Articles liés à Where Trouble Sleeps: A Novel
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Book by Edgerton Clyde
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Extrait :
Alease Toomey sat at her dresser, putting on lipstick, getting ready to take her son up to see the electric chair for the first time. She blotted her lips on a Kleenex, reached for her comb. Her dresser top held the basics only--a jar of Pond's cold cream, a bottle of Jergens lotion, Elizabeth Arden rouge and lipstick, hand mirror, hairbrush--all on a starched white table doily.
She thought about little Terry Daniels, just down the road. Why not take him along, too? Seeing the electric chair might be especially good for him, and certainly his mother wouldn't be taking him up there. And it would be nice for Stephen to have some company along.
She blotted her lipstick again on the Kleenex, softened the glare.
Terry's mother, Inez, squinted through the door screen. As Mrs. Toomey explained the purpose of the trip, Inez considered the dress Mrs. Toomey was wearing, a clean white dress with big blue flowers. Mrs. Toomey's hair was shiny and had nice waves in it, and little Stephen was so neat, wearing pressed navy blue shorts and a yellow shirt with a collar, his hair pushed back in front with that butch wax it looked like. She didn't have Terry's pants ironed. But he had some that was clean. Somewhere back in there.
As Mrs. Toomey talked, Inez began to realize that what Mrs. Toomey was about to do was exactly right for Terry at this time in his little dragged-along, up-and-down life. Her hand touched the screen. She looked over her shoulder and said, "Terry, go get on some pants and shoes. Find some clean pants and a shirt." Boy would go naked to the grocery store if he had a chance. She'd done blistered his ass twice for running naked in the yard. Last time was yesterday when she saw him standing on that tire, pissing in the hole.
"We'll just wait out here in the swing" said Mrs, Toomey,
In the swing, Stephen sat next to the wall and held his mother's hand. His feet didn't reach the porch floor. The chain creaked up at the ceiling. He looked across the hot paved road at the gas station--Train's Place. He knew to take his eyes away. Train's Place was where men drank beer and said bad words. Stephen knew the evil names of two beers: Schlitz and Blatz.
Through the window screen near his elbow he saw the foot of a bed, a rumpled white sheet. He'd never seen an unmade bed in the daytime. The unmade bed made the room seem wild. He heard Mrs. Daniels's voice in there: "Where's that other sock?"
"I don't know."
"Didn't you have it on yesterday?"
"No."
"Do you want me to whup you?"
"No."
"You say No ma'am."
"No ma'am."
"You say No ma'am to Mrs. Toomey, you hear? She's taking you up to see the electric chair, and you listen to what she says and don't you take them shoes off, or nary piece of your clothes ... Do you hear?"
"Yes ... Yes ma'am."
As they got in the car, Terry's sister, Cheryl, rode up on her bicycle, leaned it against the steps, and waved to Mrs. Toomey and Stephen.
The way Cheryl was shaped all over, the way her head and her body came together like an angel, made her look to Stephen like the woman who came to him when he was almost dead on the desert after he'd been fighting Indians. Cheryl sometimes talked to him when he sat on the porch steps at the grocery store. She would sometimes even sit down beside him.
Alease let Stephen and Terry sit in the backseat together. That way they could talk, and she could kind of hear what they talked about.
"Did you know Mr. Jacobs's got a electric paddle in his office?" Terry asked Stephen.
"Terry honey" said Alease, "I don't think that's true about a electric paddle. I think somebody made that up."
"That's what Leland said."
"Well, I don't believe that's true. That's a rumor. A rumor is something that's not true. Not usually true."
Stephen rolled his little metal car up and down his leg and across the seat.
"Can I play with that?" Terry asked Stephen.
Alease looked in the rearview mirror. "Stephen. Let Terry play with your car."
The strong, acrid odor from the fertilizer factory came in through the open windows.
Stephen handed his toy car to Terry and said, "I got about five more."
They bumped over the railroad tracks, past a row of shotgun houses, some with flowers on the porch.
"I got a big wood one," said Terry. "Leland's got a real one with wheels on it that come often a scooter."
They drove past the Dairy DeeLight--where June Odum, a neighbor, worked part-time. Alease decided they might stop by on the way back for a little reward if Stephen and Terry behaved. She wasn't against a little reward for herself, either.
"Now, the reason we're going to see the electric chair," said Alease, "is so you-all can see what will happen if you ever let the Devil lead you into a bad sin. They'll put you in the electric chair and electrocute you. And little sins can lead up to big sins."
They drove past red clay road banks, past green pastures with cows, wood outbuildings, fishing ponds, some pastures holding a line or two of thick black-green cedar trees. They passed a man in a dark gray business suit changing a flat tire.
Just east of Birmingham, Alabama, big splotchy raindrops hit the dusty windshield of a northeast-bound, black, four-door, almost new, stolen 1950 Buick Eight. Jack Umstead looked for the wiper knob, found it. He was very satisfied with the feel of this big Buick. The horn sounded like it weighed a hundred pounds. He kept patting the dashboard, and when he'd stopped for coffee in the sunshine, before the rain started, he had walked around the front of the car and touched the chrome hood ornament. It was shaped like a rocket ship. The heavy wipers worked with a clean, wide sweep--wider than any he'd ever seen--and at two speeds, fast and slow. He needed the fast. In fact, it was raining so hard he might pull over and stop for a few minutes. He didn't need a wreck, and the nose of some highway patrolman sticking in his window.
Back at the blinker light, Inez sat in her big soft chair inside the house where she could look out from the comfortable darkness. She picked up her L&M from the ashtray. She liked to sit in her big chair and prop her feet on the cane-bottomed chair, with her smokes, matches, and ashtray on the little round table beside her. She liked to look out through the screen door from back in there where it was dark. She liked to watch the men over at Train's Place, drinking beer and talking. Beyond that she could see what was going on over at the grocery store.
Sometimes she went back to bed. She didn't like to cook especially and they didn't have company anymore now that Johnny had started drinking again. So sometimes she just gave up and slept. She deserved it. She'd had a hard time keeping her family going, except for Cheryl, who had made it all the way through high school and was turning out all right. She hadn't heard from her oldest son, Todd, in months. He was somewhere in Memphis, working at a gas station, he'd said.
As they pulled in and parked, Stephen's mother said, "See how big the building is? That's because there's so many prisoners."
Stephen looked at the tall fence beside the walkway--with barbed wire along the top--at the giant brick building, bigger than the hospital, sitting below a quiet blue sky with moving clouds so white they almost hurt his eyes. He reached for his mother's hand.
"See up there?" she said. "If they try to escape, that guard will shoot them. That's a shotgun he's got."
Stephen knew a gun would shoot an Indian and they'd fall down before they had a chance to go scalp a white man. He'd never seen a scalping close up in a movie. He wondered what it looked like up close. Did they get every bit of the hair, or just a hunk from the top? Why did that kill you? Why didn't a big scab just come?
The guard at the double gate said, "Yes ma'am. What can I do for you? Hey there, boys."
"I'm Mrs. Harvey Toomey. I called ahead to see about y'all showing these boys the electric chair."
"Oh, yes ma'am. We got a note about that." He opened one large gate, then another. "Just push the buzzer at that second door and Buddy'll let you in. How old are you boys?"
"Seven and a half," said Terry.
"Six and a half," said Stephen.
"This one's mine," said Alease. She touched Stephen's head.
These men in uniforms, Stephen knew, found lost dogs, fed milk to babies. On the outside--in their faces--they looked kind of hard, but inside they were perfect. They were prison guards. Maybe he'd be a prison guard when he grew up, stand up there in that high room at the top of the fence and hold a shotgun all day long and then go home to his wife for a good supper. And if he got in a fight with the prisoners and got shot, his beautiful wife dressed in white would rush to him, kneel over him, take care of him and talk to him. She would rub his forehead with a damp, white cloth.
After the boys and mother were gone, the tower guard asked down to the gate guard, "What'd she say?"
"Show them boys the electric chair." He shook a Lucky Strike up out of a pack, lit it with a flip-top lighter that had a rising sun on the side. "They won't but six and s'em year old."
"I wish I'd brought Dennis up here once a year or so from the time he was about two years old. Maybe he'd a stayed in school and made something out of hisself."
"You can't ever tell. When'd he drop out?"
"Eleventh ... tenth. Somewhere in there. I think he made it to the eleventh in some subjects. He never did get a chance to play footbal...
Revue de presse :
She thought about little Terry Daniels, just down the road. Why not take him along, too? Seeing the electric chair might be especially good for him, and certainly his mother wouldn't be taking him up there. And it would be nice for Stephen to have some company along.
She blotted her lipstick again on the Kleenex, softened the glare.
Terry's mother, Inez, squinted through the door screen. As Mrs. Toomey explained the purpose of the trip, Inez considered the dress Mrs. Toomey was wearing, a clean white dress with big blue flowers. Mrs. Toomey's hair was shiny and had nice waves in it, and little Stephen was so neat, wearing pressed navy blue shorts and a yellow shirt with a collar, his hair pushed back in front with that butch wax it looked like. She didn't have Terry's pants ironed. But he had some that was clean. Somewhere back in there.
As Mrs. Toomey talked, Inez began to realize that what Mrs. Toomey was about to do was exactly right for Terry at this time in his little dragged-along, up-and-down life. Her hand touched the screen. She looked over her shoulder and said, "Terry, go get on some pants and shoes. Find some clean pants and a shirt." Boy would go naked to the grocery store if he had a chance. She'd done blistered his ass twice for running naked in the yard. Last time was yesterday when she saw him standing on that tire, pissing in the hole.
"We'll just wait out here in the swing" said Mrs, Toomey,
In the swing, Stephen sat next to the wall and held his mother's hand. His feet didn't reach the porch floor. The chain creaked up at the ceiling. He looked across the hot paved road at the gas station--Train's Place. He knew to take his eyes away. Train's Place was where men drank beer and said bad words. Stephen knew the evil names of two beers: Schlitz and Blatz.
Through the window screen near his elbow he saw the foot of a bed, a rumpled white sheet. He'd never seen an unmade bed in the daytime. The unmade bed made the room seem wild. He heard Mrs. Daniels's voice in there: "Where's that other sock?"
"I don't know."
"Didn't you have it on yesterday?"
"No."
"Do you want me to whup you?"
"No."
"You say No ma'am."
"No ma'am."
"You say No ma'am to Mrs. Toomey, you hear? She's taking you up to see the electric chair, and you listen to what she says and don't you take them shoes off, or nary piece of your clothes ... Do you hear?"
"Yes ... Yes ma'am."
As they got in the car, Terry's sister, Cheryl, rode up on her bicycle, leaned it against the steps, and waved to Mrs. Toomey and Stephen.
The way Cheryl was shaped all over, the way her head and her body came together like an angel, made her look to Stephen like the woman who came to him when he was almost dead on the desert after he'd been fighting Indians. Cheryl sometimes talked to him when he sat on the porch steps at the grocery store. She would sometimes even sit down beside him.
Alease let Stephen and Terry sit in the backseat together. That way they could talk, and she could kind of hear what they talked about.
"Did you know Mr. Jacobs's got a electric paddle in his office?" Terry asked Stephen.
"Terry honey" said Alease, "I don't think that's true about a electric paddle. I think somebody made that up."
"That's what Leland said."
"Well, I don't believe that's true. That's a rumor. A rumor is something that's not true. Not usually true."
Stephen rolled his little metal car up and down his leg and across the seat.
"Can I play with that?" Terry asked Stephen.
Alease looked in the rearview mirror. "Stephen. Let Terry play with your car."
The strong, acrid odor from the fertilizer factory came in through the open windows.
Stephen handed his toy car to Terry and said, "I got about five more."
They bumped over the railroad tracks, past a row of shotgun houses, some with flowers on the porch.
"I got a big wood one," said Terry. "Leland's got a real one with wheels on it that come often a scooter."
They drove past the Dairy DeeLight--where June Odum, a neighbor, worked part-time. Alease decided they might stop by on the way back for a little reward if Stephen and Terry behaved. She wasn't against a little reward for herself, either.
"Now, the reason we're going to see the electric chair," said Alease, "is so you-all can see what will happen if you ever let the Devil lead you into a bad sin. They'll put you in the electric chair and electrocute you. And little sins can lead up to big sins."
They drove past red clay road banks, past green pastures with cows, wood outbuildings, fishing ponds, some pastures holding a line or two of thick black-green cedar trees. They passed a man in a dark gray business suit changing a flat tire.
Just east of Birmingham, Alabama, big splotchy raindrops hit the dusty windshield of a northeast-bound, black, four-door, almost new, stolen 1950 Buick Eight. Jack Umstead looked for the wiper knob, found it. He was very satisfied with the feel of this big Buick. The horn sounded like it weighed a hundred pounds. He kept patting the dashboard, and when he'd stopped for coffee in the sunshine, before the rain started, he had walked around the front of the car and touched the chrome hood ornament. It was shaped like a rocket ship. The heavy wipers worked with a clean, wide sweep--wider than any he'd ever seen--and at two speeds, fast and slow. He needed the fast. In fact, it was raining so hard he might pull over and stop for a few minutes. He didn't need a wreck, and the nose of some highway patrolman sticking in his window.
Back at the blinker light, Inez sat in her big soft chair inside the house where she could look out from the comfortable darkness. She picked up her L&M from the ashtray. She liked to sit in her big chair and prop her feet on the cane-bottomed chair, with her smokes, matches, and ashtray on the little round table beside her. She liked to look out through the screen door from back in there where it was dark. She liked to watch the men over at Train's Place, drinking beer and talking. Beyond that she could see what was going on over at the grocery store.
Sometimes she went back to bed. She didn't like to cook especially and they didn't have company anymore now that Johnny had started drinking again. So sometimes she just gave up and slept. She deserved it. She'd had a hard time keeping her family going, except for Cheryl, who had made it all the way through high school and was turning out all right. She hadn't heard from her oldest son, Todd, in months. He was somewhere in Memphis, working at a gas station, he'd said.
As they pulled in and parked, Stephen's mother said, "See how big the building is? That's because there's so many prisoners."
Stephen looked at the tall fence beside the walkway--with barbed wire along the top--at the giant brick building, bigger than the hospital, sitting below a quiet blue sky with moving clouds so white they almost hurt his eyes. He reached for his mother's hand.
"See up there?" she said. "If they try to escape, that guard will shoot them. That's a shotgun he's got."
Stephen knew a gun would shoot an Indian and they'd fall down before they had a chance to go scalp a white man. He'd never seen a scalping close up in a movie. He wondered what it looked like up close. Did they get every bit of the hair, or just a hunk from the top? Why did that kill you? Why didn't a big scab just come?
The guard at the double gate said, "Yes ma'am. What can I do for you? Hey there, boys."
"I'm Mrs. Harvey Toomey. I called ahead to see about y'all showing these boys the electric chair."
"Oh, yes ma'am. We got a note about that." He opened one large gate, then another. "Just push the buzzer at that second door and Buddy'll let you in. How old are you boys?"
"Seven and a half," said Terry.
"Six and a half," said Stephen.
"This one's mine," said Alease. She touched Stephen's head.
These men in uniforms, Stephen knew, found lost dogs, fed milk to babies. On the outside--in their faces--they looked kind of hard, but inside they were perfect. They were prison guards. Maybe he'd be a prison guard when he grew up, stand up there in that high room at the top of the fence and hold a shotgun all day long and then go home to his wife for a good supper. And if he got in a fight with the prisoners and got shot, his beautiful wife dressed in white would rush to him, kneel over him, take care of him and talk to him. She would rub his forehead with a damp, white cloth.
After the boys and mother were gone, the tower guard asked down to the gate guard, "What'd she say?"
"Show them boys the electric chair." He shook a Lucky Strike up out of a pack, lit it with a flip-top lighter that had a rising sun on the side. "They won't but six and s'em year old."
"I wish I'd brought Dennis up here once a year or so from the time he was about two years old. Maybe he'd a stayed in school and made something out of hisself."
"You can't ever tell. When'd he drop out?"
"Eleventh ... tenth. Somewhere in there. I think he made it to the eleventh in some subjects. He never did get a chance to play footbal...
"What Garrison Keillor has done for Lake Wobegon, Edgerton has done for Listre, creating a place of battered charms and dog-eared lore."
–The Washington Post
"Here, evil comes to sleepy Listre, N.C., circa 1950, in the form of a stranger with a pencil-thin mustache and a trunkful of dirty movies. Listre is the kind of rustic crossroads where the most exciting event in years was a collision between a mule and a pickup truck, where boys slip over to the Gulf station for a Nehi and a peek at the pinup calendar, and where everybody knows everybody else’s secrets. It’s the kind of place, in other words, where it seems like nothing ever changes–until the fateful day when everything changes at once."
–Entertainment Weekly
"Hilarious . . . Wonderful . . . Edgerton engagingly captures small-town America."
–Atlanta Journal & Constitution
"As much the story of a man who brings random badness into a good place as it is the story of a boy’s search for his own salvation."
–Mark Childress
The New York Times Book Review
"His best book since Walking Across Egypt."
–Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
"A wonderful gallery of comic characters . . . In Clyde Edgerton, Southern Baptists have found a laureate to uncover their rich humor and humanity and to share without condescension or condemnation."
–The Boston Globe
"Side-splittingly funny . . . Clyde Edgerton is the love child of Dave Barry and Flannery O’Connor."
–Raleigh News and Observer
"THIS MAY BE EDGERTON’S BEST NOVEL."
–Newark Star-Ledger
"Pitch the revival tent and sing hallelujah! Clyde Edgerton has returned to Listre . . . and for his legions of fans, that’s cause for rejoicing. . . . Where Trouble Sleeps features an array of the wonderfully human, often quirky characters we’ve come to expect. . . . As always, Edgerton skewers the hypocritical and sanctimonious with hilarious deftness. . . . Beneath the comic flourishes lies a tender, bittersweet view of the world. Edgerton has given us small-town men and women in all their human frailty and splendor."
–Charlotte Observer
"Rollicking . . . Newcomers and old-time followers alike should . . . delight in his latest slice of small-town Southern life."
–Southern Living
"When Edgerton’s debut novel Raney came out, I was impressed by how clever he seemed, how clearly and completely he was able to inhabit a voice, keep a joke running. Seven novels later, Edgerton hasn’t lost that ability to capture a character, a tone, or a situation, but Where Trouble Sleeps is surely a superior, more mature work–clear evidence of his amazing growth as a writer. Without sacrificing humor, Edgerton has delved deeper into his characters; he takes what might have been simply funny or even ridiculous and reveals levels and layers of emotion, pathos, and even darkness. Amusing, engrossing, and insightful, Where Trouble Sleeps is a sublime achievement."
–The Spectator (Chapel Hill, NC)
"ECCENTRIC, FUNNY, AND CHARMING."
–American Way
"Where Trouble Sleeps is sure to win accolades and readers. . . . A story about faith and temptation . . . Like cubist painters, [Edgerton] is able to write about everyday life as our minds, not just our eyes, experience it: from all sides at
once. . . . We’re transfixed."
–St. Petersburg Times
"In his wonderful new novel Where Trouble Sleeps, Edgerton strips away the veneer of propriety that [Jesse] Helms and cronies slather over the South like a rancid barbecue sauce to reveal a far more recognizable region characterized by humor, hypocrisy, ignorance, lust, compassion, and the occasional good deed."
–Detour
"Superb . . . Clyde Edgerton is a first-rate storyteller. [He] has a musician’s ear, an artist’s eye, and a generous heart. "
–San Antonio Express-News
"Once again Clyde Edgerton proves he’s a master of the amiable, truthful, small-town novel."
–Trenton Times
"Religious hypocrites are artfully revealed and the eccentricities of the good, everyday characters are cheerfully described by a writer who understands, remembers, and loves this rural world and the sound of its people’s language. . . . Where Trouble Sleeps will make the reader want to sit in the Listre School grandstand on Friday nights, eat popcorn, and watch the picture show, all for 25 cents."
–North Carolina Libraries
"In the pitch-perfect tradition of Flannery O’Connor and William Faulkner, Edgerton spins things wildly, masterfully, hilariously out of control."
–Maxim
"Slyly satiric . . . Whether through cunning, bashful, or averted eyes, Edgerton reveals the innocent, the deluded, and the hypocritical with an unerring sense of humor and truth."
–Publishers Weekly (starred review)
–The Washington Post
"Here, evil comes to sleepy Listre, N.C., circa 1950, in the form of a stranger with a pencil-thin mustache and a trunkful of dirty movies. Listre is the kind of rustic crossroads where the most exciting event in years was a collision between a mule and a pickup truck, where boys slip over to the Gulf station for a Nehi and a peek at the pinup calendar, and where everybody knows everybody else’s secrets. It’s the kind of place, in other words, where it seems like nothing ever changes–until the fateful day when everything changes at once."
–Entertainment Weekly
"Hilarious . . . Wonderful . . . Edgerton engagingly captures small-town America."
–Atlanta Journal & Constitution
"As much the story of a man who brings random badness into a good place as it is the story of a boy’s search for his own salvation."
–Mark Childress
The New York Times Book Review
"His best book since Walking Across Egypt."
–Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
"A wonderful gallery of comic characters . . . In Clyde Edgerton, Southern Baptists have found a laureate to uncover their rich humor and humanity and to share without condescension or condemnation."
–The Boston Globe
"Side-splittingly funny . . . Clyde Edgerton is the love child of Dave Barry and Flannery O’Connor."
–Raleigh News and Observer
"THIS MAY BE EDGERTON’S BEST NOVEL."
–Newark Star-Ledger
"Pitch the revival tent and sing hallelujah! Clyde Edgerton has returned to Listre . . . and for his legions of fans, that’s cause for rejoicing. . . . Where Trouble Sleeps features an array of the wonderfully human, often quirky characters we’ve come to expect. . . . As always, Edgerton skewers the hypocritical and sanctimonious with hilarious deftness. . . . Beneath the comic flourishes lies a tender, bittersweet view of the world. Edgerton has given us small-town men and women in all their human frailty and splendor."
–Charlotte Observer
"Rollicking . . . Newcomers and old-time followers alike should . . . delight in his latest slice of small-town Southern life."
–Southern Living
"When Edgerton’s debut novel Raney came out, I was impressed by how clever he seemed, how clearly and completely he was able to inhabit a voice, keep a joke running. Seven novels later, Edgerton hasn’t lost that ability to capture a character, a tone, or a situation, but Where Trouble Sleeps is surely a superior, more mature work–clear evidence of his amazing growth as a writer. Without sacrificing humor, Edgerton has delved deeper into his characters; he takes what might have been simply funny or even ridiculous and reveals levels and layers of emotion, pathos, and even darkness. Amusing, engrossing, and insightful, Where Trouble Sleeps is a sublime achievement."
–The Spectator (Chapel Hill, NC)
"ECCENTRIC, FUNNY, AND CHARMING."
–American Way
"Where Trouble Sleeps is sure to win accolades and readers. . . . A story about faith and temptation . . . Like cubist painters, [Edgerton] is able to write about everyday life as our minds, not just our eyes, experience it: from all sides at
once. . . . We’re transfixed."
–St. Petersburg Times
"In his wonderful new novel Where Trouble Sleeps, Edgerton strips away the veneer of propriety that [Jesse] Helms and cronies slather over the South like a rancid barbecue sauce to reveal a far more recognizable region characterized by humor, hypocrisy, ignorance, lust, compassion, and the occasional good deed."
–Detour
"Superb . . . Clyde Edgerton is a first-rate storyteller. [He] has a musician’s ear, an artist’s eye, and a generous heart. "
–San Antonio Express-News
"Once again Clyde Edgerton proves he’s a master of the amiable, truthful, small-town novel."
–Trenton Times
"Religious hypocrites are artfully revealed and the eccentricities of the good, everyday characters are cheerfully described by a writer who understands, remembers, and loves this rural world and the sound of its people’s language. . . . Where Trouble Sleeps will make the reader want to sit in the Listre School grandstand on Friday nights, eat popcorn, and watch the picture show, all for 25 cents."
–North Carolina Libraries
"In the pitch-perfect tradition of Flannery O’Connor and William Faulkner, Edgerton spins things wildly, masterfully, hilariously out of control."
–Maxim
"Slyly satiric . . . Whether through cunning, bashful, or averted eyes, Edgerton reveals the innocent, the deluded, and the hypocritical with an unerring sense of humor and truth."
–Publishers Weekly (starred review)
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- ÉditeurAlgonquin Books
- Date d'édition1997
- ISBN 10 1565120612
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Description du livre Etat : new. N° de réf. du vendeur Hafa_fresh_1565120612
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EUR 46,66
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Where Trouble Sleeps
Edité par
Algonquin Books
(1997)
ISBN 10 : 1565120612
ISBN 13 : 9781565120617
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Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : new. Buy for Great customer experience. N° de réf. du vendeur GoldenDragon1565120612
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EUR 50,64
Autre devise
Image d'archives
Where Trouble Sleeps
Edité par
Algonquin Books
(1997)
ISBN 10 : 1565120612
ISBN 13 : 9781565120617
Neuf
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Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : new. New. N° de réf. du vendeur Wizard1565120612
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EUR 52,21
Autre devise
Image d'archives
WHERE TROUBLE SLEEPS
Edité par
Algonquin Books
(1997)
ISBN 10 : 1565120612
ISBN 13 : 9781565120617
Neuf
Couverture rigide
Quantité disponible : 1
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Description du livre Etat : New. New. In shrink wrap. Looks like an interesting title! 0.75. N° de réf. du vendeur Q-1565120612
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EUR 55,78
Autre devise