Articles liés à Generation A
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HARJ
Trincomalee, Sri Lanka
How can we be alive and not wonder about the stories we use to knit together this place we call the world? Without stories, our universe is merely rocks and clouds and lava and blackness. It’s a village scraped raw by warm waters leaving not a trace of what existed before.
Imagine a tropical sky, ten miles high and a thousand years off on the horizon. Imagine air that feels like honey on your forehead; imagine air that comes out of your lungs cooler than when it entered.
Imagine hearing a dry hiss outside your office building’s window. Imagine walking to the window’s louvred shutters and looking out and seeing the entire contents of the world you know flow past you in a surprisingly soothing, quiet sluice of grey mud: palm fronds, donkeys, the local Fanta bottler’s Jeep, unlocked bicycles, dead dogs, beer crates, shrimper’s skiffs, barbed wire fences, garbage, ginger flowers, oil sheds, Mercedes tour buses, chicken delivery vans.
. . . corpses
. . . plywood sheets
. . . dolphins
. . . a moped
. . . a tennis net
. . . laundry baskets
. . . a baby
. . . baseball caps
. . . more dead dogs
. . . corrugated zinc
Imagine a space alien is standing with you there in the room as you read these words. What do you say to him? Her? It? What was once alive is now dead. Would aliens even know the difference between life and death? Perhaps aliens experience something else just as unexpected as life. And what would that be? What would they say to themselves to plaster over the unexplainable cracks of everyday existence, let alone a tsunami? What myths or lies do they hold true? How do they tell stories?
Now look back out your window–look at what the gods have barfed out of your subconscious and into the world–the warm, muddy river of dead cats, old women cauled in moist saris, aluminum propane canisters, a dead goat, flies that buzz unharmed just above the fray.
. . . picnic coolers
. . . clumps of grass
. . . a sunburnt Scandinavian pederast
. . . white plastic stacking chairs
. . . drowned soldiers tangled in gun straps
And then what do you do–do you pray? What is prayer but a wish for the events in your life to string together to form a story–something that makes some sense of events you know have meaning.
And so I pray.
ZACK
Mahaska County, Iowa
Cornfields are the scariest things on the entire fucking face of the planet. I don’t mean that in a Joe-Pesci-being-clubbed-to-death-with-an-aluminum-baseball-bat kind of way, and I don’t mean it in an alien-crop-circles kind of way, and I don’t mean it in a butchering-hitchhikers kind of way. I don’t even mean it in an alien-autopsy-remains-used-as-fertilizer kind of way. I mean it in a Big-Corn-Archer Daniels Midland/Cargill/Monsantogenetically-modified-high-fructose-ethanol kind of way. Corn is a fucking nightmare. A thousand years ago it was a stem of grass with one scuzzy little kernel; now it’s a bloated, footlong, buttery carb dildo. And get this: cornstarch molecules are a mile long. Back in the seventies, Big Corn patented some new enzyme that chops those miles into a trillion discrete blips of fructose. A few years later these newly liberated fructose molecules assault the national food chain. Blammo! An entire nation becomes morbidly obese. Fact is, the human body isn’t built to withstand high-dose assaults of fructose. It enters your body and your body says, Hmmm . . . do I turn this into shit or do I turn it into blubber? Blubber it is! Corn turns off the shit switch. The corn industry’s response to this? Who–us? Contributing to the obesity epidemic? No way, man. People simply started to snack more in the eighties. Now be quiet and keep drinking all that New Formula Coke.
Man, humans are a nightmare fucking species. We deserve everything we do to ourselves.
But who the fuck gets stung by a bee in a combine tractor in the middle of a cornfield in Mahaska County, Iowa? Me, fucking me.
By the way, welcome to Oskaloosa and all the many features that make Oskaloosa a terrific place to visit. There’s something for everyone here, from the historic city square with its bandstand to the George Daily Auditorium, the award-winning Oskaloosa Public Library, William Penn University and three golf courses.
I stole most of that last paragraph from the Internet. What the town’s home page forgot to mention was my father’s meth distillery (“lab” makes it sound so Cletus-&-Brandeen), which got busted by the DEA a few years back. Dad and the DEA never got along too well.
Six years ago Dad got wasted and in a moment of paranoia stole the Oskaloosa Library’s bookmobile, abandoning its carcass in the 14th hole sand trap of the legendary Edmundson Park and Golf Course. Then, in the delusion that he was destroying DEA monitoring equipment, he torched it, in the process losing his eyebrows, his driver’s licence, his freedom and his visitation rights to my two half-sisters, who live in Winnebago County.
Once out of the clink, he went right back to business and when his meth distillery was raided, the back of his head was toasted by a canister of boiling toluene. He spent six weeks in the correctional facility’s hospital unit until he got into reason able enough shape to walk around. My uncle Jay, a lawyer and Freon broker from Palo Alto, was able to post bail and had Dad flown out to California for OCD counselling. Dad picked up drug-resistant staph from a set of improperly cleaned in-flight headsets that infected his burn scar; by the time they touched down at SFO, maybe a quarter of his head was eaten up. So then we buried Dad, and Uncle Jay sold half the farm and bought me the world’s most kickass corn harvest ing combine, Maizie.
Since then, Uncle Jay has sent me a reasonable paycheque in return for me not making meth (and following Daddy’s path), as well as for me doing a slightly more than half-ass job tending the corn (our family legacy), and for me to piss into an Erlenmeyer flask in front of Iowa’s creepiest Romanian lab technician (just in case I forgot the former two conditions). The urine was tested on the spot to see if I’d shaken hands with someone who ate a poppyseed bagel since the previous Tuesday; it’s not fun being treated like a disgraced Olympian athlete, but Uncle Jay made cleanliness a condition of keeping Maizie. I mean, everyone I know–hell, the whole country–is baked on drugs, clueless as dirt and morbidly obese. Normally I’d have been the perfect candidate for all three, except, 1) I can’t do drugs if I want my cheque, 2) I’m not entirely stupid and am at least curious about the world and 3) I believe corn is the devil. Try finding rice and soy grocery products in Mahaska County. Good luck. They might as well add that fact to Oskaloosa’s online civic profile: Oskaloosa’s grocers sell a wide array of products into which manufacturers have invisibly inserted a vast family of corn-derived molecules. Should your child decide to go vegetarian or adapt any other questionable dietary lifestyle choice, our grocers and mini-marts will thwart their teen desires at every corner.
Okay, here’s the thing I didn’t mention about the raid: the DEA also found a fake-vintage saltine cracker tin containing two dead men’s index fingers. Dad had been using them to loan authenticity to a long-running cheque fraud scheme, but there was a third finger the DEA didn’t find, which I traded soon after to a DEA server maintenance girl named Carly who was running some scam of her own. In return for the finger, she gave me a killer blowjob and access to the DEA’s real-time geosynchronous surveillance satellite cameras. I could have made something long-term with Carly, except she demanded that I cut off my ponytail and donate it to Locks of Love. Farewell, Carly. Why did I want access to a real-time satellite camera? For my art, of course. Details to come shortly.
So the day I got stung by that goddam bee I was out in Maizie, a harvester so luxurious it could shame a gay cruise liner. I was naked, and why not! The ergonomically sensible operator’s cab was fully pressurized and air-conditioned; unibody cab frame, rubber mounts and sound-absorbing material reduced noise levels to near zero. All-round visibility allowed me ample time to throw on some shorts if I saw a visitor arriving on the farm.
I was also listening to some trendy band from Luxembourg or the Vatican or Lichtenstein or the Falkland Islands, one of those places so small that a distinct pie slice of its GDP derives from the sale of postage stamps to collectors and music sales by nanotrendy indie rock bands.
I had my four plasmas on 1) the NFL, 2) some whacked-out Korean game show where people dress in animal costumes to win prizes that look like inflatable vinyl alphabet letters, 3) the DEA real-time satellite view of my farm and 4) a two-way satellite link to an insomniac freak named Charles, who works in the satellite TV media-buying wing of BBDO in Singapore. Charles pays a hundred bucks an hour to watch me work nude in my cab. Did I forget to mention that? Welcome to the new economy. If I can make an extra buck by getting off some Twinkie in another hemisphere, you know what? I’m in. Charles, you unzip your trousers. Zegna trousers, and I know that about you because I read your secret online profile: lions-and-tigers-and-bears@labelwhore.org.
In any event, the sexy portion of Charles’s day seemed to have been completed, and the two of us were talking. Specifically, Charles was trashing the state of Iowa, branding it “The Rectangle State.” I quickly disabused him of this notion, pointing out that Colorado is technically the rectangle state.
Charles said, “...
Quatrième de couverture :
Trincomalee, Sri Lanka
How can we be alive and not wonder about the stories we use to knit together this place we call the world? Without stories, our universe is merely rocks and clouds and lava and blackness. It’s a village scraped raw by warm waters leaving not a trace of what existed before.
Imagine a tropical sky, ten miles high and a thousand years off on the horizon. Imagine air that feels like honey on your forehead; imagine air that comes out of your lungs cooler than when it entered.
Imagine hearing a dry hiss outside your office building’s window. Imagine walking to the window’s louvred shutters and looking out and seeing the entire contents of the world you know flow past you in a surprisingly soothing, quiet sluice of grey mud: palm fronds, donkeys, the local Fanta bottler’s Jeep, unlocked bicycles, dead dogs, beer crates, shrimper’s skiffs, barbed wire fences, garbage, ginger flowers, oil sheds, Mercedes tour buses, chicken delivery vans.
. . . corpses
. . . plywood sheets
. . . dolphins
. . . a moped
. . . a tennis net
. . . laundry baskets
. . . a baby
. . . baseball caps
. . . more dead dogs
. . . corrugated zinc
Imagine a space alien is standing with you there in the room as you read these words. What do you say to him? Her? It? What was once alive is now dead. Would aliens even know the difference between life and death? Perhaps aliens experience something else just as unexpected as life. And what would that be? What would they say to themselves to plaster over the unexplainable cracks of everyday existence, let alone a tsunami? What myths or lies do they hold true? How do they tell stories?
Now look back out your window–look at what the gods have barfed out of your subconscious and into the world–the warm, muddy river of dead cats, old women cauled in moist saris, aluminum propane canisters, a dead goat, flies that buzz unharmed just above the fray.
. . . picnic coolers
. . . clumps of grass
. . . a sunburnt Scandinavian pederast
. . . white plastic stacking chairs
. . . drowned soldiers tangled in gun straps
And then what do you do–do you pray? What is prayer but a wish for the events in your life to string together to form a story–something that makes some sense of events you know have meaning.
And so I pray.
ZACK
Mahaska County, Iowa
Cornfields are the scariest things on the entire fucking face of the planet. I don’t mean that in a Joe-Pesci-being-clubbed-to-death-with-an-aluminum-baseball-bat kind of way, and I don’t mean it in an alien-crop-circles kind of way, and I don’t mean it in a butchering-hitchhikers kind of way. I don’t even mean it in an alien-autopsy-remains-used-as-fertilizer kind of way. I mean it in a Big-Corn-Archer Daniels Midland/Cargill/Monsantogenetically-modified-high-fructose-ethanol kind of way. Corn is a fucking nightmare. A thousand years ago it was a stem of grass with one scuzzy little kernel; now it’s a bloated, footlong, buttery carb dildo. And get this: cornstarch molecules are a mile long. Back in the seventies, Big Corn patented some new enzyme that chops those miles into a trillion discrete blips of fructose. A few years later these newly liberated fructose molecules assault the national food chain. Blammo! An entire nation becomes morbidly obese. Fact is, the human body isn’t built to withstand high-dose assaults of fructose. It enters your body and your body says, Hmmm . . . do I turn this into shit or do I turn it into blubber? Blubber it is! Corn turns off the shit switch. The corn industry’s response to this? Who–us? Contributing to the obesity epidemic? No way, man. People simply started to snack more in the eighties. Now be quiet and keep drinking all that New Formula Coke.
Man, humans are a nightmare fucking species. We deserve everything we do to ourselves.
But who the fuck gets stung by a bee in a combine tractor in the middle of a cornfield in Mahaska County, Iowa? Me, fucking me.
By the way, welcome to Oskaloosa and all the many features that make Oskaloosa a terrific place to visit. There’s something for everyone here, from the historic city square with its bandstand to the George Daily Auditorium, the award-winning Oskaloosa Public Library, William Penn University and three golf courses.
I stole most of that last paragraph from the Internet. What the town’s home page forgot to mention was my father’s meth distillery (“lab” makes it sound so Cletus-&-Brandeen), which got busted by the DEA a few years back. Dad and the DEA never got along too well.
Six years ago Dad got wasted and in a moment of paranoia stole the Oskaloosa Library’s bookmobile, abandoning its carcass in the 14th hole sand trap of the legendary Edmundson Park and Golf Course. Then, in the delusion that he was destroying DEA monitoring equipment, he torched it, in the process losing his eyebrows, his driver’s licence, his freedom and his visitation rights to my two half-sisters, who live in Winnebago County.
Once out of the clink, he went right back to business and when his meth distillery was raided, the back of his head was toasted by a canister of boiling toluene. He spent six weeks in the correctional facility’s hospital unit until he got into reason able enough shape to walk around. My uncle Jay, a lawyer and Freon broker from Palo Alto, was able to post bail and had Dad flown out to California for OCD counselling. Dad picked up drug-resistant staph from a set of improperly cleaned in-flight headsets that infected his burn scar; by the time they touched down at SFO, maybe a quarter of his head was eaten up. So then we buried Dad, and Uncle Jay sold half the farm and bought me the world’s most kickass corn harvest ing combine, Maizie.
Since then, Uncle Jay has sent me a reasonable paycheque in return for me not making meth (and following Daddy’s path), as well as for me doing a slightly more than half-ass job tending the corn (our family legacy), and for me to piss into an Erlenmeyer flask in front of Iowa’s creepiest Romanian lab technician (just in case I forgot the former two conditions). The urine was tested on the spot to see if I’d shaken hands with someone who ate a poppyseed bagel since the previous Tuesday; it’s not fun being treated like a disgraced Olympian athlete, but Uncle Jay made cleanliness a condition of keeping Maizie. I mean, everyone I know–hell, the whole country–is baked on drugs, clueless as dirt and morbidly obese. Normally I’d have been the perfect candidate for all three, except, 1) I can’t do drugs if I want my cheque, 2) I’m not entirely stupid and am at least curious about the world and 3) I believe corn is the devil. Try finding rice and soy grocery products in Mahaska County. Good luck. They might as well add that fact to Oskaloosa’s online civic profile: Oskaloosa’s grocers sell a wide array of products into which manufacturers have invisibly inserted a vast family of corn-derived molecules. Should your child decide to go vegetarian or adapt any other questionable dietary lifestyle choice, our grocers and mini-marts will thwart their teen desires at every corner.
Okay, here’s the thing I didn’t mention about the raid: the DEA also found a fake-vintage saltine cracker tin containing two dead men’s index fingers. Dad had been using them to loan authenticity to a long-running cheque fraud scheme, but there was a third finger the DEA didn’t find, which I traded soon after to a DEA server maintenance girl named Carly who was running some scam of her own. In return for the finger, she gave me a killer blowjob and access to the DEA’s real-time geosynchronous surveillance satellite cameras. I could have made something long-term with Carly, except she demanded that I cut off my ponytail and donate it to Locks of Love. Farewell, Carly. Why did I want access to a real-time satellite camera? For my art, of course. Details to come shortly.
So the day I got stung by that goddam bee I was out in Maizie, a harvester so luxurious it could shame a gay cruise liner. I was naked, and why not! The ergonomically sensible operator’s cab was fully pressurized and air-conditioned; unibody cab frame, rubber mounts and sound-absorbing material reduced noise levels to near zero. All-round visibility allowed me ample time to throw on some shorts if I saw a visitor arriving on the farm.
I was also listening to some trendy band from Luxembourg or the Vatican or Lichtenstein or the Falkland Islands, one of those places so small that a distinct pie slice of its GDP derives from the sale of postage stamps to collectors and music sales by nanotrendy indie rock bands.
I had my four plasmas on 1) the NFL, 2) some whacked-out Korean game show where people dress in animal costumes to win prizes that look like inflatable vinyl alphabet letters, 3) the DEA real-time satellite view of my farm and 4) a two-way satellite link to an insomniac freak named Charles, who works in the satellite TV media-buying wing of BBDO in Singapore. Charles pays a hundred bucks an hour to watch me work nude in my cab. Did I forget to mention that? Welcome to the new economy. If I can make an extra buck by getting off some Twinkie in another hemisphere, you know what? I’m in. Charles, you unzip your trousers. Zegna trousers, and I know that about you because I read your secret online profile: lions-and-tigers-and-bears@labelwhore.org.
In any event, the sexy portion of Charles’s day seemed to have been completed, and the two of us were talking. Specifically, Charles was trashing the state of Iowa, branding it “The Rectangle State.” I quickly disabused him of this notion, pointing out that Colorado is technically the rectangle state.
Charles said, “...
'With this exceptional sequel to Generation X, Douglas Coupland may be one of the smartest, wittiest writers around ... he is a terrifically good writer ... this is a clever, brilliant book.' Esquire
'A delightful Decameron of a book ... rich, educative and even consoling.' Independent
Generation A is set in the near future in a world where bees are extinct, until five unconnected people around the world - in the US, Canada, France, New Zealand and Sri Lanka - are all stung. Their shared experience unites them in ways they never could have imagined.
'[An] intoxicating cocktail of literary influences ... a globally ambitious novel.' Guardian
'One of the most popular serious writers of our time.' Aravind Adiga, Financial Times
'Intellectually provocative.' Times Literary Supplement
'Inventive and unexpectedly moving.' Daily Mail
'Highly recommended. Like Murakami in a thriller-trope mode. Go for it.' William Gibson
'Coupland's audacious flights of fancy, his laugh-out-loud dialogue and his magnificent ability to bring it all back to storytelling and orange-flavour tang, they're all here ... such a treat.' Independent on Sunday
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- ÉditeurHeyne Taschenbuch
- ISBN 10 3453408128
- ISBN 13 9783453408128
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Generation A: Roman
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(2012)
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Description du livre Befriedigend/Good: Durchschnittlich erhaltenes Buch bzw. Schutzumschlag mit Gebrauchsspuren, aber vollständigen Seiten. / Describes the average WORN book or dust jacket that has all the pages present. N° de réf. du vendeur M03453408128-G
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Generation A. Roman. Aus dem kanadischen Englisch von Clara Drechsler und Harald Hellmann. Originaltitel: ? Generation A. - (=Heyne Hardcore, Band 40812).
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Description du livre Taschenbuch. Kartoniert. Etat : Sehr gut. Taschenbucherstausgabe. 332 (4) Seiten. 18,7 cm. Umschlaggestaltung: Melville Brand Design. Lesetipp des Bouquinisten! Sehr guter Zustand. Stempel auf dem Fußschnitt. » Generation A ist ein Ökothriller vom Ende der Welt.« Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. Unsere Welt in der nahen Zukunft: eigentlich sind die Bienen ausgestorben, aber dann werden 5 nicht miteinander in Verbindung stehende Menschen in verschiedenen Teilen der Welt gestochen. Sofort werden sie von Männern in billigen Anzügen aufgegriffen, verhört und dann in ihre 15 Minuten Internetruhm entlassen. Ein charismatischer Wissenschaftler mit zweifelhaften Motiven bringt das Quintett schließlich zusammen, und ihre gemeinsame Erfahrung verbindet sie auf eine Weise, die sie sich nie hätten vorstellen können. »Douglas Coupland ist einer der verlässlichsten Deuter dieser Welt.« Die Zeit- Douglas Coupland (* 30. Dezember 1961 in Rheinmünster-Söllingen) ist ein kanadischer Schriftsteller und Bildender Künstler. Leben: Coupland wurde auf einem NATO-Stützpunkt in Deutschland geboren und wuchs in Vancouver, British Columbia auf, wo er 1984 am Emily Carr College of Art and Design ein Bildhauerei-Studium abschloss. Bis 1986 folgten Auslandsaufenthalte in Italien und Japan. An der Universität von Hokkaido besuchte Coupland Kurse in Produktdesign. Nach Kanada zurückgekehrt stellte er seine Arbeiten 1987 unter dem Titel The Floating World" in der Vancouver Art Gallery aus. In den späten Achtzigern begann er für lokale Magazine zu schreiben. Daraus resultierte sein Erstlingswerk Generation X, welches ihn schlagartig berühmt machte und zum Sprachrohr einer Generation werden ließ. Zahlreiche weitere Veröffentlichungen untermauerten den Status des Kultautors. Daneben arbeitet er nach wie vor an Skulpturen und Installationen. 2004 schuf er das Canada House", eine Installation, die sich mit Stereotypen kanadischer Identität anhand von Alltagsgegenständen auseinandersetzte. 2005 schrieb er außerdem das Drehbuch zu dem Film Everything's Gone Green". Im selben Jahr outete sich Coupland als homosexuell. Werk: Sein 1991 erschienener Roman Generation X wurde ein Welterfolg, der Titel wurde zum sprichwörtlichen Begriff und namensgebend für eine vom Konsumwahn abgestoßene Bewegung. Das Buch schildert in anekdotenhafter Form den Selbstfindungsprozess dreier exemplarischer Vertreter der Generation X und ihrem Streben, der zunehmenden Kommerzialisierung ein eigenes Wertesystem entgegenzustellen. 1992 folgte der Roman Shampoo Planet. In ihm wird eine Jugend dargestellt, die Statussymbole und Karrieredenken in den Vordergrund stellt, damit allerdings in starkem Widerspruch zu den der Hippie-Generation zugehörigen Eltern steht. Das 1993 erschienene Life After God schildert episodenhaft die Existenzängste der Generation X: Atomare Bedrohung, Zerstörung der Umwelt, Tod und die Suche nach Gott charakterisieren die assoziativ geformte Erzählung. 1995 veröffentlichte Coupland den satirischen Roman Microserfs" (von engl. serf, Leibeigener) über die Angestellten des Microsoft-Konzerns, der gleichzeitig den IT-Boom der Neunziger parodiert. Er erschien 1996 auf Deutsch unter dem Titel Microsklaven. 1996 publizierte Coupland den Essay-Sammelband Polaroids From The Dead" (deutsch: Amerikanische Polaroids, 1998), in dem er abermals die gesellschaftlichen Veränderungen der Dekade unter die Lupe nahm. Girlfriend in a Coma markierte eine Abkehr von Couplands lakonischem Schreibstil. Das 1998 auf Deutsch erschienene Buch ist ein apokalypisches Märchen, welches die gescheiterten Träume der Protagonisten thematisiert. 2001 folgte (Miss Wyoming; englische Ausgabe 1999). Eleanor Rigby greift 2004 abermals das Motiv radioaktiver Strahlung auf und erzählt die Geschichte einer Mittdreißigerin, deren Leben aus den gewohnten Bahnen bricht, nach dem ihr Sohn, den sie nach der Geburt zur Adoption frei gab, nach 20 Jahren in ihr Leben tritt. Bei The Gum Thief (engl., 2007) rekrutiert sich das Personal aus den Angestellten und Kunden eines Büroartikel-Großmarkts. In die Haupterzählung eingewoben ist der fiktive Roman Glove Pond", den einer der Angestellten angelehnt an die Ereignisse seiner Kollegen Kapitel für Kapitel fortschreibt. In der Haupterzählung geht es darum, dass zwei Menschen am Tiefpunkt angekommen sind und sich dessen bewusst werden. Dann nehmen sie das ihnen entglittene Leben wieder in die Hand: Der eine, indem er den Roman Glove Pond" schreibt, die andere, indem sie ein Studium beginnt. 2009 veröffentlichte Coupland den Roman Generation A. Rückgreifend auf seinen Debüt mit Generation X unternimmt Coupland hier erneut den Versuch das Lebensgefühl einer zunehmend individualisierten Generation zwischen Youtube, Google und Twitter zu dokumentieren. Zu diesem Zweck integriert die Erzählung zahlreiche stilistische und gestalterische Elemente des Web 2.0. Die Geschichte spielt in der nahen Zukunft: Bienen gelten als weltweit ausgestorben bis unvermittelt fünf Personen, verstreut über den gesamten Erdball, gestochen werden. Die fünf Protagonisten werden kurz nach diesem Vorfall auf abenteuerliche Weise gefangen genommen, isoliert, schließlich an einem entlegenen Ort zusammengebracht. Es gilt herauszufinden, was die Bienen dazu animierte, eben diese Personen zu stechen. . Aus: wikipedia-Douglas_Coupland. - - Clara Drechsler, geboren 1961, und Harald Hellmann, geboren 1958, übersetzen gemeinsam aus dem Englischen, u. a. Werke von Bret Easton Ellis, Irvine Welsh, Miranda July, Patti Smith, Tillett Wright, Charlie Human, Kate Tempest. Sprache: Deutsch Gewicht in Gramm: 307. N° de réf. du vendeur 68685
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Generation A. Roman.
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Description du livre Vollständige deutsche Taschenbuchausgabe, 19 cm, 332 Seiten, Taschenbuch. Kopfschnitt minimal beschmutzt, sehr gut erhalten. Heyne Hardcore 40812. Sprache: Deutsch. N° de réf. du vendeur 20279AB
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Generation A: Roman
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Description du livre Etat : very good. Taschenbuch. Sofortversand aus Deutschland. Artikel wiegt maximal 500g. Einband verfärbt. Einband mit Aufkleber. Einband mit Kratzspuren. N° de réf. du vendeur 3615699 gk
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Generation A: Roman
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Description du livre Etat : good. Taschenbuch. Sofortversand aus Deutschland. Artikel wiegt maximal 500g. Bibliothekseinband. Aufkleber im Einband innen. Einband lichtverfärbt. Vorsatz nachgedunkelt. Fleck auf den ersten Seiten am Rand. N° de réf. du vendeur 3631797 sk
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Generation A: Roman Roman
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Description du livre Taschenbuch. Etat : Wie neu. Vollst. dt. Taschenbuchausg. 336 S. Alle Bücher & Medienartikel von Book Broker sind stets in gutem & sehr gutem gebrauchsfähigen Zustand. Unser Produktfoto entspricht dem hier angebotenen Artikel, dieser weist folgende Merkmale auf: Saubere Seiten in fester Bindung. Sprache: Deutsch Gewicht in Gramm: 281. N° de réf. du vendeur 661103968
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EUR 7,48
Autre devise