2009, ISBN: 9780690039924

edizione con copertina flessibile, edizione con copertina rigida

Wordsworth Editions Ltd. Good. 4.9 x 0.8 x 7.7 inches. Paperback. 1993. 352 pages. Cover worn. Text tanned<br>A Tale of Two Cities by Cha rles Dickens. This novel traces the private… Altro …

Wordsworth Editions Ltd. Good. 4.9 x 0.8 x 7.7 inches. Paperback. 1993. 352 pages. Cover worn. Text tanned<br>A Tale of Two Cities by Cha rles Dickens. This novel traces the private lives of a group of p eople caught up in the cataclysm of the French Revolution and the Terror. Dicken's based his historical detail on Carlyle's The Fr ench Revolution, and his own observations and investigations duri ng his numerous visits to Paris. Editorial Reviews From the Bac k Cover A Tale of Two Cities is Charles Dickens's great historica l novel, set against the French Revolution. The most famous and p erhaps the most popular of his works, it compresses an event of i mmense complexity to the scale of a family history, with a cast o f characters that includes a bloodthirsty ogress and an antihero as believably flawed as any in modern fiction. Though the least t ypical of the author's novels, A Tale of Two Cities still undersc ores many of his enduring themes - imprisonment, injustice, and s ocial anarchy, resurrection and the renunciation that fosters ren ewal. About the Author Charles Dickens was born on February 7, 1 812, in Portsmouth, England,where his father was a naval pay cler k. He received some education at a small private school but this was curtailed when his father's fortunes declined. More significa nt was his childhood reading, which he evoked in a memory of his father's library: 'From that blessed little room, Roderick Random , Peregrine Pickle, Humphrey Clinker, Tom Jones, The Vicar of Wak efield, Don Quixote, Gil Blas and Robinson Crusoe came out, a glo rious host, to keep me company. They kept alive my fancy, and my hope of something beyond that place and time. When Dickens was te n the family moved to Camden Town, and this proved the beginning of a long, difficult period. When he had just turned twelve Dicke ns was sent to work for a manufacturer of boot blacking, where fo r the better part of a year he labored for ten hours a day, an un happy experience that instilled him with a sense of having been a bandoned by his family. Around the same time Dickens's father was jailed for debt in the Marshalsea Prison, where he remained for fourteen weeks. After some additional schooling, Dickens worked a s a clerk in a law office and taught himself shorthand; this qual ified him to begin working in 1831 as a reporter in the House of Commons, where he was known for the speed with which he took down speeches. By 1833 Dickens was publishing humorous sketches of Lo ndon life in the Monthly Magazine, which were collected in book f orm as Sketches by 'Boz' (1836). These were followed by the publi cation in instalments of the comic adventures that became The Pos thumous Papers of the Pickwick Club (1837), whose unprecedented p opularity made the twenty-five-year-old author a national figure. In 1836 he married Catherine Hogarth, who would bear him ten chi ldren over a period of fifteen years. Dickens characteristically wrote his novels for serial publication, and was himself the edit or of many of the periodicals in which they appeared. Among his c lose associates were his future biographer John Forster and the y ounger Wilkie Collins, with whom he collaborated on fictional and dramatic works. In rapid succession he published Oliver Twist (1 838), Nicholas Nickleby (1839), The Old Curiosity Shop (1841), an d Barnaby Rudge (1841), sometimes working on several novels simul taneously. The appearance of A Christmas Carol in 1843 sealed his position as the most widely popular writer of his time; it becam e an annual tradition for him to write a story for the season. He continued to produce novels at only a slightly diminished rate, publishing Dombey and Son in 1848 and David Copperfield in 1850, his personal favorite among his books. From this point on his nov els tended to be more elaborately constructed and harsher and les s buoyant in tone than his earlier works. These late novels inclu de Bleak House (1853), Hard Times (1854), Little Dorrit (1857), A Tale of Two Cities (1859), and Great Expectations (1861). Our Mu tual Friend, published in 1865, was his last completed novel, and perhaps the most somber and savage of them all. Dickens had sepa rated from his wife in 1858. He had become involved a year earlie r with a young actress named Ellen Ternan and the ensuing scandal had alienated him from many of his former associates and admirer s. He was weakened by years of overwork and by a near-fatal railr oad disaster during the writing of Our Mutual Friend. Nevertheles s he embarked on a series of public readings, including a return visit to America in 1867, which further eroded his health. A fina l work, The Mystery of Edwin Drood, a crime novel much influenced by Wilkie Collins, was left unfinished upon his death on June 9, 1870, at the age of 58. ., Wordsworth Editions Ltd, 1993, 2.5, HCI. Good. 5.75 x 1.25 x 8.5 inches. Paperback. 2003. 400 pages. Cover worn. Ex-library.<br>All of us, at one time or a nother, find ourselves inexplicably drawn to the sea. For some, i t's a place for reflection or romance. For others, it's the thril l of watching surf crash against a sandy white beach or studying the kaleidoscope of life among a tropical coral reef. This abilit y of the ocean to change our lives, to inspire us and to fascinat e us is what led us to create Chicken Soup for the Ocean Lover's Soul, a collection of stories from around the world that celebrat e the magic of our ocean planet. The sea, from the beginning of time, has inspired great art and amazing stories. Our relationshi p with the ocean lies deep within our consciousness and, in fact, is in each of us. Chicken Soup for the Ocean Lover's Soul has ca ptured some of these great stories to warm your heart and touch y our soul. This book has amazing stories of swimming eye to eye wi th great whales, sharks and manatees, as well as legends of dolph ins saving man. So get ready to dive in with Jack, Mark and Wyla nd, the world's most acclaimed marine-life artist, as they guide you on a journey of discovery and stories that will lift your spi rit and awaken your senses like the healing sea itself. At last, a Chicken Soup for the Soul book for ocean lovers like you! Edit orial Reviews About the Author Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Han sen, #1 New York Times and USA Today bestselling authors of the C hicken Soup for the Soul series, are professional speakers who ha ve dedicated their lives to enhancing the personal and profession al development of others. Wyland, the world's premier marine-lif e artist. The painter, sculptor, writer, muralist and underwater photographer is one of the most prolific and celebrated artists o f our day. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserv ed. The Driftwood Queen My life is like a stroll upon the beach , As near the ocean's edge as I can go. The Fisher's Boy The oce an is, was and always will be a big part of my life. My parents w ere ocean aficionados, and I was introduced to its beauty and ser enity at an early age. I learned to swim before I walked, had a f ishing pole placed in my hands at age two and was taught how to p ilot a small craft by age five-thanks to my father, who allowed m e to assist in rowing home. My fascination with the ocean escala ted as the family spent the summer on the eastern end of Long Isl and on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean. I was an early riser, and by age ten I was permitted to go down to the beach in the mornin g to collect shells on my own. Every day I would dress quickly, g rab my bucket and head for the beach. I would climb the sand dune s that hid the ocean from view and sit quietly at the top and wat ch the waves tumble onto the shore as I ate my breakfast roll. O ne morning I noticed an older, shabbily dressed woman walking alo ng the beach pulling, of all things, a sled. Now and then, she wo uld stop, pick up a piece of driftwood, examine it carefully and either discard it or place it on the sled. I called out to her. Hello, I said. She didn't acknowledge me. As only a child can, I took this as an open invitation to join the search. I looked fo r any driftwood that she had missed and retrieved it for her insp ection. She said nothing, but seemed pleased with my company. Af ter a half-hour, I tapped her on the shoulder, said good-bye and started for home. After telling my parents about my new acquaint ance, my mother explained that I had met, as the town folk called her, The Driftwood Queen, or Queenie for short. Dad said she was a poor soul who lived in a rundown cottage near the bay. The com munity left food packages on her doorstep once a week, and the ch urch collected clothing on her behalf. No one knew her real name, and many stories had circulated about where she had come from an d why she collected the driftwood. Everyone had a different slant on the story, but the exact truth had never surfaced. She had be come the town enigma, known only by her nickname. My parents wer e kind and loving people and saw no problem with my association w ith Queenie. So each morning I would wait for her to appear and w as always delighted at the smile on her face when she spotted me. I now carried an extra breakfast roll with me, and Queenie devou red it with gusto. We scoured the beach, enjoying the cool ocean breeze and the feel of the ocean mist on our bodies. Although we still exchanged no words, we became friends through our daily en terprise. One morning I saw a large piece of driftwood floating close to shore and retrieved it before it could be carried out t o sea. Queenie was elated. We put the piece on her sled, which wa s now full, and usually that meant the end of our day together. B ut Queenie tugged at my sleeve and motioned for me to follow her. Before long we stood in front of a small house that had fallen i nto disrepair. Remembering how my father had described Queenie's home, I knew where I was. She deposited the large piece of wood that we had found earlier next to the house, then beckoned me to follow her inside. I couldn't believe what I saw. The furniture, the cabinets, the pictures on the wall and the many exquisite-loo king sculptures-all were made from driftwood. Queenie, did you m ake all these things? I exclaimed. She nodded her head, smiled a toothless grin and gestured for me to sit down. She left for a s econd. When she returned, she placed some cookies in front of me and scribbled on a large note pad. Her message said, Hello Anne, my name is Erma. Welcome to my home. I smiled and answered, Hi E rma, these cookies are great, and your house is beautiful. She r eached over and patted my hands with great affection and then beg an to write again. I don't talk very well, but I want you to know that I love your company. Me, too, Erma. We continued our dail y quests until it was time for my family to return to the city. S ummer was almost over, and school beckoned. I saw tears in my fri end's eyes as I said good-bye, and I assured her that I would see her next summer. She placed a small package wrapped in newspaper in my hands and kissed me on the cheek. I ran home, not turning to wave, as I knew I would cry. Inside the package was a seagull carved from driftwood. Today, some forty-eight years later, it st ill stands in my curio cabinet. Sadly, I never saw Erma again. My parents sat me down after school one day to say a letter had arr ived from the chaplain at the hospital on Long Island. Erma had b een rushed to the hospital after being found lying in the snow ne ar her home. She had lingered for several days before she succumb ed to pneumonia. Before she died, she had written a letter in fro nt of the chaplain addressed to My best friend, Anne. The chapla in knew my parents and of my association with Erma and had forwar ded the letter to us. It said simply: Thank you for being my frie nd. I love you. Take my driftwood and make others happy. Love Erm a. It took me weeks before I could talk to my parents about Erma' s death. She was the first person I knew who had died. I found it hard to relate to the fact that I would never see her again. I d reamed about her, the ocean behind her smiling face, the beauty o f her driftwood. My family donated the collection to the church community center for all to see and use. I told my parents that I knew this would make Erma happy. They agreed. Every summer, the first stop we made, upon arrival, was at this small meeting hall. I would stand and gaze in awe at the items that had come from th e ocean and had been transformed into works of art by my friend. Mom and Dad said they were proud of me for the kindness I had sho wn toward Erma. I knew I had received so much more than I had eve r given. I had learned that, like the ocean, love goes on forever . Anne Carter ¬2003. All rights reserved. Reprinted from Chicke n Soup for the Ocean Lover's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor H ansen, Wyland. No part of this publication may be reproduced, sto red in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any me ans, without the written permission of the publisher. Publisher: Health Communications, Inc., 3201 SW 15th Street, Deerfield Beach , FL 33442. </div ., HCI, 2003, 2.5, Ballantine Books. Good. 4.2 x 1.1 x 6.73 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2009. 416 pages. <br>I am Meredith, princess of faerie, and at long las t, I am with child-twins, fathered by my royal guard. Now I must stay alive to see my children born, as conspirators from every co urt plot against me and mine. They seek to strip my guards, my lo vers, from me by poisoned word or cold steel. But I still have su pporters, and even friends, among the goblins and the sluagh who will stand by me. Those who would defy and destroy me are destine d to pay a terrible price. To protect what is mine, I will sacrif ice anything-even if it means waging a battle against my darkest enemies and making the most momentous decision ever made as princ ess of faerie. Editorial Reviews Review An emotionally charged and suspense-filled tale . . . with enough surprises, twists and turns to keep you guessing.-Romance Reviews Today Wild magic and wilder sex.-Publishers Weekly Nearly nonstop action.-St. Louis Post-Dispatch About the Author Laurell K. Hamilton is the New Yo rk Times bestselling author of the Meredith Gentry novels: A Kiss of Shadows, A Caress of Twilight, Seduced by Moonlight, A Stroke of Midnight, Mistral's Kiss, A Lick of Frost, and Divine Misdeme anors, as well as seventeen acclaimed Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter , novels. She lives in St. Louis, Missouri. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Hospitals are w here people go to be saved, but the doctors can only patch you up , put you back together. They can't undo the damage. They can't m ake it so you didn't wake up in the bad place, or change the trut h to lies. The nice doctor and the nice woman from the SART, Sexu al Assault Response Team, couldn't change that I had indeed been raped. The fact that I couldn't remember it, because my uncle had used a spell for his date-rape drug, didn't change the evidence- the evidence that they'd found in my body when they did the exam and took samples. You would think being a real live faerie princ ess would make your life fairy-tale-like, but fairy tales only en d well. While the story is going on, horrible things happen. Reme mber Rapunzel? Her prince got his eyes scratched out by the witch , which blinded him. At the end of the story, Rapunzel's tears ma gically restored his sight, but that was at the end of the story. Cinderella was little better than a slave. Snow White was actual ly nearly killed four different times by the evil queen. All anyo ne remembers is the poisoned apple, but don't forget the huntsman , or the enchanted girdle and the poisoned comb. Pick any fairy t ale that's based on older stories, and the heroine of the piece h as a miserable, dangerous, nightmarish time of it. I am Princess Meredith NicEssus, next in line to a high throne of faerie, and I'm in the middle of my story. The happy-ever-after ending, if it 's coming at all, seems a very long way away tonight. I was in a hospital bed, in a nice private room, in a very nice hospital. I was in the maternity ward, because I was pregnant, but not with my crazy uncle's baby. I had been pregnant before he stole me awa y. Pregnant with the children of men I loved. They'd risked every thing to rescue me from Taranis. Now, I was safe. I had one of th e greatest warriors that faerie had ever seen at my side: Doyle, once the Queen's Darkness, and now mine. He stood at the window, staring off into the night that was so ruined by the lights from the hospital parking lot that the blackness of his skin and hair was much darker than the night outside. He'd removed the wraparou nd sunglasses that he almost always wore outside. But his eyes we re as black as the glasses that hid them. The only color in the d im light of the room was the glints from the silver rings that cl imbed the graceful line of one ear to the point that marked him a s not pure blood, not truly high court, but mixed blood, like me. The diamonds in his earlobe sparkled in the light as he turned h is head, as if he'd felt me staring at him. He probably had. He h ad been the queen's assassin a thousand years before I was born. His ankle-length hair moved like a black cloak as he came toward me. He was wearing green hospital scrubs that he'd been loaned. They had replaced the blanket from the ambulance that had brought us here. He'd entered the golden court, to rescue me, in the for m of a large black dog. When he shape-shifted he lost everything, clothes, weapons, but strangely never the piercings. The many ea rrings and the nipple piercing survived his return to human form, maybe because they were part of him. He came to stand beside th e bed, and take my hand-the one that didn't have the intravenous drip in it, which was helping hydrate me, and get me over the sho ck I'd been in when I had arrived. If I hadn't been with child, t hey'd have probably given me more medicine. For once I wouldn't h ave minded stronger drugs, something to make me forget. Not just what my uncle, Taranis, had done, but also the loss of Frost. I gripped Doyle's hand, my hand so small and pale in his large, dar k one. But there should have been another beside him, beside me. Frost, our Killing Frost, was gone. Not dead, not exactly, but lo st to us. Doyle could shape-shift to several forms at will and co me back to his true form. Frost had had no ability to shape-shift , but when wild magic had filled the estate where we'd been livin g in Los Angeles, it had changed him. He had become a white stag, and run out the doors that had appeared into a piece of faerie t hat had never existed before the magic came. The lands of faerie were growing, instead of shrinking, for the first time in centur ies. I, a noble of the high courts, was with child, twins. I was the last child of faerie nobility to be born. We were dying as a people, but maybe not. Maybe we were going to regain our power, b ut what use to me was power? What use to me was the return of fae rie, and wild magic? What use was any of it, if Frost was an anim al with an animal's mind? The thought that I would bear his chil d and he would neither know nor understand made my chest tight. I gripped Doyle's hand, but couldn't meet his eyes. I wasn't sure what he would see there. I wasn't sure what I was feeling anymore . I loved Doyle, I did, but I loved Frost, too. The thought that they would both be fathers had been a joyous one. He spoke in hi s deep, deep voice, as if molasses, and other, thick, sweet thing s, could be words, but what he said wasn't sweet. I will kill Tar anis for you. I shook my head. No, you will not. I had thought a bout it, because I had known that Doyle would do just what he'd s aid. If I asked, he would try to kill Taranis, and he might succe ed. But I could not allow my lover and future king to assassinate the King of Light and Illusion, the king of our enemy court. We were not at war, and even those among the Seelie Court who though t Taranis was mad or even evil would not be able to overlook an a ssassination. A duel, maybe, but not an assassination. Doyle was within his rights to challenge the king to a duel. I'd thought ab out that, too. I'd half liked that idea, but I'd seen what Tarani s could do with his hand of power. His hand of light could char f lesh, and had nearly killed Doyle once before. I had let go of a ny thought of vengeance at Doyle's hand when I weighed it against the thought of losing him too. I am the captain of your guard, and I could avenge my honor and yours for that reason alone. You mean a duel, I said. Yes. He does not deserve a chance to defen d himself, but if I assassinate him, it will be war between the c ourts, and we cannot afford that. No, I said, we can't. I looked up at him then. He touched my face with his free hand. Your eye s glow in the dark with a light of their own, Meredith. Green and gold circles of light in your face. Your emotions betray you. I want him dead, yes, but I won't destroy all of faerie for it. I won't get us all kicked out of the United States for my honor. Th e treaty that let our people come here three hundred years ago st ated only two things that would get us kicked out. The courts can 't make war on American soil, and we can't allow humans to worshi p us as deities. I was at the signing of the treaty, Meredith. I know what it said. I smiled at him, and it seemed strange that I could still smile. The thought made the smile wilt a little aro und the edges, but I guess it was a good sign. You remember the M agna Carta. That was a human thing, and had little to do with us . I squeezed his hand. I was making a point, Doyle. He smiled, and nodded. My emotions make me slow. Me, too, I said. The door behind him opened. There were two men in the doorway, one tall a nd one short. Sholto, King of the sluagh, Lord of that Which Pass es Between, was as tall as Doyle, and had long, straight hair tha t fell toward his ankles, but the color was white-blond, and his skin was like mine, moonlight pale. Sholto's eyes were three colo rs of yellow and gold, as if autumn leaves from three different t rees had been melted down to color his eyes, then everything had been edged in gold. The sidhe always have the prettiest eyes. He was as fair of face as any at the courts, except for my lost Fros t. The body that showed under the t-shirt and jeans he'd worn as part of his disguise when he came to save me seemed to cling to a body as lovely as the face, but I knew that at least part of it was illusion. Starting at his upper ribs, Sholto had extra bits, tentacles, because, though his mother had been high-court nobilit y, his father had been one of the nightflyers, part of the sluagh , and the last wild hunt of faerie. Well, the last wild hunt unti l the wild magic had returned. Now, things of legend were returni ng, and Goddess alone knew what was real again, and what was stil l to return. Until he had a coat or jacket thick enough to hide the extra bits, he would use magic, glamour, to hide the extras. No reason to scare the nurses. It was his lifetime of having to h ide his differences that had made him good enough at illusion to risk coming to my rescue. You do not go lightly against the King of Light and Illusion with illusion as your only shield. He smil ed at me, and it was a smile I had never seen on Sholto's face un til the moment at the ambulance when he had held my hand, and tol d me he knew he would be a father. The news seemed to have soften ed some harshness that had always been there in his handsome body . He seemed the proverbial new man, as he walked toward us. Rhys was not smiling. At 5'6, he was the shortest full-blooded sidhe I'd ever met. His skin was moonlight pale, like Sholto's, like mi ne, like Frost's. Rhys had removed the fake beard and mustache he 'd worn inside the faerie mound. He'd worked at the detective age ncy in L.A. with me, and he'd loved disguises. He was good at the m, too, better than at illusion. But he'd had enough illusion to hide the fact that he only had one eye. The remaining eye was thr ee circles of blue, as beautiful as any in the court, but where h is left eye had once lain was white scar tissue. He usually wore a patch in public, but tonight his face was bare, and I liked tha t. I wanted to see the faces of my men with nothing hidden tonigh t. Doyle moved enough so Sholto could put a chaste kiss against my cheek. Sholto wasn't one of my regular lovers. In fact, we'd o nly been together once, but as the old saying goes, once is enoug h. One of the children I carried was part his, but we were new ar ound each other, because in effect we'd only had one date. It had been a hell of a first date, but still, we didn't really know ea ch other yet. Rhys came to stand at the foot of the bed. His cur ly white hair, which fell to his waist, was still back in the pon ytail he'd worn to match his own jeans and t-shirt. His face was very solemn. It wasn't like him. Once he'd been Cromm Cruach, and before that he'd been a god of death. He wouldn't tell me who, b ut I had enough hints to make guesses. He'd told me that Cromm Cr uach was god enough; he didn't need more titles. Who gets to cha llenge him to the duel? Rhys asked. Meredith has told me no, Doy le said. Oh, good, Rhys said. I get to do it. No, I said, and I thought you were afraid of Taranis. I was, maybe I still am, bu t we can't let this go, Merry, we can't. Why? Because your pride is hurt? He gave me a look. Give me more credit than that. I w ill challenge him, then, Sholto said. No, I said. No one is to c hallenge him to a duel, or to kill him in any other way. The thr ee men looked at me. Doyle and Rhys knew me well enough to be spe culative. They knew I had a plan. Sholto didn't know me that well yet. He was just angry. We can't let this insult stand, princes s. He has to pay. ., Ballantine Books, 2009, 2.5, Bantam. Good. 5.06 x 1.06 x 7.81 inches. Paperback. 2006. 329 pages. Cover worn.<br>The hilarious and true story of two sen ior-citizens and their whippet dog who hatch, plan and carry out a lunatic scheme to sail from Stone in Staffordshire to Carcasson ne in the South of France. From the Hardcover edition. Editoria l Reviews Review Written with the author's glorious sense of hum or, this is one of those journeys you never want to end.-Good Boo k Guide, UK A rich and winning comic debut, destined to become a classic.-Daily Telegraph, UK One of the most hilarious travel m emoirs ever written!-Booklist About the Author Terry Darlington was brought up in Pembroke Dock, Wales, during the war, between a flying-boat base and an oil terminal. He survived and moved to S taffordshire, where he founded Research Associates, an internatio nal market research firm, and Stone Master Marathoners, a running club. Like many Welshmen, he is talkative and confiding, ill at ease with practical matters, and liable to linger in pubs. He lik es boating but knows nothing about it. Following the publication of Narrow Dog to Carcassonne, Terry, his wife Monica, and their whippet Jim planned to sail the Phyllis May down the Intracoastal Waterway from Virginia to Florida-an adventure which, should the y survive it, will be the subject of their next book, Narrow Dog to Indian River, coming from Delta in 2009. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Moon River Ston e to Westminster On the floor of the Star Inn Jim was fighting t o push his entire body inside a bag of pork scratchings. I could have had a dog that ate its dinner, a dog that barked and wagged its tail, a normal dog, a dog with fur. But the book said a whipp et was the easiest dog and I had trouble enough already. Whippet s are hounds-miners' dogs, racers, rabbiters. They are very thin. On top they are velvet and underneath they are bald. They are wa rm and smell of buttered toast. They love every living creature t o a rapture unless you are small and furry and trying to get the hell out of here. They like running the towpaths and thieving off fishermen; but fire up the engine, cast off the ropes, and it's the eyes, the betrayed eyes. So the narrowboat Phyllis May has a dog that hates boating. We'll call him Gonzales, I had said, bec ause he's fast, or Leroy because he's golden brown, or we'll have a dog called Bony Moronie. Good thinking, said Monica, and named him Jim. He's your dog, she said-you look after him. I read Your Dog Is Watching You, and Your Dog Will Get You in the End, and H ow to Stop Your Dog Behaving Like a Bloody Animal. Jim and I went to school on many dark evenings, but neither of us learned very much. The door from the canal opened and it was Clive. Like most inland boaters, Clive looks like a pregnant bear. Got you, he sh outed-greedy greedy, early drinkies, surprise surprise, make mine a pint. He sat down and slapped his pipe and his Breton sailor's hat on the table. Jim was ecstatic. Jim sees Clive and Beryl as part of our pack, who sometimes make their escape owing to my lac k of leadership and poor attention to detail. But through his tra cking skills we get them back, and How about some scratchings? A re you nervous? asked Clive, pulling Jim out of his trouser pocke t. Yes, I said. I'm worried about getting away from Stone. I migh t crash or fall in. People will be watching. Clive has a Dudley accent, and a deep voice, as if he is saying something important. Beryl and I should never have encouraged you, he said. You are o ld, you've only got one eye, you are a coward and you can't jump. You're no good at anything useful. Monica ran your business whil e you wandered around being nasty to your customers. By the end of the summer I'll be fine, I said. I can handle the fear-running a market research agency scared me stiff too. We had another pin t, to handle the fear. TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS AGO A bunch o f engineers met in a public house by a canal. They decided the si ze of the locks on the English canal system and then they had ano ther round and started talking about girls. In the morning the se cretary could not remember what had been decided, or indeed where he was, so to be on the safe side he chose the narrowest gauge m entioned in his notes, which was seven feet. That is how the Engl ish narrow lock was born, and the English narrowboat-the cigarett e, the pencil, the eel, the strangest craft ever to slither down a waterway. The five windows of the Phyllis May lit the towpath for the length of a cricket pitch. With her flat roof, fairground lettering, brasses and flowers, a traditional narrowboat has a l ouche charm, though sixty feet by seven is a preposterous shape. Clive and I stepped into the front deck and down to the narrow sa loon. Panelling, armchairs, lamps and pictures-second class on th e Orient Express. You live in comfort, and you live sideways. Mo nica was curled on the sofa. Beryl folded her hands in her lap, i n a cornflower stare. Clive stood in the middle of the saloon. We have news, he said-we are forsaking earthly things. We are selli ng our house and our possessions, giving what is left to the poor , and having a narrowboat built, on which we will live out our da ys. Ah the poor earthbound rabble, tramping their warren streets- for me the silver highway, the gypsy life: my companion the heron , lone sentinel of the waterways, my constituency the ducks, my g ardens the broad valleys, my drawing room the public bar of the i nn called Navigation. I've been trying to persuade the bugger for years, said Beryl. But first we are going up the Bristol Channe l with you on the Phyllis May, said Clive. But I am not going up the Bristol Channel on the Phyllis May, I protested. The Phyllis May is a canal boat. There are fifty-foot tides and the Severn Bo re. We will finish up dashed through the window of Woolworths in Bewdley. I don't think there is a Woolworths in Bewdley, said Cli ve, but if there is I can pick up a CD of Felix Mendelssohn and h is Hawaiian Serenaders. And next year when you go to France we wi ll all put out to sea together, and sail across the Channel side by side. I could feel my palpitations coming on. Clive, I said, narrowboats don't sail across the Channel. I was brought up by th e sea. I remember the empty seats in school when boys drowned the mselves. I might sail the Phyllis May to France if there were thi rty Tommies to take back and it would tip the balance in the stru ggle for Europe. Otherwise it's the lorry, and a crane into Calai s. Let's have a drop more of that Banks's, said Clive-you know I have blue water experience. You mean we went out once from Padst ow, said Beryl, in a cruiser, and nearly drowned. That was a tric k of the tide, said Clive. But they warned you, said Beryl, they begged you, they called it the Maelstrom and you went straight in to it. But we got back in, said Clive. Yes, said Beryl, we got ba ck in. Is this Old Speckled Hen a strong one? asked Clive-it tas tes so smooth. The thing is you rope them up together side by sid e, so if one breaks a belt on the engine the other tows it out of the way of the tankers and car ferries. Piece of piss really. Cl ive, I said, you come from Dudley, you have been to sea once and you nearly didn't come back, and now you want to put at hazard th e December years I could spend in the Star or watching Kylie Mino gue on the box. But narrowboats are like those toys, said Clive. The bottom is full of bricks so they roll back. What about that chap, I said, who built a narrowboat in Liverpool and set out acr oss the Irish Sea? How did he do? asked Clive. No one ever found out, I said. Must have run into a maelstrom, said Clive. Is that single malt as good as you say it is? He sat back and smiled. Jim looked at him with eyes full of love. He had found a leader at l ast. When I woke up the next morning, and I wished I had not wok en up the next morning, I realized that I had agreed to sail an i nland boat across the English Channel, roped up to a madman. A C ANAL LOCK IS A SIMPLE IDEA. YOU CLOSE the gate behind you and emp ty the water out at the other end and you sink down, and then you open the gates in front of you and sail away. Going up you fill the lock instead of emptying it. In real life locks are dark and slimy and foaming. They flood you and hang you by the stern. Ofte n they don't work. But today I wound up the paddles in the lock g ate with my new aluminium key without spraining my wrist, and whe n the lock was empty heaved on the beams and opened the gates wit hout shouting for help. The Phyllis May mumbled out of the Star l ock into the sunshine, Jim riding shotgun on the roof. Friends a nd family waved. Pints were brandished in the sunshine and grandd aughters wept. The swans that nest below the Star dipped their be aks and raised them in perfect time. Past the tower of St. Michae l's, to drinking, and dancing, and waving, and tears, and coarse encouraging shouts. A Cunarder leaving New York, country style. Under Aston lock the Trent valley falls away in spires and farms. It's like Ulysses, I said, whom I so closely resemble. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world . . . It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Your dog has jumped ship, said Monica, and is probably in Rugeley. And th ere is a corpse under the prop, so you'll have to go down the wee d-hatch again. WHEN MONICA AND I BOUGHT THE PHYLLIS May she was worn out, and we had her refurbished. We had not had a boat befor e and sometimes we would go down to the cut and lick her all over . We loved the gangling shape and the long windows, we loved the curve of the bow and the front deck where you could sit, and the teak and oak saloon running on and on into the galley. We loved t he iron stove, the shower that worked, the little bedroom cabin, the warm engine-room. We held the grab-rail along the roof and wa lked the gunwale, trying not to fall in. I would stand on the bac k counter, leaning on the tiller, musing upon our boatyard manage r's sins and on the follies of the yard before him. But one day we found a boatyard we could trust and soon we sailed away, in sh ining grey and white and crimson, with primroses on the roof and a brass tunnel light at the bow, and our names on the engine-room in fairground lettering a foot high, and ran into the first brid ge. The Phyllis May is not right yet-no narrowboat is right yet. Lumps of metal drop into her bilges, or she leaks from the rear. Then I strip naked, grease myself all over, and hang upside down among the ironmongery, grunting and cursing. It is dark, it is w et, I freeze and I burn and I get stuck and we call out the boaty ard anyway. I have gone all sweaty in my hair so let's talk about something else. Jim lets me use his kennel as my office. I put my laptop on it and sit on the coal-box with my feet on Jim. The coal-box has Phyllis May painted on the front side and Kiss Me Ag ain on the backside. Jim lies quietly under my feet, which is mor e than my secretary ever did, and sometimes he licks me behind th e knees, and in forty years in business there was no chance of th at. In pubs he is the cause of much wise country talk about lampi ng for rabbits, and is seen as the next best thing to a lurcher. The trouble is he camps everything up. In Stone I fastened him o utside the supermarket. When I returned he was in the arms of an old man in a cloth cap. Both were crying softly. I crept away. I came back and a crowd had gathered. In the middle lay Jim, preten ding to be dead. Was this your dog? asked a lady. On the boat I opened a bag of pork scratchings. Jim manifested himself at my kn ee. He sat down-Can I have a scratching? Then he lay down-Please can I have a scratching? Then he rolled on his back and waved his legs in the air-Please please can I have a scratching? Then he s at up and looked straight at me-What do you want me to do-sing 'M oon Fucking River'? A cathedral of oaks to Fradley, and we moore d at the end of the nave. CALL ME MOZZA, SAID OUR NEW FRIEND IN THE cowboy boots, settling into my chair. Some people call me Mad Mozza, he added proudly. He was a sturdy young chap, maybe forty , with sandy hair and blue staring eyes. Cheers Mozza, I said, I' m Terry and this is Monica and you've met Jim. We're really grate ful Mozza, said Monica-Terry loves that dog. He stole Captain's bone, said Mozza, and ran away-Captain didn't stand a chance. Jim looked out of his kennel, his eyes wide-He begged me Your Honour , Steal my bone; he went down on his hands and knees. He was on t he road, said Mozza, but he came to me. They come to me because I have The Power. Would you like a cup of tea? asked Monica. Er ye s, said Mozza. I poured him half a tumbler of rum. I know this b oat, said Mozza-Starbuck. Billy Ishmael had her built-lived on he r for ten years. Knows his boats, Billy. Very artistic. Carried h im home twice from the Plum Pudding in Armitage. Goodness, said M onica-but we are really pleased with her shape, Mozza: the low li ne, the big windows, and we've kept the grey. The lettering on th e engine-room is not bad, said Mozza-why Phyllis May? My mother, I said, rest her soul-she still comes back. They come back all ri ght, agreed Mozza. We had another rum, to stop them coming back. We just retired, I said, and we bought a little house and we bou ght the boat and we bought Jim. We keep crashing into things and running out of fuel and falling in and people shout at us and sti ck notes on the door. Maybe we started too late. It's a way of li fe, agreed Mozza. You've got to be born to it. To tell you the tr uth, at your age you would probably be better off in a home-you m ust be a menace to the navigations. You're right Mozza, I said, b ut you can't get the beer. Click click, said Mozza. Pardon? I sa id. Click click, said Mozza, let the water in click by click. Oh yes, I said, that poor chap last summer, two locks behind us. The lock filled too fast, knocked overboard by the tiller, engine in reverse, cut to pieces. Wife, two kids. Click click, said Mozza. What's the hurry? We want to go south to see if we can handle t he big rivers, explained Monica. This year we want to go down to London and past the Houses of Parliament and up the Thames and al ong the Kennet and Avon Canal to Bristol. Next summer we want to go to Paris, and the summer after to Carcassonne. Never heard of it, said Mozza. It's in France, I said, right down the other end. It's sort o, Bantam, 2006, 2.5, Dell Publishing Company. Good. 4.18 x 1.05 x 6.85 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 1992. 501 pages. Cover worn<br>At the top of his class at Harvard Law, he had his choice of the best in America. He made a deadly mistak e. When Mitch McDeere signed on with Bendini, Lambert & Locke of Memphis, he thought he and his beautiful wife, Abby, were on thei r way. The firm leased him a BMW, paid off his school loans, arra nged a mortgage and hired him a decorator. Mitch McDeere should h ave remembered what his brother Ray -- doing fifteen years in a T ennessee jail -- already knew. You never get nothing for nothing. Now the FBI has the lowdown on Mitch's firm and needs his help. Mitch is caught between a rock and a hard place, with no choice - - if he wants to live. Editorial Reviews Amazon Review Hard to believe, but there was a time when the word lawyer wasn't syn onymous with criminal, and the idea of a law firm controlled by t he Mafia was an outlandish proposition. This intelligent, ensnari ng story came out of nowhere--Oxford, Mississippi, where Grisham was a small-town lawyer--and quickly catapulted to the top of the bestseller list, with good reason. Mitch McDeere, the appealing hero, is a poor kid whose only assets are a first-class mind, a H arvard law degree, and a beautiful, loving wife. When a Memphis l aw firm makes him an offer he really can't refuse, he trades his old Nissan for a new BMW, his cramped apartment for a house in th e best part of town, and puts in long hours finding tax shelters for Texans who'd rather pay a lawyer than the IRS. Nothing crimin al about that. He'd be set for life, if only associates at the fi rm didn't have a funny habit of dying, and the FBI wasn't trying to get Mitch to turn his colleagues in. The tempo and pacing are brilliant, the thrills keep coming, and the finish has a wonderfu l ironic flourish. It's not hard to see why Grisham changed the g enre permanently with this one, and few of his colleagues in a ve ry crowded field come close to equaling him. --Jane Adams From P ublishers Weekly A rookie discovers that the prestigious law firm where he works is a front for the Mafia. MC suggests addding som e info along the lines of 'a surprise bestseller in hardcover...' /i think this is interesting but it goes beyond the specification s laid out by george of a very brief description of book/pk Autho r tour. Copyright 1992 Reed Business Information, Inc. Review T aut, fast and relentless... A ride worth taking.-San Francisco Ch ronicle. Keeps the reader hooked... From the creepy first chapt ers... to the vise-tightening midsection and on to the take-the m oney-and-run finale. -Wall Street Journal Irresistible... seizes the reader on the opening page and propels him through 400 more. -Peter Prescott, Newsweek. From the Publisher At the top of his class at Harvard Law, he had his choice of the best in America. H e made a deadly mistake. When Mitch McDeere signed on with Bendin i, Lambert & Locke of Memphis, he thought he and his beautiful wi fe, Abby, were on their way. The firm leased him a BMW, paid off his school loans, arranged a mortgage and hired him a decorator. Mitch McDeere should have remembered what his brother Ray -- doin g fifteen years in a Tennessee jail -- already knew. You never ge t nothing for nothing. Now the FBI has the lowdown on Mitch's fir m and needs his help. Mitch is caught between a rock and a hard p lace, with no choice -- if he wants to live. Taut, fast and rel entless... A ride worth taking. -- San Francisco Chronicle. Kee ps the reader hooked... From the creepy first chapters... to the vise-tightening midsection and on to the take-the money-and-run f inale. -- The Wall Street Journal Irresistible... seizes the rea der on the opening page and propels him through 400 more. -- Pete r Prescott, Newsweek. From the Inside Flap At the top of his cl ass at Harvard Law, he had his choice of the best in America. He made a deadly mistake. When Mitch McDeere signed on with Bendini, Lambert & Locke of Memphis, he thought he and his beautiful wife , Abby, were on their way. The firm leased him a BMW, paid off hi s school loans, arranged a mortgage and hired him a decorator. Mi tch McDeere should have remembered what his brother Ray -- doing fifteen years in a Tennessee jail -- already knew. You never get nothing for nothing. Now the FBI has the lowdown on Mitch's firm and needs his help. Mitch is caught between a rock and a hard pla ce, with no choice -- if he wants to live. From the Inside Flap At the top of his class at Harvard Law, he had his choice of the best in America. He made a deadly mistake. When Mitch McDeere sig ned on with Bendini, Lambert & Locke of Memphis, he thought he an d his beautiful wife, Abby, were on their way. The firm leased hi m a BMW, paid off his school loans, arranged a mortgage and hired him a decorator. Mitch McDeere should have remembered what his b rother Ray -- doing fifteen years in a Tennessee jail -- already knew. You never get nothing for nothing. Now the FBI has the lowd own on Mitch's firm and needs his help. Mitch is caught between a rock and a hard place, with no choice -- if he wants to live. F rom the Back Cover Taut, fast and relentless... A ride worth taki ng. -- San Francisco Chronicle. Keeps the reader hooked... From the creepy first chapters... to the vise-tightening midsection a nd on to the take-the money-and-run finale. -- The Wall Street Jo urnal Irresistible... seizes the reader on the opening page and propels him through 400 more. -- Peter Prescott, Newsweek. Abou t the Author Long before his name became synonymous with the mode rn legal thriller, John Grisham was working 60-70 hours a week at a small Southaven, Mississippi law practice, squeezing in time b efore going to the office and during courtroom recesses to work o n his hobby-writing his first novel. Born on February 8, 1955 in Jonesboro, Arkansas, to a construction worker and a homemaker, J ohn Grisham as a child dreamed of being a professional baseball p layer. Realizing he didn't have the right stuff for a pro career, he shifted gears and majored in accounting at Mississippi State University. After graduating from law school at Ole Miss in 1981, he went on to practice law for nearly a decade in Southaven, spe cializing in criminal defense and personal injury litigation. In 1983, he was elected to the state House of Representatives and se rved until 1990. One day at the DeSoto County courthouse, Grisha m overheard the harrowing testimony of a twelve-year-old rape vic tim and was inspired to start a novel exploring what would have h appened if the girl's father had murdered her assailants. Getting up at 5 a.m. every day to get in several hours of writing time b efore heading off to work, Grisham spent three years on A Time to Kill and finished it in 1987. Initially rejected by many publish ers, it was eventually bought by Wynwood Press, who gave it a mod est 5,000 copy printing and published it in June 1988. That migh t have put an end to Grisham's hobby. However, he had already beg un his next book, and it would quickly turn that hobby into a new full-time career-and spark one of publishing's greatest success stories. The day after Grisham completed A Time to Kill, he began work on another novel, the story of a hotshot young attorney lur ed to an apparently perfect law firm that was not what it appeare d. When he sold the film rights to The Firm to Paramount Pictures for $600,000, Grisham suddenly became a hot property among publi shers, and book rights were bought by Doubleday. Spending 47 week s on The New York Times bestseller list, The Firm became the best selling novel of 1991. The successes of The Pelican Brief, which hit number one on the New York Times bestseller list, and The Cl ient, which debuted at number one, confirmed Grisham's reputation as the master of the legal thriller. Grisham's success even rene wed interest in A Time to Kill, which was republished in hardcove r by Doubleday and then in paperback by Dell. This time around, i t was a bestseller. Since first publishing A Time to Kill in 198 8, Grisham has written one novel a year (his other books are The Firm, The Pelican Brief, The Client, The Chamber, The Rainmaker, The Runaway Jury, The Partner, The Street Lawyer, The Testament, The Brethren, A Painted House, Skipping Christmas, The Summons, T he King of Torts, Bleachers, The Last Juror, The Broker, Playing for Pizza, and The Appeal) and all of them have become internatio nal bestsellers. There are currently over 225 million John Grisha m books in print worldwide, which have been translated into 29 la nguages. Nine of his novels have been turned into films (The Firm , The Pelican Brief, The Client, A Time to Kill, The Rainmaker, T he Chamber, A Painted House, The Runaway Jury, and Skipping Chris tmas), as was an original screenplay, The Gingerbread Man. The In nocent Man (October 2006) marked his first foray into non-fiction . Grisham lives with his wife Renee and their two children Ty an d Shea. The family splits their time between their Victorian home on a farm in Mississippi and a plantation near Charlottesville, VA. Grisham took time off from writing for several months in 199 6 to return, after a five-year hiatus, to the courtroom. He was h onoring a commitment made before he had retired from the law to b ecome a full-time writer: representing the family of a railroad b rakeman killed when he was pinned between two cars. Preparing his case with the same passion and dedication as his books' protagon ists, Grisham successfully argued his clients' case, earning them a jury award of $683,500-the biggest verdict of his career. Whe n he's not writing, Grisham devotes time to charitable causes, in cluding most recently his Rebuild The Coast Fund, which raised 8. 8 million dollars for Gulf Coast relief in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. He also keeps up with his greatest passion: baseball. Th e man who dreamed of being a professional baseball player now ser ves as the local Little League commissioner. The six ballfields h e built on his property have played host to over 350 kids on 26 L ittle League teams. About the Author Long before his name became synonymous with the modern legal thriller, John Grisham was work ing 60-70 hours a week at a small Southaven, Mississippi law prac tice, squeezing in time before going to the office and during cou rtroom recesses to work on his hobby-writing his first novel. Bo rn on February 8, 1955 in Jonesboro, Arkansas, to a construction worker and a homemaker, John Grisham as a child dreamed of being a professional baseball player. Realizing he didn't have the righ t stuff for a pro career, he shifted gears and majored in account ing at Mississippi State University. After graduating from law sc hool at Ole Miss in 1981, he went on to practice law for nearly a decade in Southaven, specializing in criminal defense and person al injury litigation. In 1983, he was elected to the state House of Representatives and served until 1990. One day at the DeSoto County courthouse, Grisham overheard the harrowing testimony of a twelve-year-old rape victim and was inspired to start a novel ex ploring what would have happened if the girl's father had murdere d her assailants. Getting up at 5 a.m. every day to get in severa l hours of writing time before heading off to work, Grisham spent three years on A Time to Kill and finished it in 1987. Initially rejected by many publishers, it was eventually bought by Wynwood Press, who gave it a modest 5,000 copy printing and published it in June 1988. That might have put an end to Grisham's hobby. Ho wever, he had already begun his next book, and it would quickly t urn that hobby into a new full-time career-and spark one of publi shing's greatest success stories. The day after Grisham completed A Time to Kill, he began work on another novel, the story of a h otshot young attorney lured to an apparently perfect law firm tha t was not what it appeared. When he sold the film rights to The F irm to Paramount Pictures for $600,000, Grisham suddenly became a hot property among publishers, and book rights were bought by Do ubleday. Spending 47 weeks on The New York Times bestseller list, The Firm became the bestselling novel of 1991. The successes of The Pelican Brief, which hit number one on the New York Times be stseller list, and The Client, which debuted at number one, confi rmed Grisham's reputation as the master of the legal thriller. Gr isham's success even renewed interest in A Time to Kill, which wa s republished in hardcover by Doubleday and then in paperback by Dell. This time around, it was a bestseller. Since first publish ing A Time to Kill in 1988, Grisham has written one novel a year (his other books are The Firm, The Pelican Brief, The Client, The Chamber, The Rainmaker, The Runaway Jury, The Partner, The Stree t Lawyer, The Testament, The Brethren, A Painted House, Skipping Christmas, The Summons, The King of Torts, Bleachers, The Last Ju ror, The Broker, Playing for Pizza, and The Appeal) and all of th em have become international bestsellers. There are currently ove r 225 million John Grisham books in print worldwide, which have b een translated into 29 languages. Nine of his novels have been tu rned into films (The Firm, The Pelican Brief, The Client, A Time to Kill, The Rainmaker, The Chamber, A Painted House, The Runaway Jury, and Skipping Christmas), as was an original screenplay, Th e Gingerbread Man. The Innocent Man (October 2006) marked his fir st foray into non-fiction. Grisham lives with his wife Renee and their two children Ty and Shea. The family splits their time bet ween their Victorian home on a farm in Mississippi and a plantati on near Charlottesville, VA. Grisham took time off from writing for several months in 1996 to return, after a five-year hiatus, t o the courtroom. He was honoring a commitment made before he had retired from the law to become a full-time writer: representing t he family of a railroad brakeman killed when he was pinned betwee n two cars. Preparing his case with the same passion and dedicati on as his books' protagonists, Grisham successfully argued his cl ients' case, earning them a jury award of $683,500-the biggest ve rdict of his career. When he's not writing, Grisham devotes time to charitable causes, including most recently his Rebuild The Co ast Fund, which raised 8.8 million dollars for Gulf Coast relief in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. He also keeps up with his great est passion: baseball. The man who dreamed of being a professiona l baseball player now serves as the local Little League commissio ner. The six ballfields he bui, Dell Publishing Company, 1992, 2.5, Thomas Y Crowell, 1979. First Edition. Hardcover. Good Condition/Fair. Illustrator: . Ex-library with typical marks, light discoloring and wear; good sound binding. The jacket has some creasing; wrapped; taped inside the covers; tape stains. Contents include Angels and Other Strangers; Guests; Many Happy Returns; Tidings of Joy; Maggie's Gift; Star of Night; He Came Down; Woodrow Kennington Works Practically a Miracle; Broken Windows. Illustrator: . Quantity Available: 1. Category: Fiction; ISBN: 0690039921. Inventory No: 132527. ., Thomas Y Crowell, 1979, 2.25<

1979, ISBN: 9780690039924

Thomas Y Crowell, 1979. First Edition. Hardcover. Good Condition/Fair. Illustrator: . Ex-library with typical marks, light discoloring and wear; good sound binding. The jacket has s… Altro …

Thomas Y Crowell, 1979. First Edition. Hardcover. Good Condition/Fair. Illustrator: . Ex-library with typical marks, light discoloring and wear; good sound binding. The jacket has some creasing; wrapped; taped inside the covers; tape stains. Contents include Angels and Other Strangers; Guests; Many Happy Returns; Tidings of Joy; Maggie's Gift; Star of Night; He Came Down; Woodrow Kennington Works Practically a Miracle; Broken Windows. Illustrator: . Quantity Available: 1. Category: Fiction; ISBN: 0690039921. Inventory No: 132527. ., Thomas Y Crowell, 1979, 2.25<