Cantitate/Preț
Produs

Drift: Stories

De (autor)
Notă GoodReads:
en Limba Engleză Carte Paperback – 25 Jun 2009

Vezi toate premiile Carte premiată

Story Prize (2009)
Welcome to Newport Beach, California--a community often found glittering in the spotlight, but one that isn't always as glamorous as we imagine. Through the lives of waiters and waitresses, divorced and single parents, and alienated teens, Victoria Patterson's Drift offers a rare and rewarding view into the real life of this nearly mythical place, all the while plumbing the depths of female friendship and what it means to be an outsider. Fresh, energetic, deceptively powerful and delightfully frank, hers is a voice you won't be able to stop reading.
Citește tot Restrânge

Preț: 7748 lei

Puncte Express: 116

Preț estimativ în valută:
1563 1780$ 1396£

Carte disponibilă

Livrare economică 09-23 iulie
Livrare express 05-13 iulie pentru 1594 lei

Preluare comenzi: 021 569.72.76

Specificații

ISBN-13: 9780547054940
ISBN-10: 0547054947
Pagini: 240
Dimensiuni: 135 x 203 x 14 mm
Greutate: 0.23 kg
Ediția: First Edition
Editura: HMH Books
Colecția Mariner Books
Locul publicării: United States

Recenzii

"Patterson’s unflinching account of the seedy side of a real-life Xanadu is frightening, immersive and wonderfully realized."
- Publishers Weekly (starred review)


"Set against the affluence of Newport Beach, Patterson’s debut collection often focuses on the enclaves’ outcasts—waitstaff, divorcées, alcoholics, and drug addicts—as her characters confront personal battles, the limits of friendship, and the bleary anticipation of a different life. Patterson’s 13 engaging tales offer keen perspectives on life lived on the fringe."
- Booklist

"If I could write just a single story as beautiful and heartbreaking and intelligent as the thirteen linked together in Drift, I'm pretty sure that I could die a happy man. Victoria Patterson makes me envious as hell, and I applaud her for it."
-Donald Ray Pollock, author of Knockemstiff

"Victoria Patterson has enormous talent and I suspect we'll be hearing a lot more from her."
- James Lee Burke, author of Purple Cane Road

"Drift is one of the truest depictions of Southern California I've read yet. Set fifty miles south of Los Angeles, amidst the rampant materialism and manicured malls of Newport Beach, Patterson depicts characters simultaneously at odds with, and in sync with, the cultural void around them. This work is subtle, honest, and a great pleasure to read."
- Danzy Senna, author of Caucasia

“Patterson is our generation’s heir to John O’Hara and Edith Wharton. Several times I had to put this book down just to catch my breath.”
- Michelle Huneven, author of Jamesland

“Victoria Patterson’s beautiful stories break our hearts as they inform us. Through her characters we see the complications and trauma of not fitting into one’s surroundings, in a version of California we are rarely allowed to see. Haunting, affirming, and often comic, her stories make the reader grateful for this writer’s documentation of our human alienation -- and our unexpected bonds. A gifted storyteller, a fresh, essential new voice."
- Dana Johnson, author of Break Any Woman Down

Victoria Patterson's Newport Beach is a privileged world of wealth and heedless consumption that trails a wake of human damage.  By giving us nuanced portraits of the sidelined, she somehow evokes the complex, glittering whole. Patterson is our generation's heir to John O'Hara and Edith Wharton. And nobody else writes about female sexuality with such sensitivity and fearlessness. Several times, I had to put this book down just to catch my breath.  —Michelle Huneven, author of Jamesland and Round Rock

Victoria Patterson’s beautiful stories break our hearts as they inform us. Through her characters we see the complications and trauma of not fitting in with one’s surroundings, in a version of California we are rarely allowed to see. Haunting, affirming, and often comic, her stories make the reader grateful for this writer’s documentation of our human alienation—and our unexpected bonds. Patterson is a gifted storyteller, a fresh, essential new voice. — Dana Johnson, author of Break Any Woman Down

"Victoria Patterson has enormous talent and I suspect we'll be hearing a lot more from her."

"If I could write just a single story as beautiful and heartbreaking and intelligent as the thirteen linked together in Drift, I'm pretty sure that I could die a happy man.  Victoria Patterson makes me envious as hell, and I applaud her for it."

"Set against the affluence of Newport Beach, Patterson’s debut collection often focuses on the enclaves’ outcasts—waitstaff, divorcées, alcoholics, and drug addicts—as her characters confront personal battles, the limits of friendship, and the bleary anticipation of a different life. Patterson’s 13 engaging tales offer keen perspectives on life lived on the fringe."

"Patterson's unflinching account of the seedy side of a real-life Xanadu is frightening, immersive, and wonderfully realized."

Extras

Castaways
Michael rule, twenty-seven years old and officially separated from his wife for four days, woke Friday morning at nine-thirty to the buzzing of a digital alarm. The clock was on the floor, and for a frightening second, he didn’t know what the shrill hee hee hee sound was, only that the noise emanated from the faded olive green carpet of an unfurnished and unfamiliar apartment.
     As Michael leaned over and turned off the alarm, an awareness moved through him like warm jelly pulsing through his veins: today he needed to pick up his five-year- old son, feign control and manliness while explaining the separation and impending divorce, and answer Anthony’s questions, of which he knew there were typically a multitude. He imagined Anthony’s face — trusting, earnest, worshipful — and he felt helpless.
     Michael went over the facts: four days ago his wife, Penny, had confirmed that she was in love with Donald — wealthy, established, his father-in- law’s contemporary and business equal — and she wanted a divorce. (Ever since: rage, jealousy, bitterness, a reassessment of his masculinity and worth, and the bone-crushing dead weight of sorrow.) Thus far father-in- law, William Deader, hadn’t fired him from Deader Industrial LLC.
     The apartment was a former office overlooking Newport Car Wash, at the periphery of the Newport Beach shopping mecca Fashion Island. Deader Industrial LLC owned the property; Deader Industrial LLC owned Newport Car Wash. The apartment was a concession, Michael believed, for Penny’s infidelity. But how long would Mr. and Mrs. Deader’s pity last, now that he hadn’t shown up to work and was ignoring Mr. Deader’s — Bill’s, Dad’s — phone calls?
     The last four days Michael had been going to bed (two mattresses stacked on the floor) at three, four in the morning, sleeping fitfully, and waking in the hazy sunlight near noon. He lay there for hours, listening to the sounds of the car wash below, aware that he had to persevere through another day, but unwilling to begin: held back by a keen disbelief and a profound hurt at the power of circumstances to develop against his will.
     Once he got out of bed, he sat with his back against the wall and studied the activity below, how the customers assembled, their backsides to him, on a cement bench and waited for the men to flag them with towels. Customers slipped cash (mostly dollar bills) into the men’s hands, and the men nodded, but rarely spoke, except to one another.
     Michael had discovered that the men had a system to alert one another of the periodic visitations of their manager, a white man with a mustache. Upon spotting the manager descending three cement steps, the employee at the head of the car wash snapped his towel, and the men successively snapped their towels down the line, until the last person got the signal.
     Naked, walking to the bathroom, hands cupping his groin as he passed the window, he caught a glimpse of the tan-004545_ uniformed men toweling the shiny blacks, blues, and reds of Porsches and Mercedes. He was beginning to recognize the men, noting who was more animated, who came to work hung over, and he imagined their whispered conversations.
     Everything was new in the apartment, cheaply assembled, transformed from an office, and a fine dust coated the sink and toilet from their harried, half-assed construction. He imagined the office’s hasty conversion had been for his convenient elimination from Penny’s life. Lifting the toilet seat to pee, he concluded that after a nearly six-year determined hiatus from alcohol, instigated by Penny’s pregnancy with Anthony and their mutual decision to “live healthy,” he might very likely get very drunk very soon.
     The hot spray from the shower hit him directly in the face with an irregular hissing noise, thumping little pellets against his eyelids, nose, and lips, as if the showerhead had never been used and was trying to sort out its purpose. It was his first shower in four days. Unlike the removable and multiple-choice showerhead in his bathroom at his home in Newport Shores — Penny’s home — he discovered the apartment showerhead had one spray option: Unrelenting Beady Squirt.
     Never before had life hurled him in such loathsome directions, reminding him of how it was to struggle under the foamy tow of a wave, his body pushed and pulled. As a boy and teenager, he believed he wasn’t manly because he didn’t care about the things his own father revered — business, football, politics — and what sweet revenge when he succeeded beyond his father’s middle class aspirations anyhow. Penny fell in love with him because he was different. A novelty, she said. They met at UCLA, both philosophy majors, English minors, and married soon after graduation. Affluence and a generous position at Deader Industrial were added benefits to marrying Penny, and he learned to ignore any qualms about working for a large corporation. Over the years, he’d grown accustomed to the advantageous lifestyle.
     Penny’s main reason for falling out of love, Michael believed, was that his success was connected to her family, that he’d claimed their affluence as his own, as if he’d disappointed and betrayed her, even though they’d decided together that he should work for Deader Industrial. And in his mind, she was irretrievably connected to her family’s prosperity, therefore connecting him — it was complicated. On further analysis, he conceded that besides working for Deader Industrial and living in the three-story home in Newport Shores — a wedding gift care of Mr. and Mrs. Deader — he’d conveniently overlooked any prior ambition to write novels and teach. What had happened to him?
     Michael put on his socks, pants, and shirt. His clothes fit loosely, he fastened his belt to the last hole, but his pants sagged. Since about a year ago, when he’d first suspected Penny of infidelity, he’d begun losing weight, mostly muscle tone. In the corner of the small kitchen stood an Arrowhead water dispenser, beside it three blue plastic containers of water, leftovers, no doubt, from the apartment’s time as an office. No one had noticed him since he rarely left the apartment, and he wondered if the other offices had been warned that he lived among them, since they worked for Deader, too. The container made a gulp as he poured a cup. He drank, his hair damp from an unenthusiastic towel dry, rivulets along his ears collecting at his earlobes, and then crumpled the paper cup in his fist.
     When the phone rang, he knew it was his younger sister even before he answered. The phone was on the floor, and he sat with his back against the wall, letting it ring, his palm against the receiver, feeling its vibrations. Lisa, divorced, mother of two sons, and remarried at twenty-five, called daily. Normally they only talked on holidays and birthdays, and although he was grateful to her for being worried, he was reluctant to talk.
     “Hello, Lisa,” he said, answering by speakerphone.
     “I thought I’d have to wake you,” she said, her voice echoing. At seventeen Lisa had moved to San Francisco where she continued to live. She chose men that bullied her, reminding Michael in the worst ways of their father. Although a respected church member and community leader, their father’s form of discipline had been a backhanded slap when least expected.
     “Take me off speaker,” she said.
     He held the receiver and switched over.
     Her voice became cheery. “Good for you — you’re already up.”
     He didn’t answer.
     “Today you see Anthony.” It was a statement.
     He nodded, and then realized she couldn’t see.
     “Have you talked to Mom?”
     “Not yet,” he said. Submissive and unadventurous before widowhood, their mother was on an extended vacation in Central America; timely, since if she were around, he imagined long, heartfelt discussions loaded with her disappointment and self-blame.
     “Listen to this,” she said. He heard the rustling of a newspaper.
     “Sagittarius. June sixth. Life changes inevitable. Time to return to true nature, true self.” She paused, as if waiting for him to say something.
     “Here comes the best part,” she said. She cleared her throat. “Take opportunity in next few days” — she paused again, as if preparing him — “to make decision regarding loved one. Trust instincts!”
     He said nothing.
     “Did you sleep?”
     “Yes; no.”
     “Can you take something?”
     “I’m planning on it,” he said, thinking again about getting drunk.
     “Have you called your lawyer?” she said. When he didn’t answer, she continued, “You need to protect your rights with Anthony. Deader Industrial is big, big, big.”
     He heard her light a cigarette, take a drag. His greatest fear was that Penny would take Anthony from him, as she’d threatened in their worst argument, a tightness in his chest every time the subject was brought up; he’d been careful and pragmatic with Penny ever since, unwilling to jeopardize his chances. In the background, clothes rumbled in a dryer. He knew Lisa called from her laundry room, where she had the most privacy.
     “I’m only saying,” she said.
     “I know,” he said.
     “Did you shave?” she asked.
     He didn’t answer.
     “Did you shave, Mikey?”
     “Not yet,” he said, fingertips against the coarse hairs on his cheek.
     “It gets better, Mikey,” she said. She hadn’t called him Mikey in years, but these last four days, she did so every time they talked. “Remember what I told you,” she said.
     From where he sat, he saw the detritus from the All-Occasion Basket he’d bought at Harry & David in Fashion Island. He’d been feeding off pears, apples, cheddar cheese, honey-roasted nuts, and smoked sausage, and had subsequently suffered mild constipation, in four days discharging three firm marble-sized shits. Now all that remained was half a jar of Wild ’n Rare Strawberry Preserves and Moose Munch Popcorn.
     “Sure it does,” he said, and he wanted to hold her through the telephone, drag her with him through his pain. Tears were in his eyes, and one slid down his cheek before he rubbed it away.
     “I’m unraveling,” he said.
     “That’s okay,” she said tenderly. “Sometimes you have to; sometimes it’s necessary.”
     “Tell me something,” he said. “Was I an asshole? I mean, what happened to me?”
     “You became a Republican,” she said, deadpan.
     “I mean it,” he said. “Did I act like a rich prick?”
     Her dryer buzzed and the rattling stopped. She seemed to be considering his question, and he didn’t want to press, hoping she would be honest. She sighed theatrically.
     “Answer,” he said.
     “Water under the bridge, Mikey,” she said, confirming his suspicion. “Water under the bridge.”

Premii