Gold Fame Citrus

Note moyenne 3,3
( 4 436 avis fournis par GoodReads )
 
9781784292867: Gold Fame Citrus
Extrait :

Punting the prairie dog into the library was a mistake. Luz Dunn knew that now, but it had been a long time since she’d seen a little live thing, and the beast had startled her. She’d woke near noon having dreamed a grand plan and intending to enact it: she would try on every dress in the house. They hung like plumage in the master closet, in every luscious color, each one unspeakably expensive—imagine the ones the starlet had taken with her! In the dream Luz had worn every dress all at once, her breasts bestudded with rhinestones and drenched in silver dust, her ass embroidered with coppery alleyways of sequins, pleated plumes of satin fanning from her hips, pale confectioners’ tulle floating like spun sugar at her feet. Of course, things went one-at-a-time in the lifeless waking world.

It was important to have a project, Ray said, no matter how frivolous. The Santa Anas winged through the canyon now, bearing their invisible crazy-making particulate, and Ray said she should try to keep her hands busy. She should try not to sleep so much. Some of Ray’s projects included digging out the shitting hole and siphoning gasoline from the luxury cars abandoned throughout the canyon.

Yesterday, Luz’s project had been to present Ray with a gift of herself swaddled like a chocolate in a fur coat she’d excavated from one of the cavernous hall closets, though she was not so dark as chocolate. She’d roasted under the mink, her upper lip already jeweled over and trembling with sweat when she breached the backyard where Ray was working, into the ever-beaming, ever-heating, ever-evaporating sun. Sun of suns. Drought of droughts. These were their days now, Luz and Ray and the merciless sun up in the canyon, a family of light in this mansion cantilevered into the hillside, a bridge for a driveway. Luz had shucked the preposterous coat to the dirt and instead napped naked on a sun-stiffened chaise under the lines of a leafless grapevine until dinner. The once Ray approached her, sliding his hand between her knees, she’d groaned: too hot for sex. The mink was still heaped out back, sculpture of a failure.

This project was better, she confirmed, twisting before the easel mirror in a peachy silk shift, lovely even against her grimy skin. In the closet was a handwoven poncho of oranges and golds, perfect for the shift, except wool was suicide. Instead, a Hermès scarf—no, a delicate tennis bracelet whose tiny clasp gave her some trouble. Like dewdrops strung around her wafer wrist, something the photographers would have said. But practically everyone was thin now. Luz stepped out of the shift and wriggled into a clinging cobalt mermaid gown dense with beads. It was gorgeous and she was gorgeous in it, even with her filthy hair and bulgy eyes and bushy brows and teeth that jutted out from her mouth as if leading the way, the front two with a gummy gap between them that caused her to seal her thin top lip to her plump bottom lip, even when she was alone, even now as she twirled and the dangly beads went click click click, softly. She looked liquid and wanted to show Ray.

Luz tromped down the floating railless stairs in the gown and rubber galoshes and a feather headpiece, baubles winking on every finger and one wrist. At the bottom of the stairs, she froze. Across the foyer, watching her, the tawny, beady-eyed rodent. It stood on its hind legs. It sniffed the air. Its nimble claws worked at something. Kind of cute. Except it dipped its head and maybe came at her. Luz panicked, shrieked, and executed a long-stride slo-mo kick of unexpected grace and force, some long-lost AYSO girlhood reflex risen from the resin of her quads.

They were a tired joke, the galoshes. Ditto umbrellas, slickers, gutters and storm drains, windshield wipers. This place had not seen so much rainfall as to necessitate galoshes in her entire life. But thank God for them, else the rodent might have ribboned her bare foot with its claws instead of flying through the open door of the library, going scree. A horrifying sound, that scree, and in her horror Luz slammed the blond wood door closed, setting it shuddering on its casters. A cruel instinct she was paying for hours later, for she was now plagued with a hefty boredom and the melancholy of finishing an excellent book—a biography of John Wesley Powell—and had nothing new to read.

The question, now, was whether to interrupt Ray—in the yard constructing a half-pipe from the plywood they’d pried off the windows and doors of the starlet’s ultramodern château—or to handle this prairie dog situation herself. Scree, it said. She went out onto the balcony and called down to her love.

Ray squinted up at her and whistled. “Looking good, babygirl.”

Luz had forgotten about her mermaid ensemble, and a little zing of delight accompanied the compliment. “How’s it coming?” she called.

“What an embarrassment,” he said, shaking his head. “Ten million empty swimming pools in this city, and we get this one.”

The embarrassment was adjacent to his would-be half-pipe: the starlet’s long-drained swimming pool, its walls not smooth concrete but a posh cobble of black river stones, its shape not a scooped-out basin but a box. Hard edges and right angles. Patently unshreddable. A shame, was all Ray said when he first knelt down and felt it, though his eyes had gone a pair of those smooth, globular kidney pools in the Valley. Ray had been to the forever war—was a hero, though he’d forbidden the word—and he went places sometimes.

Here, he was shirtless, all but gaunt, torquing his knees against a pane of plywood. His unbound hair was getting long, clumped and curling at his shoulders. On the bottom of the dry pool were smeared a few dreadlocks of dehydrated slime, pea-colored and coppery. Haircuts, Luz thought. Tomorrow’s project.

She watched him work a while, leaning on the balcony rail as the starlet might have. It was impossible to be original and inspired living as she was, basically another woman’s ghost. Ray could dismantle the starlet, splinter her, hack her up and build with her bones, but Luz languished beneath her. They wore the same size everything.

When Ray said up in the canyon Luz had seen porticos and candelabra, artisanal tiles, a working bath with a dolphin-shaped spigot patinaed turquoise and matching starfish handles, birds’ nests in chandeliers, bougainvillea creeping down marble columns and dripping from those curlicue shelves on the walls of villas—what were they called? But the place they found was boxy and mostly windows. All slate and birchply, its doors slid rather than swung, the wrong style for columns. Any and all vinery was dead. Plantwise there was the dried pool slime and the gnarled leafless grapevine and spiny somethings coming through the planks of the deck, too savage to kill.

Below her Ray’s hammer went whap whap whap.

Sconces, they were called, and there were none.

Where were the wild things seeking refuge from the scorched hills? Where was the birdsong she’d promised herself? Instead: scorpions coming up through the drains, a pair of mummified frogs in the waterless fountain, a coyote carcass going wicker in the ravine. And sure, a scorpion had a certain wisdom, but she yearned for fauna more charismatic. “It’s thinking like that that got us into this,” Ray said, correct.

Nature had refused to offer herself to them. The water, the green, the mammalian, the tropical, the semitropical, the leafy, the verdant, the motherloving citrus, all of it was denied them and had been denied them so long that with each day, each project, it became more and more impossible to conceive of a time when it had not been denied them. The prospect of Mother Nature opening her legs and inviting Los Angeles back into her ripeness was, like the disks of water shimmering in the last foothill reservoirs patrolled by the National Guard, evaporating daily.

Yet Luz yearned for menagerie, left the windows and doors open day and night to invite it, even when Ray complained of the dust, even when he warned that the Santa Anas would drive her insane. Maybe true, for here was this varmint scurrying in her head. Here, finally, was a brave creature come down to commune in the house that wasn’t theirs—it didn’t belong to anyone!—and what had she done? Booted the little fellow in the gut and locked him away.

Air hazy and amber with smoke. Malibu burning, and Luz’s old condo with it. Ticks clinging to the dead grass. Sand in the bedsheets and in her armpits and in the crack of her ass. Jumping bugs nesting in the mattress, all the more pestilent for being probably imagined. Some ruined heaven, this laurelless canyon.

Luz had read that they used to fight fires by dangling giant buckets from helicopters, filling the buckets at a lake and then dumping the water on them. The skies were batshit back then: bureaucrats draping valleys under invisible parachutes of aerosols, engineers erecting funnels to catch the rain before it evaporated, Research I universities dynamiting the sky. Once, an early canyon project, Luz and Ray hiked up the mountain called, horrifically, Lookout, and came upon a derelict cloud seeder, one of those barn-size miracle machines promised to spit crystalline moisture-making chemicals into the atmosphere. Another time they hiked up a back ridge and picnicked above that colorless archipelago of empty and near-empty tanks strung throughout the city. They ate crackers and ration cola and told stories about the mountains, the valley, the canyon and the beach. The whole debris scene. Because they’d vowed to never talk about the gone water, they spoke instead of earth that moved like water. Ray told of boulders clacking together in the ravine, a great slug of rubble sluicing down the canyon. That’s what geologists called it, a slug, and Luz was always waiting for the perfect slug, slow and shapeless and dark, filling all spaces, removing all obstacles. Scraping clean their blighted floodplain.

Ray often went up to the ridge with the notebook he kept in his pocket, but Luz had not been back. Some things were beyond her, such as opening the door to a seldom-used library walled with biographies of Francis Newlands and Abraham Lincoln and Lewis and Clark and Sacajawea and William Mulholland and John Muir (whom she had her eye on) and capturing the small gnawing mammal inside.

She went back to the starlet’s closet, dumped a pair of never-worn espadrilles from their box and brought the empty box to the yard. “I think there’s a prairie dog in the library,” she told Ray.

Ray stopped his hammering. “A prairie dog.”

Luz nodded.

“How’d it get in there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you put it in there?”

“More or less.”

“When?”

“Can you get it out?”

“Leave it,” he said, turning back to the half-pipe skeleton. Ray was not a reader. He used to read the newspaper every morning, but now that the newspapers were gone he said he was through with the whole reading and writing thing, though Luz had read the secret poems in his notebook.

“It’s not . . . humane,” she said, offering him the box. “Plus it’s probably crapping everywhere.”

He sighed, unbuckled his tool belt—some long-gone handyman’s—took the shoe box and loped into the house. She followed. He paused outside the library door. “How big was it?”

“Like, a football? I think it was rabid,” she lied. She was beginning to feel ridiculous.

He slid the library door closed behind him. Luz listened. The canyon was hot and still and so was the house. Then came a clamorous ruckus from the library. Ray said, Shitfuck. He said, Jesus.

He emerged like a wildman character making an entrance in a play, vexed and slamming the door behind him.

Luz asked, “Where’s the box?” Ray raised a silencing hand and strode from the foyer into the cavernous living room. Luz followed. He paced madly for a minute before seizing upon the sooty black poker by the fireplace and returning to the library.

Luz sat on the second step of the staircase and waited. There was more ruckus, a crash, the screeching of a desk chair shoved along the exposed concrete floor. Swears and swears. Then quiet. She wanted to open the door but would not.

“Did you get it?” she called eventually.

The door slid open a sliver and Ray’s red and sweaty head poked out. “You better not look.”

Luz put her face in the basin of her hands, then immediately lifted it. She gasped. Ray was before her. Aloft at the end of the poker, the throbbing body of the prairie dog, impaled. Its mouth was open and its forepaws twitched once, twice. Ray hustled outside.

Luz stood, queasy and overheated. She hovered above herself and saw that she was undergoing one of those moments in which she was reminded that Ray—her Ray—had, as part of his vocation, killed people.

She turned around and lurched up the stairs. She did not want to be around when he returned. Halfway up, she tripped. The floating stairs had always unnerved Luz and now they enraged her. She kicked the leaden galoshes from her feet down to the living room with some effort, staggered barefoot to the darkened bedroom, peeled off the suddenly chafing mermaid gown, climbed into the massive unmade bed and wept in the sandy nest of it.

She wept briefly for the creature, and then at great length for all her selves in reverse. First for Luz Dunn, whose finest lover and best friend was a murderer and perhaps always would be, then for Luz Cortez, mid-tier model spoiled then discarded. Emancipated at fourteen, her father’s idea, something he’d prayed on, amputated from him and from child labor laws. Then, finally and with great relish, she wept for Baby Dunn. Poster child for promises vague and anyway broken, born on the eve of some symbolic and controversial groundbreaking ceremony, delivered into the waiting blanks of a speech written for a long-forgotten senator:

Conservation’s golden child arrived at UCLA Medical Center at 8:19 this morning, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. William Dunn of San Bernardino, California. Eight pounds, eight ounces, the child has been adopted by the Bureau of Conservation, which embarks today on an heroic undertaking that will expand the California Aqueduct a hundredfold, so that Baby Dunn and all the children born this day and ever after will inherit a future more secure, more prosperous, and more fertile than our own. We break ground today so that there will be fresh water for drinking, irrigation and recreation waiting for Baby Dunn and her children . . .

Baby Dunn, born with a golden shovel in her hand, adopted and co-opted by Conservation and its enemies, her milestones announced in press releases, her life literal and symbolic the stuff of headlines, her baby book lousy with newspaper clippings:

GOVERNOR SIGNS HSB 4579; EVERY SWIMMING POOL IN CALIFORNIA TO BE DRAINED BEFORE BABY DUNN IS OLD ENOUGH TO TAKE SWIMMING LESSONS.

BABY DUNN STARTS KINDERGARTEN TODAY WITHOUT GREEN FIELDS TO PLAY IN.

LAST CENTRAL VALLEY FARM SUCCUMBS TO SALT: BABY DUNN, 18, NEVER AGAIN TO TASTE CALIFORNIA PRODUCE.

BERKELEY HYDROLOGISTS: WITHOUT EVACS BABY DUNN WILL DIE OF THIRST BY 24.

Now Luz was t...

Revue de presse :

Praise for Gold Fame Citrus

"A beautiful debut novel . . Watkins' vision is profoundly terrifying. It's a novel that's effective precisely because it's so realistic — while Watkins' image of the future is undeniably dire, there's nothing about it that sounds implausible. . . She also writes with a keen understanding of human nature, both good and bad. She has a genuine compassion for the Angelenos who have chosen to remain in their dying, desiccated city as well as for the ones who have evacuated. . .The prose in  Gold Fame Citrus is stunningly beautiful, even when — especially when — Watkins is describing the badlands that Southern California has become…One might think there are only a few ways to portray a landscape that has become, essentially, nothing, but Watkins writes with a brutal kind of beauty, and even in the book's darkest moments, it's impossible to turn away. It's an urgent, frequently merciless book, as unrelenting as it is brilliant. Watkins forces us to confront things we'd probably rather ignore, but because we're human, we can't.” - Los Angeles Times

"[ Gold Fame Citrus] burns with a dizzying, scorching genius.” -Vanity Fair

“Watkin’s narrative is mythic and speculative, its sediment forming and re-forming in lists, treatises, and reports. The writing, with its tough sentimentality, is reminiscent of Denis Johnson’s, but Watkins has a style of mordant observation all her own.” - Harper's

"A searing debut novel…Watkins is a master of tantalizing details…You can feel the grit in your teeth as this thirsty little family drives across an ocean of sand without a map or a prayer." - Washington Post

“With razor-sharp language and an eye for the devastating detail, the author conjures up a harrowing alternative to the former glory of the Golden State . . .her descriptions . . . achieve a kind of spooky poetry . . .Watkins never loses sight of Ray and Luz’s tender humanity, rendering their predicament with an abundance of empathy, insight and wit, all of which is what makes Gold Fame Citrus a winner.” - San Francisco Chronicle 

“One of the best depictions of contemporary California you’re likely to find outside of Steinbeck.” - BOMB

Gold Fame Citrus is a sun-struck apocalyptic road trip of the California dream. . . working at the intersection between history and myth, reality and sheer imagination. And, refreshingly and believably, it’s often very, very funny. . . This is not the nameless desolation of  The Road, but a wildly vivid, arid world, radically altered and populated with characters whose multiple narratives propel the story.” - Vogue

“At once beautiful and profoundly unsettling, [ Gold Fame Citrus] sears its way into the brain, burning hot through the devastating journey and lingering long after the last page is turned.” - Elle

“Watkins writes in a torrent, her language flooding the psychedelic landscapes of her ruined California. It’s a book that could prove prophetic, and one already terrifyingly expressive of our cultural moment in which the slow-motion disaster of Western drought — a disaster more than a century in the making — has finally become un-ignorably visible… The achievement of [ Gold Fame Citrus], as with the best apocalyptic fictions, is to make slow violence visible — to bring before our eyes the consequences of the invisible violence we do, and have done, to our lands and to ourselves. " – Los Angeles Review of Books

"Watkins' vision — not just of a world broken by ecological disaster, but of the sorts of people who would thrive in that world — is mercilessly sharp. She's got a knife eye for details, a vicious talent for cutting to the throbbing vein of animal strangeness that scratches inside all of us." - NPR

“Claire Vaye Watkins’s extraordinary debut novel, Gold Fame Citrus is set in a terrifying plausible future… [and] explores the power of both the natural world and mythmaking. The novel is in fact filled with seekers: people with a thirst not just for water, but also for purpose and faith. In that sense, Gold Fame Citrus is finally a religious story, a particularly American one—giving voice to the pioneer’s faith in self-invention.” - O, The Oprah Magazine

“[An] ambitious debut novel… [that] evokes the madness, glory, and opportunism of the desert with stunning lyrical flair.” – Portland Oregonian
 
“All the strength and utility of “Gold Fame Citrus” come from the unrelentingness of its author’s well-schooled gaze…[T]hat gaze encompasses more than tragedy, more than the chaos of civilization’s gradual collapse. It also shares with us the feverish glow of a world lit only by fugitives’ fires, the hallucinatory shimmer surrounding each individual grain of pulverized stone, each tiny tributary to an overwhelming flood of uncontrollable forces: heat, wind, dreams.” – Seattle Times 

“Vivid and disturbing… a welcome addition to emerging ‘cli-fi’ genre . . .  Watkins’ novel will certainly rank among this year’s most acclaimed.” - i09

Gold Fame Citrus transcends genre. It’s part bestiary, part cautionary tale, part omniscient mosaic—occasionally collective, often phantasmagoric…a postmodern post-apocalyptic masterpiece… [and] a watermark of what artists are capable of as we face climate change… This book begins with devastation, and what it becomes—vindication, vindictiveness, resurrection, ruination—is transcendent.” - Southern Humanities Review

“A work of admirable scope and enviable talent. . . . Watkins has crafted a powerful, innovative and hallucinatory novel from a bleak yet all-too-real vision.” - Minneapolis Star-Tribune

“There’s no doubt that Watkins is wildly talented. Her prose often shimmers. . . . [and she] has an undeniably original voice that’s as hard-edged as the desert Los Angeles that anchors this first novel.” - Boston Globe

“An electrifying debut novel…Watkins' prose sizzles... Just as she turns a familiar landscape into a mysterious and foreboding geography, Watkins breathes new life into words we thought we knew well. Gold Fame Citrus will hypnotize you like a dream, and make you want to take a big swig of the water we have left.” - Mother Jones

"Watkins’...[has a] gift for creating a world entire, from its landscape to its pop culture...[but] my favorite aspect of Gold Fame Citrus and the reason why I’ll keep reading everything Watkins writes no matter its premise, is the way she portrays the Western landscape as complicit in the shaping of its people, history and ethos." - Dallas Morning News

"Claire Vaye Watkins’ first novel is both an anti-myth and a legend in the making...With a melody both lonely and sonorous, Gold Fame Citrus is a love song for the desert and its bewitching undertow.” -- Ploughshares
 
"Prophecy lands differently when it comes in the form of a dazzlingly smart, brave, and nuanced novel . . . The world is not ending, the world is changing, and it’s works like Gold Fame Citrus that can help us articulate literature’s place in the larger conversation.” - Full Stop

“[Watkins’] first novel is a stick of dynamite in an arid desert, placed with deliberation, scorching nearly every other book in its path… It’s an apocalyptic fantasia written with a keen familiarity of the eerie, harsh landscapes of the desert. It is well worth your time.” -Gawker

"Brutal and beautiful,  Gold Fame Citrus immediately establishes itself as a dystopian masterpiece.” - Bookriot

"Watkins’ world is both new and unfamiliar. . . where it does subvert the paradigm is in the reversal of a tale of the land as a male story. The landscape of Watkins’ novel is undeniably female, not only in its symbols—Luz, her mother and Ig— but in [her] phantasmagoric imaginings." - Salon

“This splendid debut novel is really a reinvigorated version of the classic tales of settlement on the American frontier…Watkins potently evokes the nightmarish. . . and the spectacular.  . . The pulpy drama  . . . is always engaging. But it’s the naturalistic portrait of an American Southwest in extremis that makes Gold Fame Citrus stand out.” - The  Wall Street Journal

“So deliciously, devastatingly good, I want to melt it down and sip it through a straw." - Buzzfeed Books

“Watkins writes in prose that borders on poetry, capturing both the hardness and the beauty of her imagined landscape in ways that make each page of her novel sing with a sense of place… a moving American epic that explores the role stories, place and our closest relationships serve in shaping our selves.” – Shelf Awareness

“Sharp and provocative…Watkins is a magnificent writer.” -Newsday

“[Watkins’] feverish, heat-addled language…brings to life the beginning of the world’s last days in ways that are both frightening and beautiful… Gold Fame Citrus is thoroughly captivating and haunting, just as all sinister prophecies should be.” Philadelphia Inquirer

"A blockbuster novel." - Entertainment Weekly

"[ Gold Fame Citrus] sparkles with weird, disturbing beauty...an impressive debut." - Santa Fe New Mexican

"A blistering tour de force." - Think Progress

"[A] luminous debut novel." - BookPage

“A stunning read, its language rich and complex, and its story frightening and poignant.” - Hello Giggles

“Instantly entrancing, alluring as a mirage, and filled with peril, mystery, sandstorms, the occult, and a cast of nuanced characters.” - Los Angeles Magazine

"Scarily timely." - The Hollywood Reporter

"Gold Fame Citrus walks a fine line with balletic grace. As brutal a portrait of nature as it is, it never acts like a clarion call for change or a scolding treatise about conservation...page-turning." - Arizona Republic

“Watkins’s imagination and ingenuity are astounding…. Where many futuristic novels settle for the menace of the unknown… Gold Fame Citrus is intimate with the history of disaster. Watkins traces the past onto her landscape and her characters with permanent ink…A cautionary environmental vision [and] unflinching critique of our need to believe in myths (especially about each other) when hope seems lost.” – Barnes & Noble Review

"A glaring speculation into a future that doesn't seem quite so unthinkable...moving and original.” - Pop Sugar

“Watkins is at her best here, characterizing the easy slide from isolation to the open arms of an accepting, if ultimately wayward, community. . .   Gold Fame Citrus is a different kind of dystopia; one that illuminates the spiritual coping mechanisms of those living in an apocalyptic wasteland.” - Huffington Post

 “A gripping, provocative debut novel.” - Boston Globe

“Watkins is at her most vivid when she takes the role of anthropologist, tracing the residual effects of the desert that swallowed the state. She nails, with a thoroughness edging on cynicism, the human interest stories churned out by journalists visiting the desert’s last stoic and doomed townships." - The New Republic 

“Think Joan Didion meets JG Ballard, with a dash of Mad Max.” - Vice

"Watkins’s prose is gritty and tender, and her lush writing paints a terrifying and moving picture of what it would mean to navigate a waterless world.” - Travel and Leisure

“An enthralling debut novel… [Watkins] is an interpreter for the Californian dream… [as well as] remarkably attuned to the resentment outsiders often feel toward residents. . . Watkins . . .captures California’s peculiar magic, the wild and beautiful hope that has attracted people.” - Slate

“Watkins's language and story—at times saturated with chimeric imagery, at others with environmental backstory—never feels cooled by the long shadows her literary forebears cast. . . The startling nowness of Watkins's novel doesn't dilute its cataclysmic premise, but rather ups its voltage.” – Slant Magazine

“Watkins has proven herself capable of synthesizing the contradictions of the American West—its sublime, strange, gorgeous, and grisly elements—into fiction that is compelling and smart.”   -Public Culture

A "Book We're Reading," - Marie Claire

"Watkins is a ridiculously talented writer... so it’s no surprise at all that her first novel...has already received unanimous raves… Gold Fame Citrus is one book I will happily shell out hardcover money for the second it comes out.” - The Gloss

"Watkins’ writing is hypnotic, drawing readers into a fevered lullaby that feels fantastical and all too-real simultaneously. This is the kind of novel that readers will want to consume in great gulps ...but Gold Fame Citrus is best read slowly, allowing the words to wash over you.” - BookPage

"Sure to cement the young writer’s literary reputation.” - San Antonio Express-News

“Watkins has written a gorgeous and gripping book, rich with detail and psychological insight.”  -Vegas Seven

"Psychedelic and scarily real...Watkins knows that if you want to save the world, you first have to make readers care about saving the humans.” - Entertainment Weekly

“Riveting.. .Watkins is a sharp-eyed portraitist with the instincts of a master storyteller. . .  even her minor characters leap off the page…a powerful new voice in American.” – The Millions

“A tour-de-force first novel blisters with drought, myth, and originality….On each page [Watkins] spikes her novel with a ticking, musical intelligence… Praised for writing landscape, Watkins’ grasp of the body is just as rousing. Into the vast desert she sets loose snakes and gurus, the Messianic pulse of end times. Critics will reference Annie Proulx’s bite and Joan Didion’s hypnotic West, but Watkins is magnificently original.” – Kirkus (starred) 

“Spectacular… In Margaret Atwood mode, Watkins spikes this fast-moving, high-tension, sexyecocrisis saga with caustic parodies and resounding allusions that cohere into a knowing and elegiac tale of scrappy adaptation and epic loss.” – Booklist (starred) 

“Packed with persuasive detail, luminous writing, and a grasp of the history (popular, political, natural and imagined) needed to tell a story t...

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Watkins, Claire Vaye
ISBN 10 : 1784292869 ISBN 13 : 9781784292867
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Description du livre État : New. N° de réf. du libraire 24803392-n

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Claire Vaye Watkins
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ISBN 10 : 1784292869 ISBN 13 : 9781784292867
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Description du livre Quercus Publishing, United Kingdom, 2016. Hardback. État : New. 233 x 155 mm. Language: English . Brand New Book. Extraordinary power and beauty New York Times Disturbingly real BBC A Mad Max world painted with a finer brush Elle Laughter in the dark FT Dizzying, scorching genius Vanity Fair Desert sands have laid waste to the south-west of America. Las Vegas is buried. California - and anyone still there - is stranded. Any way out is severely restricted. But Luz and Ray are not leaving. They survive on water rations, black market fruit and each other s need. Luz needs Ray, and Ray must be needed. But then they cross paths with a mysterious child, and the thirst for a better future begins. It s said there s a man on the edge of the Dune Sea. He leads a camp of believers. He can find water. Venturing into this dry heart of darkness, Luz thinks she has found their saviour. For the will to survive taps hidden powers; and the needed, and the needy, will exploit it. Like Margaret Atwood, Claire Vaye Watkins uses dystopia to traverse the scarred frontier of the heart, exploring the myths we tell about others and ourselves. In her bare and brilliant prose, nature and human nature, conspiracy and cult, motherhood and manhood are played out across the vast, implacable desert. N° de réf. du libraire AA69781784292867

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Claire Vaye Watkins
Edité par Quercus Publishing, United Kingdom (2016)
ISBN 10 : 1784292869 ISBN 13 : 9781784292867
Neuf(s) Couverture rigide Quantité : 10
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Description du livre Quercus Publishing, United Kingdom, 2016. Hardback. État : New. 233 x 155 mm. Language: English . Brand New Book. Extraordinary power and beauty New York Times Disturbingly real BBC A Mad Max world painted with a finer brush Elle Laughter in the dark FT Dizzying, scorching genius Vanity Fair Desert sands have laid waste to the south-west of America. Las Vegas is buried. California - and anyone still there - is stranded. Any way out is severely restricted. But Luz and Ray are not leaving. They survive on water rations, black market fruit and each other s need. Luz needs Ray, and Ray must be needed. But then they cross paths with a mysterious child, and the thirst for a better future begins. It s said there s a man on the edge of the Dune Sea. He leads a camp of believers. He can find water. Venturing into this dry heart of darkness, Luz thinks she has found their saviour. For the will to survive taps hidden powers; and the needed, and the needy, will exploit it. Like Margaret Atwood, Claire Vaye Watkins uses dystopia to traverse the scarred frontier of the heart, exploring the myths we tell about others and ourselves. In her bare and brilliant prose, nature and human nature, conspiracy and cult, motherhood and manhood are played out across the vast, implacable desert. N° de réf. du libraire AA69781784292867

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4.

Claire Vaye Watkins
Edité par Quercus 2016-02-04 (2016)
ISBN 10 : 1784292869 ISBN 13 : 9781784292867
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Chiron Media
(Wallingford, Royaume-Uni)
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Description du livre Quercus 2016-02-04, 2016. État : New. Brand new book, sourced directly from publisher. Dispatch time is 24-48 hours from our warehouse. Book will be sent in robust, secure packaging to ensure it reaches you securely. N° de réf. du libraire NU-GRD-05345759

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Claire Vaye Watkins
ISBN 10 : 1784292869 ISBN 13 : 9781784292867
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Ria Christie Collections
(Uxbridge, Royaume-Uni)
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Description du livre Hardback. État : New. Not Signed; 'Extraordinary power and beauty' New York Times 'Disturbingly real' BBC 'A Mad Max world painted with a finer brush' Elle 'Laughter in the dark' FT 'Dizzying, scorching genius' Vanity Fair Desert sands have laid waste to the south-west of America. Las Vegas is buried. California - and anyone still. book. N° de réf. du libraire ria9781784292867_rkm

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Claire Vaye Watkins
ISBN 10 : 1784292869 ISBN 13 : 9781784292867
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Grand Eagle Retail
(Wilmington, DE, Etats-Unis)
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Description du livre 2016. Hardcover. État : New. 166mm x 242mm x. Hardcover. 'Extraordinary power and beauty' New York Times 'Disturbingly real' BBC 'A Mad Max world painted with a finer brush' Elle 'Laughter in the dark' FT 'Dizzying, scorching genius' Vanity Fair.Shipping may be from multiple locations in the US or from the UK, depending on stock availability. 352 pages. 0.656. N° de réf. du libraire 9781784292867

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7.

Claire Vaye Watkins
Edité par Quercus Publishing 2016-02-04, London (2016)
ISBN 10 : 1784292869 ISBN 13 : 9781784292867
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Blackwell's
(Oxford, OX, Royaume-Uni)
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Description du livre Quercus Publishing 2016-02-04, London, 2016. hardback. État : New. N° de réf. du libraire 9781784292867

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Claire Vaye Watkins
Edité par Quercus Publishing (2016)
ISBN 10 : 1784292869 ISBN 13 : 9781784292867
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Books2Anywhere
(Fairford, GLOS, Royaume-Uni)
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Description du livre Quercus Publishing, 2016. HRD. État : New. New Book. Shipped from UK in 4 to 14 days. Established seller since 2000. N° de réf. du libraire GB-9781784292867

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Claire Vaye Watkins
Edité par Quercus (2016)
ISBN 10 : 1784292869 ISBN 13 : 9781784292867
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English-Book-Service Mannheim
(Mannheim, Allemagne)
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Description du livre Quercus, 2016. État : New. N° de réf. du libraire GH9781784292867

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Claire Vaye Watkins
ISBN 10 : 1784292869 ISBN 13 : 9781784292867
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Speedy Hen LLC
(Sunrise, FL, Etats-Unis)
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Description du livre État : New. Bookseller Inventory # ST1784292869. N° de réf. du libraire ST1784292869

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