Articles liés à Age of Consent
L'édition de cet ISBN n'est malheureusement plus disponible.
Afficher les exemplaires de cette édition ISBN
Extrait :
THE MONEY
1978
It was September, a weekday, a school night. She had painted her toenails, brushed on mascara, covered with matte foundation the few spots of acne that dotted her nose. She wore pale summer jeans, a shirt she’d ironed herself. She thought there might be dinner, but when Craig picked her up he drove straight to the motel, swinging into a parking space beside a delivery van that looked as though it had been parked there for a while. He turned off the ignition, then switched on the car’s inside light. He reached forward, fishing for his wallet, packed in among the cassettes in the glove compartment, also for his lighter. His T-shirt clung where the vinyl seats had made his back sweat. He looked at Bobbie as though he were deciding whether to bother asking, then said, “You got any money?”
“Not much,” she said.
He sighed. He rubbed his hand beneath his ball cap, red, white, and blue with a bicentennial celebration logo across the bill. “What about cigarettes?” he said. “Any of them?”
He was twenty-eight, well over six feet, while she was a little package, a ballerina-shaped girl with sun-bleached hair, newly fifteen. She watched as Craig pulled at the contents of the glove compartment, coming out with old envelopes, batteries, a bunch of menus for takeout along with important things—his car registration, his checkbook—chucking it all onto the floor. She thought if he was asking for cigarettes, it must mean he was out of rolling papers. He didn’t like cigarettes and hated when she smoked. But sometimes—like now—he’d ask her for a couple. He’d tap out the tobacco in one of her Marlboros, tear off the filter, add his own leaves, then twist the ends to make a joint.
“You keep telling me to quit,” she said.
“Never mind. I found something.”
Cold light shone from a motel sign perched on a steel post high above them, huge and bright, with garish round letters like something from a comic book. She’d driven past this motel before, seeing it from the passenger seat of her mother’s car, the sign and a strip of neon lighting the words vacancy or no vacancy. She didn’t know who stopped here or why. It was in the middle of the state. You’d think people would drive all the way to the city, D.C. or Baltimore, wherever they were heading. Stopping at a place like this had to be for purposes of exhaustion or drunkenness or another reason, like what they were doing here tonight.
“It’s thirty bucks. And we’re not even staying,” he said, a trace of disgust in his voice, perhaps to show what having her in his life cost him. Then he swung shut the car door and crossed the lot, his wallet bulging in his jeans pocket. She didn’t know what he kept in there that made the wallet so big. Not money, that was for sure. He’d buy her a Hostess Cherry Pie. He’d buy her a McDonald’s burger. He didn’t get her the things guys got their girlfriends, earrings or flowers. In her school, some of the girls wore liquid silver necklaces with nuggets of turquoise threaded at intervals, and he hadn’t bought her anything like that, though she didn’t know if she even wanted him to. Accepting a gift would mean something more, that she was his when she didn’t want to be his. She would have liked, however, to be someone’s.
She watched him disappear into the darkness beyond the streetlamps, and then reappear holding a key on a big wooden fob, the room number burned into the wood. He didn’t walk all the way back to the car, but stood on the cement path and told her to\ get out. She followed him through a narrow passage, past an ice machine and an exit sign. He had a long-strided, swaggering walk and she had to jog every few steps to keep up.
“I need to go home soon,” she said.
“I know.”
“I’ve got a test tomorrow.” Chemistry, the periodic table. She needed to have learned the shorthand symbols of the elements and, for some, their atomic weights.
He laughed. “I’ve got a test for you here first.”
The lamps in the room were on chains connected by thick eye bolts to the floor. The dark brown curtains, folded stiffly into exaggerated pleats, zigzagged across the windowsill. Had she looked behind the curtains, she’d have seen the air freshener in its coffin-shaped plastic case. An artificial floral scent lay heavy in the room, seeping into the dark brown wood and curtains, and the carpet with its geometric pattern.
She told him she needed the bathroom and he nodded, dropping onto the bed.
He said, “Hey, you look pretty,” and then watched her cross the room. “You listening? I just said you were pretty.”
“I heard you.”
“So what do you say when someone compliments you?”
“Thanks.”
“That’s better,” he said. “You’re welcome.”
Revue de presse :
1978
It was September, a weekday, a school night. She had painted her toenails, brushed on mascara, covered with matte foundation the few spots of acne that dotted her nose. She wore pale summer jeans, a shirt she’d ironed herself. She thought there might be dinner, but when Craig picked her up he drove straight to the motel, swinging into a parking space beside a delivery van that looked as though it had been parked there for a while. He turned off the ignition, then switched on the car’s inside light. He reached forward, fishing for his wallet, packed in among the cassettes in the glove compartment, also for his lighter. His T-shirt clung where the vinyl seats had made his back sweat. He looked at Bobbie as though he were deciding whether to bother asking, then said, “You got any money?”
“Not much,” she said.
He sighed. He rubbed his hand beneath his ball cap, red, white, and blue with a bicentennial celebration logo across the bill. “What about cigarettes?” he said. “Any of them?”
He was twenty-eight, well over six feet, while she was a little package, a ballerina-shaped girl with sun-bleached hair, newly fifteen. She watched as Craig pulled at the contents of the glove compartment, coming out with old envelopes, batteries, a bunch of menus for takeout along with important things—his car registration, his checkbook—chucking it all onto the floor. She thought if he was asking for cigarettes, it must mean he was out of rolling papers. He didn’t like cigarettes and hated when she smoked. But sometimes—like now—he’d ask her for a couple. He’d tap out the tobacco in one of her Marlboros, tear off the filter, add his own leaves, then twist the ends to make a joint.
“You keep telling me to quit,” she said.
“Never mind. I found something.”
Cold light shone from a motel sign perched on a steel post high above them, huge and bright, with garish round letters like something from a comic book. She’d driven past this motel before, seeing it from the passenger seat of her mother’s car, the sign and a strip of neon lighting the words vacancy or no vacancy. She didn’t know who stopped here or why. It was in the middle of the state. You’d think people would drive all the way to the city, D.C. or Baltimore, wherever they were heading. Stopping at a place like this had to be for purposes of exhaustion or drunkenness or another reason, like what they were doing here tonight.
“It’s thirty bucks. And we’re not even staying,” he said, a trace of disgust in his voice, perhaps to show what having her in his life cost him. Then he swung shut the car door and crossed the lot, his wallet bulging in his jeans pocket. She didn’t know what he kept in there that made the wallet so big. Not money, that was for sure. He’d buy her a Hostess Cherry Pie. He’d buy her a McDonald’s burger. He didn’t get her the things guys got their girlfriends, earrings or flowers. In her school, some of the girls wore liquid silver necklaces with nuggets of turquoise threaded at intervals, and he hadn’t bought her anything like that, though she didn’t know if she even wanted him to. Accepting a gift would mean something more, that she was his when she didn’t want to be his. She would have liked, however, to be someone’s.
She watched him disappear into the darkness beyond the streetlamps, and then reappear holding a key on a big wooden fob, the room number burned into the wood. He didn’t walk all the way back to the car, but stood on the cement path and told her to\ get out. She followed him through a narrow passage, past an ice machine and an exit sign. He had a long-strided, swaggering walk and she had to jog every few steps to keep up.
“I need to go home soon,” she said.
“I know.”
“I’ve got a test tomorrow.” Chemistry, the periodic table. She needed to have learned the shorthand symbols of the elements and, for some, their atomic weights.
He laughed. “I’ve got a test for you here first.”
The lamps in the room were on chains connected by thick eye bolts to the floor. The dark brown curtains, folded stiffly into exaggerated pleats, zigzagged across the windowsill. Had she looked behind the curtains, she’d have seen the air freshener in its coffin-shaped plastic case. An artificial floral scent lay heavy in the room, seeping into the dark brown wood and curtains, and the carpet with its geometric pattern.
She told him she needed the bathroom and he nodded, dropping onto the bed.
He said, “Hey, you look pretty,” and then watched her cross the room. “You listening? I just said you were pretty.”
“I heard you.”
“So what do you say when someone compliments you?”
“Thanks.”
“That’s better,” he said. “You’re welcome.”
"Age of Consent offers readers the unique and unflinching experience of watching . . . manipulation and abuse unfold in the moment while also providing them with 20/20 hindsight that exposes the difficulties of bringing assailants to justice . . . a painful yet powerful book that shouldn't be ignored.”
—Bustle
“Leimbach’s structure is brilliant. . . I don’t think I’ve ever read a more convincing account of the helplessness of a teenager in this sort of situation than the one Leimbach gives us in Age of Consent. . . The power and beauty of Leimbach’s writing is a balm even in the story’s darkest moments because she makes us care so deeply about her protagonist.”
—The Connecticut Post
“What makes Marti Leimbach's new novel so chilling is not only its tale of predator and prey, but the story of the mother and daughter, entangled in its web. It is so terrifying to see a mother in denial, a daughter who can't and won't forget. As Leimbach weaves her story, moving between past and present, this thrilling novel forces us to ask to whom do we owe our loyalties - to those we love, or to ourselves.”
—Mary Morris, author of The Jazz Palace
“Three people: a young girl, her mother, and the man who has seduced them both. Leimbach explores the ambiguities of loss, love, and desire, and plumbs the dark places where they meet. At the center of the story is an illicit, illegal affair, the consequences of which never really stop reverberating. Age of Consent is spellbinding.”
—Whitney Otto, author of Eight Girls Taking Pictures and How to Make an American Quilt
“A nuanced portrayal of a mother and daughter at once linked and divided by a ferociously exploitative man....Treating June’s perspective as richly as Bobbie’s, the novel brings memorable depth to issues often oversimplified; Leimbach’s scenes are convincing, whether they portray harrowing abuse or subtle moments of healing.”
—Publishers Weekly
“An account of estrangement between mother and daughter and the toll abuse can take on a family. Told partly through flashback and partly through court testimony, this unhappy tale is woven with pain and fractured relationships....The story will keep readers turning pages until the bitter end....Fans of Jodi Picoult may enjoy.”
—Library Journal
“Leimbach is known for tackling tough subjects in an unflinching manner, and this novel is no exception. Bobbie’s story is often difficult to read, but the descriptions of abuse don’t come across as gratuitous or overdone. The alternating chapters, told from June’s perspective, show how insidious predators can be—her denial of the truth continues even when she is directly confronted with the facts. Readers who enjoy issue-driven women’s fiction—and who can handle the dark subject matter—will be moved by Bobbie’s story.”
—Booklist, starred review
"[A] horribly believable depiction of a child ensnared by a predator. In giving a voice to Bobbie's mother as well as Bobbie, she foregoes the urge to simply blame a woman who failed to protect her daughter. . . Devastatingly powerful.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“When does a relationship become sexual assault? Marti Leimbach approaches the question clearly and compassionately in her latest novel Age of Consent . . . a strong novel about a troubling subject . . . Marti Leimbach’s novel should add to the cultural conversation about abuse, victimization, and re-victimization by the judicial system. Not light reading, but absorbing and timely.”
—New York Journal of Books
—Bustle
“Leimbach’s structure is brilliant. . . I don’t think I’ve ever read a more convincing account of the helplessness of a teenager in this sort of situation than the one Leimbach gives us in Age of Consent. . . The power and beauty of Leimbach’s writing is a balm even in the story’s darkest moments because she makes us care so deeply about her protagonist.”
—The Connecticut Post
“What makes Marti Leimbach's new novel so chilling is not only its tale of predator and prey, but the story of the mother and daughter, entangled in its web. It is so terrifying to see a mother in denial, a daughter who can't and won't forget. As Leimbach weaves her story, moving between past and present, this thrilling novel forces us to ask to whom do we owe our loyalties - to those we love, or to ourselves.”
—Mary Morris, author of The Jazz Palace
“Three people: a young girl, her mother, and the man who has seduced them both. Leimbach explores the ambiguities of loss, love, and desire, and plumbs the dark places where they meet. At the center of the story is an illicit, illegal affair, the consequences of which never really stop reverberating. Age of Consent is spellbinding.”
—Whitney Otto, author of Eight Girls Taking Pictures and How to Make an American Quilt
“A nuanced portrayal of a mother and daughter at once linked and divided by a ferociously exploitative man....Treating June’s perspective as richly as Bobbie’s, the novel brings memorable depth to issues often oversimplified; Leimbach’s scenes are convincing, whether they portray harrowing abuse or subtle moments of healing.”
—Publishers Weekly
“An account of estrangement between mother and daughter and the toll abuse can take on a family. Told partly through flashback and partly through court testimony, this unhappy tale is woven with pain and fractured relationships....The story will keep readers turning pages until the bitter end....Fans of Jodi Picoult may enjoy.”
—Library Journal
“Leimbach is known for tackling tough subjects in an unflinching manner, and this novel is no exception. Bobbie’s story is often difficult to read, but the descriptions of abuse don’t come across as gratuitous or overdone. The alternating chapters, told from June’s perspective, show how insidious predators can be—her denial of the truth continues even when she is directly confronted with the facts. Readers who enjoy issue-driven women’s fiction—and who can handle the dark subject matter—will be moved by Bobbie’s story.”
—Booklist, starred review
"[A] horribly believable depiction of a child ensnared by a predator. In giving a voice to Bobbie's mother as well as Bobbie, she foregoes the urge to simply blame a woman who failed to protect her daughter. . . Devastatingly powerful.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“When does a relationship become sexual assault? Marti Leimbach approaches the question clearly and compassionately in her latest novel Age of Consent . . . a strong novel about a troubling subject . . . Marti Leimbach’s novel should add to the cultural conversation about abuse, victimization, and re-victimization by the judicial system. Not light reading, but absorbing and timely.”
—New York Journal of Books
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
- ÉditeurNan a Talese
- Date d'édition2016
- ISBN 10 0385540876
- ISBN 13 9780385540872
- ReliureRelié
- Nombre de pages320
- Evaluation vendeur
Acheter neuf
En savoir plus sur cette édition
EUR 4,63
Frais de port :
EUR 4,62
Vers Etats-Unis
Autres éditions populaires du même titre
Meilleurs résultats de recherche sur AbeBooks
Image d'archives
Age of Consent
Edité par
Nan A. Talese, NY
(2016)
ISBN 10 : 0385540876
ISBN 13 : 9780385540872
Neuf
Couverture rigide
Edition originale
Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : New. Etat de la jaquette : New. First Printing. 320pp. Review copy with publisher's promotional material laid-in. Size: 8vo - over 7¾" - 9¾" tall. N° de réf. du vendeur 074164
Acheter neuf
EUR 4,63
Autre devise
Image d'archives
Age of Consent: A Novel
Edité par
Nan A. Talese
(2016)
ISBN 10 : 0385540876
ISBN 13 : 9780385540872
Neuf
Couverture rigide
Quantité disponible : 1
Vendeur :
Evaluation vendeur
Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : New. New. Clean, unmarked pages. Fine binding and cover. Hardcover. Remainder mark. N° de réf. du vendeur 2203170106
Acheter neuf
EUR 10,54
Autre devise