pnjman + fiction   17

Laughing all the way to the bonk | Robert MacFarlane
The sap is rising as never before in Jilly Cooper's latest Rutshire romp, Pandora, and we can't get enough of it.
5th  may  2002  robert  macfarlane  observer  book  review  literature  fiction  jilly  cooper 
october 2018 by pnjman
Covehithe | China Miéville
A trip to the Suffolk coast takes on a new urgency when Dughan decides the time is right for a night-time adventure.
china  miéville  22nd  april  2011  literature  fiction 
july 2017 by pnjman
Herman Melville, Volume I | Victor Lodato
She’s carrying two skateboards, two backpacks, the banjo in its scratched-up case—a husk of molded leather that’s always looked to her like a giant key but now seems more like a coffin.
27th  march  2017  new  york  victor  lodato  literature  fiction 
march 2017 by pnjman
The Prairie Wife | Curtis Sittenfeld
The understanding is that, after Casey’s iPhone alarm goes off at 6:15 A.M., Kirsten wakes the boys, nudges them to get dressed, and herds them downstairs, all while Casey is showering. The four of them eat breakfast as a family, deal with teeth-brushing and backpacks, and Casey, who is the principal of the middle school in the same district as the elementary school Jack and Ian attend, drives the boys to drop-off. Kirsten then takes her shower in the newly quiet house before leaving for work.
13th  february  2017  new  yorker  curtis  sittenfeld  fiction 
february 2017 by pnjman
Chairman Spaceman | Thomas Pierce
Jerome, with a very serious expression, asked what Dom would do if an alien wanted to have sex with him.
new  yorker  16th  january  2017  thomas  pierce  fiction 
january 2017 by pnjman
Spiderweb | Mariana Enriquez
It’s harder to breathe in the humid north, up there so close to Brazil and Paraguay, the rushing river guarded by mosquito sentinels and a sky that can turn from limpid blue to stormy black in minutes. You start to struggle as soon as you arrive, as if a brutal arm were wound around your chest, squeezing. And everything is slower; during siesta there is only a rare bicycle in the empty streets, the ice-cream shops seem abandoned, with their ceiling fans spinning for no one, and the chicharras shriek hysterically in their hiding places. I’ve never seen a chicharra. My aunt says they’re horrible creatures, spectacular flies with green wings that vibrate and smooth black eyes that seem to look right at you. I don’t like the word chicharra. They’re also called cicadas, which I think has a smoother sound. If they were always cicadas, their summer noise would remind me of the violet flowers of the jacaranda trees along the Paraná, or of the white stone mansions with their staircases and their willows. But as chicharras they make me think of the heat, rotting meat, blackouts, drunks who stare with bloodshot eyes from their benches in the park.
19th  december  2016  new  yorker  fiction  mariana  enriquez 
december 2016 by pnjman
Of Windows and Doors | Moshin Hamid
War in Saeed and Nadia’s city revealed itself to be an intimate experience, combatants pressed close together, front lines defined at the level of the street one took to work, the school one’s sister attended, the house of one’s aunt’s best friend, the shop where one bought cigarettes. Saeed’s mother thought she saw a former student of hers firing, with much determination and focus, a machine gun mounted on the back of a pickup truck. She looked at him and he looked at her but he did not turn and shoot her, so she suspected it was him, although Saeed’s father said it meant nothing more than that she had seen a man who wished to fire in another direction. She remembered the boy as shy, with a stutter and a quick mind for mathematics, a good boy, but she could not remember his name. She wondered if it had really been him, and whether she should feel alarmed or relieved if it had. If the militants won, she supposed, it might not be entirely bad to know some people on their side.War in Saeed and Nadia’s city revealed itself to be an intimate experience, combatants pressed close together, front lines defined at the level of the street one took to work, the school one’s sister attended, the house of one’s aunt’s best friend, the shop where one bought cigarettes. Saeed’s mother thought she saw a former student of hers firing, with much determination and focus, a machine gun mounted on the back of a pickup truck. She looked at him and he looked at her but he did not turn and shoot her, so she suspected it was him, although Saeed’s father said it meant nothing more than that she had seen a man who wished to fire in another direction. She remembered the boy as shy, with a stutter and a quick mind for mathematics, a good boy, but she could not remember his name. She wondered if it had really been him, and whether she should feel alarmed or relieved if it had. If the militants won, she supposed, it might not be entirely bad to know some people on their side.
14th  november  2016  new  yorker  moshin  hamid  fiction 
november 2016 by pnjman
Voices of Love | Paul Theroux
“I was dying with shame under the sheet. June was my best friend.”
august  2009  atlantic  paul  theroux  fiction 
september 2016 by pnjman
Greene | Paul Theroux
The Ritz bar was empty, quiet, but crazed with decoration. I tried to get a fix on it. It was white, with a Bischof gleam, gold-trimmed mirrors that repeated its Edwardian flourishes of filigree and cigar wrappers, frosty statuettes, velvet and the illusion of crystal in etched glass. The chocolate box of a whore's boudoir. I guessed I would have to lie on my belly to get the shot I wanted, but then I noticed in all that tedious gilt a man behind the bar polishing a goblet. He wore a white dinner jacket and was bald; his head shone. I saw at once how the crown of his skull gathered the whole room and miniaturized it, and he wore it like a map pasted to his dome. Shoot him nodding and you've got a vintage Weegee.
april  1978  atlantic  paul  theroux  fiction  literature  graham  greene 
august 2016 by pnjman
Upside-Down Cake | Paul Theroux
“We had betrayed one another too many times to be able to sit comfortably around the same table together.”
27th  june  2016  paul  theroux  new  yorker  fiction 
june 2016 by pnjman
A Real Russian Ikon | Paul Theroux
Fred Hagberg, forewarned by his travel agent in Cleveland of the Russian hunger for hard cash, had been in Moscow for two days and there had not been even a glimmer of interest in his dollars. The plastic cover of his American Express wallet stayed buttoned; Intourist paid all the bills. He expected to be guided to seedy black-market shops off the beaten track or, at the very least, pestered for cigarettes and Chiclets. There wasn't a peep from the Muscovites, and Fred thought maybe his travel agent meant somewhere else.
paul  1969  commentary  december  1st  theroux  fiction 
august 2015 by pnjman
The Private Life of Genghis Khan | Douglas Adams
The last of the horsemen disappeared into the smoke and the thudding of their hooves receded into the grey distance.
douglas  adams  fiction  literature  h2g2  from instapaper
july 2013 by pnjman
Cinema Tarantino: The Making of Pulp Fiction | Mark Seal
The first independent film to gross more than $200 million, Pulp Fiction was a shot of adrenaline to Hollywood’s heart, reviving John Travolta’s career, making stars of Samuel L. Jackson and Uma Thurman, and turning Bob and Harvey Weinstein into giants. How did Quentin Tarantino, a high-school dropout and former video-store clerk, change the face of modern cinema? Mark Seal takes the director, his producers, and his cast back in time, to 1993.
vanity  fair  march  2013  mark  seal  films  culture  quintin  tarantino  pulp  fiction  bruce  willis  john  travolta  samuel  jackson  uma  thurman  from instapaper
february 2013 by pnjman

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