2010, ISBN: 9780199732258

edizione con copertina flessibile, edizione con copertina rigida

St. Martin's Paperbacks. Good. 4.14 x 1.28 x 6.74 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2005. 528 pages. Cover worn.<br>MANKIND HAS HAD 12,000 YEARS TO DECIPHE R THE MESSAGE, WE HAVE O… Altro …

St. Martin's Paperbacks. Good. 4.14 x 1.28 x 6.74 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2005. 528 pages. Cover worn.<br>MANKIND HAS HAD 12,000 YEARS TO DECIPHE R THE MESSAGE, WE HAVE ONE WEEK LEFT.... There is a signal emana ting from deep within the ice of Antarctica. Atlantis has awoken. Ancient monuments all over the worlds from the Pyramids of Giza, to Mexico to the ancient sites of China are reacting...to a brew ing crisis not of this earth, but somewhere out in the solar syst em. Connecting to each other through the oceans. Using low freque ncy sound waves to create an ancient network. The earth is thrown into panic stations. For it seems that the signals emanating fro m Atlantis are a prelude to something much greater. Could it be t hat the entire city is in fact one giant ancient machine? And to what end? For what purpose? It is the year 2012, the same year Mayan belief prophesised the end of the world. Two armies, Americ an and Chinese stand on the brink of war for the control of the m ost potent force ever known to man. The secrets of Atlantis. Secr ets which are encoded in crystal shards retrieved from the sunken city. Secrets which Mankind has had twelve thousand years to dec ipher...but which will now destroy it within one week. Editoria l Reviews Review A rocketing adventure...Stel Pavlou's debut nov el burst with marvels of scientific chitchat and towers above mos t recent science fiction.-The Philadelphia Inquirer Few debuts a re as ambitious as Decipher. Exhilaratingly imaginative.-Sunday T imes (UK) A wide-screen special-effects Technicolor blast; perfe ct for a Hollywood blockbuster. -The Times (London) Deep, smart, and well-researched.-SFX A fascinating blend of science, mythol ogy, language, and much more. -The Independent (London) If Micha el Crichton isn't nervous, he should be. Not only has Stel Pavlou written a scientific thriller that's as tautly plotted a roller- coaster ride as anything Crichton's ever written, but he's done s o using intelligent characters, and a clever, synergistic premise . The weaving of scientific detail with imagination is superb and unparalleled.--Zentertainment com From the Back Cover For 12,0 00 Years, The Message Has Been Buried. In a frozen Antarctica was teland, in the depths of the Amazon River, in a chamber beneath t he ruins of the Sphinx, something has surfaced: a cluster of crys talline artifacts composed of an energy source unknown to modern science, and inscribed with ancient hieroglyphs. Between them a s trange signal courses through the oceans. Where it emanates from is a source that has stunned mankind. The lost city of Atlantis h as been found. It Is The Meaning Of Civilization... Now, two of the world's most powerful armies stand on the brink of war to gai n control of the most powerful force known to modern man. But a g roup of scientists struggling to decode the message of the primev al network fears that it is already too late. And Its End... Sol ar fires ignite the surface of the earth, and a worldwide catacly sm of Biblical proportions begins. Now as Atlantis rises, so does its secrets-along with a terrifying prophecy that is coming true . A rocketing adventure. --The Philadelphia Inquirer A genuine ly exciting scientific thriller conceived on an epic scale. -Book seller (UK) About the Author Stel Pavlou is the screenwriter for The 51st State, starring Samuel L Jackson. Decipher is his first novel. He lives in England. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. DECIPHER tep zepiTHE FIRST TIMEAVESTIC ARYA NS--PRE-ISLAMIC IRAN--MIDDLE EAST Ahura Mazda created Airyana Va ejo, the original paradise and birthplace of the Aryan race. Ther e were seven months of summer and five of winter. But after Angra Mainyu, the Evil One, was finished, there were only two months o f summer and ten of winter. A mighty serpent, intense cold, thick ice and snow is all that haunts the land now. It is so cold that nothing can survive there. Yima, instead of building an Ark, was ordered to make a Var, an underground place linking the four cor ners so that specimens of every living thing could be brought the re and saved. Excerpt from: Tales of the Deluge: A Global Report on Cultural Self-Replicating Genesis Myths, Dr. Richard Scott, 2 008EVIDENCE BEFORE THE UNITED STATES SENATE WASHINGTON D.C. JUNE 14, 1960(Based on actual transcripts) If this agreement is appro ved, Senator Aiken said as he tapped out his ash from behind a th ick veil of blue cigarette smoke, Antarctica becomes a country wi thout a government. Of course, it doesn't have too much governmen t now, but no government is provided for Antarctica under any con ditions in the future?Herman Phleger shuffled through his papers and coughed, hoping to cash in on some spit. He failed. It was a hot, humid day. The brass and maple ceiling fans worked overtime. A whiff of freshly cut grass wafted in from the lawn outside. Ma nicured, the way mankind intended. And Herman Phleger was forced to cough again.Is there a problem, Mr. Phleger?Uh, yes, sir-- Phl eger croaked. He looked around for a clerk. Stood.Please use the microphone in front of you, Mr. Phleger. I think we're all agreed we can't quite hear you. The Senator's smile to his colleagues w as a craggy one. There was a ripple of humorless laughter from th e rest of the committee. It echoed off the wood paneling and arou nd the sparsely populated Congressional hearing room.Phleger lean ed down close to the gadget. The squeal of feedback was painful. Uh, I could use some more water, Senator. He straightened his tie and re-took his seat.Aiken waved at a clerk to take some water o ver to the State Department's legal advisor. After all, Herman Ph leger was the man who had headed the U.S. delegation at the Confe rence on Antarctica. He at least deserved a glass of water.Phlege r leaned in close to the microphone again as he adjusted his chai r and thanked the Senator. He could almost hear the old bastard's cogs whirring from across the room.The Red scare. Grab some terr itory now while we still can. What with Khrushchev still fuming o ver that U-2 spyplane business back in May and Eisenhower on the defensive, sending 120 planes out to Southeast Asia last Thursday . Yeah, okay, so China and Russia aren't exactly on speaking term s but that's playing with fire. Of course Francis Gary Powers was working for the military: everyone in the State Department knew that. Although it wasn't exactly a lie when the government had tr ied to say he was flying a weather plane. They simply wanted to k now whether or not the Russians had any missiles in the area.The clerk set a pitcher of ice water down on the desk. The legal advi sor ignored the hissing and popping of exploding ice cubes as he poured himself a glass and gulped down a mouthful.Senator, he sai d, sighing with relief and mopping at his brow, the Treaty specif ically provides that no one surrenders its claim. There are seven claims which cover eighty percent of Antarctica: the United King dom, France, Argentina, Chile, New Zealand, Australia, and South Africa. You take the sector Argentina and Chile have--they've inc orporated it into their metropolitan territories and have crimina l codes which they claim apply to them, and the same is true with respect to New Zealand. So they do have government in those terr itories. So tough shit, Senator, we just weren't quick enough whe n it was time to stake a claim. Just be glad the Russkies don't h ave a plot either. Phleger coughed again. So, Senator, there may only be fifty people in the area but they do have governments.Aik en was clearly uncomfortable with that thought. He shifted in his chair, like his ass spoke his mind for him. But after the adopti on of this Treaty, would the laws of a dozen countries apply?Phle ger didn't need to check his notes. He shook his head. The Treaty says that the signatories do not give up their claims, but the o ther signatories like the United States that do not recognize the ir claims do not by the Treaty recognize the claims and their pos ition of non-recognition. There, that ought to confuse the old bu zzard. It did. He watched him shift on his ass again.Phleger pret ended to be impatient. For instance, headded, if there was a comm ercial man--the Treaty deals with scientists and it deals with mi litary matters ... It was clear Aiken wanted a re-cap on that are a. Phleger took another breath.Okay, he said, if we send a scient ist or an inspector into the section claimed by Chile, he can't b e arrested by Chile. Our jurisdiction applies to him no matter wh ere he is in Antarctica--because we made the decision not to reco gnize other claims to the territory, and because those other clai mants made the concession that they would allow our scientists an d unarmed military personnel to work within their territory on An tarctica. But, if there should be a mining engineer who went down into the sector claimed by Chile and he got into some trouble, C hile would claim that its laws governed.Aiken frowned.Phleger shi fted this time. Was Aiken really that low on short-term memory? A nd in that case, Senator, he explained, we would claim that Chile 's law did not govern because we do not recognize Chile's claim, and there would then be an international controversy as to who ha d jurisdiction over the individual.It was double-Dutch. Phleger k new it was double-Dutch. Aiken didn't appear to know it was doubl e-Dutch, but he didn't appear not to know either. Which was fine. So long as they were all in agreement. Since in essence, they we re merely playing out what the Antarctic Treaty stated, which was : no matter what the claims of a single country over the region k nown as Antarctica, those claims could be freely ignored by every one else. Except, and this was an important proviso, except in th e case of a military build-up, which, it was agreed, was to be ba nned by everyone. Totally. Unless, of course, someone infringed u pon the rights of the others as set out by the Treaty, in which c ase--We don't even recognize any claim of our own, do we? Aiken r eiterated.Phleger almost nodded. He rubbed his chin. This was the ir legal reasoning. By recognizing that there is no sovereignty o ver Antarctica we retain jurisdiction over our citizens who go do wn there and we would deny the right of the other claimants to tr y that citizen. Yes.Aiken sat back in his chair, a crooked grin o n his craggy face. That pleased him enormously. He stubbed out hi s cigarette and immediately reached for another. Boys, I think we just found one more virtue of the bomb! There was another ripple of laughter. He was right. Aside from the Soviet Union, who the hell was going to argue with them? You didn't need to be the firs t. You needed to be the toughest.Aiken lit the fresh cigarette an d inhaled. He had a curious look on his face. Somber. Suppose, Mr . Phleger, he pondered, that there was a sudden and tremendous de mand for emperor penguins?Sir? I'm not sure I'm follow--Penguins, Mr. Phleger. There are serious conservation issues here. What if people went down there and started killing all the emperor pengu ins? Who could prevent that?The people in each of the geographica l areas covered by the seven claimant nations would claim they ha d a right to protect those penguins.Then suppose one of our boys went into the Chilean area and stole a snow cat. What law would h e violate?A snow cat?! What on earth was this old buzzard talking about? Snow cats didn't come from Antarctica. Phleger bit the bu llet. The Chileans apply Chilean law, he said.And we would deny i t?We would apply U.S. law and we would have an international cont roversy.I see.Senator, it doesn't matter, the reason for the crim e. Yes, the environment down there is an issue in the Treaty, but the situations you describe just aren't covered. We would have t o go to mediation over the issue, if it ever arose. We are dealin g with an area where we have no territorial claims and this Treat y deals with matters in the international field exclusively. That 's why it's important that Antarctica remain demilitarized.Aiken' s face adopted another grimace. That's all well and good, Mr. Phl eger, but supposing natural resources of great value were discove red in Antarctica, of value enough so that it would justify an im mense cost to exploit them. It might be a vein of diamonds a foot thick.Phleger let a sneer cross his face. He was no fan of Aiken , but he was a patriot. There is no provision in this Treaty whic h would deal with that situation, Senator. If there was a discove ry of value in a sector which was claimed by one of the claimant nations it would naturally claim sovereignty and the right to dic tate the manner of exploitation. The United States on the other h and, never having recognized the validity of that claim, is in a position to assert that it has rights in respect thereto. And of course, should someone break the Treaty on demilitarization to pr otect its claim, the United States may use whatever force is nece ssary in order to protect the Treaty.Aiken smiled. At least, that 's what we can say.Yes, Senator. We can. The Antarctic Treaty wa s ratified by the U.S. Senate by 66 votes to 21 on August 10, 196 0. And that was how the world left it until 1993, when it was agr eed that everyone should plow through this shoddy mess one more t ime. And again it was agreed that apart from the banning of the m ilitary and banning the exploitation of mineral wealth in respect to the environment, no country could lay claim to Antarctica.Whi ch was a dangerous conclusion to reach for a number of reasons, o ne of which had yet even to be addressed. For it proved that the Antarctic Treaty's vague double-talk had achieved exactly what it had set out to do: that should it stand as law in the face of ov erwhelming social change, its basic tenet would remain: that if a nything of value were discovered in Antarctica; anarchy would rei gn supreme.The Antarctic Treaty guaranteed that even if mankind h ad any desire to rid itself of the Seven Deadly Sins, Greed had b een assured of a place in our hearts by virtue of time. By writin g it down on a piece of paper and parading it as law and belief, Greed could be resurrected at a moment's notice.That was the beau ty of the written word. It was invariably taken at face value and granted permit to be spoken as the truth. It lived longer than t he man.And wreaked havoc in the process.DECIPHER. Copyright © 200 1 by Stel Pavlou. All rights reserved. For information, address S t. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010. ., St. Martin's Paperbacks, 2005, 2.5, 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, Topaz. Good. 4.28 x 1.02 x 6.78 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 1998. 382 pages. Cover worn.<br>When a fiercely loyal and rugged soldie r with no desire for frivolous attachments sets eyes on a beautif ul woman from his past, he risks his life and his heart to give h er a life of happiness and eternal love Editorial Reviews From Library Journal Asked by the ailing husband of his former love to seduce his wife and provide him with an heir, Alexandre de Perig eaux knows he should refuse?the conditions of the agreement are t oo harsh, and it is too dangerous. But even after ten years, Alex still loves Nicolette. The bargain is struck and the deception l eads to inevitable results. Using a plot similar to LaVyrle Spenc er's The Fulfillment (Avon, 1991), but with a twist, Ryan has wri tten a sensual, emotionally involving, and compelling story of fo rbidden love that readers will not soon forget. Ryan (Secret Thun der, Topaz, 1997) lives in Rochester, New York. Copyright 1998 Re ed Business Information, Inc. Review Nine years ago, Alexandre d e Perigeaux fell in love with a young woman. But the woman he lov ed betrayed him and married his cousin. Alex vowed he would never form that kind of heartbreaking attachment again. He is called t he Lone Wolf-and it is a title that suits Alex. He is content ser ving his king and has no intentions of settling down. Then the wo man from his past appears in his life again. When her husband bes eeches him to do the unspeakable, Alex is faced with the most dif ficult decision of his life. Nicolette de St. Clair is married to her husband in name only. Sickness has stolen his health as well as any chance she might have to bear a child. That in itself is tragic enough, but if Nicki does not produce an heir soon she wil l lose her home. She rejects her husband's suggestion to bear ano ther man's child. No matter how desperate her situation, Nicki ca nnot forget she is a married woman. Time and circumstance may hav e torn them apart, but Alex and Nicki's love has not faded. Patri cia Ryan once again weaves a magical spell in a passionate tale o f lost love. Wild Wind is a thoroughly engaging medieval novel wi th a unique story line that keeps the pages turning. Ms. Ryan's l ove for history is obvious in her careful attention to detail. Wi th the skill of an artist, she brings her enchanting characters t o life. Readers will remember Alex from Secret Thunder as Luke de Perigeaux's younger brother. It was a pleasure to see Alex's sto ry told so well! A definite must read for fans of medieval romanc e! Patricia Ryan's writing sparkles! Wild Wind is a wildly romant ic love story from an incredibly gifted author! Readers will fall in love with this wonderful tale! Few authors can bring the past to life as vividly as Patricia Ryan. A heartwarming tale of the power of love! Kristina Wright -- Copyright © 1998 Literary Times , Inc. All rights reserved -- From Literary Times About the Aut hor Patricia Ryan has written more than two dozen books, which ha ve been published in over 20 countries and won numerous awards, i ncluding Romance Writers of America's RITA for her medieval roman ce SILKEN THREADS. A four-time RITA nominee, she is also the reci pient of two Romantic Times Awards and a Mary Higgins Clark Award nomination for the first book of her Gilded Age mystery series, written as P.B. Ryan. (Please note that there is another author who has started writing romance ebooks for Extasy Books as Patric ia Ryan. If a book was published by Extasy, this author did not w rite it.) --Patricia Ryan About the Author Patricia Ryan has wri tten more than two dozen books, which have been published in over 20 countries and won numerous awards, including Romance Writers of America's RITA for her medieval romance SILKEN THREADS. A four -time RITA nominee, she is also the recipient of two Romantic Tim es Awards and a Mary Higgins Clark Award nomination for the first book of her Gilded Age mystery series, written as P.B. Ryan. (P lease note that there is another author who has started writing r omance ebooks for Extasy Books as Patricia Ryan. If a book was pu blished by Extasy, this author did not write it.) --Patricia Ryan ., Topaz, 1998, 2.5, Oxford University Press, USA, 2010-03-02. Hardcover. Very Good. Ships Within 48 hours M-F. Very Good Condition and Unread! Text is clean and unmarked! Light shelf wear to cover from storage. Has a small black line on bottom/exterior edge of pages., Oxford University Press, USA, 2010-03-02, 3<

2010, ISBN: 9780199732258

edizione con copertina rigida

Black Lace Erotic Fiction Written by Women for Wom, 2006. A delicious twist on the modern metrofem scenario of if-I-pay-for-it-there-are-no-strings. (But as we all know, there has never … Altro …

Black Lace Erotic Fiction Written by Women for Wom, 2006. A delicious twist on the modern metrofem scenario of if-I-pay-for-it-there-are-no-strings. (But as we all know, there has never been such a thing as a 'free lunch' anyway!) Chick-Lit on Viagra.Sophie Taylor's lazy-girl lifestyle is about to unravel. She's been with partner Rex for seven years, and now he wants more commitment. She never planned for a long-term relationship with him. Since a drunken agreement where he offered to fulfil her sexual fantasies for seven years in return for a cash loan, they've drifted into a cosy partnership. Yet still Sophie has a fascination with paying men for sex. As a birthday treat Rex poses as a male escort in one of Brighton's posh seafront hotels. It's fun, but it's not enough. Sophie needs the thrill of the real thing; the forbidden element that turns her on and is missing from her life with Rex. And so begins her descent into Brighton's sleazier nightlife, where she meets Wolfie, the genuine gigolo article, and embarks on a series of liaisons that spread out to suburbia and beyond. Elizabeth's Bookshops have been one of Australia's premier independent book dealers since 1973. Elizabeth's family-owned business operates four branches in Perth CBD, Fremantle (WA), and Newtown (NSW). All orders are dispatched within 24 hours from our Fremantle Warehouse. All items can be viewed at Elizabeth's Bookshop Warehouse, 23 Queen Victoria Street\, Fremantle WA., Black Lace Erotic Fiction Written by Women for Wom, 2006, 0, Vintage. Very Good. 5.2 x 0.25 x 8.03 inches. Paperback. 2004. 112 pages. <br>How does he assess the information that is brought to him? How does his personal or political philosophy, or a mora l sense, sustain him? How does he draw inspiration from those aro und him? How does he deal with setbacks and disasters? In this br illiant close-up look at Winston Churchill's leadership during th e Second World War, Gilbert gets to the heart of the trials and s truggles that have confronted the world's most powerful leaders, even up to current politicians such as George Bush and Tony Blair . Basing the book on his intimate knowledge of Churchill's priva te and official papers, Sir Martin Gilbert, Churchill's official biographer, looks at the public figure and wartime propaganda, to reveal a very human, sensitive, and often tormented man, who nev ertheless found the strength to lead his nation forward from the darkest and most dangerous of times. Editorial Reviews From Boo klist Invited to lecture at the White House in February 2002, Gil bert, known as Winston Churchill's official biographer, hopes thi s commentary can be of service to the leaders of the war on terro r. Whether George W. Bush and Tony Blair have been consciously im itating Churchill will be left for future historians to discover; Gilbert, for his part, cautions that Churchill's war leadership can have no parallel, except during a war conducted on the scale of World War II. Caveat announced, Gilbert proceeds point by poin t to Churchill's direction of affairs, of which his celebrated sp eeches and buoyancy in public (depicted in the author's photo alb um Churchill at War [BKL F 15 04]) was only one praiseworthy aspe ct. Above all, Gilbert credits Churchill's refusal to deal with H itler in 1940 and rates highly as well Churchill's articulation o f the war's aim as the defense of democracy. Beneath the public p lane, Churchill's day-to-day activity (such as attending to intel ligence and logistical details) was, according to Gilbert, equall y integral to his leadership. Gilbert Taylor Copyright American Library Association. All rights reserved From the Inside Flap Ho w does he assess the information that is brought to him? How does his personal or political philosophy, or a moral sense, sustain him? How does he draw inspiration from those around him? How does he deal with setbacks and disasters? In this brilliant close-up look at Winston Churchill's leadership during the Second World Wa r, Gilbert gets to the heart of the trials and struggles that hav e confronted the world's most powerful leaders, even up to curren t politicians such as George Bush and Tony Blair. Basing the boo k on his intimate knowledge of Churchill's private and official p apers, Sir Martin Gilbert, Churchill's official biographer, looks at the public figure and wartime propaganda, to reveal a very hu man, sensitive, and often tormented man, who nevertheless found t he strength to lead his nation forward from the darkest and most dangerous of times. From the Back Cover How does he assess the i nformation that is brought to him? How does his personal or polit ical philosophy, or a moral sense, sustain him? How does he draw inspiration from those around him? How does he deal with setbacks and disasters? In this brilliant close-up look at Winston Church ill's leadership during the Second World War, Gilbert gets to the heart of the trials and struggles that have confronted the world 's most powerful leaders, even up to current politicians such as George Bush and Tony Blair. Basing the book on his intimate know ledge of Churchill's private and official papers, Sir Martin Gilb ert, Churchill's official biographer, looks at the public figure and wartime propaganda, to reveal a very human, sensitive, and of ten tormented man, who nevertheless found the strength to lead hi s nation forward from the darkest and most dangerous of times. A bout the Author Sir Martin Gilbert is Winston Churchill's officia l biographer and a leading historian of the modern world. He is t he author of seventy-three books, among them Churchill: A Life, c omprehensive studies of both the First and Second World Wars, and his three-volume work A History of the Twentieth Century. He was made an Honorary Fellow of Merton College, Oxford, in 1994 and w as knighted in 1995. He lives in London with his wife Susan and t heir two boys. Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights res erved. When Winston Churchill beccame Prime Minister on 10 May 19 40, he had been a Member of Parliament for almost forty years. Fo r more than twenty-five of those years he had held high ministeri al office, with responsibilities that covered many spheres of nat ional policy and international affairs. Central to the strength o f his war leadership was this experience. Churchill could draw up on knowledge acquired in the many fierce political battles and to ugh international negotiations in which he had been a central and often successful participant. My knowledge, which has been bough t, not taught, was how he expressed it in the House of Commons du ring a stormy interwar debate on defence. Churchill's knowledge had often been bought at the price of unpopularity and failure. But, above all, it was the experience of dealing, both as a Cabin et Minister from 1905 and as a member of the Committee of Imperia l Defence from 1909, with a wide range of national and world issu es, and also of persuading a frequently hostile House of Commons to accept the logic and argument of government policy. That exper ience served as an essential underpinning-and strengthening-of hi s leadership in the Second World War. For a decade before the Fir st World War, four Prime Ministers-Campbell-Bannerman, Asquith, L loyd George and Baldwin-each entrusted Churchill with contentious issues, having a high regard for his negotiating and persuasive skills. The experience he gained was considerable. In 1911 he had been a pioneer of industrial conciliation and arbitration at a t ime of intense labour unrest. In 1913 he had led the search for a n amelioration of Anglo-German naval rivalry. In 1914 his duties as First Lord of the Admiralty (the post he was to hold again on the outbreak of war in 1939) included both the air defence of Lon don and the protection of the Royal Navy and merchant shipping fr om German naval attack. In 1917 he was put in charge of munitions production in Britain at a time of the greatest need and strain. In 1919 he devised, as a matter of urgency, a system of demobili zation that calmed the severe tensions of a disaffected soldiery. In the early 1920s he had been at the centre of resolving the de mands of Irish Catholics for Home Rule and of the first-and effec tively the last-border delineation dispute between Southern Irela nd and Ulster. At the same time, he had undertaken the complicate d task of carrying out Britain's promise to the Jews of a Nationa l Home in Palestine after the First World War. This experience o f dealing at the centre with Britain's major national needs, duri ng more than three decades, gave Churchill a precious boon from t he first days of his premiership. It also provided him with many specific pointers to war direction. A quarter of a century before he became Prime Minister, he had seen the perils that accompanie d the evolution of war policy when there was no central direction . He had been a member of the War Council in 1914, when the Prime Minister, Asquith, had been unable to exercise effective control over the two Service departments-the army and the navy. To redre ss this problem, on becoming Prime Minister in May 1940, Churchil l created the post, hitherto unknown in Britain, of Minister of D efence. Although the new Ministry had no departmental structure a s such, it did have a secretariat, headed by General Hastings Ism ay, who served, with his small staff, as a direct conduit between the Prime Minister and the Chiefs of Staff-the respective heads of the army, navy and air force. This structure enabled Churchill to put forward his suggestions directly, and with the utmost dir ectness, to those who would have to accept or reject, modify and implement them. The organization of his wartime premiership was a central feature of Churchill's war leadership. That organizati on took several months to perfect, but from his first days as Pri me Minister and Minister of Defence he worked to establish it, an d to create in the immediate ambit of 10 Downing Street an organi zation that would give the nation strong and effective leadership . At its core was the close relationship between Churchill and th e three Chiefs of Staff. Their frequent meetings, often daily, en abled him to discuss with them the many crises of the war, to tac kle the many emergencies, and to decide on an acceptable common s trategy. Working under the Chiefs of Staff, and in close associat ion with Churchill through the Ministry of Defence, were two othe r essential instruments of military planning: the Joint Planning Staff (known as the Joint Planners) and the Joint Intelligence Co mmittee. Other essential elements of the organizational side of Churchill's war leadership evolved as the need arose, among them the Production Council, the Import Executive, the Tank Parliamen t, the Combined Raw Materials Board (an Anglo-America venture), t he Anglo-American Shipping Adjustment Board, and the Battle of th e Atlantic Committee of the War Cabinet. And always to hand was t he apparatus of Intelligence gathering, assessment and distributi on, controlled by the Secret Intelligence Services headed by Colo nel (later General) Stewart Menzies, with whom Churchill was in d aily communication. In his Minutes to Menzies, Churchill made wha tever comments he felt were needed on the nature, implications an d circulation of Intelligence material. This organizational str ucture gave Churchill a method of war leadership whereby the high est possible accumulation of professional knowledge was at his di sposal. He was not a dictatorial leader, although he could be emp hatic in his requests and suggestions. If the Chiefs of Staff opp osed any initiative he proposed, it was abandoned. He had no powe r to overrule their collective will. But on most occasions there was no such stark dichotomy. He and they were searching for the s ame out-come-the means, first, to avert defeat; then to contain a nd, finally, to defeat Germany-and in this search they were in fr equent agreement. One of the members of Churchill's Private Off ice, John Peck, later recalled: I have the clearest possible reco llection of General Ismay talking to me about a meeting of the Ch iefs of Staff Committee at which they got completely stuck and ad mitted that they just did not know what was the right course to p ursue; so on a purely military matter, they had come to Churchill , civilian, for his advice. He introduced some further facts into the equation that had escaped their notice and the solution beca me obvious. A crucial aspect of Churchill's war leadership was his private secretariat, the Private Office at 10 Downing Street. Members of his Private Office accompanied him wherever he went, whether in Britain or overseas, and were available to help smooth his path during every working hour, often until late into the ni ght. At its centre were his Private Secretaries: civil servants, mostly in their thirties, who remained at his side on a rota syst em throughout the week and the weekend. They were privy to his in nermost thoughts (although not, ironically, to the decrypted Enig ma messages on which so many of those thoughts hinged). They knew how to interpret his briefest of instructions, some of which wer e scarcely more than a grunt or a nod of the head. They knew how to find documents and to circulate them. They kept his desk diary with its myriad appointments. They also ensured that whatever th e Prime Minister needed-a document to study, a file to scrutinize , a colleague to question, a journey to be organized, a foreign d ignitary to be received-all was ready at the right time and in th e right place. Given the scale of Churchill's travel in Britain a nd overseas, and his notorious unpunctuality and indecision in li ttle things, this streamlined operation was impressive. In a priv ate letter to General Sir Bernard Montgomery, Clementine Churchil l referred to her husband's chronic unpunctuality and habit of ch anging his mind (in little things) every minute! For example, his Private Secretariat was caused endless vexation as to whether he would receive some important visitor at 10 Downing Street, at No . 10 Annexe a hundred yards away, or in the Prime Minister's room in the House of Commons. Churchill could also show uncertainty regarding the large decisions, rehearsing them in his mind and h esitating for long periods before settling on a course of action. One such instance was the difficult decision, which he supported , to send British troops to Greece to take part in the defence of that country against a possible German attack, thus weakening th e British forces that were then defending Egypt. In the end, he a sked for every member of his War Cabinet to vote on this matter. The unanimous vote was in favour of showing Greece that she was n ot to be abandoned by her ally, despite the hopelessness of the s ituation, given German military superiority. The names of most of the members of Churchill's Private Office are little known to history. Only one, John Colville-who started as the Junior Privat e Secretary in 1940-subsequently made his mark, one of great impo rtance to history, because he kept a detailed diary (quite agains t the rules) of those days when he was on duty. Neither the first Principal Private Secretary, Eric Seal, nor Seal's successor Joh n Martin, nor the other members of the Private Office-John Peck, Christopher Dodds and Leslie Rowan-kept anything more than a few jottings and private letters. The whole team constituted, collect ively, the support system on which Churchill depended and from wh om he obtained first-class service, ensuring the smooth running o f the prime ministerial enterprise at its centre. The members of his Private Office sustained him without publicity or fanfare, bu t with a professionalism and a devotion that helped to make his l eadership both smooth and effective. ., Vintage, 2004, 3, Vintage. Very Good. 19 x 13cm. Paperback. 1998. 230 pages. <br>A literary venture into the economic shadow that s lavery cast, Feeding the Ghosts, based on a true story, lays bare the raw business of the slave trade. The Zong, a slave ship pack ed with captive African stock, is headed to the New World. When i llness threatens to disable all on board and cut potential profit s, the ship's captain orders his crew to throw the sick into the ocean. After being hurled overboard, Mintah, a young female slave taken from a Danish mission, is able to climb back onto the ship . From her hiding place, she rouses the remaining slaves to rebel and stirs unease among the crew with a voice and conscience they seem unable to silence. Mintah's courage and others' reactions t o it unfold in a suspenseful story of the struggle to live even w hen threatened by oblivion. Editorial Reviews From Publishers W eekly In his lyrical third novel, D'Aguiar (Whitbread Award winne r for The Longest Memory) fictionalizes a horrifying incident tha t occurred in 1781. The Zong, a slave ship headed home to England , is packed to capacity with Africans. Shrewd and remote Captain Cunningham considers those 408 people chained below deck to be me rely profitable cargo. But his first mate, Kelsal, has more ambiv alent feelings about the captives because Africans once saved his life. When illness spreads among the slaves, Cunningham orders t he crew to throw the sick overboard so the ship can collect insur ance money for the loss. Mintah, an educated African who speaks E nglish and who recognizes Kelsal from her days as one of his care givers, stuns and frightens the crew with her heroic protests. Be aten and thrown into the sea, she manages to haul herself back on to the ship, where her influence both inspires and divides the re maining slaves. A trial is held upon the ship's arrival to determ ine liability for the 131 missing slaves. The crew is nearly abso lved of responsibility until Mintah's journal is produced, which directly contradicts the crew's accounts. The final words belong to Mintah, whose first-person account of her life after the Zong is troubling and dramatic. D'Aguiar's spare prose starkly reveals the inner lives of Kelsal and Mintah and the crew members as the y face the moral weight of this atrocity. D'Aguiar's imagery is h aunting, his characters' thoughts complex and the mood darkly com pelling. Comparisons to Amistad are inevitable, but D'Aguiar's ac counting of the moral wages of the slave trade is a unique work o f fiction that stands on its own merits. Agent, Bruce Hunter at D avid Higham Associates. Copyright 1998 Reed Business Information , Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable editi on of this title. From the Author The Zong was a real slave ship where slaves were tossed overboard due to disease in 1781. D'Agu iar says, I came across an exhibit of a slave ship at The Maritim e Museum in Liverpool.... A document at the gallery mentioned the Zong... one of the slaves who was thrown overboard managed to cl imb back on board. This contradicts the captain's claims that the slaves he threw away were too sick to survive the crossing. This incident, which provided inspiration for Feeding the Ghosts, als o inspired a painting by J.M.W. Turner called The Slave Ship. --T his text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author D'Aguiar is the author of The Longest M emory and winner of the Whitbread First Novel Award. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Kirkus Reviews This third novel from Whitbread-winner D'Agui ar, as impressive as its predecessors (Dear Future, 1996; The Lon gest Memory, 1995), depicts a barbaric deed in historya British s lave-ship captain's decision to throw a third of his human cargo overboa rd because theyre sickin all its savagery and sorrow. Pro fit alone is what drives Captain Cunningham's decision: the slave s are worth more when theyre dead and part of an insurance claim than when theyre sick on the auction block. Although the members of his crew comply, they are reluctant, and only the determinatio n of first mate Kelsal to carry out orders keeps them in line. Bu t when Kelsal is hailed unexpectedly by name from the slave hold, after the first slaves have been cast upon the waters, he disc o vers a woman, Mintah, who not only speaks English well but who ma kes a determined appeal to his sense of humanity. A beating for h er trouble fails to silence her, so Kelsal throws her into the oc ean, tooalthough she's perfectly healthy. Mintah miraculous ly gr abs a rope dangling from the ship and pulls herself back aboard, finding a hiding place among the ship's stores. She reveals herse lf to the other remaining slaves, and, as the jettisoning of live men, women, and children continues, incites them to re bel. Her rebellion, though short-lived, saps what little energy the crew h as left for the job. Rather than face a mutiny led by Kelsal, Cun ningham stops the killing. In the end, he gets his precious profi t anyway, although he first endures an inquest. Min tah, sold as planned, eventually buys her freedom, and spends her days helping slaves north on the Underground Railroad. The storyline alone wo uld be compelling, but with the lyrical detailing throughout of w ater and wood, movement and memory, this become s a tale as beaut iful in the telling as it is horrific in its reality. -- Copyrigh t ®1998, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Library Journal By turns dreamlike and almost unbearably gri tty, D'Aguiar's (Dear Future, LJ 8/96) poignant take on a histori c event transports the reader deep into the very timbers of the s lave ship Zong, en route from Africa. The ship runs off course, l osing several sailors and slaves to disease before its captain ma kes the shocking decision to throw sick slaves overboard. Disgust ed with their orders but either loyal or cowardly, the crew dispo ses of 131 sick Africans and one bold, articulate young slave wom an, Mintah, who dares to object to the proceedings. Remarkably, M intah survives the sea and climbs back on board the Zong, hiding in food stores and protected by the kind, slow-witted cook's assi stant. She becomes the voice of hope and resistance. Upon the Zon g's arrival in the Americas, the destruction of stock becomes the subject of a court case in which only Mintah's words consider it s true horror. This gripping, horrifying, poetic novel is highly recommended for all libraries.?Janet Ingraham Dwyer, Worthington P.L., Columbus, OH Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reser ved. The Zong dug through the sea, steady and noisy as a rocking chair over loose floorboards, and when the sails thwacked from t ime to time to a sudden crosswind, everyone on board heard - exce pt those buried deep below deck - an amplified sound like that of perfume being slapped on to a just-shaved face. Captain Cunning ham emerged from his cabin and peered at the dawn-lit sky and his assembled crew with the squint he reserved for reading. Whatever he saw in the bunched men and thick grey clouds speckled blue, d rew the frown he ordinarily deployed against untidy writing or un realistic instructions from an investor. He used his right hand t o stroke the left side of his face, partly to clarify his thinkin g and partly to enjoy the smoothness of a recent shave. His middl e finger settled on the dimple in his chin that was always so dif ficult to defoliate and searched it. How to begin? he wondered. W ith a deep breath mostly of salt spray air and a wisp of the perf ume on his face he answered himself, 'At the beginning, of course .' He acknowledged the smiling face of his first mate, Kelsal, wi th a sharp nod. Kelsal's smile switched to a pursed-lipped stare, his more familiar demeanour. All swayed in unison, like a churc h choir, in opposition to the steady locomotion of the ship. More than the wind in the sails and the sea against the sides or the strain in the ship's timbers plummeting through water were the ju st audible cries emanating from below decks. But neither the capt ain nor the assembled crew seemed to hear them, or perhaps, like the sea, the ship and the sails, these cries had grown so habitua l to the sailors' ears, they were no longer heard as signals of d istress, but as part of the whole, all-encompassing fabric of rou tine. Captain Cunningham planted his knuckles in his hips. As if spurred by the action, he immediately raised his chest and shoul ders, jutted his chin forward so that he was at his full height, sucked a generous portion of air akin to a shot of rum bolted dow n to give backbone to some otherwise tenuous resolve, and began. 'Gentlemen, we have a complication of such potentially disastrou s consequences for our investments that the solution requires of us all a degree of brass courage.' Several nods and hear, hears, in agreement, pleased him. A few quizzical looks from the lesser hands, he could afford to ignore, so he resumed. 'We have surren dered seven good men to these waters and lost thirty-six of our h oldings. I do not intend to bury another. One-twelfth of our hold ings lost! With each loss our commission dwindles. These three mo nths of hard work, sacrifice and suffering will come to nothing. We must act decisively or return to our families and friends and investors empty-handed. Which is it to be, gentlemen?' Captain C unningham paused. He expected to hear unanimous calls of 'Profit! Profit!' Instead, he faced confused expressions and indecipherab le grumbles. The men seemed to think he had posed the question, n ot for an answer from them, but to himself as part of a larger el ucidation that was bound to follow his long pause. The captain fo ught back an impulse to shout, 'Which is it to be, gentlemen?' at them again. They watched him with varying degrees of concentrati on etched on their faces. Some shrugged. He pressed his knuckles deeper into his hips to avoid punching the face of the nearest sa ilor and thereby knocking some common sense into the visage or at least dislodging the mask of attentiveness and revealing the stu pidity that languished underneath. What he summoned was the patie nce he needed in massive reserves to deal with sailors and slaves . 'Are we to make a loss or a profit? Which is it to be, gentlem en?' This time the appropriate cries of 'Profit! Profit!' were el icited from them. He waited for the discussion that erupted to su bside. First Mate Kelsal shushed at a few of the more talkative m en nearby, which had the desired effect of returning the focus to the captain. Kelsal's permanent pleat of skin between his eyebr ows, coupled with his pursed lips, conferred on him the unusual a spect of someone who was always listening intently. Looking at hi m there would be no way of telling he was unsure where the captai n's mind and obvious resolve would lead them next. Wherever it le d he knew he would have to follow, as he had always followed, sin ce every reasonable path was preferred to this stagnation of deat h and disease which had gripped the Zong and brought it to the br ink of failure and anchored it there for weeks, in this, its last African mission. Ten weeks at sea and the prospect of the horizo n yielding up the land that they believed was there, of land alon gside instead of perennial sea, was still a dream. First the slav es became sick. This was expected. But with each death and no end in sight, fear spread among the twenty-four members of the crew that their turn would come. The ship's doctor had succumbed, pani c spread. He died. One after another the crew fell in with the vo miting and diarrhoea of the slaves, robbing the ship of hands tha t were vitally needed and the remaining crew of its will, souring the mission's hitherto delicious promise of wealth for all invol ved. 'The insurers' interests are at odds with ours. That you kn ow. What you don't know is that every time a piece of cargo is lo st we, not the insurers, must bear that loss, unless the loss is a measure taken by us to ensure against further depletion of our stocks. What I am about to propose, gentlemen, is one such measur e that we may recover our losses from the insurance.' --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Review Out of this monstrous episode in a monstrous trade, D'Agu iar has fashioned a novel of great power and beauty.... The writi ng is luminous and poetic. --Sunday Times (London) The most sati sfying aspects of the story are D'Aguiar's precise observations o f the resonances of languages and its capacity to transform what it describes. --Times Literary Supplement His eloquence in full flight, D'Aguiar implies that there is always a Zong at sea somew here. --Saturday Independent --This text refers to an out of prin t or unavailable edition of this title. ., Vintage, 1998, 3, Oxford University Press, USA, 2010-03-02. Hardcover. Very Good. Ships Within 48 hours M-F. Very Good Condition and Unread! Text is clean and unmarked! Light shelf wear to cover from storage. Has a small black line on bottom/exterior edge of pages., Oxford University Press, USA, 2010-03-02, 3<