- Éd. originale
- Signé
- Livre relié
- Occasion
Vendeur : Yesterday's Muse, ABAA, ILAB, IOBA, Webster, NY, Etats-UnisYesterday's Muse, ABAA, ILAB, IOBA
Vendeur AbeBooks depuis 2 juillet 2003
Membre d’une association professionnelle : ABAAIOBAILAB
Afficher les articles de ce vendeurEtat: Occasion - Assez bon
EUR 32,77
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Ajouter au panierItem description from seller
First edition. Signed by author without inscription on title page. Edges lightly foxed. 1989 Hard Cover. 199 pp. A collection of twelve short stories by the popular Canadian author who won the Pulitzer Prize for her novel The Stone Diaries. ?Milk Bread Beer Ice? is a road trip shared by a husband and wife who no longer communicate through meaningful dialogue. Fifty-year-old ?Hazel? is forced to enter an alien workplace after the sudden death of her husband. In ?Today Is the Day,? the village women gather together for their annual ritual of planting blisterlilies. And ?Family Secrets? travels to DeKalb, Illinois, and the First World War, as the narrator searches for a missing year in her mother's life . . . and unearths a surprising connection to Ernest Hemingway. From a group of musicians who discover they share more than classical ?Chemistry? to an unhappily married couple who may get a second chance, this remarkable collection, like the ageless orange fish of the title story, is filled with the wonder and magic of everyday life.…
N° de réf. du vendeur 2344829
- Titre
- The Orange Fish
- Auteur
- Shields, Carol
- Éditeur
- Random House
- Année de publication
- 1989
- État de l'article
- Very Good
- Jaquette
- Very Good
- Signé
- Signed by author
- Reliure
- Hard Cover
- Langue
- anglais
- ISBN à 10 chiffres
- 0394221001
- ISBN à 13 chiffres
- 9780394221007
- Édition
- First Edition.
- Poids de l'article
- 15 onces
- Dimensions
- 8x5x0
« Synopsis » peut appartenir à une autre édition de cet ouvrage.
Extrait
Like others of my generation I am devoted to food, money, and sex; but I have an ulcer and have been unhappily married to Lois-Ann, a lawyer, for twelve years. As you might guess, we are both fearful of aging. Recently, Lois-Ann showed me an article she had clipped from the newspaper, a profile of a well-known television actress who was described as being “deep in her thirties.”
She looked at me from behind a lens of tears.
Despite our incompatibility, the two of us understand each other, and I knew more or less what it was she was thinking: that some years ago, when she was twenty-five, she made up her mind to go to Vancouver Island and raise dahlias, but on the very day she bought her air ticket, she got a letter in the mail saying she’d been accepted at law school. “None of us writes our own script,” she said to me once, and of course she’s right. I still toy — I confess this to you freely — with my old fantasy of running a dude ranch, with the thought of well-rubbed saddles and harnesses and the whole sweet leather tip of possibility, even though I know the dude market’s been depressed for a decade, dead in fact.
Not long ago, on a Saturday morning, Lois-Ann and I had one of our long talks about values, about goals. The mood as we sat over breakfast was sternly analytical.
“Maybe we’ve become trapped in the cult of consumerism and youth worship,” I suggested.
“Trapped by our zeitgeist,” said Lois-Ann, who has a way of capping a point, especially my point.
A long silence followed, twenty seconds, thirty seconds. I glanced up from an emptied coffee cup, remembered that my fortieth birthday was only weeks away, and felt a flare of panic in my upper colon. The pain was hideous and familiar. I took a deep breath as I’d been told to do. Breathe in, then out. Repeat. The trick is to visualize the pain, its substance and color, and then transfer it to a point outside the body. I concentrated on a small spot above our breakfast table, a random patch on the white wall. Often this does the trick, but this morning the blank space, the smooth drywall expanse of it, seemed distinctly accusing.
At one time Lois-Ann and I had talked about wallpapering the kitchen or at least putting up an electric clock shaped like a sunflower. We also considered a ceramic bas-relief of cauliflowers and carrots, and after that a little heart-shaped mirror bordered with rattan, and, more recently, a primitive map of the world with a practical acrylic surface. We have never been able to agree, never been able to arrive at a decision.
I felt Lois-Ann watching me, her eyes as neat and neutral as birds’ eggs. “What we need,” I said, gesturing at the void, “is a picture.”
“Or possibly a print,” said Lois-Ann, and immediately went to get her coat.
Three hours later we were the owners of a cheerful lithograph titled The Orange Fish. It was unframed, but enclosed in a sandwich of twinkling glass, its corners secured by a set of neat metal clips. The mat surrounding the picture was a generous three inches in width — we liked that — and the background was a shimmer of green; within this space the orange fish was suspended.
I wish somehow you might see this fish. He is boldly drawn, and just as boldly colored. He occupies approximately eighty per cent of the surface and has about him a wet, dense look of health. To me, at least, he appears to have stopped moving, to be resting against the wall of green water. A stream of bubbles, each one separate and tear-shaped, floats above him, binding him to his element. Of course he is seen in side profile, as fish always are, and this classic posture underlines the tranquility of the whole. He possesses, too, a Buddha-like sense of being in the right place, the only place. His center, that is, where you might imagine his heart to be, is sweetly orange in color, and this color diminishes slightly as it flows toward the semi-transparency of fins and the round, ridged, non-appraising mouth. But it was his eye I most appreciated, the kind of wide, ungreedy eye I would like to be able to turn onto the world.
We made up our minds quickly; he would fit nicely over the breakfast table. Lois-Ann mentioned that the orange tones would pick up the colors of the seat covers. We were in a state of rare agreement. And the price was right.
« A propos de ce titre » peut appartenir à une autre édition de cet ouvrage.
Yesterday's Muse, ABAA, ILAB, IOBA
Webster, NY, Etats-Unis
Vendeur AbeBooks depuis 2 juillet 2003
Frais d'expédition à l'intérieur de ce pays : Etats-Unis
| Article | 5 à 14 jours ouvrés | 2 à 6 jours ouvrés |
|---|---|---|
| Premier article | EUR 0,00 | EUR 11,17 |
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We buy, sell and trade used, rare, collectible, and unusual books and paper. We operate a storefront in our home town of Webster, NY which is open six days a week -- see our website for store hours.
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American & World Literature, Antiquarian & Collectible Books, Modern First Editions, Eastern Religion & Traditions, Philosophy, Americana / American HistoryMembre d’une association professionnelle
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Yesterday's Muse, Inc.
32 W Main St Ste 1
Webster, NY Etats-Unis 14580
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CONTACT INFORMATION:
Yesterday's Muse, Inc.
32 W Main St Ste 1
Webster, NY 14580
585-265-9295
books@yesterdaysmuse.com
www.yesterdaysmuse.com
SHIPPING: All books are mailed within one business day of order placement. Standard mail, which we provide free of charge, generally takes about 10 days, but varies greatly depending on destination. Expedited shipping is recommended for time-sensitive orders, and is usually delivered in 2-5 days. International shipment is also available; delivery times vary greatly based on destination. Please note, expedited & international rates listed are based on 1kg packages: heavy or oversized orders will require additional shipping.
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Jonathan Smalter, Bookseller, ABAA, ILAB, IOBA
President and Sole Owner, Yesterday's Muse Books
FEIN: 26-2328466
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