The Unfolding: A Novel - Softcover

Homes, A.M.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593653084 ISBN 13: 9780593653081

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2022

Inhaltsangabe

“[A] much-anticipated, wickedly funny and sharply observed political satire…This novel of politics and family brings readers to the fault line of American politics.” —The New York Times Book Review

“Beyond being good or bad, the characters in this impressive book are, above all things, unpredictable.”—Wall Street Journal

One family will remake America. Even if they fall apart trying. A.M. Homes delivers us back to ourselves in this stunning alternative history that is both terrifyingly prescient, deeply tender and devastatingly funny.

The Big Guy loves his family, money and country. Undone by the results of the 2008 presidential election, he taps a group of like-minded men to reclaim their version of the American Dream. As they build a scheme to disturb and disrupt, the Big Guy also faces turbulence within his family. His wife, Charlotte, grieves a life not lived, while his 18-year-old daughter, Meghan, begins to realize that her favorite subject—history—is not exactly what her father taught her.

In a story that is as much about the dynamics within a family as it is about the desire for those in power to remain in power, Homes presciently unpacks a dangerous rift in American identity, prompting a reconsideration of the definition of truth, freedom and democracy—and exploring the explosive consequences of what happens when the same words mean such different things to people living together under one roof.

From the writer who is always “razor sharp and furiously good” (Zadie Smith), a darkly comic political parable braided with a Bildungsroman that takes us inside the heart of a divided country.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

A.M. Homes is the author of thirteen books, among them the best-selling memoir The Mistress’ Daughter; the novels This Book Will Save Your Life, The End of Alice, and Jack; and the short story collections Days of Awe, The Safety of Objects and Things You Should Know. She also writes for film and television and teaches in the Creative Writing Program at Princeton University.
 
 




 

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"A dazzling portrait of a family―and a country―in flux…The Unfolding is hilarious and shocking and heartbreaking and just a little bit deranged―in other words, it’s a book that feels like what it feels like to be alive right now." --Nathan Hill, author of The Nix

“Gripping, sad, funny, by turns aching and antic and, as always, exceedingly well-observed and -written.”--Michael Chabon, bestselling and Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Moonglow and The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay

In her first novel since the Women’s Prize award-winning May We Be Forgiven, A.M. Homes delivers us back to ourselves in this stunning alternative history that is both terrifyingly prescient, deeply tender and devastatingly funny.

The Big Guy loves his family, money and country. Undone by the results of the 2008 presidential election, he taps a group of like-minded men to reclaim their version of the American Dream. As they build a scheme to disturb and disrupt, the Big Guy also faces turbulence within his family. His wife, Charlotte, grieves a life not lived, while his 18-year-old daughter, Meghan, begins to realize that her favorite subject―history―is not exactly what her father taught her.

In a story that is as much about the dynamics within a family as it is about the desire for those in power to remain in power, Homes presciently unpacks a dangerous rift in American identity, prompting a reconsideration of the definition of truth, freedom and democracy―and exploring the explosive consequences of what happens when the same words mean such different things to people living together under one roof.

From the writer who is always “razor sharp and furiously good” (Zadie Smith), a darkly comic political parable braided with a Bildungsroman that takes us inside the heart of a divided country.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

The Biltmore Hotel, Second-Floor Bar

Phoenix, Arizona

1:00 a.m.

This can't happen here.

He's been at the bar for ninety minutes; a dozen men have come and gone, having drowned their sorrows, done a little business, and put the whole thing to bed.

There are four whiskey glasses in front of him, each one different, none of them empty.

In one corner the television is on, volume down, the talking head postmortem will go all night. In the other corner, by the window, there's a couple canoodling like there's no tomorrow. And in the middle of the bar a screwball with a Zippo lighter runs his thumb over the wheel again and again, scratching the flint to spark. "Windproof," he says each time the fuel ignites. "Windproof."

"It's on me as much as anyone," the Big Guy says to the bartender. "Humility if nothing else requires that a man take responsibility for his failures."

"You sound like a man pleading guilty," the bartender says.

"I am guilty."

"No prophet is accepted in his own country; no doctor heals in his own home."

"You're seriously playing that card here?"

"On Saturday nights I work at the casinos, Desert Diamond, Talking Stick. I've seen men give up the ghost right in front of me, and even on their way out, they're still feeling the high. 'Hit me. Hit me again.'"

The Big Guy shakes his head. "All men make mistakes, but making the same mistake twice is not a mistake, it's a pattern. Tonight it was like Fat Man and Little Boy got back together and planted a mushroom garden right here in Phoenix. And yet, somehow, we're surrounded by folks who have no idea what they have brought upon themselves. No idea."

A man slides into the seat next to the Big Guy, glances at the four glasses of whiskey, and signals the bartender.

"Pour me one of those," he says.

"Which one?"

"The one in the middle."

"There is no middle," the bartender says.

"The Highland Park."

The Big Guy looks up. "You can call it in the dark?

"Slainte," the man says, knocking back the drink.

"You're not one of them, are you?"

"One of what?"

"Your hair is wet so I'm thinking you're one of the assholes who got sprayed with champagne and did a little victory dance a couple of hours ago."

"I don't think so," the man says. "I'm more like a fella who came downstairs and took a dip in the pool in order to clear my head."

"Explains the smell," the Big Guy says. "Chlorine."

The man taps his glass for the bartender. "Again."

"Were you in the room upstairs?"

"I was."

"And what did you see?" the Big Guy asks.

"A generational earthquake that split the terra firma."

The Big Guy snorts.

"I would characterize it as a heavy metal Led Zeppelin, a grim shaking of the head, the palsied all-too-knowing dip of disappointment, keening women knowing they'll have crushed male egos to deal with for breakfast. The damp, dull face of defeat. They banked on the wrong horse in the absence of a better horse while full well knowing it wasn't even a horse race but really a rat race."

"Please, tell me you're not a reporter."

"Historian, sometimes professor, occasional author but not on the clock tonight."

"If you're not on the clock, why are you here?"

"Bearing witness?" the man suggests. "Fella traveler?"

The Big Guy flags the bartender. "Give him the Ardbeg. It's one of my favorites. I call it Santa's Paws, tastes like it crawled out of the fireplace. Smoky."

The man laughs. "Similar to Lagavulin."

"Similar. I'll tell you what I don't like, a scotch that's fruity. I don't want anything that's got raisins, cherries, or essence of Fig Newton. That's what I call a stool softener." The Big Guy belches. "Pardon me," he says. "I'm in a little deeper than I thought."

"They should just burn it down," the screwball with the Zippo says, flipping his lighter into the gun position, letting the flame go high and then slapping the lighter closed.

The bartender goes over and asks the screwball to settle his tab. "It's been a long night for everyone," he says. "Time to go home."

"There's no place like home," Zippo says, standing up. "Every dog is a lion at home." He peels twenties off a thick wad of cash, knocks back the rest of his drink, leaving the money under the empty glass.

As Zippo wobbles out of the room, the Big Guy taps his glass. "Ardbeg again for me and my friend."

The bartender pours.

"You want to know what I've been writing?" the Big Guy asks.

"Yeah," the man says.

"My memory of the dream."

"The dream?"

The Big Guy nods. "September 2, 1945, my introduction to the world."

"V-J Day?"

"I was literally born into it. The war ended and the American dream came into bloom with my name written all over it. You know what I've been saying all night? 'This can't happen here.' But it did. And it's not the first time. Happened eight years ago as well, but that time we took it back. This go-round there is no rescue plan."

The two men drink.

"What do you call that?" the Big Guy says, nodding toward the couple in the corner.

"Wound licking," the man says.

"It hasn't progressed. Two hours and they're still like that."

"They're married but not to each other," the man says. "They can get away with what they're doing now, call it grief counseling, but if they take it upstairs, it becomes something else."

"You a married man?"

"No. I would say that I am devoted to my work, but that wouldn't be true either."

"Been here before?" the Big Guy asks.

"Do you mean literally here in this bar?"

"Yes."

"I have," the man says. "As a kid, I came here with my father. There was a special knock to get in or at least that's what my father told me."

"Back in the day, the liquor used to be kept in a false bookshelf," the Big Guy says. "You see that skylight up there? If trouble was coming, they'd shine a light over the roof and the fellas would skedaddle. I'm not sure that was Mr. Wright's intention when he designed it."

"I thought it was Wrigley, like the gum."

"Frank Lloyd Wright designed it. Wrigley bought it in 1930 and put in the pool. People used to come out for the season. There was an office of the New York Stock Exchange downstairs. This was the Smoking Room. You might say I'm a bit of a history buff," the Big Guy says. "If you wanted to get in you had to know the password."

"What was the password?"

"It changed frequently."

"Was it something like 'It's raining on Mount Weather'?"

The Big Guy looks at him. Mount Weather is not a run-of-the-mill noun one simply drops into conversation. "Oh Shenandoah," the Big Guy lobs back.

"High Point," the man says, replying with another watchword.

"The squirrel got the nut," the Big Guy says.

"I left my suitcase on a train," the man says.

"You two quoting poetry to each other?" the bartender asks.

"Just singing the same song," the man says.

"Sniffing each other out to see if we're members of the same club," the Big Guy says. "I don't think I got your name?"

"I didn't give it." There's a pause. "What did you expect tonight?"

"More," the Big Guy says. "I expected more."

"Hope," the man says. "That's what he offered them and they went for it. Hope won over More."

The two men are quiet for a moment, nursing their drinks.

"I'll tell you something," the Big Guy says, looking around as if making sure it's safe to reveal a secret. "There are two cycles for political business in this country; one is eighteen months and the other is four years. We talk about the 'next go-round' like we're buying tickets on a theme-park ride. Democracy, the...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2022
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593653084
• ISBN 13: 9780593653081
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 416
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Zeitfracht Medien GmbH; info-medien@zeitfracht.de; ; Ferdinand-Jühlke-Straße 7; Erfurt; 99095; Deutschland