2016, ISBN: 9780700603169
Paperback, Hardcover
Bureau of Economic Geology Report of Investigations No. 95, 1978, 22 Pp. + 2 Folded Plates in Rear Pocket., 1978. Softcovers; ex-library; minor shelfwear w/ light creasing of corners of w… More...
Bureau of Economic Geology Report of Investigations No. 95, 1978, 22 Pp. + 2 Folded Plates in Rear Pocket., 1978. Softcovers; ex-library; minor shelfwear w/ light creasing of corners of wraps and leaves; o/w in good condition. . Soft Cover. Good., Bureau of Economic Geology Report of Investigations No. 95, 1978, 22 Pp. + 2 Folded Plates in Rear Pocket., 1978, 2.5, Speak. Good. 0.9 x 8.4 x 5.5 inches. Paperback. 2010. 320 pages. Cover worn.<br>The critically acclaimed, bestselling n ovel from Gayle Forman, author of Where She Went, Just One Day, a nd Just One Year. Soon to be a major motion picture, starring Ch loe Moretz! In the blink of an eye everything changes. Seventeen Âyear-old Mia has no memory of the accident; she can only recall what happened afterwards, watching her own damaged body being ta ken from the wreck. Little by little she struggles to put togethe r the pieces- to figure out what she has lost, what she has left, and the very difficult choice she must make. Heartwrenchingly be autiful, this will change the way you look at life, love, and fam ily. Now a major motion picture starring Chloe Grace Moretz, Mia' s story will stay with you for a long, long time. Editorial Revi ews Review Beautifully written.--Entertainment Weekly A beautif ul novel.--Los Angeles Times A do-not-miss story of love, friend ship, family, loss, control, and coping.--Justine Magazine The b rilliance of this book is the simplicity.-- The Wall Street Journ al A touching and thought-provoking novel.--Romantic Times Abou t the Author Gayle Forman is an award-winning, internationally be stselling author and journalist. Her #1 New York Times bestsellin g novel If I Stay was adapted into a film starring Chloë Grace Mo retz. Gayle is also the author of several other bestselling novel s, including Where She Went, I Was Here, the Just One series, I H ave Lost My Way, and Leave Me. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, w ith her husband and daughters. CONNECT WITH GAYLE: Website: Gayle Forman.com Twitter: @GayleForman Instagram: @GayleForman Facebook : Facebook.com/GayleFormanAuthor Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permiss ion. All rights reserved. 7:09 A.M. Everyone thinks it was becau se of the snow. And in a way, I suppose that's true. I wake up t his morning to a thin blanket of white covering our front lawn. I t isn't even an inch, but in this part of Oregon a slight dusting brings everything to a standstill as the one snowplow in the cou nty gets busy clearing the roads. It is wet water that drops from the sky-and drops and drops and drops-not the frozen kind. It i s enough snow to cancel school. My little brother, Teddy, lets ou t a war whoop when Mom's AM radio announces the closures. Snow da y! he bellows. Dad, let's go make a snowman. My dad smiles and t aps on his pipe. He started smoking one recently as part of this whole 1950s, Father Knows Best retro kick he is on. He also wears bow ties. I am never quite clear on whether all this is sartoria l or sardonic-Dad's way of announcing that he used to be a punker but is now a middle-school English teacher, or if becoming a tea cher has actually turned my dad into this genuine throwback. But I like the smell of the pipe tobacco. It is sweet and smoky, and reminds me of winters and woodstoves. You can make a valiant try , Dad tells Teddy. But it's hardly sticking to the roads. Maybe y ou should consider a snow amoeba. I can tell Dad is happy. Barel y an inch of snow means that all the schools in the county are cl osed, including my high school and the middle school where Dad wo rks, so it's an unexpected day off for him, too. My mother, who w orks for a travel agent in town, clicks off the radio and pours h erself a second cup of coffee. Well, if you lot are playing hooky today, no way I'm going to work. It's simply not right. She pick s up the telephone to call in. When she's done, she looks at us. Should I make breakfast? Dad and I guffaw at the same time. Mom makes cereal and toast. Dad's the cook in the family. Pretending not to hear us, she reaches into the cabinet for a box of Bisqui ck. Please. How hard can it be? Who wants pancakes? I do! I do! Teddy yells. Can we have chocolate chips in them? I don't see wh y not, Mom replies. Woo hoo! Teddy yelps, waving his arms in the air. You have far too much energy for this early in the morning , I tease. I turn to Mom. Maybe you shouldn't let Teddy drink so much coffee. I've switched him to decaf, Mom volleys back. He's just naturally exuberant. As long as you're not switching me to decaf, I say. That would be child abuse, Dad says. Mom hands me a steaming mug and the newspaper. There's a nice picture of you r young man in there, she says. Really? A picture? Yep. It's ab out the most we've seen of him since summer, Mom says, giving me a sidelong glance with her eyebrow arched, her version of a soul- searching stare. I know, I say, and then without meaning to, I s igh. Adam's band, Shooting Star, is on an upward spiral, which, i s a great thing-mostly. Ah, fame, wasted on the youth, Dad says, but he's smiling. I know he's excited for Adam. Proud even. I l eaf through the newspaper to the calendar section. There's a smal l blurb about Shooting Star, with an even smaller picture of the four of them, next to a big article about Bikini and a huge pictu re of the band's lead singer: punk-rock diva Brooke Vega. The bit about them basically says that local band Shooting Star is openi ng for Bikini on the Portland leg of Bikini's national tour. It d oesn't mention the even-bigger-to-me news that last night Shootin g Star headlined at a club in Seattle and, according to the text Adam sent me at midnight, sold out the place. Are you going toni ght? Dad asks. I was planning to. It depends if they shut down t he whole state on account of the snow. It is approaching a blizz ard, Dad says, pointing to a single snowflake floating its way to the earth. I'm also supposed to rehearse with some pianist from the college that Professor Christie dug up. Professor Christie, a retired music teacher at the university who I've been working w ith for the last few years, is always looking for victims for me to play with. Keep you sharp so you can show all those Juilliard snobs how it's really done, she says. I haven't gotten into Juil liard yet, but my audition went really well. The Bach suite and t he Shostakovich had both flown out of me like never before, like my fingers were just an extension of the strings and bow. When I' d finished playing, panting, my legs shaking from pressing togeth er so hard, one judge had clapped a little, which I guess doesn't happen very often. As I'd shuffled out, that same judge had told me that it had been a long time since the school had seen an Ore gon country girl. Professor Christie had taken that to mean a gua ranteed acceptance. I wasn't so sure that was true. And I wasn't 100 percent sure that I wanted it to be true. Just like with Shoo ting Star's meteoric rise, my admission to Juilliard-if it happen s-will create certain complications, or, more accurately, would c ompound the complications that have already cropped up in the las t few months. I need more coffee. Anyone else? Mom asks, hoverin g over me with the ancient percolator. I sniff the coffee, the r ich, black, oily French roast we all prefer. The smell alone perk s me up. I'm pondering going back to bed, I say. My cello's at sc hool, so I can't even practice. Not practice? For twenty-four ho urs? Be still, my broken heart, Mom says. Though she has acquired a taste for classical music over the years-it's like learning to appreciate a stinky cheese-she's been a not-always-delighted cap tive audience for many of my marathon rehearsals. I hear a crash and a boom coming from upstairs. Teddy is pounding on his drum k it. It used to belong to Dad. Back when he'd played drums in a bi g-in-our-town, unknown-anywhere-else band, back when he'd worked at a record store. Dad grins at Teddy's noise, and seeing that, I feel a familiar pang. I know it's silly but I have always wonde red if Dad is disappointed that I didn't become a rock chick. I'd meant to. Then, in third grade, I'd wandered over to the cello i n music class-it looked almost human to me. It looked like if you played it, it would tell you secrets, so I started playing. It's been almost ten years now and I haven't stopped. So much for go ing back to sleep, Mom yells over Teddy's noise. What do you kno w, the snow's already melting. Dad says, puffing on his pipe. I g o to the back door and peek outside. A patch of sunlight has brok en through the clouds, and I can hear the hiss of the ice melting . I close the door and go back to the table. I think the county overreacted, I say. Maybe. But they can't un-cancel school. Hors e is already out of the barn, and I already called in for the day off, Mom says. Indeed. But we might take advantage of this unex pected boon and go somewhere, Dad says. Take a drive. Visit Henry and Willow. Henry and Willow are some of Mom and Dad's old music friends who'd also had a kid and decided to start behaving like grown-ups. They live in a big old farmhouse. Henry does Web stuff from the barn they converted into a home office and Willow works at a nearby hospital. They have a baby girl. That's the real rea son Mom and Dad want to go out there. Teddy having just turned ei ght and me being seventeen means that we are long past giving off that sour-milk smell that makes adults melt. We can stop at Boo kBarn on the way back, Mom says, as if to entice me. BookBarn is a giant, dusty old used-book store. In the back they keep a stash of twenty-five-cent classical records that nobody ever seems to buy except me. I keep a pile of them hidden under my bed. A colle ction of classical records is not the kind of thing you advertise . I've shown them to Adam, but that was only after we'd already been together for five months. I'd expected him to laugh. He's su ch the cool guy with his pegged jeans and black low-tops, his eff ortlessly beat-up punk-rock tees and his subtle tattoos. He is so not the kind of guy to end up with someone like me. Which was wh y when I'd first spotted him watching me at the music studios at school two years ago, I'd been convinced he was making fun of me and I'd hidden from him. Anyhow, he hadn't laughed. It turned out he had a dusty collection of punk-rock records under his bed. W e can also stop by Gran and Gramps for an early dinner, Dad says, already reaching for the phone. We'll have you back in plenty of time to get to Portland, he adds as he dials. I'm in, I say. It isn't the lure of BookBarn, or the fact that Adam is on tour, or that my best friend, Kim, is busy doing yearbook stuff. It isn't even that my cello is at school or that I could stay home and wa tch TV or sleep. I'd actually rather go off with my family. This is another thing you don't advertise about yourself, but Adam get s that, too. Teddy, Dad calls. Get dressed. We're going on an ad venture. Teddy finishes off his drum solo with a crash of cymbal s. A moment later he's bounding into the kitchen fully dressed, a s if he'd pulled on his clothes while careening down the steep wo oden staircase of our drafty Victorian house. School's out for su mmer . . . he sings. Alice Cooper? Dad asks. Have we no standard s? At least sing the Ramones. School's out forever, Teddy sings over Dad's protests. Ever the optimist, I say. Mom laughs. She puts a plate of slightly charred pancakes down on the kitchen tab le. Eat up, family. 8:17 A.M. We pile into the car, a rusting B uick that was already old when Gran gave it to us after Teddy was born. Mom and Dad offer to let me drive, but I say no. Dad slips behind the wheel. He likes to drive now. He'd stubbornly refused to get a license for years, insisting on riding his bike everywh ere. Back when he played music, his ban on driving meant that his bandmates were the ones stuck behind the wheel on tours. They us ed to roll their eyes at him. Mom had done more than that. She'd pestered, cajoled, and sometimes yelled at Dad to get a license, but he'd insisted that he preferred pedal power. Well, then you b etter get to work on building a bike that can hold a family of th ree and keep us dry when it rains, she'd demanded. To which Dad a lways had laughed and said that he'd get on that. But when Mom h ad gotten pregnant with Teddy, she'd put her foot down. Enough, s he said. Dad seemed to understand that something had changed. He' d stopped arguing and had gotten a driver's license. He'd also go ne back to school to get his teaching certificate. I guess it was okay to be in arrested development with one kid. But with two, t ime to grow up. Time to start wearing a bow tie. He has one on t his morning, along with a flecked sport coat and vintage wingtips . Dressed for the snow, I see, I say. I'm like the post office, Dad replies, scraping the snow off the car with one of Teddy's pl astic dinosaurs that are scattered on the lawn. Neither sleet nor rain nor a half inch of snow will compel me to dress like a lumb erjack. Hey, my relatives were lumberjacks, Mom warns. No making fun of the white-trash woodsmen. Wouldn't dream of it, Dad repl ies. Just making stylistic contrasts. Dad has to turn the igniti on over a few times before the car chokes to life. As usual, ther e is a battle for stereo dominance. Mom wants NPR. Dad wants Fran k Sinatra. Teddy wants SpongeBob SquarePants. I want the classica l-music station, but recognizing that I'm the only classical fan in the family, I am willing to compromise with Shooting Star. Da d brokers the deal. Seeing as we're missing school today, we ough t to listen to the news for a while so we don't become ignoramuse s- I believe that's ignoramusi, Mom says. Dad rolls his eyes an d clasps his hand over Mom's and clears his throat in that school teachery way of his. As I was saying, NPR first, and then when th e news is over, the classical station. Teddy, we will not torture you with that. You can use the Discman, Dad says, starting to di sconnect the portable player he's rigged to the car radio. But yo u are not allowed to play Alice Cooper in my car. I forbid it. Da d reaches into the glove box to examine what's inside. How about Jonathan Richman? I want SpongeBob. It's in the machine, Teddy s houts, bouncing up and down and pointing to the Discman. The choc olate-chip pancakes dowsed in syrup have clearly only enhanced hi s hyper excitement. Son, you break my heart, Dad jokes. Both Ted dy and I were raised on the goofy tunes of Jonathan Richman, who is Mom and Dad's musical patron saint. Once the musical selectio ns have been made, we are off. The road has some patches of snow, but mostly it's just wet. But, Speak, 2010, 2.5, US: Avon, 2006. Paperback. Very Good. A copy that has been read, but is in excellent condition. Pages are intact and not marred by notes or highlighting. The spine remains undamaged. Page Four asks: Which Palm Springs party girl has been caught canoodling with an out-of-town "Adam"?Eve Caruso keeps her finger on the pulse of Palm Springs and reports every spicy celebrity tidbit to her loyal readers. She knows everyone in this town-except that mysterious hunk who just strolled into the exclusive spa where she's conferring with hot new starlet Jemima Cargill.Nash Cargill-nicknamed "The Preacher" by all his rowdy friends-is here to protect his flighty sister from a stalker, not fall for a sexy society columnist. But Eve has the perfect name-she's wildly tempting. Nash should resist; after all, her luscious lips speak trouble, her two sisters are too interested in their affair, and the rest of her family defines "notorious." But Eve is more vulnerable than she seems, and Nash has never said "no" to a lady in distress . ., Avon, 2006, 3, Vintage Books. Good. 5.1 x 0.9 x 8 inches. Paperback. 2008. 342 pages. Cover worn <br>Sebastian Faulks's new novel is a bolt from the blue: contemporary, demotic, angry, heart-wrenching, and funny, in the deepest shade of black. Mike Engleby says things that others dare not even think. A man devoid of scruple or self- pity, he rises without trace in Thatcher's England and scorches t hrough the blandscape of New Labour. In the course of his brief, incandescent career, he and the reader encounter many famous peo ple - actors, writers, politicians, household names - but by far the most memorable is Engleby himself. Sebastian Faulks's new no vel can be read as a lament for a generation and the country it f ailed. It is also a meditation on the limits of science, the curs e of human consciousness and on the lyrics of 1970s' rock music. And beneath this highly disturbing surface lies an unfolding myst ery of gripping narrative power. For when one of Mike's contempor aries unaccountably disappears, the reader has to ask: is even th e shameless Engleby capable of telling the whole truth? From the Hardcover edition. Editorial Reviews Review One of the most im pressive novelists of his generation. -Sunday Telegraph The best novelist of his generation. -Scotsman Faulks is beyond doubt a master. -Financial Times From the Hardcover edition. About the Author Sebastian Faulks is the author of seven previous novels, i ncluding Birdsong (1993), The Girl at the Lion d'Or (1989), Charl otte Gray (1998), On Green Dolphin Street (2001) and Human Traces (2005). He is also the author of a biographical study, The Fatal Englishman (1996). From the Hardcover edition. Excerpt. ® Repr inted by permission. All rights reserved. One My name is Mike En gleby, and I'm in my second year at an ancient university. My col lege was founded in 1662, which means it's viewed here as modern. Its chapel was designed by Hawksmoor, or possibly Wren; its gard ens were laid out by someone else whose name is familiar. The cho ir stalls were carved by the only woodcarver you've ever heard of . The captain of the Boat Club won a gold medal at an internation al games last year. (I think he 's studying physical education.) The captain of cricket has played for Pakistan, though he talks l ike the Prince of Wales. The teachers, or 'dons', include three u niversity professors, one of whom was on the radio recently talki ng about lizards. He's known as the Iguanodon. Tonight I won't s tudy in my room because there's the weekly meeting of the Folk Cl ub. Almost all the boys in my college go to this, not for the mus ic, though it's normally quite good, but because lots of girl stu dents come here for the evening. The only boys who don't go are t hose with a work compulsion, or the ones who think folk music die d when Bob Dylan went electric. There's someone I've seen a few times, called Jennifer Arkland. I discovered her name because she stood for election to the committee of a society. On the posters , the candidates had small pictures of themselves and, under thei r names and colleges, a few personal details. Hers said: 'Second- year History exhibitioner. Previously educated at Lymington High School and Sorbonne. Hobbies: music, dance, film-making, cooking. Would like to make the society more democratic with more women m embers and have more outings.' I'd seen her in the tea room of t he University Library, where she was usually with two other girls from her college, a fat one called Molly and a severe dark one, whose name I hadn't caught. There was often Steve from Christ's o r Dave from Jesus sniffing round them. I think I'll join this so ciety of hers. It doesn't matter what it's for because they're al l the same. They're all called something Soc, short for Society. Lab Soc, Lit Soc, Geog Soc. There 's probably a knitting group ca lled Sock Soc. I'll find out about Jen Soc, then go along so I c an get to know her better. I won a prize to come to my college a nd it pays my fees; my family's poor. I took a train from school one day after I'd sat the exams and had been called for interview . I must have stayed in London on the way, but I have no memory o f it. My memory's odd like that. I'm big on detail, but there are holes in the fabric. I do remember that I took a bus from the st ation, though I didn't know then what my college looked like. I w ent round the whole city and ended up back at the station, having made the round trip. Then I took a taxi and had to borrow some m oney from the porter to pay for it. I still had a pound note in m y wallet for emergencies. They gave me a key to a bedroom; it wa s in a courtyard that I reached by a tunnel under the road. I ima gined what kind of student lived there normally. I pictured someo ne called Tony with a beard and a duffel coat. I tried really har d to like the room and the college that was going to be mine. I i magined bicycling off to lectures in the early morning with my bo oks balanced on a rack over the back wheel. I'd be shouting out t o the other guys, 'See you there!' I'd probably smoke a pipe. I'd also probably have a girlfriend - some quite stern grammar schoo l girl with glasses, who wouldn't be to everyone's taste. In fac t, I didn't like the room I was in that night. It was damp, it wa s small and it felt as though too many people had been through it . It didn't seem old enough; it didn't seem 17th century, or mode rn: it was more like 1955. Also, there was no bathroom. I found o ne up the stairs. It was very cold and I had to stay dressed unti l the bath was run. The water itself was very hot. Everything in the room and on the stairs smelled slightly of gas, and lino. I slept fine, but I didn't want to have breakfast in the dining hal l because of having to talk to the other candidates. I went along the street and found a café and had weak coffee and a sausage ro ll, which I paid for from my spare pound. I re-entered the colleg e by the main gate. The porter was sullen in his damp lodge with a paraffin heater. 'G12, Dr Woodrow's rooms,' he said. I found it all right, and there was another boy waiting outside. He looked clever. Eventually, the door opened and it was my turn. There we re two of them in there: a big schoolmasterly man who showed me t o a chair, then sat down at a desk; and a younger, thin man with a beard who didn't get up from his armchair. Teachers at my schoo l didn't have beards. 'You wrote well on Shakespeare. Do you vis it the theatre a good deal?' This was the big one talking. It sou nded too much like an ordinary conversation to be an interview. I suspected a trap. I told him there wasn't a theatre where we liv ed, in Reading. I was watching him all the time. How grand, to b e a Doctor of whatever and to weigh up and decide people 's futur e. I'd once seen a set of table mats in a shop which had pictures of men in different academic gowns: Doctor of Divinity, Master o f Arts and so on. But this was the first real one I'd seen. He as ked me a few more things, none of them interesting. '. . . the p oetry of Eliot. Would you care to make a comparison between Eliot and Lawrence?' This was the younger one, and it was his first c ontribution. I thought he must be joking. An American banker inte rested in the rhythms of the Anglican liturgy and a pitman's son who wanted to escape from Nottingham, maybe via sex, or by his cr ude paintings. Compare them? I looked at him carefully, but he sh owed no sign of humour so I gave an answer about their use of ver se forms, trying to make it sound as though it had been a reasona ble question. He nodded a few times and looked relieved. He didn' t follow it up. The big one leafed through my papers again. 'You r personal report,' he said at last, 'from your teacher . . . Did you have difficulties with him?' I hadn't been aware of any, I said. 'Is there anything that you'd like to ask us about life in college? We try to make everyone feel welcome.' It seemed wrong not to ask something; it might look as though I didn't care. But I couldn't ask any of the things I really wanted to know. In the silence we heard the college clock chime the halfhour. I felt th em both looking at me. Then I felt a trickle of sweat on my spine . I hardly ever sweat normally, and it gave me an idea. 'What's the thing with laundry?' 'What?' said the big one, gruffly. 'Do you have . . . Well, like, washing machines? Is it done centrall y or do I take it somewhere or what?' 'Gerald?' 'I'm not quite sure,' said the younger one. 'Each undergraduate is assigned a m oral tutor,' said the schoolmasterly one. 'A Fellow of the colleg e who can help you with all your personal and health questions.' 'So he 'd be the one to ask?' 'Yes. Yes, I imagine so.' I thou ght that now I'd broken the ice, it might be good to ask another question. 'What about money?' I said. 'What?' 'How much money w ill I need?' 'I imagine your local authority will provide a gran t. It's up to you how you spend it. Do you have questions about t he work?' 'No. I read the prospectus.' 'Do you find the idea of Chaucer daunting?' 'No, I like Chaucer.' 'Yes, yes, I can see that from your paper. Well, Mr Engle . . . er . . .' 'Engleby.' 'Englebury. You can go now, unless . . . Gerald?' 'No, no.' 'G ood. So we'll look forward to seeing you next autumn.' I didn't see how they could let me go without telling me how it had gone. 'Have I won a prize?' I said. 'We shall be writing to your schoo l in due course. When we've completed the interview process. It's an exceptional year.' I shook his offered hand, waved at the se ated one and went out, down the oak stairs. What a pair of frauds . In the evening I tear a ticket from a book and take it to the college dining hall, which was designed by Robert Adam. You have to buy a book of thirty-five every term; you don't actually have to use them, but the cash you pay in advance keeps the kitchen go ing. I'm wearing a long black gown over my jeans and sweater and there are candles in sconces on the painted plaster walls. We sta nd up when a door behind the top table opens and the Fellows of t he college come in to dine. The Master is an oceanographer, who o nce drew maps of undersea mountain ranges. He knows how Australia was once attached to China or how Ghana sweated in the foothills of the Andes. I think he imagines that New Zealand once broke fr ee from Germany. The crystal glasses glitter in the candlelight. They drink wine. We drink water, though you are allowed to ask f or beer if you like. Stellings is the only man to do this. 'A pi nt of ale, please, Robinson,' he says to the stooping butler. 'Be er for you, Mike?' I shake my head. Stellings brews his own beer in a plastic barrel. He calls it SG (short for student's gin: dr unk for a penny, dead drunk for twopence) and once forced me to d rink it, even though it made me sick, with its powerful taste of malt and raw alcohol, which he achieves by doubling the sugar inp ut recommended on the side of the kit. There is no bathroom near his room, so I had to vomit into a plastic watering can on the la nding. I sometimes don't take dinner in the dining hall. I've fo und some places I like better. One of them is a pub, a walk of te n or fifteen minutes away, over a green (there are a lot of green s or 'pieces' as they call them here), down a side street, up a b ack street. The beer there tastes much better than Stellings's ho mebrew. It's made by a brewery called Greene King. One of the Kin g family, they say, is a famous novelist. The lights here are low , the floor is made of wooden boards; the other people are not fr om the university. They are what are called ordinary people, thou gh each person is really too specific to be ordinary. It's quite dark, and people talk softly. Although the barman knows me, he do esn't intrude. I often have a baked potato, or a cheese and ham p ie, which is messy to eat because the melted cheese is stringy an d there 's so much of it between the layers of filo pastry. I al so drink gin and vermouth, mixed. I like red vermouth better than white. When I've drunk two or three of these, I feel I understan d the world better. At least, I don't mind so much that I don't u nderstand it; I can be tolerant of my ignorance. After three or f our, I feel that my ignorance is not only tolerable, but possibly in some way noble. Other times, I go into the middle of the tow n. There's a bright Greek restaurant there, where it's embarrassi ng to be seen alone - but I like the food: they bring moussaka wi th rice and with chips and with Greek salad and pitta bread with olives and hummus, so if you're hungry it's a good place to go. S ometimes I don't eat for two or three days, so I need to load up. With this Greek food I drink white wine that tastes of toilet cl eaner, and they go together well. I also take drugs. I've tried most things. My favourite is opium, though I've had it only once. It's really hard to get hold of and involves a palaver with a fl ame and a pipe. I bought it from a boy who got it from a Modern H istory Fellow in Corpus Christi who had recently been to the Far East. The thing about opium is that it makes pain or difficulty u nimaginable. If while you were under its influence someone were t o tell you about Zyklon B and your parents dying and life in a de mentia ward or Passchendaele, you might be able to understand wha t they meant - but only in a hypothetical sense. You might be int erested by this idea of 'pain', but in a donnish way. I mean, I'm 'interested' in the special theory of relativity; the idea that there 's a dimension in which space rolls up and time distorts an d you come back from a journey younger than you left is certainly intriguing, but it doesn't have an impact on me, day by day. Tha t's what opium does to suffering: makes it of hypothetical intere st only. I mostly smoke marijuana, which I buy from a boy called Glynn Powers. I don't know where Glynn buys it, but he has sever al kilos of it in the built-in bedside locker in his tiny room in the new Queen Elizabeth block, a short walk beyond Fellows' Piec es (i.e. grass area reserved to dons). Th, Vintage Books, 2008, 2.5, Vintage Books. Good. 5.1 x 0.9 x 8 inches. Paperback. 2008. 358 pages. <br>Sebastian Faulks's new novel is a bolt from the bl ue: contemporary, demotic, angry, heart-wrenching, and funny, in the deepest shade of black. Mike Engleby says things that others dare not even think. A man devoid of scruple or self-pity, he ri ses without trace in Thatcher's England and scorches through the blandscape of New Labour. In the course of his brief, incandesce nt career, he and the reader encounter many famous people - actor s, writers, politicians, household names - but by far the most me morable is Engleby himself. Sebastian Faulks's new novel can be read as a lament for a generation and the country it failed. It i s also a meditation on the limits of science, the curse of human consciousness and on the lyrics of 1970s' rock music. And beneath this highly disturbing surface lies an unfolding mystery of grip ping narrative power. For when one of Mike's contemporaries unacc ountably disappears, the reader has to ask: is even the shameless Engleby capable of telling the whole truth? From the Hardcover edition. Editorial Reviews Review One of the most impressive no velists of his generation. -Sunday Telegraph The best novelist o f his generation. -Scotsman Faulks is beyond doubt a master. -Fi nancial Times From the Hardcover edition. About the Author Seba stian Faulks is the author of seven previous novels, including Bi rdsong (1993), The Girl at the Lion d'Or (1989), Charlotte Gray ( 1998), On Green Dolphin Street (2001) and Human Traces (2005). He is also the author of a biographical study, The Fatal Englishman (1996). From the Hardcover edition. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by pe rmission. All rights reserved. One My name is Mike Engleby, and I'm in my second year at an ancient university. My college was fo unded in 1662, which means it's viewed here as modern. Its chapel was designed by Hawksmoor, or possibly Wren; its gardens were la id out by someone else whose name is familiar. The choir stalls w ere carved by the only woodcarver you've ever heard of. The capta in of the Boat Club won a gold medal at an international games la st year. (I think he 's studying physical education.) The captain of cricket has played for Pakistan, though he talks like the Pri nce of Wales. The teachers, or 'dons', include three university p rofessors, one of whom was on the radio recently talking about li zards. He's known as the Iguanodon. Tonight I won't study in my room because there's the weekly meeting of the Folk Club. Almost all the boys in my college go to this, not for the music, though it's normally quite good, but because lots of girl students come here for the evening. The only boys who don't go are those with a work compulsion, or the ones who think folk music died when Bob Dylan went electric. There's someone I've seen a few times, call ed Jennifer Arkland. I discovered her name because she stood for election to the committee of a society. On the posters, the candi dates had small pictures of themselves and, under their names and colleges, a few personal details. Hers said: 'Second-year Histor y exhibitioner. Previously educated at Lymington High School and Sorbonne. Hobbies: music, dance, film-making, cooking. Would like to make the society more democratic with more women members and have more outings.' I'd seen her in the tea room of the Universi ty Library, where she was usually with two other girls from her c ollege, a fat one called Molly and a severe dark one, whose name I hadn't caught. There was often Steve from Christ's or Dave from Jesus sniffing round them. I think I'll join this society of he rs. It doesn't matter what it's for because they're all the same. They're all called something Soc, short for Society. Lab Soc, Li t Soc, Geog Soc. There 's probably a knitting group called Sock S oc. I'll find out about Jen Soc, then go along so I can get to k now her better. I won a prize to come to my college and it pays my fees; my family's poor. I took a train from school one day aft er I'd sat the exams and had been called for interview. I must ha ve stayed in London on the way, but I have no memory of it. My me mory's odd like that. I'm big on detail, but there are holes in t he fabric. I do remember that I took a bus from the station, thou gh I didn't know then what my college looked like. I went round t he whole city and ended up back at the station, having made the r ound trip. Then I took a taxi and had to borrow some money from t he porter to pay for it. I still had a pound note in my wallet fo r emergencies. They gave me a key to a bedroom; it was in a cour tyard that I reached by a tunnel under the road. I imagined what kind of student lived there normally. I pictured someone called T ony with a beard and a duffel coat. I tried really hard to like t he room and the college that was going to be mine. I imagined bic ycling off to lectures in the early morning with my books balance d on a rack over the back wheel. I'd be shouting out to the other guys, 'See you there!' I'd probably smoke a pipe. I'd also proba bly have a girlfriend - some quite stern grammar school girl with glasses, who wouldn't be to everyone's taste. In fact, I didn't like the room I was in that night. It was damp, it was small and it felt as though too many people had been through it. It didn't seem old enough; it didn't seem 17th century, or modern: it was more like 1955. Also, there was no bathroom. I found one up the s tairs. It was very cold and I had to stay dressed until the bath was run. The water itself was very hot. Everything in the room an d on the stairs smelled slightly of gas, and lino. I slept fine, but I didn't want to have breakfast in the dining hall because o f having to talk to the other candidates. I went along the street and found a café and had weak coffee and a sausage roll, which I paid for from my spare pound. I re-entered the college by the ma in gate. The porter was sullen in his damp lodge with a paraffin heater. 'G12, Dr Woodrow's rooms,' he said. I found it all right, and there was another boy waiting outside. He looked clever. Ev entually, the door opened and it was my turn. There were two of t hem in there: a big schoolmasterly man who showed me to a chair, then sat down at a desk; and a younger, thin man with a beard who didn't get up from his armchair. Teachers at my school didn't ha ve beards. 'You wrote well on Shakespeare. Do you visit the thea tre a good deal?' This was the big one talking. It sounded too mu ch like an ordinary conversation to be an interview. I suspected a trap. I told him there wasn't a theatre where we lived, in Read ing. I was watching him all the time. How grand, to be a Doctor of whatever and to weigh up and decide people 's future. I'd once seen a set of table mats in a shop which had pictures of men in different academic gowns: Doctor of Divinity, Master of Arts and so on. But this was the first real one I'd seen. He asked me a fe w more things, none of them interesting. '. . . the poetry of El iot. Would you care to make a comparison between Eliot and Lawren ce?' This was the younger one, and it was his first contribution . I thought he must be joking. An American banker interested in t he rhythms of the Anglican liturgy and a pitman's son who wanted to escape from Nottingham, maybe via sex, or by his crude paintin gs. Compare them? I looked at him carefully, but he showed no sig n of humour so I gave an answer about their use of verse forms, t rying to make it sound as though it had been a reasonable questio n. He nodded a few times and looked relieved. He didn't follow it up. The big one leafed through my papers again. 'Your personal report,' he said at last, 'from your teacher . . . Did you have d ifficulties with him?' I hadn't been aware of any, I said. 'Is there anything that you'd like to ask us about life in college? W e try to make everyone feel welcome.' It seemed wrong not to ask something; it might look as though I didn't care. But I couldn't ask any of the things I really wanted to know. In the silence we heard the college clock chime the halfhour. I felt them both loo king at me. Then I felt a trickle of sweat on my spine. I hardly ever sweat normally, and it gave me an idea. 'What's the thing w ith laundry?' 'What?' said the big one, gruffly. 'Do you have . . . Well, like, washing machines? Is it done centrally or do I t ake it somewhere or what?' 'Gerald?' 'I'm not quite sure,' said the younger one. 'Each undergraduate is assigned a moral tutor, ' said the schoolmasterly one. 'A Fellow of the college who can h elp you with all your personal and health questions.' 'So he 'd be the one to ask?' 'Yes. Yes, I imagine so.' I thought that no w I'd broken the ice, it might be good to ask another question. ' What about money?' I said. 'What?' 'How much money will I need? ' 'I imagine your local authority will provide a grant. It's up to you how you spend it. Do you have questions about the work?' 'No. I read the prospectus.' 'Do you find the idea of Chaucer da unting?' 'No, I like Chaucer.' 'Yes, yes, I can see that from y our paper. Well, Mr Engle . . . er . . .' 'Engleby.' 'Englebury . You can go now, unless . . . Gerald?' 'No, no.' 'Good. So we' ll look forward to seeing you next autumn.' I didn't see how the y could let me go without telling me how it had gone. 'Have I won a prize?' I said. 'We shall be writing to your school in due co urse. When we've completed the interview process. It's an excepti onal year.' I shook his offered hand, waved at the seated one an d went out, down the oak stairs. What a pair of frauds. In the e vening I tear a ticket from a book and take it to the college din ing hall, which was designed by Robert Adam. You have to buy a bo ok of thirty-five every term; you don't actually have to use them , but the cash you pay in advance keeps the kitchen going. I'm we aring a long black gown over my jeans and sweater and there are c andles in sconces on the painted plaster walls. We stand up when a door behind the top table opens and the Fellows of the college come in to dine. The Master is an oceanographer, who once drew ma ps of undersea mountain ranges. He knows how Australia was once a ttached to China or how Ghana sweated in the foothills of the And es. I think he imagines that New Zealand once broke free from Ger many. The crystal glasses glitter in the candlelight. They drink wine. We drink water, though you are allowed to ask for beer if you like. Stellings is the only man to do this. 'A pint of ale, please, Robinson,' he says to the stooping butler. 'Beer for you, Mike?' I shake my head. Stellings brews his own beer in a plast ic barrel. He calls it SG (short for student's gin: drunk for a p enny, dead drunk for twopence) and once forced me to drink it, ev en though it made me sick, with its powerful taste of malt and ra w alcohol, which he achieves by doubling the sugar input recommen ded on the side of the kit. There is no bathroom near his room, s o I had to vomit into a plastic watering can on the landing. I s ometimes don't take dinner in the dining hall. I've found some pl aces I like better. One of them is a pub, a walk of ten or fiftee n minutes away, over a green (there are a lot of greens or 'piece s' as they call them here), down a side street, up a back street. The beer there tastes much better than Stellings's homebrew. It' s made by a brewery called Greene King. One of the King family, t hey say, is a famous novelist. The lights here are low, the floor is made of wooden boards; the other people are not from the univ ersity. They are what are called ordinary people, though each per son is really too specific to be ordinary. It's quite dark, and p eople talk softly. Although the barman knows me, he doesn't intru de. I often have a baked potato, or a cheese and ham pie, which i s messy to eat because the melted cheese is stringy and there 's so much of it between the layers of filo pastry. I also drink gi n and vermouth, mixed. I like red vermouth better than white. Whe n I've drunk two or three of these, I feel I understand the world better. At least, I don't mind so much that I don't understand i t; I can be tolerant of my ignorance. After three or four, I feel that my ignorance is not only tolerable, but possibly in some wa y noble. Other times, I go into the middle of the town. There's a bright Greek restaurant there, where it's embarrassing to be se en alone - but I like the food: they bring moussaka with rice and with chips and with Greek salad and pitta bread with olives and hummus, so if you're hungry it's a good place to go. Sometimes I don't eat for two or three days, so I need to load up. With this Greek food I drink white wine that tastes of toilet cleaner, and they go together well. I also take drugs. I've tried most things . My favourite is opium, though I've had it only once. It's reall y hard to get hold of and involves a palaver with a flame and a p ipe. I bought it from a boy who got it from a Modern History Fell ow in Corpus Christi who had recently been to the Far East. The t hing about opium is that it makes pain or difficulty unimaginable . If while you were under its influence someone were to tell you about Zyklon B and your parents dying and life in a dementia ward or Passchendaele, you might be able to understand what they mean t - but only in a hypothetical sense. You might be interested by this idea of 'pain', but in a donnish way. I mean, I'm 'intereste d' in the special theory of relativity; the idea that there 's a dimension in which space rolls up and time distorts and you come back from a journey younger than you left is certainly intriguing , but it doesn't have an impact on me, day by day. That's what op ium does to suffering: makes it of hypothetical interest only. I mostly smoke marijuana, which I buy from a boy called Glynn Powe rs. I don't know where Glynn buys it, but he has several kilos of it in the built-in bedside locker in his tiny room in the new Qu een Elizabeth block, a short walk beyond Fellows' Pieces (i.e. gr ass area reserved to dons). The block was, Vintage Books, 2008, 2.5, Texas Water Development Board Report 134, 1971, 34 Pp. , 1971. Softcovers; minor shelfwear; o/w in very good condition. . Soft Cover. Very Good., Texas Water Development Board Report 134, 1971, 34 Pp., 1971, 3, United States Geological Survey., 1979. Map. Very Good. No Binding. Large folded sheet, including a map and aeroradioactivity profiles; Open-File Report, in plastic sleeve within flexible cardboard binder; ex-corporate library; in very good condition. ., United States Geological Survey., 1979, 3, Life Sentence Stories from four decades of court reporting or how I fell out of love with the Canadian justice system by Christie Blatchford like new condition hardcover in dust jacket from Doubleday Canada., Doubleday Canada, 0, Doubleday Canada. Used - Good. Former library book; may include library markings. Used book that is in clean, average condition without any missing pages., Doubleday Canada, 2.5, Incorporating the Law Times Reports and the Law Journal Reports of Cases decided in the House of Lords, The Privy Council, the Court of Appeal, All Divisions of the High Court and Courts of Special Jurisdiction. February 10, 1955, Part 6, pp 321 to 400. Text clean. Blue paper covers. Front cover somewhat grubby. Overall condition VG., London; Butterworth & Co. Ltd., 1955., 0, Academic Journal Offprint from: - Cornish Archaeology, Volume 15, 1976. 5pp, 1 figs, plus 2 full-page b/w pls, Printed Card Cover, VGC, 0, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2006. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Illustrated with colour and black and white photographs . Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2006, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 1994. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 1994, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2003. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Illustrated with black and white photographs and figures. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2003, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2008. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2008, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2002. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Illustrated with black and white photographs and figures. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2002, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 1999. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Illustrated with black and white photographs and figures. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 1999, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 1991. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Illustrated with colour and black and white figures. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 1991, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2007. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2007, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2004. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Illustrated with colour and black and white figures. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2004, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2000. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Illustrated with black and white photographs and figures. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2000, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 1995. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 1995, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2009. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Illustrated with black and white photographs and figures. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2009, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2005. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2005, 3, HarperCollins Publishers. Good. 234mm / 153mm. Paperback. 2016. 289 pages. Txt slightly buckled<br>This book tells the inspiring true story of a remarkable young hero: Nujeen Mustafa, a teenager born with cerebral palsy, whose harrowing journey from war-ravag ed Syria to Germany in a wheelchair is a breathtaking tale of for titude, grit, and hope that lends a face to the greatest humanita rian issue of our time, the Syrian refugee crisis.For millions ar ound the globe, sixteen-year-old Nujeen Mustafa embodies the best of the human spirit. Confined to a wheelchair because of her cer ebral palsy and denied formal schooling in Syria because of her i llness, Nujeen taught herself English by watching American soap o peras. When her small town became the epicenter of the brutal fig ht between ISIS militants and US-backed Kurdish troops in 2014, s he and her family were forced to flee.Despite her physical limita tions, Nujeen embarked on the arduous trek to safety and a new li fe. The grueling sixteen-month odyssey by foot, boat, and bus too k her across Turkey and the Mediterranean to Greece, through Mace donia to Serbia and Hungary, and finally, to Germany. Yet, in spi te of the tremendous physical hardship she endured, Nujeen's extr aordinary optimism never wavered. Refusing to give in to despair or see herself as a passive victim, she kept her head high. As sh e told a BBC reporter, You should fight to get what you want in t his world.Nujeen's positivity and resolve infuses this unforgetta ble story of one young woman determined to make a better life for herself. Told by acclaimed British foreign correspondent Christi na Lamb, Nujeen is a unique and powerful memoir that gives voice to the Syrian refugee crisis, helping us to understand that the w orld must change--and offering the inspiration to make that chang e reality. ., HarperCollins Publishers, 2016, 2.5, London: Diamond Publishing Group Ltd, 1998. No marks or inscriptions . No creasing to covers. A very clean very tight copy with bright unmarked boards and no bumping to corners. 147p. This issue includes Agatha Christie, John McGahern, Shirley Hughes childrens books, Cumbria and the Lake District books, DH Lawrence sale report, Monster magazines, Henry Thomas Buckle, index and letters and classified... Soft Cover. Fine. 8.25 x 6 inches., Diamond Publishing Group Ltd, 1998, 5, Geological Survey of Canada Paper 51-25, 1951, Folded Map and 10 Page Report., 1951. Large folded geologic map and 10-page folded report in printed envelope; ex-coporate library; minor shelfwear w/ light creasing of envelope; a couple of small tears along edge of envelope; o/w in good condition.., Geological Survey of Canada Paper 51-25, 1951, Folded Map and 10 Page Report., 1951, 0, Lawrence, Kansas, U.S.A.: Univ Press of Kansas, 1986. First Printing . Trade Paperback. Very Good. 5 1/2" x 8 1/2. 149 Pages Indexed. Small stain on front endpaper and first title page. Cover corners has minor wear. Otherwise an As New book. Contents: report of Manuel Alvarez 1842, Report on Winter Travel 1852, Trail Letter my Michael Steck 1852, James M. Fugate's Adventures 1853, Narrative by Hezekia Brake 1858, David Kellogg's Diar 1858, Henry Smith's Recollections 1863, Ernestine Franke Huning's Diary 1863, Reminiscences of Geroge E. Vanderwalker 1864, Major John C. McFerran's Report and JOurnal 1865, Captain Charles Christy's Memoirs 1867, and Jose Librado Gurule's Recollections 1867. Appendix A - To Santa Fe via the Cimarron Cut-off. Appendix B - To Santa Fe via the Bent's Fort Route. Includes illustrations, lists of trail sites, a map and suggestions for further reading., Univ Press of Kansas, 1986, 3<
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ISBN: 9780700603169
"On the Santa Fe Trail," a collection of first-hand accounts by nineteenth-century overlanders, offers an intensely personal view of that arduous trip. In retrospect, the history of the S… More...
"On the Santa Fe Trail," a collection of first-hand accounts by nineteenth-century overlanders, offers an intensely personal view of that arduous trip. In retrospect, the history of the Santa Fe Trail--crossing forests, prairies, rivers, and deserts--seems overlayed with the gloss of romance and chivalry. It is set off by heroic attitudes and picturesque adventures. And it has left a deep imprint on one region of the American West. The trail crossed parts of five modern states--Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Colorado, and New Mexico. From the perspective of the overland trade, those five are forever bound in historical communion. The route began in Missouri and ended, after almost a thousand miles, in New Mexico. But it was Kansas that claimed the largest share of the trail: from a beginning point at either Kansas City or Fort Leavenworth it angled across the entire state, exiting over four hundred miles later in the southwestern corner. It would be no exaggeration to say that trade and travel on the Santa Fe Trail derived much of its special flavor from the Kansas experience and that, in turn, the presence of the trail went a long way toward shaping the early history of the state. Many participants in this story, overlanders of various kinds, wrote down what they saw and learned on the way to Santa Fe. It is with that in mind that Marc Simmons has here collected a dozen narratives and reports from the middle years of the trail's history--from the early 1840s to the late '60s--that is, just after New Mexico had passed into American hands. It was a period of intense Indian-white conflict and before the establishment of rail lines along the route. The authors of these narratives--among them several teenagers, a Spanish aristocrat, an Indian agent, a German immigrant lady, a government scout, and a young New Mexican drover of the peon class--qualify as plain folk who, without quite intending to, got swept up in the westering adventure. Simmons has written an introduction to the collection and to each of the narratives. Media > Book, [PU: University Press of Kansas]<
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1986, ISBN: 0700603166
Paperback
[EAN: 9780700603169], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: Univ Press of Kansas, Lawrence, Kansas, U.S.A.], ANTHOLOGY WESTERN UNITED STATES HISTORY SANTA FE NATIONAL HISTORIC TRAIL TRAVEL … More...
[EAN: 9780700603169], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: Univ Press of Kansas, Lawrence, Kansas, U.S.A.], ANTHOLOGY WESTERN UNITED STATES HISTORY SANTA FE NATIONAL HISTORIC TRAIL TRAVEL PIONEERS DIARIES, 149 Pages Indexed. Small stain on front endpaper and first title page. Cover corners has minor wear. Otherwise an As New book. Contents: report of Manuel Alvarez 1842, Report on Winter Travel 1852, Trail Letter my Michael Steck 1852, James M. Fugate's Adventures 1853, Narrative by Hezekia Brake 1858, David Kellogg's Diar 1858, Henry Smith's Recollections 1863, Ernestine Franke Huning's Diary 1863, Reminiscences of Geroge E. Vanderwalker 1864, Major John C. McFerran's Report and JOurnal 1865, Captain Charles Christy's Memoirs 1867, and Jose Librado Gurule's Recollections 1867. Appendix A - To Santa Fe via the Cimarron Cut-off. Appendix B - To Santa Fe via the Bent's Fort Route. Includes illustrations, lists of trail sites, a map and suggestions for further reading., Books<
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1986, ISBN: 9780700603169
Lawrence, Kansas, U.S.A.: Univ Press of Kansas, 1986. First Printing . Trade Paperback. Very Good. 5 1/2" x 8 1/2. 149 Pages Indexed. Small stain on front endpaper and first title … More...
Lawrence, Kansas, U.S.A.: Univ Press of Kansas, 1986. First Printing . Trade Paperback. Very Good. 5 1/2" x 8 1/2. 149 Pages Indexed. Small stain on front endpaper and first title page. Cover corners has minor wear. Otherwise an As New book. Contents: report of Manuel Alvarez 1842, Report on Winter Travel 1852, Trail Letter my Michael Steck 1852, James M. Fugate's Adventures 1853, Narrative by Hezekia Brake 1858, David Kellogg's Diar 1858, Henry Smith's Recollections 1863, Ernestine Franke Huning's Diary 1863, Reminiscences of Geroge E. Vanderwalker 1864, Major John C. McFerran's Report and JOurnal 1865, Captain Charles Christy's Memoirs 1867, and Jose Librado Gurule's Recollections 1867. Appendix A - To Santa Fe via the Cimarron Cut-off. Appendix B - To Santa Fe via the Bent's Fort Route. Includes illustrations, lists of trail sites, a map and suggestions for further reading., Univ Press of Kansas, 1986, 3<
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ISBN: 9780700603169
On the Santa Fe Trail Paperback New Books, Univ Pr of Kansas
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2016, ISBN: 9780700603169
Paperback, Hardcover
Bureau of Economic Geology Report of Investigations No. 95, 1978, 22 Pp. + 2 Folded Plates in Rear Pocket., 1978. Softcovers; ex-library; minor shelfwear w/ light creasing of corners of w… More...
Bureau of Economic Geology Report of Investigations No. 95, 1978, 22 Pp. + 2 Folded Plates in Rear Pocket., 1978. Softcovers; ex-library; minor shelfwear w/ light creasing of corners of wraps and leaves; o/w in good condition. . Soft Cover. Good., Bureau of Economic Geology Report of Investigations No. 95, 1978, 22 Pp. + 2 Folded Plates in Rear Pocket., 1978, 2.5, Speak. Good. 0.9 x 8.4 x 5.5 inches. Paperback. 2010. 320 pages. Cover worn.<br>The critically acclaimed, bestselling n ovel from Gayle Forman, author of Where She Went, Just One Day, a nd Just One Year. Soon to be a major motion picture, starring Ch loe Moretz! In the blink of an eye everything changes. Seventeen Âyear-old Mia has no memory of the accident; she can only recall what happened afterwards, watching her own damaged body being ta ken from the wreck. Little by little she struggles to put togethe r the pieces- to figure out what she has lost, what she has left, and the very difficult choice she must make. Heartwrenchingly be autiful, this will change the way you look at life, love, and fam ily. Now a major motion picture starring Chloe Grace Moretz, Mia' s story will stay with you for a long, long time. Editorial Revi ews Review Beautifully written.--Entertainment Weekly A beautif ul novel.--Los Angeles Times A do-not-miss story of love, friend ship, family, loss, control, and coping.--Justine Magazine The b rilliance of this book is the simplicity.-- The Wall Street Journ al A touching and thought-provoking novel.--Romantic Times Abou t the Author Gayle Forman is an award-winning, internationally be stselling author and journalist. Her #1 New York Times bestsellin g novel If I Stay was adapted into a film starring Chloë Grace Mo retz. Gayle is also the author of several other bestselling novel s, including Where She Went, I Was Here, the Just One series, I H ave Lost My Way, and Leave Me. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, w ith her husband and daughters. CONNECT WITH GAYLE: Website: Gayle Forman.com Twitter: @GayleForman Instagram: @GayleForman Facebook : Facebook.com/GayleFormanAuthor Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permiss ion. All rights reserved. 7:09 A.M. Everyone thinks it was becau se of the snow. And in a way, I suppose that's true. I wake up t his morning to a thin blanket of white covering our front lawn. I t isn't even an inch, but in this part of Oregon a slight dusting brings everything to a standstill as the one snowplow in the cou nty gets busy clearing the roads. It is wet water that drops from the sky-and drops and drops and drops-not the frozen kind. It i s enough snow to cancel school. My little brother, Teddy, lets ou t a war whoop when Mom's AM radio announces the closures. Snow da y! he bellows. Dad, let's go make a snowman. My dad smiles and t aps on his pipe. He started smoking one recently as part of this whole 1950s, Father Knows Best retro kick he is on. He also wears bow ties. I am never quite clear on whether all this is sartoria l or sardonic-Dad's way of announcing that he used to be a punker but is now a middle-school English teacher, or if becoming a tea cher has actually turned my dad into this genuine throwback. But I like the smell of the pipe tobacco. It is sweet and smoky, and reminds me of winters and woodstoves. You can make a valiant try , Dad tells Teddy. But it's hardly sticking to the roads. Maybe y ou should consider a snow amoeba. I can tell Dad is happy. Barel y an inch of snow means that all the schools in the county are cl osed, including my high school and the middle school where Dad wo rks, so it's an unexpected day off for him, too. My mother, who w orks for a travel agent in town, clicks off the radio and pours h erself a second cup of coffee. Well, if you lot are playing hooky today, no way I'm going to work. It's simply not right. She pick s up the telephone to call in. When she's done, she looks at us. Should I make breakfast? Dad and I guffaw at the same time. Mom makes cereal and toast. Dad's the cook in the family. Pretending not to hear us, she reaches into the cabinet for a box of Bisqui ck. Please. How hard can it be? Who wants pancakes? I do! I do! Teddy yells. Can we have chocolate chips in them? I don't see wh y not, Mom replies. Woo hoo! Teddy yelps, waving his arms in the air. You have far too much energy for this early in the morning , I tease. I turn to Mom. Maybe you shouldn't let Teddy drink so much coffee. I've switched him to decaf, Mom volleys back. He's just naturally exuberant. As long as you're not switching me to decaf, I say. That would be child abuse, Dad says. Mom hands me a steaming mug and the newspaper. There's a nice picture of you r young man in there, she says. Really? A picture? Yep. It's ab out the most we've seen of him since summer, Mom says, giving me a sidelong glance with her eyebrow arched, her version of a soul- searching stare. I know, I say, and then without meaning to, I s igh. Adam's band, Shooting Star, is on an upward spiral, which, i s a great thing-mostly. Ah, fame, wasted on the youth, Dad says, but he's smiling. I know he's excited for Adam. Proud even. I l eaf through the newspaper to the calendar section. There's a smal l blurb about Shooting Star, with an even smaller picture of the four of them, next to a big article about Bikini and a huge pictu re of the band's lead singer: punk-rock diva Brooke Vega. The bit about them basically says that local band Shooting Star is openi ng for Bikini on the Portland leg of Bikini's national tour. It d oesn't mention the even-bigger-to-me news that last night Shootin g Star headlined at a club in Seattle and, according to the text Adam sent me at midnight, sold out the place. Are you going toni ght? Dad asks. I was planning to. It depends if they shut down t he whole state on account of the snow. It is approaching a blizz ard, Dad says, pointing to a single snowflake floating its way to the earth. I'm also supposed to rehearse with some pianist from the college that Professor Christie dug up. Professor Christie, a retired music teacher at the university who I've been working w ith for the last few years, is always looking for victims for me to play with. Keep you sharp so you can show all those Juilliard snobs how it's really done, she says. I haven't gotten into Juil liard yet, but my audition went really well. The Bach suite and t he Shostakovich had both flown out of me like never before, like my fingers were just an extension of the strings and bow. When I' d finished playing, panting, my legs shaking from pressing togeth er so hard, one judge had clapped a little, which I guess doesn't happen very often. As I'd shuffled out, that same judge had told me that it had been a long time since the school had seen an Ore gon country girl. Professor Christie had taken that to mean a gua ranteed acceptance. I wasn't so sure that was true. And I wasn't 100 percent sure that I wanted it to be true. Just like with Shoo ting Star's meteoric rise, my admission to Juilliard-if it happen s-will create certain complications, or, more accurately, would c ompound the complications that have already cropped up in the las t few months. I need more coffee. Anyone else? Mom asks, hoverin g over me with the ancient percolator. I sniff the coffee, the r ich, black, oily French roast we all prefer. The smell alone perk s me up. I'm pondering going back to bed, I say. My cello's at sc hool, so I can't even practice. Not practice? For twenty-four ho urs? Be still, my broken heart, Mom says. Though she has acquired a taste for classical music over the years-it's like learning to appreciate a stinky cheese-she's been a not-always-delighted cap tive audience for many of my marathon rehearsals. I hear a crash and a boom coming from upstairs. Teddy is pounding on his drum k it. It used to belong to Dad. Back when he'd played drums in a bi g-in-our-town, unknown-anywhere-else band, back when he'd worked at a record store. Dad grins at Teddy's noise, and seeing that, I feel a familiar pang. I know it's silly but I have always wonde red if Dad is disappointed that I didn't become a rock chick. I'd meant to. Then, in third grade, I'd wandered over to the cello i n music class-it looked almost human to me. It looked like if you played it, it would tell you secrets, so I started playing. It's been almost ten years now and I haven't stopped. So much for go ing back to sleep, Mom yells over Teddy's noise. What do you kno w, the snow's already melting. Dad says, puffing on his pipe. I g o to the back door and peek outside. A patch of sunlight has brok en through the clouds, and I can hear the hiss of the ice melting . I close the door and go back to the table. I think the county overreacted, I say. Maybe. But they can't un-cancel school. Hors e is already out of the barn, and I already called in for the day off, Mom says. Indeed. But we might take advantage of this unex pected boon and go somewhere, Dad says. Take a drive. Visit Henry and Willow. Henry and Willow are some of Mom and Dad's old music friends who'd also had a kid and decided to start behaving like grown-ups. They live in a big old farmhouse. Henry does Web stuff from the barn they converted into a home office and Willow works at a nearby hospital. They have a baby girl. That's the real rea son Mom and Dad want to go out there. Teddy having just turned ei ght and me being seventeen means that we are long past giving off that sour-milk smell that makes adults melt. We can stop at Boo kBarn on the way back, Mom says, as if to entice me. BookBarn is a giant, dusty old used-book store. In the back they keep a stash of twenty-five-cent classical records that nobody ever seems to buy except me. I keep a pile of them hidden under my bed. A colle ction of classical records is not the kind of thing you advertise . I've shown them to Adam, but that was only after we'd already been together for five months. I'd expected him to laugh. He's su ch the cool guy with his pegged jeans and black low-tops, his eff ortlessly beat-up punk-rock tees and his subtle tattoos. He is so not the kind of guy to end up with someone like me. Which was wh y when I'd first spotted him watching me at the music studios at school two years ago, I'd been convinced he was making fun of me and I'd hidden from him. Anyhow, he hadn't laughed. It turned out he had a dusty collection of punk-rock records under his bed. W e can also stop by Gran and Gramps for an early dinner, Dad says, already reaching for the phone. We'll have you back in plenty of time to get to Portland, he adds as he dials. I'm in, I say. It isn't the lure of BookBarn, or the fact that Adam is on tour, or that my best friend, Kim, is busy doing yearbook stuff. It isn't even that my cello is at school or that I could stay home and wa tch TV or sleep. I'd actually rather go off with my family. This is another thing you don't advertise about yourself, but Adam get s that, too. Teddy, Dad calls. Get dressed. We're going on an ad venture. Teddy finishes off his drum solo with a crash of cymbal s. A moment later he's bounding into the kitchen fully dressed, a s if he'd pulled on his clothes while careening down the steep wo oden staircase of our drafty Victorian house. School's out for su mmer . . . he sings. Alice Cooper? Dad asks. Have we no standard s? At least sing the Ramones. School's out forever, Teddy sings over Dad's protests. Ever the optimist, I say. Mom laughs. She puts a plate of slightly charred pancakes down on the kitchen tab le. Eat up, family. 8:17 A.M. We pile into the car, a rusting B uick that was already old when Gran gave it to us after Teddy was born. Mom and Dad offer to let me drive, but I say no. Dad slips behind the wheel. He likes to drive now. He'd stubbornly refused to get a license for years, insisting on riding his bike everywh ere. Back when he played music, his ban on driving meant that his bandmates were the ones stuck behind the wheel on tours. They us ed to roll their eyes at him. Mom had done more than that. She'd pestered, cajoled, and sometimes yelled at Dad to get a license, but he'd insisted that he preferred pedal power. Well, then you b etter get to work on building a bike that can hold a family of th ree and keep us dry when it rains, she'd demanded. To which Dad a lways had laughed and said that he'd get on that. But when Mom h ad gotten pregnant with Teddy, she'd put her foot down. Enough, s he said. Dad seemed to understand that something had changed. He' d stopped arguing and had gotten a driver's license. He'd also go ne back to school to get his teaching certificate. I guess it was okay to be in arrested development with one kid. But with two, t ime to grow up. Time to start wearing a bow tie. He has one on t his morning, along with a flecked sport coat and vintage wingtips . Dressed for the snow, I see, I say. I'm like the post office, Dad replies, scraping the snow off the car with one of Teddy's pl astic dinosaurs that are scattered on the lawn. Neither sleet nor rain nor a half inch of snow will compel me to dress like a lumb erjack. Hey, my relatives were lumberjacks, Mom warns. No making fun of the white-trash woodsmen. Wouldn't dream of it, Dad repl ies. Just making stylistic contrasts. Dad has to turn the igniti on over a few times before the car chokes to life. As usual, ther e is a battle for stereo dominance. Mom wants NPR. Dad wants Fran k Sinatra. Teddy wants SpongeBob SquarePants. I want the classica l-music station, but recognizing that I'm the only classical fan in the family, I am willing to compromise with Shooting Star. Da d brokers the deal. Seeing as we're missing school today, we ough t to listen to the news for a while so we don't become ignoramuse s- I believe that's ignoramusi, Mom says. Dad rolls his eyes an d clasps his hand over Mom's and clears his throat in that school teachery way of his. As I was saying, NPR first, and then when th e news is over, the classical station. Teddy, we will not torture you with that. You can use the Discman, Dad says, starting to di sconnect the portable player he's rigged to the car radio. But yo u are not allowed to play Alice Cooper in my car. I forbid it. Da d reaches into the glove box to examine what's inside. How about Jonathan Richman? I want SpongeBob. It's in the machine, Teddy s houts, bouncing up and down and pointing to the Discman. The choc olate-chip pancakes dowsed in syrup have clearly only enhanced hi s hyper excitement. Son, you break my heart, Dad jokes. Both Ted dy and I were raised on the goofy tunes of Jonathan Richman, who is Mom and Dad's musical patron saint. Once the musical selectio ns have been made, we are off. The road has some patches of snow, but mostly it's just wet. But, Speak, 2010, 2.5, US: Avon, 2006. Paperback. Very Good. A copy that has been read, but is in excellent condition. Pages are intact and not marred by notes or highlighting. The spine remains undamaged. Page Four asks: Which Palm Springs party girl has been caught canoodling with an out-of-town "Adam"?Eve Caruso keeps her finger on the pulse of Palm Springs and reports every spicy celebrity tidbit to her loyal readers. She knows everyone in this town-except that mysterious hunk who just strolled into the exclusive spa where she's conferring with hot new starlet Jemima Cargill.Nash Cargill-nicknamed "The Preacher" by all his rowdy friends-is here to protect his flighty sister from a stalker, not fall for a sexy society columnist. But Eve has the perfect name-she's wildly tempting. Nash should resist; after all, her luscious lips speak trouble, her two sisters are too interested in their affair, and the rest of her family defines "notorious." But Eve is more vulnerable than she seems, and Nash has never said "no" to a lady in distress . ., Avon, 2006, 3, Vintage Books. Good. 5.1 x 0.9 x 8 inches. Paperback. 2008. 342 pages. Cover worn <br>Sebastian Faulks's new novel is a bolt from the blue: contemporary, demotic, angry, heart-wrenching, and funny, in the deepest shade of black. Mike Engleby says things that others dare not even think. A man devoid of scruple or self- pity, he rises without trace in Thatcher's England and scorches t hrough the blandscape of New Labour. In the course of his brief, incandescent career, he and the reader encounter many famous peo ple - actors, writers, politicians, household names - but by far the most memorable is Engleby himself. Sebastian Faulks's new no vel can be read as a lament for a generation and the country it f ailed. It is also a meditation on the limits of science, the curs e of human consciousness and on the lyrics of 1970s' rock music. And beneath this highly disturbing surface lies an unfolding myst ery of gripping narrative power. For when one of Mike's contempor aries unaccountably disappears, the reader has to ask: is even th e shameless Engleby capable of telling the whole truth? From the Hardcover edition. Editorial Reviews Review One of the most im pressive novelists of his generation. -Sunday Telegraph The best novelist of his generation. -Scotsman Faulks is beyond doubt a master. -Financial Times From the Hardcover edition. About the Author Sebastian Faulks is the author of seven previous novels, i ncluding Birdsong (1993), The Girl at the Lion d'Or (1989), Charl otte Gray (1998), On Green Dolphin Street (2001) and Human Traces (2005). He is also the author of a biographical study, The Fatal Englishman (1996). From the Hardcover edition. Excerpt. ® Repr inted by permission. All rights reserved. One My name is Mike En gleby, and I'm in my second year at an ancient university. My col lege was founded in 1662, which means it's viewed here as modern. Its chapel was designed by Hawksmoor, or possibly Wren; its gard ens were laid out by someone else whose name is familiar. The cho ir stalls were carved by the only woodcarver you've ever heard of . The captain of the Boat Club won a gold medal at an internation al games last year. (I think he 's studying physical education.) The captain of cricket has played for Pakistan, though he talks l ike the Prince of Wales. The teachers, or 'dons', include three u niversity professors, one of whom was on the radio recently talki ng about lizards. He's known as the Iguanodon. Tonight I won't s tudy in my room because there's the weekly meeting of the Folk Cl ub. Almost all the boys in my college go to this, not for the mus ic, though it's normally quite good, but because lots of girl stu dents come here for the evening. The only boys who don't go are t hose with a work compulsion, or the ones who think folk music die d when Bob Dylan went electric. There's someone I've seen a few times, called Jennifer Arkland. I discovered her name because she stood for election to the committee of a society. On the posters , the candidates had small pictures of themselves and, under thei r names and colleges, a few personal details. Hers said: 'Second- year History exhibitioner. Previously educated at Lymington High School and Sorbonne. Hobbies: music, dance, film-making, cooking. Would like to make the society more democratic with more women m embers and have more outings.' I'd seen her in the tea room of t he University Library, where she was usually with two other girls from her college, a fat one called Molly and a severe dark one, whose name I hadn't caught. There was often Steve from Christ's o r Dave from Jesus sniffing round them. I think I'll join this so ciety of hers. It doesn't matter what it's for because they're al l the same. They're all called something Soc, short for Society. Lab Soc, Lit Soc, Geog Soc. There 's probably a knitting group ca lled Sock Soc. I'll find out about Jen Soc, then go along so I c an get to know her better. I won a prize to come to my college a nd it pays my fees; my family's poor. I took a train from school one day after I'd sat the exams and had been called for interview . I must have stayed in London on the way, but I have no memory o f it. My memory's odd like that. I'm big on detail, but there are holes in the fabric. I do remember that I took a bus from the st ation, though I didn't know then what my college looked like. I w ent round the whole city and ended up back at the station, having made the round trip. Then I took a taxi and had to borrow some m oney from the porter to pay for it. I still had a pound note in m y wallet for emergencies. They gave me a key to a bedroom; it wa s in a courtyard that I reached by a tunnel under the road. I ima gined what kind of student lived there normally. I pictured someo ne called Tony with a beard and a duffel coat. I tried really har d to like the room and the college that was going to be mine. I i magined bicycling off to lectures in the early morning with my bo oks balanced on a rack over the back wheel. I'd be shouting out t o the other guys, 'See you there!' I'd probably smoke a pipe. I'd also probably have a girlfriend - some quite stern grammar schoo l girl with glasses, who wouldn't be to everyone's taste. In fac t, I didn't like the room I was in that night. It was damp, it wa s small and it felt as though too many people had been through it . It didn't seem old enough; it didn't seem 17th century, or mode rn: it was more like 1955. Also, there was no bathroom. I found o ne up the stairs. It was very cold and I had to stay dressed unti l the bath was run. The water itself was very hot. Everything in the room and on the stairs smelled slightly of gas, and lino. I slept fine, but I didn't want to have breakfast in the dining hal l because of having to talk to the other candidates. I went along the street and found a café and had weak coffee and a sausage ro ll, which I paid for from my spare pound. I re-entered the colleg e by the main gate. The porter was sullen in his damp lodge with a paraffin heater. 'G12, Dr Woodrow's rooms,' he said. I found it all right, and there was another boy waiting outside. He looked clever. Eventually, the door opened and it was my turn. There we re two of them in there: a big schoolmasterly man who showed me t o a chair, then sat down at a desk; and a younger, thin man with a beard who didn't get up from his armchair. Teachers at my schoo l didn't have beards. 'You wrote well on Shakespeare. Do you vis it the theatre a good deal?' This was the big one talking. It sou nded too much like an ordinary conversation to be an interview. I suspected a trap. I told him there wasn't a theatre where we liv ed, in Reading. I was watching him all the time. How grand, to b e a Doctor of whatever and to weigh up and decide people 's futur e. I'd once seen a set of table mats in a shop which had pictures of men in different academic gowns: Doctor of Divinity, Master o f Arts and so on. But this was the first real one I'd seen. He as ked me a few more things, none of them interesting. '. . . the p oetry of Eliot. Would you care to make a comparison between Eliot and Lawrence?' This was the younger one, and it was his first c ontribution. I thought he must be joking. An American banker inte rested in the rhythms of the Anglican liturgy and a pitman's son who wanted to escape from Nottingham, maybe via sex, or by his cr ude paintings. Compare them? I looked at him carefully, but he sh owed no sign of humour so I gave an answer about their use of ver se forms, trying to make it sound as though it had been a reasona ble question. He nodded a few times and looked relieved. He didn' t follow it up. The big one leafed through my papers again. 'You r personal report,' he said at last, 'from your teacher . . . Did you have difficulties with him?' I hadn't been aware of any, I said. 'Is there anything that you'd like to ask us about life in college? We try to make everyone feel welcome.' It seemed wrong not to ask something; it might look as though I didn't care. But I couldn't ask any of the things I really wanted to know. In the silence we heard the college clock chime the halfhour. I felt th em both looking at me. Then I felt a trickle of sweat on my spine . I hardly ever sweat normally, and it gave me an idea. 'What's the thing with laundry?' 'What?' said the big one, gruffly. 'Do you have . . . Well, like, washing machines? Is it done centrall y or do I take it somewhere or what?' 'Gerald?' 'I'm not quite sure,' said the younger one. 'Each undergraduate is assigned a m oral tutor,' said the schoolmasterly one. 'A Fellow of the colleg e who can help you with all your personal and health questions.' 'So he 'd be the one to ask?' 'Yes. Yes, I imagine so.' I thou ght that now I'd broken the ice, it might be good to ask another question. 'What about money?' I said. 'What?' 'How much money w ill I need?' 'I imagine your local authority will provide a gran t. It's up to you how you spend it. Do you have questions about t he work?' 'No. I read the prospectus.' 'Do you find the idea of Chaucer daunting?' 'No, I like Chaucer.' 'Yes, yes, I can see that from your paper. Well, Mr Engle . . . er . . .' 'Engleby.' 'Englebury. You can go now, unless . . . Gerald?' 'No, no.' 'G ood. So we'll look forward to seeing you next autumn.' I didn't see how they could let me go without telling me how it had gone. 'Have I won a prize?' I said. 'We shall be writing to your schoo l in due course. When we've completed the interview process. It's an exceptional year.' I shook his offered hand, waved at the se ated one and went out, down the oak stairs. What a pair of frauds . In the evening I tear a ticket from a book and take it to the college dining hall, which was designed by Robert Adam. You have to buy a book of thirty-five every term; you don't actually have to use them, but the cash you pay in advance keeps the kitchen go ing. I'm wearing a long black gown over my jeans and sweater and there are candles in sconces on the painted plaster walls. We sta nd up when a door behind the top table opens and the Fellows of t he college come in to dine. The Master is an oceanographer, who o nce drew maps of undersea mountain ranges. He knows how Australia was once attached to China or how Ghana sweated in the foothills of the Andes. I think he imagines that New Zealand once broke fr ee from Germany. The crystal glasses glitter in the candlelight. They drink wine. We drink water, though you are allowed to ask f or beer if you like. Stellings is the only man to do this. 'A pi nt of ale, please, Robinson,' he says to the stooping butler. 'Be er for you, Mike?' I shake my head. Stellings brews his own beer in a plastic barrel. He calls it SG (short for student's gin: dr unk for a penny, dead drunk for twopence) and once forced me to d rink it, even though it made me sick, with its powerful taste of malt and raw alcohol, which he achieves by doubling the sugar inp ut recommended on the side of the kit. There is no bathroom near his room, so I had to vomit into a plastic watering can on the la nding. I sometimes don't take dinner in the dining hall. I've fo und some places I like better. One of them is a pub, a walk of te n or fifteen minutes away, over a green (there are a lot of green s or 'pieces' as they call them here), down a side street, up a b ack street. The beer there tastes much better than Stellings's ho mebrew. It's made by a brewery called Greene King. One of the Kin g family, they say, is a famous novelist. The lights here are low , the floor is made of wooden boards; the other people are not fr om the university. They are what are called ordinary people, thou gh each person is really too specific to be ordinary. It's quite dark, and people talk softly. Although the barman knows me, he do esn't intrude. I often have a baked potato, or a cheese and ham p ie, which is messy to eat because the melted cheese is stringy an d there 's so much of it between the layers of filo pastry. I al so drink gin and vermouth, mixed. I like red vermouth better than white. When I've drunk two or three of these, I feel I understan d the world better. At least, I don't mind so much that I don't u nderstand it; I can be tolerant of my ignorance. After three or f our, I feel that my ignorance is not only tolerable, but possibly in some way noble. Other times, I go into the middle of the tow n. There's a bright Greek restaurant there, where it's embarrassi ng to be seen alone - but I like the food: they bring moussaka wi th rice and with chips and with Greek salad and pitta bread with olives and hummus, so if you're hungry it's a good place to go. S ometimes I don't eat for two or three days, so I need to load up. With this Greek food I drink white wine that tastes of toilet cl eaner, and they go together well. I also take drugs. I've tried most things. My favourite is opium, though I've had it only once. It's really hard to get hold of and involves a palaver with a fl ame and a pipe. I bought it from a boy who got it from a Modern H istory Fellow in Corpus Christi who had recently been to the Far East. The thing about opium is that it makes pain or difficulty u nimaginable. If while you were under its influence someone were t o tell you about Zyklon B and your parents dying and life in a de mentia ward or Passchendaele, you might be able to understand wha t they meant - but only in a hypothetical sense. You might be int erested by this idea of 'pain', but in a donnish way. I mean, I'm 'interested' in the special theory of relativity; the idea that there 's a dimension in which space rolls up and time distorts an d you come back from a journey younger than you left is certainly intriguing, but it doesn't have an impact on me, day by day. Tha t's what opium does to suffering: makes it of hypothetical intere st only. I mostly smoke marijuana, which I buy from a boy called Glynn Powers. I don't know where Glynn buys it, but he has sever al kilos of it in the built-in bedside locker in his tiny room in the new Queen Elizabeth block, a short walk beyond Fellows' Piec es (i.e. grass area reserved to dons). Th, Vintage Books, 2008, 2.5, Vintage Books. Good. 5.1 x 0.9 x 8 inches. Paperback. 2008. 358 pages. <br>Sebastian Faulks's new novel is a bolt from the bl ue: contemporary, demotic, angry, heart-wrenching, and funny, in the deepest shade of black. Mike Engleby says things that others dare not even think. A man devoid of scruple or self-pity, he ri ses without trace in Thatcher's England and scorches through the blandscape of New Labour. In the course of his brief, incandesce nt career, he and the reader encounter many famous people - actor s, writers, politicians, household names - but by far the most me morable is Engleby himself. Sebastian Faulks's new novel can be read as a lament for a generation and the country it failed. It i s also a meditation on the limits of science, the curse of human consciousness and on the lyrics of 1970s' rock music. And beneath this highly disturbing surface lies an unfolding mystery of grip ping narrative power. For when one of Mike's contemporaries unacc ountably disappears, the reader has to ask: is even the shameless Engleby capable of telling the whole truth? From the Hardcover edition. Editorial Reviews Review One of the most impressive no velists of his generation. -Sunday Telegraph The best novelist o f his generation. -Scotsman Faulks is beyond doubt a master. -Fi nancial Times From the Hardcover edition. About the Author Seba stian Faulks is the author of seven previous novels, including Bi rdsong (1993), The Girl at the Lion d'Or (1989), Charlotte Gray ( 1998), On Green Dolphin Street (2001) and Human Traces (2005). He is also the author of a biographical study, The Fatal Englishman (1996). From the Hardcover edition. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by pe rmission. All rights reserved. One My name is Mike Engleby, and I'm in my second year at an ancient university. My college was fo unded in 1662, which means it's viewed here as modern. Its chapel was designed by Hawksmoor, or possibly Wren; its gardens were la id out by someone else whose name is familiar. The choir stalls w ere carved by the only woodcarver you've ever heard of. The capta in of the Boat Club won a gold medal at an international games la st year. (I think he 's studying physical education.) The captain of cricket has played for Pakistan, though he talks like the Pri nce of Wales. The teachers, or 'dons', include three university p rofessors, one of whom was on the radio recently talking about li zards. He's known as the Iguanodon. Tonight I won't study in my room because there's the weekly meeting of the Folk Club. Almost all the boys in my college go to this, not for the music, though it's normally quite good, but because lots of girl students come here for the evening. The only boys who don't go are those with a work compulsion, or the ones who think folk music died when Bob Dylan went electric. There's someone I've seen a few times, call ed Jennifer Arkland. I discovered her name because she stood for election to the committee of a society. On the posters, the candi dates had small pictures of themselves and, under their names and colleges, a few personal details. Hers said: 'Second-year Histor y exhibitioner. Previously educated at Lymington High School and Sorbonne. Hobbies: music, dance, film-making, cooking. Would like to make the society more democratic with more women members and have more outings.' I'd seen her in the tea room of the Universi ty Library, where she was usually with two other girls from her c ollege, a fat one called Molly and a severe dark one, whose name I hadn't caught. There was often Steve from Christ's or Dave from Jesus sniffing round them. I think I'll join this society of he rs. It doesn't matter what it's for because they're all the same. They're all called something Soc, short for Society. Lab Soc, Li t Soc, Geog Soc. There 's probably a knitting group called Sock S oc. I'll find out about Jen Soc, then go along so I can get to k now her better. I won a prize to come to my college and it pays my fees; my family's poor. I took a train from school one day aft er I'd sat the exams and had been called for interview. I must ha ve stayed in London on the way, but I have no memory of it. My me mory's odd like that. I'm big on detail, but there are holes in t he fabric. I do remember that I took a bus from the station, thou gh I didn't know then what my college looked like. I went round t he whole city and ended up back at the station, having made the r ound trip. Then I took a taxi and had to borrow some money from t he porter to pay for it. I still had a pound note in my wallet fo r emergencies. They gave me a key to a bedroom; it was in a cour tyard that I reached by a tunnel under the road. I imagined what kind of student lived there normally. I pictured someone called T ony with a beard and a duffel coat. I tried really hard to like t he room and the college that was going to be mine. I imagined bic ycling off to lectures in the early morning with my books balance d on a rack over the back wheel. I'd be shouting out to the other guys, 'See you there!' I'd probably smoke a pipe. I'd also proba bly have a girlfriend - some quite stern grammar school girl with glasses, who wouldn't be to everyone's taste. In fact, I didn't like the room I was in that night. It was damp, it was small and it felt as though too many people had been through it. It didn't seem old enough; it didn't seem 17th century, or modern: it was more like 1955. Also, there was no bathroom. I found one up the s tairs. It was very cold and I had to stay dressed until the bath was run. The water itself was very hot. Everything in the room an d on the stairs smelled slightly of gas, and lino. I slept fine, but I didn't want to have breakfast in the dining hall because o f having to talk to the other candidates. I went along the street and found a café and had weak coffee and a sausage roll, which I paid for from my spare pound. I re-entered the college by the ma in gate. The porter was sullen in his damp lodge with a paraffin heater. 'G12, Dr Woodrow's rooms,' he said. I found it all right, and there was another boy waiting outside. He looked clever. Ev entually, the door opened and it was my turn. There were two of t hem in there: a big schoolmasterly man who showed me to a chair, then sat down at a desk; and a younger, thin man with a beard who didn't get up from his armchair. Teachers at my school didn't ha ve beards. 'You wrote well on Shakespeare. Do you visit the thea tre a good deal?' This was the big one talking. It sounded too mu ch like an ordinary conversation to be an interview. I suspected a trap. I told him there wasn't a theatre where we lived, in Read ing. I was watching him all the time. How grand, to be a Doctor of whatever and to weigh up and decide people 's future. I'd once seen a set of table mats in a shop which had pictures of men in different academic gowns: Doctor of Divinity, Master of Arts and so on. But this was the first real one I'd seen. He asked me a fe w more things, none of them interesting. '. . . the poetry of El iot. Would you care to make a comparison between Eliot and Lawren ce?' This was the younger one, and it was his first contribution . I thought he must be joking. An American banker interested in t he rhythms of the Anglican liturgy and a pitman's son who wanted to escape from Nottingham, maybe via sex, or by his crude paintin gs. Compare them? I looked at him carefully, but he showed no sig n of humour so I gave an answer about their use of verse forms, t rying to make it sound as though it had been a reasonable questio n. He nodded a few times and looked relieved. He didn't follow it up. The big one leafed through my papers again. 'Your personal report,' he said at last, 'from your teacher . . . Did you have d ifficulties with him?' I hadn't been aware of any, I said. 'Is there anything that you'd like to ask us about life in college? W e try to make everyone feel welcome.' It seemed wrong not to ask something; it might look as though I didn't care. But I couldn't ask any of the things I really wanted to know. In the silence we heard the college clock chime the halfhour. I felt them both loo king at me. Then I felt a trickle of sweat on my spine. I hardly ever sweat normally, and it gave me an idea. 'What's the thing w ith laundry?' 'What?' said the big one, gruffly. 'Do you have . . . Well, like, washing machines? Is it done centrally or do I t ake it somewhere or what?' 'Gerald?' 'I'm not quite sure,' said the younger one. 'Each undergraduate is assigned a moral tutor, ' said the schoolmasterly one. 'A Fellow of the college who can h elp you with all your personal and health questions.' 'So he 'd be the one to ask?' 'Yes. Yes, I imagine so.' I thought that no w I'd broken the ice, it might be good to ask another question. ' What about money?' I said. 'What?' 'How much money will I need? ' 'I imagine your local authority will provide a grant. It's up to you how you spend it. Do you have questions about the work?' 'No. I read the prospectus.' 'Do you find the idea of Chaucer da unting?' 'No, I like Chaucer.' 'Yes, yes, I can see that from y our paper. Well, Mr Engle . . . er . . .' 'Engleby.' 'Englebury . You can go now, unless . . . Gerald?' 'No, no.' 'Good. So we' ll look forward to seeing you next autumn.' I didn't see how the y could let me go without telling me how it had gone. 'Have I won a prize?' I said. 'We shall be writing to your school in due co urse. When we've completed the interview process. It's an excepti onal year.' I shook his offered hand, waved at the seated one an d went out, down the oak stairs. What a pair of frauds. In the e vening I tear a ticket from a book and take it to the college din ing hall, which was designed by Robert Adam. You have to buy a bo ok of thirty-five every term; you don't actually have to use them , but the cash you pay in advance keeps the kitchen going. I'm we aring a long black gown over my jeans and sweater and there are c andles in sconces on the painted plaster walls. We stand up when a door behind the top table opens and the Fellows of the college come in to dine. The Master is an oceanographer, who once drew ma ps of undersea mountain ranges. He knows how Australia was once a ttached to China or how Ghana sweated in the foothills of the And es. I think he imagines that New Zealand once broke free from Ger many. The crystal glasses glitter in the candlelight. They drink wine. We drink water, though you are allowed to ask for beer if you like. Stellings is the only man to do this. 'A pint of ale, please, Robinson,' he says to the stooping butler. 'Beer for you, Mike?' I shake my head. Stellings brews his own beer in a plast ic barrel. He calls it SG (short for student's gin: drunk for a p enny, dead drunk for twopence) and once forced me to drink it, ev en though it made me sick, with its powerful taste of malt and ra w alcohol, which he achieves by doubling the sugar input recommen ded on the side of the kit. There is no bathroom near his room, s o I had to vomit into a plastic watering can on the landing. I s ometimes don't take dinner in the dining hall. I've found some pl aces I like better. One of them is a pub, a walk of ten or fiftee n minutes away, over a green (there are a lot of greens or 'piece s' as they call them here), down a side street, up a back street. The beer there tastes much better than Stellings's homebrew. It' s made by a brewery called Greene King. One of the King family, t hey say, is a famous novelist. The lights here are low, the floor is made of wooden boards; the other people are not from the univ ersity. They are what are called ordinary people, though each per son is really too specific to be ordinary. It's quite dark, and p eople talk softly. Although the barman knows me, he doesn't intru de. I often have a baked potato, or a cheese and ham pie, which i s messy to eat because the melted cheese is stringy and there 's so much of it between the layers of filo pastry. I also drink gi n and vermouth, mixed. I like red vermouth better than white. Whe n I've drunk two or three of these, I feel I understand the world better. At least, I don't mind so much that I don't understand i t; I can be tolerant of my ignorance. After three or four, I feel that my ignorance is not only tolerable, but possibly in some wa y noble. Other times, I go into the middle of the town. There's a bright Greek restaurant there, where it's embarrassing to be se en alone - but I like the food: they bring moussaka with rice and with chips and with Greek salad and pitta bread with olives and hummus, so if you're hungry it's a good place to go. Sometimes I don't eat for two or three days, so I need to load up. With this Greek food I drink white wine that tastes of toilet cleaner, and they go together well. I also take drugs. I've tried most things . My favourite is opium, though I've had it only once. It's reall y hard to get hold of and involves a palaver with a flame and a p ipe. I bought it from a boy who got it from a Modern History Fell ow in Corpus Christi who had recently been to the Far East. The t hing about opium is that it makes pain or difficulty unimaginable . If while you were under its influence someone were to tell you about Zyklon B and your parents dying and life in a dementia ward or Passchendaele, you might be able to understand what they mean t - but only in a hypothetical sense. You might be interested by this idea of 'pain', but in a donnish way. I mean, I'm 'intereste d' in the special theory of relativity; the idea that there 's a dimension in which space rolls up and time distorts and you come back from a journey younger than you left is certainly intriguing , but it doesn't have an impact on me, day by day. That's what op ium does to suffering: makes it of hypothetical interest only. I mostly smoke marijuana, which I buy from a boy called Glynn Powe rs. I don't know where Glynn buys it, but he has several kilos of it in the built-in bedside locker in his tiny room in the new Qu een Elizabeth block, a short walk beyond Fellows' Pieces (i.e. gr ass area reserved to dons). The block was, Vintage Books, 2008, 2.5, Texas Water Development Board Report 134, 1971, 34 Pp. , 1971. Softcovers; minor shelfwear; o/w in very good condition. . Soft Cover. Very Good., Texas Water Development Board Report 134, 1971, 34 Pp., 1971, 3, United States Geological Survey., 1979. Map. Very Good. No Binding. Large folded sheet, including a map and aeroradioactivity profiles; Open-File Report, in plastic sleeve within flexible cardboard binder; ex-corporate library; in very good condition. ., United States Geological Survey., 1979, 3, Life Sentence Stories from four decades of court reporting or how I fell out of love with the Canadian justice system by Christie Blatchford like new condition hardcover in dust jacket from Doubleday Canada., Doubleday Canada, 0, Doubleday Canada. Used - Good. Former library book; may include library markings. Used book that is in clean, average condition without any missing pages., Doubleday Canada, 2.5, Incorporating the Law Times Reports and the Law Journal Reports of Cases decided in the House of Lords, The Privy Council, the Court of Appeal, All Divisions of the High Court and Courts of Special Jurisdiction. February 10, 1955, Part 6, pp 321 to 400. Text clean. Blue paper covers. Front cover somewhat grubby. Overall condition VG., London; Butterworth & Co. Ltd., 1955., 0, Academic Journal Offprint from: - Cornish Archaeology, Volume 15, 1976. 5pp, 1 figs, plus 2 full-page b/w pls, Printed Card Cover, VGC, 0, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2006. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Illustrated with colour and black and white photographs . Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2006, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 1994. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 1994, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2003. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Illustrated with black and white photographs and figures. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2003, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2008. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2008, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2002. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Illustrated with black and white photographs and figures. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2002, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 1999. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Illustrated with black and white photographs and figures. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 1999, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 1991. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Illustrated with colour and black and white figures. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 1991, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2007. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2007, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2004. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Illustrated with colour and black and white figures. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2004, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2000. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Illustrated with black and white photographs and figures. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2000, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 1995. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 1995, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2009. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Illustrated with black and white photographs and figures. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2009, 3, Oxford, England: Corpus Christie College, 2005. 1st Edition . Soft cover. Very Good. 8vo - over 7¾ - 9¾" tall. Firmly bound and clean, no writing inside. Various articles and reports concerning Corpus Christi College, Oxford University, also some articles on other subjects by members of the College., Corpus Christie College, 2005, 3, HarperCollins Publishers. Good. 234mm / 153mm. Paperback. 2016. 289 pages. Txt slightly buckled<br>This book tells the inspiring true story of a remarkable young hero: Nujeen Mustafa, a teenager born with cerebral palsy, whose harrowing journey from war-ravag ed Syria to Germany in a wheelchair is a breathtaking tale of for titude, grit, and hope that lends a face to the greatest humanita rian issue of our time, the Syrian refugee crisis.For millions ar ound the globe, sixteen-year-old Nujeen Mustafa embodies the best of the human spirit. Confined to a wheelchair because of her cer ebral palsy and denied formal schooling in Syria because of her i llness, Nujeen taught herself English by watching American soap o peras. When her small town became the epicenter of the brutal fig ht between ISIS militants and US-backed Kurdish troops in 2014, s he and her family were forced to flee.Despite her physical limita tions, Nujeen embarked on the arduous trek to safety and a new li fe. The grueling sixteen-month odyssey by foot, boat, and bus too k her across Turkey and the Mediterranean to Greece, through Mace donia to Serbia and Hungary, and finally, to Germany. Yet, in spi te of the tremendous physical hardship she endured, Nujeen's extr aordinary optimism never wavered. Refusing to give in to despair or see herself as a passive victim, she kept her head high. As sh e told a BBC reporter, You should fight to get what you want in t his world.Nujeen's positivity and resolve infuses this unforgetta ble story of one young woman determined to make a better life for herself. Told by acclaimed British foreign correspondent Christi na Lamb, Nujeen is a unique and powerful memoir that gives voice to the Syrian refugee crisis, helping us to understand that the w orld must change--and offering the inspiration to make that chang e reality. ., HarperCollins Publishers, 2016, 2.5, London: Diamond Publishing Group Ltd, 1998. No marks or inscriptions . No creasing to covers. A very clean very tight copy with bright unmarked boards and no bumping to corners. 147p. This issue includes Agatha Christie, John McGahern, Shirley Hughes childrens books, Cumbria and the Lake District books, DH Lawrence sale report, Monster magazines, Henry Thomas Buckle, index and letters and classified... Soft Cover. Fine. 8.25 x 6 inches., Diamond Publishing Group Ltd, 1998, 5, Geological Survey of Canada Paper 51-25, 1951, Folded Map and 10 Page Report., 1951. Large folded geologic map and 10-page folded report in printed envelope; ex-coporate library; minor shelfwear w/ light creasing of envelope; a couple of small tears along edge of envelope; o/w in good condition.., Geological Survey of Canada Paper 51-25, 1951, Folded Map and 10 Page Report., 1951, 0, Lawrence, Kansas, U.S.A.: Univ Press of Kansas, 1986. First Printing . Trade Paperback. Very Good. 5 1/2" x 8 1/2. 149 Pages Indexed. Small stain on front endpaper and first title page. Cover corners has minor wear. Otherwise an As New book. Contents: report of Manuel Alvarez 1842, Report on Winter Travel 1852, Trail Letter my Michael Steck 1852, James M. Fugate's Adventures 1853, Narrative by Hezekia Brake 1858, David Kellogg's Diar 1858, Henry Smith's Recollections 1863, Ernestine Franke Huning's Diary 1863, Reminiscences of Geroge E. Vanderwalker 1864, Major John C. McFerran's Report and JOurnal 1865, Captain Charles Christy's Memoirs 1867, and Jose Librado Gurule's Recollections 1867. Appendix A - To Santa Fe via the Cimarron Cut-off. Appendix B - To Santa Fe via the Bent's Fort Route. Includes illustrations, lists of trail sites, a map and suggestions for further reading., Univ Press of Kansas, 1986, 3<
ISBN: 9780700603169
"On the Santa Fe Trail," a collection of first-hand accounts by nineteenth-century overlanders, offers an intensely personal view of that arduous trip. In retrospect, the history of the S… More...
"On the Santa Fe Trail," a collection of first-hand accounts by nineteenth-century overlanders, offers an intensely personal view of that arduous trip. In retrospect, the history of the Santa Fe Trail--crossing forests, prairies, rivers, and deserts--seems overlayed with the gloss of romance and chivalry. It is set off by heroic attitudes and picturesque adventures. And it has left a deep imprint on one region of the American West. The trail crossed parts of five modern states--Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Colorado, and New Mexico. From the perspective of the overland trade, those five are forever bound in historical communion. The route began in Missouri and ended, after almost a thousand miles, in New Mexico. But it was Kansas that claimed the largest share of the trail: from a beginning point at either Kansas City or Fort Leavenworth it angled across the entire state, exiting over four hundred miles later in the southwestern corner. It would be no exaggeration to say that trade and travel on the Santa Fe Trail derived much of its special flavor from the Kansas experience and that, in turn, the presence of the trail went a long way toward shaping the early history of the state. Many participants in this story, overlanders of various kinds, wrote down what they saw and learned on the way to Santa Fe. It is with that in mind that Marc Simmons has here collected a dozen narratives and reports from the middle years of the trail's history--from the early 1840s to the late '60s--that is, just after New Mexico had passed into American hands. It was a period of intense Indian-white conflict and before the establishment of rail lines along the route. The authors of these narratives--among them several teenagers, a Spanish aristocrat, an Indian agent, a German immigrant lady, a government scout, and a young New Mexican drover of the peon class--qualify as plain folk who, without quite intending to, got swept up in the westering adventure. Simmons has written an introduction to the collection and to each of the narratives. Media > Book, [PU: University Press of Kansas]<
1986
ISBN: 0700603166
Paperback
[EAN: 9780700603169], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: Univ Press of Kansas, Lawrence, Kansas, U.S.A.], ANTHOLOGY WESTERN UNITED STATES HISTORY SANTA FE NATIONAL HISTORIC TRAIL TRAVEL … More...
[EAN: 9780700603169], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: Univ Press of Kansas, Lawrence, Kansas, U.S.A.], ANTHOLOGY WESTERN UNITED STATES HISTORY SANTA FE NATIONAL HISTORIC TRAIL TRAVEL PIONEERS DIARIES, 149 Pages Indexed. Small stain on front endpaper and first title page. Cover corners has minor wear. Otherwise an As New book. Contents: report of Manuel Alvarez 1842, Report on Winter Travel 1852, Trail Letter my Michael Steck 1852, James M. Fugate's Adventures 1853, Narrative by Hezekia Brake 1858, David Kellogg's Diar 1858, Henry Smith's Recollections 1863, Ernestine Franke Huning's Diary 1863, Reminiscences of Geroge E. Vanderwalker 1864, Major John C. McFerran's Report and JOurnal 1865, Captain Charles Christy's Memoirs 1867, and Jose Librado Gurule's Recollections 1867. Appendix A - To Santa Fe via the Cimarron Cut-off. Appendix B - To Santa Fe via the Bent's Fort Route. Includes illustrations, lists of trail sites, a map and suggestions for further reading., Books<
1986, ISBN: 9780700603169
Lawrence, Kansas, U.S.A.: Univ Press of Kansas, 1986. First Printing . Trade Paperback. Very Good. 5 1/2" x 8 1/2. 149 Pages Indexed. Small stain on front endpaper and first title … More...
Lawrence, Kansas, U.S.A.: Univ Press of Kansas, 1986. First Printing . Trade Paperback. Very Good. 5 1/2" x 8 1/2. 149 Pages Indexed. Small stain on front endpaper and first title page. Cover corners has minor wear. Otherwise an As New book. Contents: report of Manuel Alvarez 1842, Report on Winter Travel 1852, Trail Letter my Michael Steck 1852, James M. Fugate's Adventures 1853, Narrative by Hezekia Brake 1858, David Kellogg's Diar 1858, Henry Smith's Recollections 1863, Ernestine Franke Huning's Diary 1863, Reminiscences of Geroge E. Vanderwalker 1864, Major John C. McFerran's Report and JOurnal 1865, Captain Charles Christy's Memoirs 1867, and Jose Librado Gurule's Recollections 1867. Appendix A - To Santa Fe via the Cimarron Cut-off. Appendix B - To Santa Fe via the Bent's Fort Route. Includes illustrations, lists of trail sites, a map and suggestions for further reading., Univ Press of Kansas, 1986, 3<
ISBN: 9780700603169
On the Santa Fe Trail Paperback New Books, Univ Pr of Kansas
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Details of the book - On the Santa Fe Trail
EAN (ISBN-13): 9780700603169
ISBN (ISBN-10): 0700603166
Hardcover
Paperback
Publishing year: 1991
Publisher: UNIV PR OF KANSAS
150 Pages
Weight: 0,200 kg
Language: eng/Englisch
Book in our database since 2007-02-03T11:27:51-05:00 (New York)
Detail page last modified on 2024-02-19T14:24:06-05:00 (New York)
ISBN/EAN: 0700603166
ISBN - alternate spelling:
0-7006-0316-6, 978-0-7006-0316-9
Alternate spelling and related search-keywords:
Book author: marc simmons
Book title: fre, the santa trail, albrecht dürer kleine xilographische passion nürnberg 1511, tschachtlans bilderchronik
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