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#1229992 in Books SIMON SCHUSTER 2017-02-28 2017-02-28Original language:EnglishPDF # 1 8.37 x .90 x 5.50l, .0 #File Name: 1476795754336 pagesSIMON SCHUSTER | File size: 51.Mb

Christopher Sorrentino : The Fugitives before purchasing it in order to gage whether or not it would be worth my time, and all praised The Fugitives:

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. long winded but interesting characters and decent storyBy Ken MitchellI tend to like a more concise writing stye. Mr Sorrentino seems to like to use a lot of words and quotable phrases. I know a lot of people like that style, so if you do, you will like the book. The story is interesting, and develops slowly. The characters unveil themselves over time, and there are a few surprises. I do find that writers with a meandering style loose site of the narrative and this seemed to be the case with "The Fugitives".1 of 1 people found the following review helpful. CHRISTOPHER SORRENTINO: AS MUCH A FUGITIVE AS THE CHARACTERS IN HIS NOVEL?By Teacher MikeThis was not a bad book, just not a great one. I expected more from a book and author short listed for a National Book Award. I found some of the plot points, one that was pivotal, to be improbable at best. The characters were more than one-dimensional, but the people they turned out to be at the end of the novel, didn't seem totally consistent with who they were shown to be along the path to the end. The dialogue was often sharp and witty, and many passages were thoughtful, and so well written as to be philosophical and occasionally almost poetic. Clearly the author is talented, but I hope he uses those talents on a more carefully crafted book. One that can rise above the level of good pulp fiction.2 of 2 people found the following review helpful. Great book with unexpected twists and turns!By Smokey B.I found the book highly original, well-written and with a fantastic use of language. At first the story seemed funny but slowly it evolved into something quite sad and thought provoking. When you finish the book you'll find yourself thinking about the protagonist, Sandy Mulligan and wonder what will become of him. You kind of can't get him out of your head. Great book. ldquo;A mischievously funny, keenly incisive, and mind-bending outlaw talerdquo; (Booklist, starred review) about love and obsession, loyalty and betrayal, race and identity, and compulsion and free will.Writer Sandy Mulligan is in trouble. To escape his turbulent private life and the scandal thatrsquo;s maimed his public reputation, hersquo;s retreated from Brooklyn to a quiet Michigan town to finish his long-overdue novel. There, he becomes fascinated by John Salteau, a native Ojibway storyteller who regularly appears at the local library. But Salteau is not what he appears to bemdash;a fact suspected by Kat Danhoff, an ambitious Chicago reporter who arrives to investigate a theft from a local Indian-run casino. Salteaursquo;s possible role in the crime could be the key to the biggest story of her stalled career. Bored, emotionally careless, and sexually reckless, Katrsquo;s sudden appearance in town immediately attracts a restive Sandy. All three are fugitives of one kind or another. And in their growing involvement, each becomes a pawn in the othersrsquo; gamesmdash;all of them just one mistake from losing everything. Moving, funny, tense, and mysterious, The Fugitives is at once a love story, a ghost story, and a crime thriller. It is also a cautionary tale of twenty-first century American lifemdash;a meditation on the meaning of identity, on the role storytelling plays in our understanding of ourselves and each other, and on the difficulty of making genuine connections in a world thatrsquo;s connected in almost every way. Exuberantly satirical, darkly enigmatic, and completely unforgettable, The Fugitives is ldquo;an entirely new kind of novel with exceptional interior monologues animated by deception, double- dealing, and a doomed affair that lends an air of existential dread to the storyrdquo; (Los Angeles Times).

Praise for TRANCE "Like Don DeLillo in "Libra "and Philip Roth in "American Pastoral," Christopher Sorrentino has opened the pages of his fiction to the breadth of collective memory, and the result is one of the most humane and haunting novels I've read in years...Sorrentino possesses a searing gaze, a polymath's erudition, and a lover's ear for the frailities of human language." ""Trance "is a work of startling insight, marvelously and masterfully evoking the grim stuff of true American nightmares." Colson Whitehead "Playful, scathing, gripping, and profound, this book is a meditation and a provocation, full of humor and menace. Sorrentino has broken new ground at the border of fiction and history." Sam Lipsyte "An ambitious, intelligent, and kaleidoscopically opulent book, remarkably evocative of the textures and tones of the seventies. Sorrentino has a talent for creating authentic, microscopic moments that capture the spirit of the era." Lydia Millet "This sprawling work is so ambitious and irreverent that it doesn't fit easily into any genre...Full of descriptions sublime in their precision..."Trance "is a pleasure ot read -- delightful and often funny." " Los Angeles Times" "[Sorrentino] remains a virtuoso, and much of the success of this book is due to his writing skill...[He] is an insightful, sensitive writer who makes you believe you're seeing what he's describing." Harvey Pekar, "The Baltimore Sun" "Big and ambitious...Its method and scope are breathtaking." " Salon.com" "Sorrentino has something of Don DeLillo's ear for American white noise -- for the hiss and crackle that fills the country's derelict spaces." " New York Times Book " "Echoes of Don DeLillo, Philip Roth, and Hunter S. Thompson..."Trance "lives up to its title -- it's a brilliant, hallucinatory fever dream of Americana, one that we have yet to wake up from." " Seattle Weekly" "A full-blooded lampoon...hilarious, satiric..."Trance"'s charming gift, among others, is respect for the reader's acuity in deciding whether it was a pretty picture. Or not." " San Francisco Chronicle" "One of the year's most surprising works of fiction...amazing...context vibrates out of the sentences, rather than being foisted on the action from above...It takes novels like this one to bring us back to the moment, to return our icons to us as flesh and blood, almost." John Freeman, "The Boston Globe" "Sorrentino's vision here is kaleidoscopic, eliding fluidly from individual to individual, taking on a wide array of points of view." David L. Ulin, "Newsday" "Transcendent...By using the skeleton of what is known to portray people whose minds no one will ever truly understand, Sorrentino gives us a new understanding of our past and future, and a fresh way to consider the ideological movement that can appear so confident in their control or resistance." " Minneapolis Star-Tribune" ""Trance "is a tour- de-force, announcing a mature and ambitious talent." " Publishers Weekly" "[A] masterfully omniscent and suspenseful novel. Braiding history with invention, devilish humor with psychological veracity, telling detail with a big-picture perspective, bursts of rapid dialogue with gorgeous description and arresting inner monologues, Sorrentino satirizes with a light yet penetrating touch." Donna Seaman, "Booklist "(starred review) "A demanding, raw, and fascinating epic." " Details" "Even more than DeLillo's "Libra "and Doctorow's "The Book of Daniel," "Trance "works to strip the 'event' of its historical cover, to not only humanize it but reduce it to the mundane and everyday..."Trance "doggedly dismantles the pedestal of celebrity and myth." " The Village Voice" "A skeptical, occasionally corrosive perspective...Sorrentino's writing is smart and vibrant, slangy when necessary, and always appropriately allusive. Jammed with acute observations and a good deal of humor." " The Times Literary Supplement "(London) "Substantial...Cleverly reinvents this story with a handsome helping of historical and contemporary satire." " The Times "(London) "A tour de force..."Trance "is a bravura epic that unfolds cinematically yet with linguistic brilliance...Tackles unfolding events from a multiplicity of perspectives with intelligence, insight, and a darkly comic flair." Tina Jackson, "Metro "(London) "A powerful satire of American myth-making and of the hidden forces that work against our attempts to discover a true history." John Burnside, "The Scotsman "(UK) "Particularly impressive is Sorrentino's protean writing...the comprehensive arc of humanity astounds. "Trance "is an epic, epoch-defining achievement, up there with the finest works by Don DeLillo." " The Sunday Telegraph "(London) "Magnificent...funnier than anything so serious has a right to be. Sorrentino hits the key notes of the era perfectly...Sorrentino's solid-gold satire, a contender for Great American Novel status, is wise to both the honor and hypocrisy of middle-class militants. Scathing and sensitive, "Trance "will make you its willing captive." " Uncut" "Sorrentino is a wickedly talented writer...His sense of humor is as sharp as it is savage...A work where unmitigated brilliance and staggering prose is interlaced." " Rain Taxi" "Christopher Sorrentino gives us "Trance, "a beautifully successful -- indeed, heroic -- attempt to restore to us what is surely one of the great American folk stories of the twentieth century. "Trance "is a full-blown opera -- an epic documentary fiction, a post-Coover "In Cold Blood"-- presenting a harmony of hundreds of points of view." " The of Contemporary Fiction" "" Praise for SOUND ON SOUND Sorrentino has used the rock book format (and his superbly pompous multitrack device) as a vehicle for a brilliant and complex novel about remembered truths and modern ennui...gasps of bright poetry...eloquent prose. Patrick Barber, "Los Angeles Reader" ...reading rock n roll has never been a particularly rewarding experience...but by handling submediocre musicians with cynical wit and an inventive kind of non-storytelling--and by being admirably unmindful of SPINAL TAP--Sorrentino gives the rock novel some hope. Marc Weidenbaum, "PULSE!" Flawlessly executed...sheer virtuosity...funny, perceptive and dead-on the satirical mark. " Publishers Weekly" "As a sardonic condemnation of the bloated egos of rock 'n' roll, it's a ten-minute drum solo with flaming cymbals." " LIT" (Chicago) Sound On Sound gives the impression that its main concerns are satiric and metafictional, yet (paradoxically perhaps) it takes it material seriously. In his way, Sorrentino honours rock'n'roll...Sorrentino's kind of literary subversion also makes indirect contact with serious social and political issues. Themes of homophobia, mental illness, and junk culture are not silenced by Sorrentino's mass of irreverent white noise. Doug Harkness, "VOX" (Calgary, Alberta) Writers like Christopher Sorrentino bring us back to the pleasures of reading. And there is a lot of intelligent material to chew on here. This book works like a hypertext; the chapters can be read in any order. So in that way it's totally contemporary while continuing to converse with Modernism." Alexander Laurence, "American Book ""About the AuthorChristopher Sorrentino is the author of five books, including the National Book Award Finalist Trance. His work has appeared in Esquire, Granta, Harper's, , Tin House, and many other publications. He lives in .Excerpt. copy; Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.The Fugitives 1 STORY time is at eleven, the preschoolers and their mothers, mostly the mothers; the occasional father looking faintly uncomfortable with his kid, as if hersquo;d been asked to monitor an unfamiliar piece of equipment; sometimes babysitters, unhurried grandpas, older siblings icy with shame. Tuesday and Thursday mornings they arrive and cluster around the bronze bear, its paws, snout, and ears worn smooth and dull, to listen. Before John Salteau began, a few months ago, to tell stories twice each week at the library (ldquo;Tricksters and Sleeping Bears: Native Tales from Northwestern Michigan with John Salteaurdquo;), they had a woman whose pedantic cheer fooled none of the kids: sung and shouted drills involving colors, numbers, the names of household objects. She drove up once a week from Frankfort with a steel- string guitar and a cinnamon-colored puppet named Ginger and played to a half-empty room every time. Now shersquo;s gone. Salteau invariably fills the place. I began to sit in the library some mornings because I like the stripped tone; the clean isolation of the footfalls and the scraping of chairs against the floor, the stillness in which other peoplersquo;s most perfectly ingrained habits are encased and displayed. This one wets his index finger. This one moves her lips. Nose pickers and foot tappers. Plus itrsquo;s a nice place to come to rest in the middle of my morning circuit, when the work is done or (more likely, these days) stalled and I leave home to walk the arboreal streets (my house is between Oak and Maple; nearby are Cedar, Pine, Locust, Elmwood) or wander onto the nearby grounds of the former lunatic asylum, now a curiously mournful park. If I arrive at the library before eleven, Irsquo;ll wait. Therersquo;s no other feeling like that of the restraint in a quiet room filled with people. Conditional unity, breached under the duress of petty bodily betrayals, farts and sneezes. The heads come up, mildly curious, then fall once more to the printed lines. One time, a middle-aged man, in a suit and tie, sat energetically turning the pages of the Record- Eagle, as if he were scanning it for a particular item: he was gently urged from the premises by a library employee who bent close to whisper to him, laying a quieting finger on the pages of newsprint. The man left, striding through a watchful silence, his newspaper abandoned on the table. I havenrsquo;t listened to an adult tell stories to an audience of children since I was a child myself, but Irsquo;m not surprised to find that Irsquo;m calmed and reassured by it, the voice an ember glowing and changing in the midst of a muted stillness that might itself ignite at any moment. The boundaries inherent in performance are there, but therersquo;s also an ambiguity, an offhand sense of collaboration. That regular glimpse of the inventive tension latent in those quiet, crowded spaces, when the voice begins speaking, and especially when it pauses and the room falls into its willed hush once again, is one part of what holds me in my seat in the childrenrsquo;s library (rather, ldquo;Youth Services Departmentrdquo;) twice a week. The other part remains a mystery to me. DYLAN FECKER TOLD me on the phone, ldquo;A kidsrsquo; library? What it sounds like to me is that you miss going out. He misses going out.rdquo; Irsquo;m a writer, and Dylan is my agent. To him, a panicked social life is the sole bellwether of mental health. In confusion he finds relief. Only his phone knows what hersquo;s scheduled to do next. Without it, he might starve, freeze, wander mistakenly onto public transportation. ldquo;I go out all the time,rdquo; I said. ldquo;The whole place is mostly out. Here, outside is the default. Indoors is shelter.rdquo; ldquo;When I say lsquo;going out,rsquo; you know what I mean. And you miss it. Why canrsquo;t you just say that? Why canrsquo;t he just say what he means for once? Quicker and less confusingly? These are the big questions people want answers to. People are always waiting for him to say what he means, and then he says it, and Monte and I have to clarify.rdquo; Monte is my editor. ldquo;What do you tell them?rdquo; ldquo;That itrsquo;s all about getting to the center of the human heart. But you can thank me later. Are you writing? Hersquo;s not writing.rdquo; ldquo;I would be.rdquo; ldquo;Hersquo;s being smart. Donrsquo;t be smart. Irsquo;ve tried calling you when yoursquo;re really working: you canrsquo;t wait to get rid of me. Lately yoursquo;re lingering. Lately you want to talk.rdquo; ldquo;Oh, is that what yoursquo;re getting?rdquo; ldquo;Donrsquo;t be smart, I said. Yoursquo;re not writing. I admit I made a big mistake letting you move out there all by yourself. I said, hersquo;s a big boy. Was I wrong.rdquo; ldquo;You werenrsquo;t wrong. I took my temperature this morning. Totally normal. Sent myself off to school, kicking and screaming.rdquo; ldquo;Ha ha ha. Listen. You went out there, you said you wanted quiet. I say OK, he needs to turn it down for a while. I understand. I saw how the last couple of years were going for you, for you and Rae. And that terrible business with Susannah. Ordinarily, I wouldnrsquo;t rush you. But Monte is eager to see pages. Theyrsquo;re tracking you. Where is he with it, is the general tenor of things.rdquo; Dylan had allowed his sense of romance to persuade him that there was something valuable, even narratively inevitable, in my leaving New York to come to northern Michigan and finish a book. It seemed right to him, right and just, that a gifted person should flee from the distractions and temptations of a big city, flee from the difficulties of a complicated personal life, to make art in self-imposed exile, working from the provinces. If some artists court outrage, others court solitude: it was a chunk of wisdom as simple as a popcorn date at the multiplex. He expected searingly brilliant, expiatory pages to flow one way, direct from my computer to his office on Mercer Street. That was the agreement, as far as he was concerned. That, he claimed, was what had kept him from going to the airport and wrestling me off the plane personally. It wouldnrsquo;t have helped at all to explain to him that I didnrsquo;t feel purposeful, I felt dangerously adrift; that escape wasnrsquo;t a strategic writerly ploy but simply and only escape. For Dylan there was no such thing as flight. He stayed, he survived, he thrived. Hersquo;d had some successes; I was one of them; I was letting him down. This much was clear. The fierce pages werenrsquo;t erupting from my printer, werenrsquo;t springing to life on his 24-inch active matrix display as unencrypted digital attachments. Exile and cunning he would accept, silence was another story. ldquo;Just get out of the house once in a while. Better yet, come back to Brooklyn and then get in a cab or whatever it is you people have there and come to to talk to me in person. I just donrsquo;t get what yoursquo;re doing.rdquo; ldquo;Itrsquo;s all about getting to the center of the human heart.rdquo; ldquo;Please. They donrsquo;t have what you need to be human out there.rdquo; ldquo;They have enough,rdquo; I said. ldquo;It feels close.rdquo; ldquo;How close?rdquo;

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