There’s no way round it, I’m finding it very hard to be a widow, I told Grief, the counsellor woman, that Tuesday morning. —Are you missing your husband a great deal? —Not especially. I miss the routine of his demands it’s true, but I am plagued day and night with thoughts I’d rather be without. —Are you afraid to be in the house alone? —Indeed I am. —Are you afraid someone’s going to come in and attack you? —Indeed I am not. —And these thoughts, do they come when you are having problems falling asleep? —No, I said, they are with me from the first sup of tea I take to this very minute, since three days after my husband was taken. —Tell me about these thoughts? —You’re sure you want to know? —I’ve heard it all, she insisted, there is nothing you can say that will surprise me. I disbelieving, asked again. You’re sure now? —Absolutely. —Men, I said. Naked men. At each other all the time, all day long. I can’t get it out of my head. —Well now, she said and fell silent. She had to have been asking the Almighty for help, until finally she admitted she could think of no explanation and her recommendation was to scrub the kitchen floor very vigorously and see would a bit of distraction help. —Pay attention to the floor and mebbe they’ll stop. I recognized the potential a widow has to frighten people. I had frightened the poor woman something rotten. The next week I returned. —I have scrubbed the floor every day and I am still plagued by them. Grief was silent another good while. She had to be honest, she had never come across a woman who’d experienced this. NEW FICTION 3 MALARKY Anakana Schofield A wickedly funny and wonderfully deranged literary debut introducing a brilliant new voice in contemporary Irish fiction Selected for the Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers Program 2012 Our Woman refuses to be sunk by what life is about to serve “A caustic, funny, and moving her. She’s just caught her son Jimmy in the barn with anoth- fantasia of an Irish mammy er man. She’s been accosted by Red the Twit, who claims to going round the bend.” Emma have done the unmentionable with her husband. And now her son’s gone and joined the only group that will have him: Donoghue, author of Room an army division on its way to Afghanistan. “Anakana Schofield is part of a new wave of wonderful Irish Setting aside her prim and proper ways, Our Woman fiction – international in scope promptly embarks on an odyssey of her own – one that forc- es her to look grief in the eye and come face-to-face with the and electrically alive.” Colum mad agony of longing. Comic, moving, eccentric, and spare, McCann, author of Let the Great Our Woman is – quite simply – the character of the decade. World Spin “Mid-guffaw you may find that you’ve taken it all most intensely to heart.” Helen Oyeyemi, author of Mr Fox UK & ROW 1 AUG 2013 AnaKana SCHOFIELD is a playwright and TV Paperback producer who has written for the Globe and Mail, £11.99 London Review of Books, and Little Star. She was born Demy (216mm×135mm) in London, brought up in Dublin, and now resides in 224pp ISBN: 978-1-78074-270-0 Vancouver, Canada. Malarky is her first novel. eISBN: 978-1-78074-271-7 Credit: Ania Szado 4 FICTION NEW THE ILLUSION Of SEPARATENESS Simon Van Booy A luminous story of the way one man’s brief act of mercy during World War II changes the lives of a group of strangers, and how they each eventually discover the astonishing truth of their connection “So evocative and original your The Illusion of Separateness centres around one simple act breath literally catches in your of courage on the battlefield in the heart of France during World War II, the implications of which reverberate through chest.” Andre Dubus III, author of the future generations of two very different men. House of Sand and Fog “Van Booy is a writer whose work In this gripping and emotional story, inspired by true I will forever eagerly read.” events, characters discover that at their darkest moments they are not alone, as every human being is a link in a chain Robert Olen Butler, author of the we cannot see. The same world moves beneath each of Pulitzer Prize-winning A Good them, so that one by one, through seemingly random acts Scent from a Strange Mountain of selflessness and mercy, a veil is lifted to reveal the vital “The story snaps together parts they have played in each other’s lives, and thus the illusion of their separateness. beautifully... brilliant.” Library Journal SIMON Van BOOY was born in London and grew UK 25 JUL 2013 up in rural Wales and Oxford. He has won the Frank Hardback O’Connor International Short Story Award and the £12.99 Demy (216mm×135mm) H.R. Hays Poetry Award, and his journalism has 224pp appeared in magazines and newspapers including ISBN: 978-1-78074-324-0 the New York Times, the Daily Telegraph, and the eISBN: 978-1-78074-325-7 Guardian. He currently lives in New York City. John Bray fell silently through the night sky, his body less than it ever was, his life a collage devoid of single meaning. The impact was so intense that John mistook his panic for death itself. Smoke and freezing air filled the cabin. The B-24 nosed into a dive. He formed a ladder with the syllables of his wife’s name. Each syllable a rung closer to her, but further from God. A moment before jumping, John realized his leg was on fire and then a sudden freeze and darkness meant he had made it. He tore at the harness, no time to count, he pulled at everything. The navigator lived long enough to release his parachute, then fell without moving, a ring of stars in each eye. The others were captured or died from their injuries soon after landing. As the canopy spread and swung wildly, John feared for an instant that he was still attached to the aircraft. Then he looked around and saw nothing. He gripped the straps until his hands went numb. Breathing was quick and his lungs bled with cold. One of his feet was badly injured. A dense throb, as though his heart had fallen into his boot. He was still saying the word Harriet long after he’d forgotten he was doing it. Shaken loose from the association of memory, it was an awkward sound with no meaning. He knew the enemy would find wings, the fuselage, bits of wire, a tail section, small fires. He might never see Harriet again. They were married but had not yet lived together as man and wife. He might never see the diner where he grew up, or the street upon which he had played baseball and ridden his bicycle. He might never see the dog, or pet it on his way upstairs. Isabel finds the postcard of Amsterdam on Thursday evening, at her favourite junk store, across from the food carts on Hawthorne. It is a photograph of tall houses on a canal, each painted a different colour, pressed together and tilted slightly, like a line of people, arm in arm, peering tentatively into the water. The picture has a Technicolor glow, the colours hovering over the scene rather than inhabiting it. She turns the postcard over, expecting nothing – an antique white space never utilized – like others on the rack, bought decades ago on long-forgotten vacations, and never mailed. But Amsterdam had been stamped; Amsterdam had been posted. The postmark is dated 14 Sept 1965 and there is a message, carefully inscribed: Dear L— Fell asleep in a park. Started to rain. Woke up with my hat full of leaves. You are all I see when I open or close a book. Yours, M Isabel stands before the rotating metal rack for a long time, holding the postcard, rereading the message, imagining the young man (it must have been a young man) whose small, precise handwriting stretches across the allotted space perfectly. She imagines the young woman (Miss L. Bertram, 2580 N. Ivanhoe St., Portland, Ore) who received the post- card, and how much she must have read between those few lines, how much she must have longed for him to say more. Isabel turns back to the image of Amsterdam, wondering if the houses on the canal still stand, or if they have suc- cumbed to time and damp. Amsterdam is one of those low-lying cities, she thinks, remembering a New Yorker article about melting icecaps. She searches the rack for more of Amsterdam and the correspondence between M and L, but finds none. She buys the postcard and leaves with it tucked deep in her coat pocket. NEW FICTION 7 GLACIERS Alexis M. Smith The beautifully told story of a day in the life of Isabel, a twenty-something from Portland, Oregon, that has all the hallmarks of a cult favourite Isabel lives in Portland, Oregon and works in a library, “A delicate debut novel..