Lightning Field: A Novel - Softcover

Spiotta, Dana

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0743223756 ISBN 13: 9780743223751

Verlag: Scribner, 2002

Inhaltsangabe

*A New York Times Notable Book and Los Angeles Times Best Book of the Year*

From the National Book Award nominated author of Innocents and Others and Wayward, a “wonderfully funny, accomplished, and far-reaching first novel about our consumer colossus and the human products it makes and shapes” (Don DeLillo).

In her bold and lyrical first novel, Dana Spiotta evokes Los Angeles as a land of Spirit Gyms and Miracle Miles, a great centerless place where chains of reference get lost, or finally don't matter.

Mina lives with her screenwriter husband and works at her best friend Lorene's highly successful concept restaurants, which exploit the desires and idiosyncrasies of a rich, chic clientele. Almost inadvertently, Mina has acquired two lovers. And then there are the other men in her life: her father, a washed-up Hollywood director living in a yurt and hiding from his debtors, and her disturbed brother, Michael, whose attempts to connect with her force Mina to consider that she might still have a heart—if only she could remember where she had left it.

Between her Spiritual Exfoliation and Detoxification therapies and her elaborate devotion to style, Lorene is interested only in charting her own perfection and impending decay. Although supremely confident in a million shallow ways, she, too, starts to fray at the edges.

And there is Lisa, a loving mother who cleans houses, scrapes by, and dreams of food terrorists and child abductors, until even the most innocent events seem to hint at dark possibilities.

Lightning Field explores the language tics of our culture—the consumerist fetishes, the self-obsession, and the possibility that you just might have gotten it all badly wrong.

Playful and dire, raw and poetic, Lightning Field introduces a startling new voice in American fiction.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Dana Spiotta is the author of Innocents and Others; Stone Arabia, A National Books Critics Circle Award finalist; and Eat the Document, a finalist for the National Book Award. Eat the Document has also been made into an opera adaptation. Her most recent novel is Wayward. Spiotta is a recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, the John Updike Prize, and the Rome Prize for Literature. She lives in Syracuse, New York.

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Lightning Field

A NovelBy Dana Spiotta

Scribner

Copyright © 2002 Dana Spiotta
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0743223756

Excerpt

Her hands are white and long and lithe. They make elusive, fleeting frames -- flirtations of shapes, really -- on anything they touch. Anything in the world. I would follow those hands out to the desert. I would. I would watch them

on the black leather curve of the steering wheel. I would watch them light a cigarette with the glowing car lighter after it made a low pop and smelled vaguely of burnt food. And I would watch them as she gestured when she spoke, as if she were weighing air or beckoning someone near. At times I notice her watching her own hands, admiring their white elegant angles and delicately draped bones. When I notice her watching her own hands, I look away, my eyes shy from shame.

"Mina," she says, and I like it when she says my name and leaves it there hanging, like a statement, or barks it, "Mina," like an order.

"Leave everything," she says. "The one thing you can't leave behind is the thing you absolutely must."

OK, OK, sure, but we take money. Lots and lots of it. Lorene's more than mine. And her car. But nothing else. Not a book or a change of clothes. Not a ring or a stocking or a journal or a fountain pen.

We lunch at a truck stop. Laminated menus with heart-healthy options. Pale coffee and everything smells like syrup.

"Look, sugar cubes," Lorene says, dropping one after the other into her coffee, letting each one balance on the spoon, then submerging it until it becomes saturated with the pale brown liquid.

"It reminds me of a commercial," I say.

"Yeah," Lorene says, "me too. Why do I keep doing this," she submerges the cube slowly and watches it absorb coffee, "why do I get such a kick out of this."

"I don't remember which, maybe not sugar," I say. "Maybe the cube is used as a demonstration."

"You mean an absorbency demonstration?" Lorene asks.

"Yes, exactly something almost like that. Absorbency."

"There were so many demonstration commercials. So visual, so scientific."

"Sugar cubes. I really like sugar cubes. Why'd they go and get rid of sugar cubes?" I say, all of a sudden extremely sad about it.

"Packets, perhaps, offer labels, small type, nutritional information, a higher ability to sanitize. Last longer. There's the anticipatory shaking gesture, loading the granules into one end of the envelope so it can be torn without spilling. Improved delivery system of loose granules versus cubes. Dissolves easier. Makes it easier to use more. Nefarious plot to destroy my body's ecosystem. Yeast- and microbe-feeding, inner-organ-caramelizing sugar," Lorene continues, stirring her coffee, pushing it back and taking another drag on her cigarette. "But it makes the coffee palatable, which in turn makes the cigarette enjoyable, which in fact makes the morning bearable."

The waitress is adjusting her stockings. She thinks no one is looking, and she pulls at the fabric of her skirt, nearly jumps with the pull. She reaches to the back of her knee, gets a handful of nylon, inches it up, a minor hike, then tries again, through the skirt, the little jump-hike.

"A perfect system. Airtight. No complaints," I say.

Still, I know that isn't it. No good reason to get rid of cubes. An object of unremarked-upon delight rendered less than what it was. It's what Michael would say, it's the sort of pleasing detail you never seem to notice until one day it's gone.

Lorene slips two fingers through the handle of her coffee cup and braces it against the fingertips of her other hand. She lifts the cup to her mouth, closes her eyes, and sips the hot, sugary liquid.

But maybe, just maybe, that's not it either. Maybe sugar cubes seem pleasing just because they're gone, and that kind of detail brings you pleasure only as a contemplated lost thing, the pleasing nature of it is realized only because of its absence.

One Month Before Leaving:

The Cocktail Hour

Mina watched him, examining his profile at twenty paces. Mina watched him, half-shadowed, through a window, half-lit with the amazing dusk light, even, or especially, L.A. movie-fake dusk light that could be thrown by a switch in a soundstage. A fading soft pink light that made her long for soundtrack swells, the softness making her think she longed for every person she ever thought she should have loved a little more, but really it was only a scented-hanky kind of nostalgia, an antiques shop nostalgia, or, finally, a cable channel documentary-type nostalgia for people and places you never even knew, not a longing for home, but a longing for "home." Mina had a weakness for this kind of bungalow dusk melodrama. When the whole city caught her off guard she found an emotional attachment to its past and she read its ugliness as its charm. It was then she felt she had finally got it, that it was her place, fleetingly, if only because of the light and its fading glow.

He was part of that light, and she could not stop watching him in it. Through their window. From a distance. Not just that, but his unawareness of her watching.

For the past two hours she had done the unthinkable, the violate: she walked. First through the Vista Del Mar neighborhood of old tiny 1920s bungalows, sort of Spanish Colonial with odd Moorish and Eastern flourishes, stuccoed and surrounded by palm trees, so arranged and moderne they seemed carved in Bakelite. Car-free, in summer ballet flats, the only one besides gardeners and children, Mina walked along curbs and looked through interior-lit windows, the fading dusk light affording anonymity, the TVs and stereos and nearly audible conversations providing a schizoid soundtrack -- strange juxtapositions of familiar radio sounds with other people's lives at an audio glance. Sometimes just a name, spoken and unanswered, hung in the air, or whole arguments at high volume. She could pause and listen for hours to fragments of conversations about dinner or car keys or mail.

She had walked the long way from Max's apartment in the Hills, then headed down Gower past Sunset and Santa Monica. The streets had already thickened with homebound cars, five o'clock sliding into six o'clock, a special segue time that was once called, by someone, somewhere, the cocktail hour. People used to slip seamlessly from Hollywood General on Highland, from all the rattan and wickered bungalows on the Paramount lot over on Gower, to, where? Maybe the Cinegrill at the Roosevelt Hotel. To a padded banquette at the Dresden, around crescent-shaped tables seemingly designed for fourth-wall-theater staging, or an In a Lonely Place lonely stool at the bar at the Brown Derby, or Musso and Frank's. Or a dozen other bars, long gone, that used to line Gower and Hollywood. Gower's Gulch. Actors, extras -- cowboys and gladiators. And all those suit-spectacled execs, in her mind all as young and three-buttoned and black-and-white as the photo of Irving Thalberg her father used to have in his study. It had that name, Gower's Gulch, back when it had a history, used to be called Gower's Gulch when cowboy-actor extras hung out, waiting in between calls at Paramount and Hollywood General. Mina's father told her (and where did he learn it, because it was well before his time, this ancient Hollywood history he seemed to know a priori and with detailed authority) they'd still be in costume, bursting into bars as if they were Wild West saloons, Max Factor'd pink plastic cowboys getting drunk, starting fights, feeling the difference between real bottles and breakaway glass. Mina walked past the corner minimall with...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Scribner
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2002
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0743223756
• ISBN 13: 9780743223751
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 224
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Simon and Schuster Netherlands BV; info@simonandschuster.nl; ; Herculesplein 96; Utrecht; 3584 AA; Niederlande