Highbrow Magazine - new novels https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/new-novels en New Book Offers Humorous Take on Younger Generation’s Views on Wealth https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/24500-new-book-offers-humorous-take-younger-generation-s-views-wealth <div class="field field-name-field-cat field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"><a href="/books-fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">Books &amp; Fiction</a></div></div></div><span class="submitted-by">Submitted by tara on Mon, 03/04/2024 - 14:27</span><div class="field field-name-field-image field-type-image field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="og:image rdfs:seeAlso" resource="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/2newyork_depositphotos.jpg?itok=y6wvdJ_5"><img typeof="foaf:Image" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/2newyork_depositphotos.jpg?itok=y6wvdJ_5" width="480" height="320" alt="" /></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"><p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">I turned the corner off Park Avenue and started looking for my newly acquired home. <em>There it is</em>, I thought, <em>that one there.</em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">On the tree-lined stretch of stately condos and apartment buildings, the structure that had technically been in my possession since 7:37 p.m. two weeks ago Tuesday—the determined hour and minute my father suffered his heart attack—announced itself like Dad invariably did when entering into any setting: loudly, with exuberance, and flashing money. I hadn’t seen the building before, much less entered its premises, but I recognized Dad’s unique style from a half block away.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">The building burps marble, if not taste. White marble blocks, set at incongruous angles, cover the building’s 12-story facade; black distressed marble spans the distance from the gold-plated front doors to the curb; delicate, pink marble flower boxes hang beneath the second-floor windows and outside the building’s retail space; and finally, a marble statue of a bull protrudes from the building’s front niche. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/3money_depositphotos.jpg" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">While fervidly embracing his marble phase during the renovation of the building last year, Dad had informed me in one of our rare cross-country phone conversations that he had removed a headless Greek statue from the recess and replaced it with this commissioned bull. “Bulls signify wealth, Henry. Did you ever know that? Who knew that? But they do!” Adorning the building’s facade with marble blocks did not suffice in announcing my father’s arrival on the Upper East Side. He needed to ride in on a white bull.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Dad’s long-standing financial attorney and closest friend, Judith Guncheon, had reached me early that Wednesday morning, just as I was sitting down with my team at St. Benedict’s Shelter in Los Angeles. Had there been openings at a San Diego agency—or Barrow, Alaska, for that matter—when I was applying for such jobs, I would</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">have gone after them, thereby putting a few more miles and hills between me and New York City.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Sadly, nothing was available.</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/3newyork_depositphotos.jpg" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Judith informed me that Dad had died the night before from a massive coronary. One of his construction foremen had discovered his body behind a desk that morning within a small onsite trailer—an ignominious departure for the king of displaced and gentrified real estate development in the Triborough region. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">It should be noted that that is not an official title, simply an honorific bestowed upon Dad by me, in one of my sniffier and more heated exchanges with him. It was yet another in a list of disparaging comments I aimed his way, immediately regretting, yet incapable of uttering anything that approached even a mumbled apology.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“It’s time to come home, Henry,” she proclaimed. Serving in the dual roles of both family lawyer and personal godmother, Judith was accustomed to issuing such opinions in my direction. Regarding moving back to New York, for the past 10 years, ever since I’d landed on the West Coast following my college graduation, she had been sharing this perspective with me during our sporadic phone calls. I assumed she did so on behalf of Dad, whose hope was to groom me for the eventual takeover of the business.</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/4newyork_depositphotos.jpg" /></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“And when I say, ‘Come home,’” she continued, “I mean move here. You’ll be one of New York City’s wealthiest 34-year-olds—”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Thirty-three.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Better yet. That moves you up a couple of slots. Very, very eligible. Oh, and you now own that building your dad insisted on buying last year up near the park. You get the top floor. Nice views. Come pick up your keys.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">GLENN R. MILLER 3</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">At this, I started to dry-wretch.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“All right, it sounds like our conversation is wrapping up,” she said. “As is your time in California. Oh, and Henry?”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Yeah?” I said, wiping my mouth.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I’m sorry for your loss. And mine. I know you and your dad had your issues, but I loved him like a brother. I wish you had known him like I did. See you soon.”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/doormanbook.jpg" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong><em>This excerpt from </em>Doorman Wanted <em>by Glenn R. Miller is published with permission. The book is available for pre-order from </em></strong><em><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Doorman-Wanted-Glenn-R-Miller/dp/B0CQDCYF7V/ref=sr_1_1?crid=CE6OGMWBZ227&amp;dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.IwyKYSm4o9pUiR8tQdMBKQ.ldHfcgmDH8TiAYCKk-eU0HqD-r9JF9fQFQnjIhAs4JQ&amp;dib_tag=se&amp;keywords=doorman+wanted+glenn+miller&amp;qid=1709577522&amp;sprefix=doorman+wante%2Caps%2C94&amp;sr=8-1" style="color:blue; text-decoration:underline"><strong>Amazon</strong></a></em><strong><em>, <a href="https://bookshop.org/" style="color:blue; text-decoration:underline">Bookshop.org</a>, and wherever books are sold.</em></strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Author Bio:</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong><em>Glenn R. Miller launched his professional career by working on television soap operas and game shows on the back lots of NBC Burbank. He holds a master’s degree from Northwestern University’s Medill School of Journalism and has served as a CBS-affiliate news producer, an executive speechwriter, and creative director at production agencies within the Twin Cities. </em></strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong><em>His published writings range from a regularly featured column in the Minneapolis-based Southwest Journal to the airing of a humor commentary on NPR’s nationally aired Marketplace. He teaches at Minneapolis’s Loft Literary Center </em></strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong><em>He and his wife, Jocelyn Hale, live in Minneapolis and are the parents of two grown sons. </em></strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Highbrow Magazine</strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><em><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><span style="font-size:18px"><strong>Photo Credits: <a href="https://depositphotos.com/stock-photography.html">Depositphotos.com</a></strong></span></span></em></p> <p> </p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-tags field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Tags:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/doorman-wanted" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">Doorman wanted</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/glenn-r-miller" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">glenn r. miller</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-novels" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new novels</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-books" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new books</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/books-about-money" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">books about money</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-money" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new money</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-york-elite" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new york elite</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/park-avenue" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">park avenue</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-yorkers" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">New Yorkers</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">fiction</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-text field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Glenn R. Miller</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-pop field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Popular:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">not popular</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-bot field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Bottom Slider:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Out Slider</div></div></div> Mon, 04 Mar 2024 19:27:19 +0000 tara 13077 at https://www.highbrowmagazine.com https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/24500-new-book-offers-humorous-take-younger-generation-s-views-wealth#comments Traveling Through Space at Lightning Speed in Samantha Harvey’s ‘Orbital’ https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/24456-traveling-through-space-lightning-speed-samantha-harvey-s-orbital <div class="field field-name-field-cat field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"><a href="/books-fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">Books &amp; Fiction</a></div></div></div><span class="submitted-by">Submitted by tara on Mon, 02/05/2024 - 16:23</span><div class="field field-name-field-image field-type-image field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="og:image rdfs:seeAlso" resource="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1space_depositphotos.jpg?itok=8uugwsNx"><img typeof="foaf:Image" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1space_depositphotos.jpg?itok=8uugwsNx" width="480" height="360" alt="" /></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"><p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Orbital: A Novel</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>By Samantha Harvey</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Grove Press</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>207 pages</strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">In Samantha Harvey’s extraordinary new novel, <em>Orbital</em>, six men and women aboard the International Space Station—four astronauts and two cosmonauts—travel through space at 17,500 miles an hour. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Over the course of a single day, encompassing 16 orbits some 250 miles above the Earth, the crew aboard the ISS conducts experiments, works out, and tracks a monster typhoon headed for the Philippines. Each crew member in their own way is awestruck by the view beyond the spacecraft windows of “that glassy, distant orb with its beautiful lonely light shows.”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Not surprisingly, most of these space travelers suffer fits of yearning for what’s been left behind:  </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/1astronaut_depositphotos.jpg" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Sometimes they wish for a cold stiff wind, blustery rain, autumn leaves, reddened fingers, muddy legs, a curious dog, a startled rabbit, a leaping sudden deer, a puddle in a pothole, soaked feet, a slight hill, a fellow runner, a shaft of sun. Sometimes they just succumb to the uneventful windless humming of their sealed spacecraft.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"> </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Nothing much happens in <em>Orbital</em> (if you call a small clutch of humanity suspended in zero-gravity hundreds of miles above its home planet “nothing much”). But it’s soon apparent that, for Harvey, plot is pretty much beside the point. Far more interesting to her is an understanding of what life <em>feels </em>like aboard a metal-encased device orbiting Earth. For example, Chie, a Japanese astronaut, learns of her mother’s death but maintains an otherworldly denial of it (“If she could stay in orbit for the rest of her life, all would be well.”)</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">At times crew members engage in philosophical discussions, where fundamental questions are asked. What does it mean for our planet to be—presumably—the only one to sustain life in this galaxy and galaxies beyond? What does it mean if we’re <em>not </em>the only such life-form?</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/orbitalbook.jpg" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Harvey also brilliantly captures the air of camaraderie these men and women depend upon to survive: </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“There is that idea of a <em>floating family</em>, but in some ways they’re not really a family at all—they’re both much more and much less than that. They’re everything to each other because they’re all there is.” </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Throughout this brief novel, the narrative slides smoothly between a collective voice to individual characters’ points-of-view and backstories. The language itself takes on a floating quality that mimics (in the best ways) the weightlessness of space. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/2earth_depositphotos.jpg" /></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">P</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">art of the fun of reading <em>Orbital </em>is going along for the ride. In the case of the ISS, this involves circumnavigating high above cities, continents, and vast bodies of water: </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“In the new morning of today’s fourth earth orbit, the Saharan dust sweeps to the sea in hundred-mile ribbons … Gran Canaria’s steep radial gorges pile the island up like a sandcastle hastily built, and when the Atlas Mountains announce the end of the desert, clouds appear in the shape of a shark whose tail flips at the southern coast of Spain, whose fin-tip nudges the southern Alps, whose nose will dive any moment into the Mediterranean. Albania and Montenegro are velvet soft with mountains.”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">With its radiant prose and lyrical storytelling, <em>Orbital </em>achieves something rarely found in books, film, or other media. This novel makes you look at the world, and our place in it, in a new way. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Author Bio:</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Highbrow Magazine’s <em>chief book critic Lee Polevoi is the author of the novel <a href="https://www.leepolevoi.com/the-confessions-of-gabriel-ash" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">The Confessions of Gabriel Ash.</a></em></strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>For Highbrow Magazine</strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-tags field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Tags:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/samantha-harvey" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">samantha harvey</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/orbital" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">orbital</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/orbital-book" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">orbital book</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-novels" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new novels</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-books" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new books</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/books-about-space" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">books about space</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/space-exploration" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">space exploration</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/international-space-station" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">international space station</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/planet-earth" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">planet Earth</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/astronauts" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">astronauts</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-text field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Lee Polevoi</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-pop field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Popular:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">not popular</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-bot field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Bottom Slider:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">In Slider</div></div></div> Mon, 05 Feb 2024 21:23:33 +0000 tara 13000 at https://www.highbrowmagazine.com https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/24456-traveling-through-space-lightning-speed-samantha-harvey-s-orbital#comments In ‘Searching for Patty Hearst,’ Roger D. Rapoport Draws on His Extensive Reporting on the Case https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/24406-searching-patty-hearst-roger-d-rapoport-draws-his-extensive-reporting-case <div class="field field-name-field-cat field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"><a href="/books-fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">Books &amp; Fiction</a></div></div></div><span class="submitted-by">Submitted by tara on Thu, 01/18/2024 - 11:56</span><div class="field field-name-field-image field-type-image field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="og:image rdfs:seeAlso" resource="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1pattyhearst.jpg?itok=4TwWqdP2"><img typeof="foaf:Image" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1pattyhearst.jpg?itok=4TwWqdP2" width="480" height="320" alt="" /></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"><p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong><em>October 4, 1971</em></strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"> Steve Weed’s fever was 102.4. Three days earlier, his doctor had diagnosed pneumonia and told him to cancel all appearances on the tour for <em>Is The Library Burning,</em> his new Random House book about the student power movement. Exhausted after a sleepless night, he had driven across the Bay Bridge on an Indian summer morning. Traffic slowed on this 80-degree day after a broken-down apple truck spilled crates of Granny Smiths across the roadway. By the time he arrived at St. Jean’s, his audience had been chilling for 20 minutes. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“For me,” he said after pausing for a sip of water to soothe his sore throat, “the ’60s actually began in 1959 when I fell in love with the University of Michigan’s Dean of Women.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">While Steve continued, 16-year-old Patty Hearst, sitting in the back row with her best friend Megan Walworth, closed her eyes.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“You cool,” said Megan.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"> Patty blinked, took a deep breath and whispered:</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"> “Oh no, I’m in big trouble.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“He’s so old,” said unsmitten Megan.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“He’s perfect,” she said as Steve continued. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Megan shook her head and began replying until a nun shushed her. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“We’d better chill,” said Patty.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I was just head over heels for a woman in her late ‘60s,” continued Steve.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">By now two of the nuns were whispering to each another. They listened nervously as he reminisced about his campus heartthrob, Dean Deborah Bacon:</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“For more than 30 years she ruled women on campus as if they were all her daughters. Dean Bacon was famous for her patented brand of <em>in loco parentis</em>, a phrase I assume you all know from your Latin class. If a young woman failed to make it home in time for a dorm curfew, this administrator made sure that she was locked out for the night. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/2pattyhearst.jpg" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“She was famous for her lectures about the hidden dangers of tight sweaters and short skirts, anything hemmed above the knee.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Dean Bacon’s worst fears were validated in 1954 when Michigan became home of the nation’s first panty raid. A mob assembled outside Stockwell Hall chanting: “We want panties; we want them now.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">That was when Sister Mary Catherine Francis decided to call off Steve’s appearance. As the lights were dimmed, he was escorted from the stage to the students’ dismay. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“That’s so bogus,” Megan told Patty as the students filed out. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">In the hallway, Steve loudly offered to continue his story at another venue:</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I’m speaking tonight at City Lights in San Francisco. Feel free to join me there where we can resume our conversation.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">By the time Steve arrived at the North Beach bookstore, Patty had already finished the first chapter of his new book.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">The room was filled with rapt St. Jean’s students eager to learn more about the ‘60s from this controversial author. His book was a kaleidoscope of campus protest from coast to coast. Steve continued his Dean Bacon story where he’d left off, in the upstairs reading room—a shrine to Kerouac, Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti and the rest of the Beats.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“The groundbreaking panty raid began on a warm night beneath the windows of Stockwell Hall. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"> ‘“Panties, we want panties,’” shouted the men to the beat of a drum borrowed from the marching band.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“When the first woman tossed her underwear from the sixth floor, a roar went up that could be heard across campus. One by one, others joined in as the men held up their treasure for the benefit of <em>Michigan Daily</em> photographers.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Dean Bacon, on the scene before the first undergarment was airborne, quickly called the cops. She dispatched housemothers who ran up and down the corridors banging on doors in a vain attempt to take control. Finally, when someone pulled a fire alarm, some of the women emerged in their nightgowns, including several with their hair rolled up in curlers.”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/3pattyhearst.jpg" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“‘DO SOMETHING,’“ Dean Bacon screamed at the police who didn’t know if any laws were being violated.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">One of the young women in her St. Jean’s uniform, white blouse, gray blazer, blue skirt and penny loafers, raised her hand.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Mr. Weed.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Please, it’s Steve.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Steve, help us out. Were the cops enjoying this spectacle?”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“They were speechless.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Far out,” said the mesmerized student. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Like the young men, Dean Bacon was frustrated. A cop handed her a megaphone as she scanned the women looking out their dorm windows:</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“‘I am so ashamed of all of you. Tomorrow your parents, who have sacrificed everything, are going to be calling my office. And what exactly do you think I’m going to say?</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“‘Oh hello, Mrs. Clink…. Susie threw her panties out the window. But they were wearing thin. She didn’t part with any of her good panties. It’s really all for the best. If she were in a car accident, you wouldn’t want her going to the hospital where a young resident would examine her in awful underwear.’”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">  Another student raised her hand.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“What did you love about Dean Bacon?”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/4pattyhearst.jpg" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Five years later, I inherited a file from a previous <em>Michigan Daily</em> editor, Peter Eckstein. Paging through, I found interview notes from women pinpointing how Dean Bacon had written letters to parents of white women dating interracially. Although we didn’t have the actual letters, Eckstein knew that some of these women had been forced to withdraw from school by their racist parents.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“After many months of trial and error, I found one of these victims. She sneaked into her mother’s bureau drawer and discovered a letter from the Dean. I took it to the campus administration with the story we were ready to publish.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Deborah Bacon resigned the very next day. Our story was picked up by the <em>New York Times</em>, and for me, it was the first step to a dream career.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Her power grew from the fact that no one had the courage to challenge her authority. She assumed the kind of power we see far too often in this country, power that flourishes secretly behind closed doors. This sort of bigotry was at odds with the very purpose of a university, teaching students how to think independently, to never let anyone steal your freedom.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Or your panties,” said Patty’s friend Megan Walworth. “This must have been terrifying for the women, a sort of prelude to rape? Wasn’t she right to battle that?”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“No question, it was a horrible situation, inexcusable. Those men were engaged in the worst kind of sexual harassment. The <em>Michigan Daily</em> editors deplored it. A faculty petition gathered over 1,000 signatures and the administration threatened to expel anyone who engaged in this kind of behavior again.” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“The ‘50s were all about instant self gratification,” said Megan. “Women were victimized in so many ways.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“You’re right. In the ‘60s, we tried to change that, to make sure women were always able to realize their full potential.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“But wasn’t it Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee’s Stokely Carmichael who said, ‘The only position for women in the movement is prone?’”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"> “He couldn’t have been more wrong. I know that some of you here tonight will become exemplary leaders. Let’s face it, you come from a world of privilege, and I know that most of you will join the struggle to help those who grew up without all the advantages you enjoy.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“What went wrong at your own school today was an example of what we are all fighting for. Never let anyone dictate what you should think or how you should handle your own lives.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Not even you,” said Megan.</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/5pattyhearst.jpg" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“The one thing I know for sure is that none of us have all the answers. That’s what I love about this bookstore. It’s a place where so many great ideas collide and perhaps out of that synthesis, we can teach ourselves how to avoid some of the mistakes leading to avoidable conflict and bloodshed. Together we need to revolutionize this country. Hopefully that can happen peacefully.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Waiting in line after the talk, Patty watched Steve greet each customer like old friends.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">When it was her turn, he asked if the book was a gift:</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“It’s for my mother’s birthday.  She’s a University of California Regent. She’ll absolutely hate it.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“What’s her name?”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Catherine.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"> Steve picked up a pen and looked up at Patty.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"> “May I inscribe this to her as Cathy?”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“No, it’s Catherine.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"> Steve thought for a second and then wrote:</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>Dear Catherine: Your wonderful daughter tells me that you are a UC Regent. That’s great. I for one would like to see more women on the board. How about asking Governor Reagan to nominate Angela Davis? Hope to meet you soon</em>. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em> With my admiration.</em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em> Steve Weed.</em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">As she picked up the book Patty left a note:</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em> Steve, thank you for not backing down this afternoon and inviting us all here tonight. I’d love to come to your next talk. Please give me a call and let me know when I’ll have another chance to catch up with you. My number is 555-0001. I’m psyched about seeing you again. </em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>Very Truly Yours,</em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>Patty Hearst</em></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong><em>This is an excerpt from the new book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Searching-Patty-Hearst-Crime-Novel/dp/1958156027/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2ALLDGDAMY5PL&amp;keywords=searching+for+patty+hearst&amp;qid=1705594391&amp;sprefix=searching+for+patty+hearst%2Caps%2C100&amp;sr=8-1">Searching for Patty Hearst: A True Crime Novel</a>, by Roger D. Rapoport. It’s published here with permission.</em></strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong><em>Author Bio:</em></strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Award-winning film producer, publisher, author, and investigative journalist Roger Rapoport has covered the Patty Hearst story for half a century. He has written for the <em>Chicago Tribune, Wall Street Journal, Miami Herald, Boston Globe, Dallas Morning News, San Jose Mercury News, The Independent (UK) </em>and the<em> San Francisco Chronicle.</em> His magazine articles have been published in <em>Harper’s, The Atlantic, Esquire</em> and <em>Mother Jones</em>.</strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong><em>Photo Credits</em></strong><em>: <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:PattyHearstmug.jpg" style="text-decoration:underline">Wikipedia Commons</a>; <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Patty_Hearst-_Hibernia_bank_robbery.jpg" style="text-decoration:underline">Wikipedia Commons</a>; UCLA Library Archive (<a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Patty_Hearst_escorted_by_marshals.jpg" style="text-decoration:underline">Wikipedia Commons</a>).</em></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p> </p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-tags field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Tags:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/patty-hearst" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">patty hearst</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/sla" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">SLA</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/steve-weed" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">steve weed</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/roger-d-rapoport" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">roger d. rapoport</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/searching-patty-hearst" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">searching for patty hearst</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-novels" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new novels</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/patty-hearst-case" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">the patty hearst case</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/crime-novels" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">crime novels</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-text field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Roger D. Rapoport</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-pop field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Popular:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">not popular</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-bot field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Bottom Slider:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">In Slider</div></div></div> Thu, 18 Jan 2024 16:56:33 +0000 tara 12953 at https://www.highbrowmagazine.com https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/24406-searching-patty-hearst-roger-d-rapoport-draws-his-extensive-reporting-case#comments A Diamond Heist Goes Awry in ‘The Stolen Coast’ https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/24106-diamond-heist-goes-awry-stolen-coast <div class="field field-name-field-cat field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"><a href="/books-fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">Books &amp; Fiction</a></div></div></div><span class="submitted-by">Submitted by tara on Wed, 09/27/2023 - 15:20</span><div class="field field-name-field-image field-type-image field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="og:image rdfs:seeAlso" resource="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1coast_depositphotos.jpg?itok=uBVrwJcr"><img typeof="foaf:Image" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1coast_depositphotos.jpg?itok=uBVrwJcr" width="480" height="320" alt="" /></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"><p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>The Stolen Coast</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>By Dwyer Murphy</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Viking</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>288 pages</strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">In <em><a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/721486/the-stolen-coast-by-dwyer-murphy/" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">The Stolen Coast</a>, </em>a new crime novel blurbed as “neo-noir,” author Dwyer Murphy resurrects the mood of that literary genre sparingly but effectively. Early on, the narrator describes the environment in and around the seaside village of Onset, Massachusetts:</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Sometimes it seemed like just about everyone you saw there was on the run from something. In other moments, stasis hung over the town like a cloud of gas and you would see the same faces night after night, and it felt like low tide would go on forever and the wind would always die in the flats.”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Not quite Raymond Chandler (“one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch”) but you get the idea. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/coastbook.jpg" style="height:670px; width:444px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Jack Bettancourt, a young Harvard-educated lawyer turned criminal, is both a complicated and implausible primary character. Rather than pursue a career in law, he has opted to follow in the family business as a “ferryman”—that is, aiding people with a need to disappear off the grid succeed in their quest. The business was founded by Jack’s father, an ex-spy, and father and son each exemplify what Liam Neeson (in another context altogether) describes as “a very particular set of skills.”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">As <em>The Stolen Coast</em> gets underway, we get a look at events in Jack’s daily life, generally involving the retrieval and subsequent hiding of (mostly bad) people, in various cottages along the beach left vacant during the off-season. Things are running smoothly, more or less, with enough time left over for his greater passion, a weekly pickup basketball game. Then, from out of nowhere and in true noir fashion, Jack’s old flame Elena, absent from his life for seven years, abruptly reappears.</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">The thing is, Elena’s just as “bent” as Jack is. Soon after stepping blithely back into his world, she persuades him to drive through town to an old, abandoned house:</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/2coast_depositphotos.jpg" style="height:359px; width:670px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“She approached the house slowly, without care, as though it were her own … It was odd, watching her from that remove. It felt like a performance. A piece of theater. Like she knew that I was watching but was pretending not to in order to amplify something—the tension or the confusion. After working the lock for a minute, she let herself inside. Her movements seemed very deliberate, then for a stretch of time she was gone; disappeared. Like she had never come back. Seven years away and counting.”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">As with any novel steeped in noir, the narrator’s voice is everything. Does Jack’s voice, as shown here sounding somewhat detached from his surroundings, persuade us of the authenticity of his story? Yes, some of the time, while at other moments he comes across as much too naïve for this crooked line of work.</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Even more oddly, though we follow Jack’s point of view throughout, there’s a critical moment midway through the story when he delivers a client to a supposedly safe location, and a gruesome act of violence throws everything out of whack. But the “I” describing the incident seems to recede into the foreground. Jack takes no action in response to the violence, nor does he demonstrate much concern about a job gone terribly wrong.</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/3diamonds.jpg" style="height:377px; width:670px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Things aren’t helped by a fair amount of aimless and semi-expository dialogue between Jack and Elena, and between Jack and his pickup basketball friends. In a story where the stakes are presumably right up there in the realm of life and death, the novel’s emotional temperature remains stubbornly flat, devoid of much passion or style.</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Soon<em>, </em>Elena draws Jack into a plan to steal raw diamonds, valued from between $3 million and $180 million, from one of her business associates. Although every instinct warns him away, Jack agrees to take part and from there, <em>The Stolen Coast </em>picks up pace. Dwyer Murphy captures the disturbing atmospherics of this beachfront town, where considerable chicanery takes place behind the scenes. But there may not be enough behind-the-scenes “stuff” about the family business or the botched diamond heist to convince and satisfy every reader.</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Author Bio:</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong><em>Lee Polevoi, </em>Highbrow Magazine’s <em>chief book editor, has just published a novel, </em></strong><a href="https://www.leepolevoi.com/press" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline"><strong>The Confessions of Gabriel Ash.</strong></a></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>For Highbrow Magazine</strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Image Sources:</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>--<a href="https://depositphotos.com/stock-photography.html" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">Depositphotos.com</a></em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>--Viking</em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em><a href="https://pixabay.com/photos/diamond-diamonds-gem-gemstone-ruby-3185447/" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">--Pixabay</a> (Creative Commons)</em></span></span></p> <p> </p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-tags field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Tags:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/dwyer-murphy" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">dwyer murphy</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/stolen-coast" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">the stolen coast</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-novels" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new novels</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-books" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new books</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new fiction</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/mystery-books" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">mystery books</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/noir-books" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">noir books</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/crime-stories" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">crime stories</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-text field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Lee Polevoi</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-pop field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Popular:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">not popular</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-bot field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Bottom Slider:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">In Slider</div></div></div> Wed, 27 Sep 2023 19:20:10 +0000 tara 12626 at https://www.highbrowmagazine.com https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/24106-diamond-heist-goes-awry-stolen-coast#comments Murder Mystery Meets Sci-Fi in Nick Harkaway’s ‘Titanium Noir’ https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/24153-murder-mystery-meets-sc-fi-nick-harkaway-s-titanium-noir <div class="field field-name-field-cat field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"><a href="/books-fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">Books &amp; Fiction</a></div></div></div><span class="submitted-by">Submitted by tara on Mon, 08/28/2023 - 15:40</span><div class="field field-name-field-image field-type-image field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="og:image rdfs:seeAlso" resource="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1detectivebook.jpg?itok=r8LlE18D"><img typeof="foaf:Image" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1detectivebook.jpg?itok=r8LlE18D" width="480" height="320" alt="" /></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"><p>(Photo credit: <a href="https://depositphotos.com/stock-photography.html">Depositphotos.com</a>)</p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Titanium Noir</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>By Nick Harkaway</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Knopf</strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">All forms of fiction require from the reader a willing suspension of disbelief, a readiness to let go of “reality” and just have fun. Sometimes, authors crank up that level of disbelief to towering heights. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">British author Nick Harkaway’s growing body of work forthrightly makes this demand on readers. For his novels to succeed, we must first accept the fictional lives of spies and pirates, mimes and ninja warriors, assorted mad geniuses and serial killers. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">It’s a tribute to Harkaway’s skill that we mostly do fall in line with his outlandish plots and cartoon-adjacent characters. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/2detectivebook.jpg" style="height:652px; width:441px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">And there’s the bottled-up energy in his prose. For example, near the beginning of his previous novel, <em>Tigerman </em>(2014), a police sergeant living on the mythical island of Mancrue observes a pigeon being consumed by a pelican: </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“This morning, the pelican had had enough, and when the pigeon came between her and a bit of tuna, she had just opened to the fullest extent and engulfed the fish fragment and the pigeon both, to squawks of outrage and alarm from her antagonist. To the Sergeant’s eye, her swollen gullet had possessed at that moment the dreamy smugness of a trick well played, but he acknowledged inwardly that the faces of birds were impenetrable, so it could as well have been the foreknowledge of indigestion.”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">If that’s not enough to draw readers in, it’s hard to imagine what else would.</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Harkaway’s new novel, <em>Titanium Noir</em>, continues in this vein. A mash-up of science fiction and hard-boiled detective story, it starts out promisingly enough. Cal Sounder, a “police consultant,” investigates the murder of a Titan, aged 90 but due to advances in technology inhabiting a 30-year-old’s body (and, when alive, standing more than seven feet tall). Cal’s investigation into this “dead nerd” spirals into unforeseen nooks and crannies, with dangerous repercussions. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/3detectivebook.jpg" style="height:367px; width:652px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></p> <p>(Photo credit: <a href="https://depositphotos.com/stock-photography.html">Depositphotos.com</a>)</p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">At the crime scene, Cal takes a close look around the dead Titan’s office:</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I shuffle all the way back on the dead man’s office chair until my feet come off the floor and then I push off with my right hand so that I’m spinning slowly around. The chair is a science chair, translucent and nasty. They take a seed from your ear cartilage and grow it and then you sit in it because something immune response something biota. Supposedly, it’s good for you, but who knows? High-ticket item. Round and round I go in the dead nerd’s chair, which I guess is technically part of the corpse.”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Unlike earlier novels, a lot of the world-building framework in <em>Titanium Noir </em>seems flimsy. Harkaway leverages the mechanics of a police procedural to tell the story, thus entailing long patches of elementary Q&amp;As on the part of the detective-protagonist. The result is a fair amount of expository dialogue, and not rendered in an especially compelling voice. The first-person perspective also narrows the scope of the story.  </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/4detectivebook.jpg" style="height:509px; width:650px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></p> <p>(Photo credit: <a href="https://depositphotos.com/stock-photography.html">Depositphotos.com</a>)</p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Odd lapses occur as well in the novel’s internal logic.<em> Titanium Noir </em>takes place in a near-future world not so different from ours (except for things like a “science chair”). Presumably, instantaneous communications should be commonplace if our present-day society is any model. But as Cal questions individuals linked to the deceased man, news of the Titan’s death seems to come as a complete surprise to just about everyone, regardless of how much time has passed since the discovery of the body.</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>Titanium Noir</em> is roughly half the length of prior Harkaway novels. This paring away sets a faster-paced narrative in motion, and Harkaway’s signature playfulness and imagination often shine through. But for some readers, this may feel less satisfying and fleshed-out than in past efforts. Cal Sounder’s tough-guy talk doesn’t sound all that tough, and the femmes fatale<em> </em>scattered throughout the novel don’t seem all that <em>fatale</em>. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Pick up one of Harkaway’s earlier novels, like <em>Angelmaker </em>or <em>Tigerman, </em>and see for yourself how hugely talented this writer is. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Author Bio:</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><a href="http://leepolevoi.com/" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline"><strong>The Confessions of Gabriel Ash</strong></a><strong><em>, a novel by Lee Polevoi</em>, Highbrow Magazine’s <em>chief book critic</em>, <em>has just been published</em>.    </strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>For Highbrow Magazine</strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-tags field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Tags:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/nick-harkaway" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">nick harkaway</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/titanium-noir" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">titanium noir</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-books" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new books</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/detective-stories" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">detective stories</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/murder-mystery" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">murder mystery</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/sci-fi-0" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">sci fi</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/science-fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">science fiction</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-novels" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new novels</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-text field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Lee Polevoi</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-pop field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Popular:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">not popular</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-bot field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Bottom Slider:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">In Slider</div></div></div> Mon, 28 Aug 2023 19:40:15 +0000 tara 12084 at https://www.highbrowmagazine.com https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/24153-murder-mystery-meets-sc-fi-nick-harkaway-s-titanium-noir#comments Medieval Band of Brothers Fights to the Death in ‘Essex Dogs’ https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/24020-medieval-band-brothers-fights-death-essex-dogs <div class="field field-name-field-cat field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"><a href="/books-fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">Books &amp; Fiction</a></div></div></div><span class="submitted-by">Submitted by tara on Mon, 06/12/2023 - 17:35</span><div class="field field-name-field-image field-type-image field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="og:image rdfs:seeAlso" resource="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1warrior.jpg?itok=EIqqIQEX"><img typeof="foaf:Image" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1warrior.jpg?itok=EIqqIQEX" width="480" height="320" alt="" /></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"><p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Essex Dogs: A Novel</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>By Dan Jones</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Penguin</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>464 pages</strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">The year is 1346, early days in the Hundred Years’ War between England and France. A band of 10 men, most of them veterans of prior medieval battles, lands on the Normandy coast. Their mission: locate and destroy as many French soldiers as possible, thus paving the way for King Edward III’s triumphant arrival. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Essex-Dogs-Novel-Dan-Jones/dp/0593653785/ref=asc_df_0593653785/?tag=hyprod-20&amp;linkCode=df0&amp;hvadid=598283043565&amp;hvpos=&amp;hvnetw=g&amp;hvrand=4460771005671917631&amp;hvpone=&amp;hvptwo=&amp;hvqmt=&amp;hvdev=c&amp;hvdvcmdl=&amp;hvlocint=&amp;hvlocphy=9058761&amp;hvtargid=pla-1658096011345&amp;psc=1" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">Essex Dogs</a> </em>tells the story of these men, armed with swords, crossbows, and sledgehammers. There’s the leader, Loveday FitzTalbot; a dissolute priest called Father; the burly fighter known only as Scotsman; a fledgling archer named Romsford; and Pismire, a small but feisty warrior renowned for his ability to infiltrate the enemy camp. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Against this backdrop, Dan Jones—a noted historian of medieval times—offers brief moments of lyrical beauty: “The tide was now a long way out. The receding waters exposed ridged sand and shallow pools, which gleamed like polished glass in the afternoon sun.”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/2warrior.jpg" style="height:653px; width:432px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">There are other quiet moments, too, when the Essex Dogs ride on horseback to their next military engagement, bivouac around the campfire at night, and so on. But make no mistake: <em>Essex Dogs </em>is a novel composed of “action prose”—blunt, feverish, staccato language, and, for long stretches, unremitting. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">If your taste runs to vividly-depicted violence, Jones is your man: </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Loveday watched a man-at-arms from some other company running up the beach. He was hit with two bolts—one in his side and another through his neck. Blood spurted and the man fell to his knees, eyes wide and disbelieving, before a third bolt from some sharp shot above them flew into his face through his right cheek. He fell sideways, lay on the sand and did not get up.”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Despite the risks involved, Loveday’s primary goal in battle (after first putting his men in harm’s way for money), is to “bring every man back alive.” Considering the sky-high body count in skirmish after skirmish, it strains credulity that he could hope to achieve this objective: </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/3warrior.jpg" style="height:511px; width:650px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Loveday had seen many more battles since that one. All were different, yet all were also versions of the same one. And all were preceded by what lay ahead now. The march. The long stretches of boredom. Cooking, building fires. Robbing towns. Hurting civilians. Taking orders from idiots like Sir Robert, the latest of a long line of Essex knights of that name, whose whole purpose was paying lesser men to work their estates and risk their lives in war …” </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Loveday’s sense that battles “were also versions of the same one” aptly describes the many clashes taking place throughout <em>Essex Dogs. </em></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">The prose in <em>Essex Dogs </em>seldom settles down to take a breath. Dialogue often sounds less like how fierce warriors in the Hundred Years War might actually talk, and more like a movie version of how they might talk. No doubt a novel set in the 14<sup>th</sup> century, paced like a videogame, with <em>Band of Brothers </em>and <em>Saving Private Ryan</em> serving as templates, will draw in a lot of readers. Others, distracted by the thinly portrayed characters and a frenzy of bloodshed—not so much. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Author Bio:</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong><em>Lee Polevoi, </em>Highbrow Magazine’s <em>chief book critic</em>, <em>is the author of a new novel, </em></strong><a href="https://www.leepolevoi.com/the-confessions-of-gabriel-ash" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline"><strong>The Confessions of Gabriel Ash</strong></a><strong>. </strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>For Highbrow Magazine</strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Image Sources:</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>--Gioele Fazzori (<a href="https://pixabay.com/photos/man-knight-king-warrior-sword-6027218/" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">Pixabay</a>, Creative Commons)</em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>--Kudybadorota (<a href="https://pixabay.com/photos/fantasy-knight-battle-warrior-2763831/" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">Pixabay</a>, Creative Commons)</em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>--Penguin</em></span></span></p> <p> </p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-tags field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Tags:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/essex-dogs" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">essex dogs</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/dan-jones" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">dan jones</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-novels" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new novels</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/historical-fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">historical fiction</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-books" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new books</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/literature" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">literature</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/king-edward-iii" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">King Edward III</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/hundred-years-war" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">Hundred Years War</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/medieval-warriors" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">medieval warriors</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/medieval-fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">medieval fiction</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-text field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Lee Polevoi</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-pop field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Popular:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">not popular</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-bot field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Bottom Slider:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">In Slider</div></div></div> Mon, 12 Jun 2023 21:35:09 +0000 tara 11935 at https://www.highbrowmagazine.com https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/24020-medieval-band-brothers-fights-death-essex-dogs#comments Scott Lord Pens New International Thriller ‘Come November’ https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/24012-scott-lord-pens-new-international-thriller-come-november <div class="field field-name-field-cat field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"><a href="/books-fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">Books &amp; Fiction</a></div></div></div><span class="submitted-by">Submitted by tara on Mon, 06/05/2023 - 17:35</span><div class="field field-name-field-image field-type-image field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="og:image rdfs:seeAlso" resource="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1scottlord.jpg?itok=bcRU4Z8l"><img typeof="foaf:Image" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1scottlord.jpg?itok=bcRU4Z8l" width="480" height="320" alt="" /></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"><p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Michael Hanson, phone in hand, stood looking out the window of his second-story office on Montana and Twelfth Street in Santa Monica. It was an inexpensive suite on an expensive street—just one small room and a secretarial station—but it was a prestigious address and that was important to him. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Diane, his secretary, went home early because of a childcare emergency. Ordinarily, Michael would have been annoyed, but somehow aiding Diane in her childcare efforts worked to assuage his considerable guilt regarding his daughter, Alice, who now lived on the other side of the country. His lawyer had told him that since she was sixteen, most judges would let her choose which parent she wanted to live with and, to no one’s surprise but Michael’s, she chose to live in New York City with her mother, Kerry. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">With Diane gone, he had to answer his own phone, which was why he was now stuck talking to one of his disgruntled investors, Emily Poverstein. He held the receiver an inch or two away from his ear. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Michael, you said I’d have my fifty-thousand-dollar investment back by January, but it’s almost June,” she said. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Mrs. Poverstein was one of ten investors he had sold on the Casa Palacios project, at fifty thousand each, which he had to personally guarantee. That had been the only way to convince them to trust him with their money. Real estate was booming then and it hadn’t seemed like much of a gamble. Then all the trouble in the Middle East started. Weapons of mass destruction were everywhere, they said, and no one wanted to buy the expensive condominiums he and his partners were building. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Well, it’s actually April, but I know, it’s absolutely wrong that they haven’t paid you your money yet,” he said in the low, comforting tones of a professional mourner. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“You told me I’d double my money!” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Now, Mrs. Poverstein, I might have said that was <em>possible</em>, but if you look back at the materials you signed, you’ll see that we were giving you our best projections, not making any promises.” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“You know, I’ve been very patient, but I have half a mind to report you to—” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Mrs. Poverstein,” Michael interjected, his patience exhausted, “please don’t say something we’ll both regret.” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Sorry.” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Michael drew a deep audible breath, an indulgent parent reluctantly preparing to reason with an unruly child. “I think you are being unfair. But,” he said, holding up his hand as if she could see him taking a pledge, “I won’t have an unhappy client. If you want me to take you out of your position, say the word. I’ll write you my own check for your fifty thousand.” Not that he actually had that much. “But if you wait, the projections as they stand now lead me to believe you won’t be doubling your money—you’ll be <em>tripling </em>it.” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Mrs. Poverstein gulped. “Tripling?” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Just be patient a little while longer. Remember, Emily, I’m in this with you.” That, at least, was true. Michael had invested every penny he had in the project. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“If you really think so.”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I do.”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Tripling, you think?”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Michael did something he hadn’t done since he was twelve. He crossed his fingers. “Tripling.”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“All right then, I guess I’ll stick with it.”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“You won’t regret it. Goodbye, Emily.”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/2scottlord.jpg" style="height:653px; width:432px" typeof="foaf:Image" /><br />  </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Michael was trembling. This was the third such call this week. His investors were nervous. Construction was six months behind schedule for no discernible reason and pre-sales were slow. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">He walked from the window to the antique oak bar that stood in the corner near the window. It had belonged to his father. “My inheritance,” he’d tell people. He poured an inch of Irish whiskey into a low tumbler and drank it off in one swallow. It had been a two-drink minimum kind of day, so he poured another, this time mixing in soda and ice. He took the fresh drink back to his desk, sank into the high-backed leather chair, and stared out the window into the gathering dusk. He looked around his modest office. He was turning forty this summer. If success was going to happen, shouldn’t it have happened by now? </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">It was nearly five thirty. Damn! He’d meant to check on his mother. She picked up on the first ring. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Hello?”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Mom, it’s me.”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Michael.” The way she said his name always made him feel she was enormously glad to hear his voice. “How are you, honey?” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">He smiled. “No, how are you?”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I asked first.”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Come on,” he said, “tell me.” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I’m fine, really. I spent most of the day reading. Went in the garden for a bit and took a walk around the block. I don’t have classes because of spring break.” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“You timed your hospital visit for spring break?” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Of course. I didn’t want to put anyone out.” Her considerate nature had always been a joke between them. “It was wonderful just to be out in the sun. There was a little breeze coming from the ocean. Makes me feel like taking a trip.” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I know. I wish I could have gotten out of the office.”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“How is work?”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Michael thought about confiding in her but rejected the idea. He trusted her to be sympathetic no matter what the problem, but this was different. The money he’d invested belonged to people like her, older folks who had trusted him with their retirement savings. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Oh, you know, same old, same old. Real estate development isn’t for sissies.” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“You’re not a sissy, Michael.” “I was just joking.” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I know,” she said, forcing a chuckle. “Anything really wrong?”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“No, not at all.”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“You’d tell me?”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/3scottlord.jpg" style="height:435px; width:653px" typeof="foaf:Image" /><br />  </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“You’d be the first one I’d tell. You know I’m a momma’s boy.” They both laughed. It was a story from his childhood. It started when his parents told him they were separating. Their words were hardly out of their mouths when eight-year-old Michael blurted out, “I’m gonna live with Momma.” It was one of his father’s rare sober days. He had nodded grimly and, as he was leaving, Michael heard him say, “What do you expect? He always was a momma’s boy. Kid’s a sissy.” </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">At first, Michael had seen his father every other Saturday. But soon he began to cancel their visits. Weeks, then months, would pass between them until eventually they ceased altogether. His mother gently explained to Michael that his father, while a good man in many ways, had a viciously intractable addiction to alcohol. He died when Michael was in college. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“You sure you’re okay, Mom?” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I’m sure. And I see the doctor again tomorrow. He’s going to run a couple of tests in the office. I’ll drive myself.” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Michael didn’t respond. He knew it irritated her to feel dependent. “Something else on your mind?” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Well, yes. If you have a minute.”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I’m all ears.”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I got a funny email today.”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Michael couldn’t help laughing.</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Stop it,” she said, a smile in her voice.</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“It still cracks me up. Five years ago, you didn’t own a computer—now you email like an old pro and teach classes online.”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“You’re exaggerating. Anyway, I got an email.”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Michael, still laughing a little, said, “From an old lover, right?”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Yes, as a matter of fact.”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Michael stopped laughing.</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I . . . It’s hard to talk about.” She seemed to change her mind. “Actually, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you tomorrow. If you’re really interested, that is.” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I am. You should get some rest, anyway, and I have a few calls to make.” <em>A few more investors to soothe. </em>Maybe he should just tell her he needed her help. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“By the way,” she said, “that lawyer you referred me to says the insurance company will pay off soon.” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Yeah?” he said quietly, struggling to sound casual at the mention of money. “He thinks they’ll cave?” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“That’s what he says.” </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/4scottlord.jpg" style="height:650px; width:650px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Although it had been a year since his death, Jim’s life insurance company still hadn’t paid Jeanne the proceeds of his policy—one million dollars. The adjuster assigned to the case had raised questions about the pain medications Jim had been taking—implying he’d taken his own life, which would allow them to reject the claim. Jim’s medical team had managed to douse that suspicion. Undeterred, the company then asserted there were technical deficiencies in Jim’s original application and they were investigating the “possible concealment of a serious medical condition.” It was then that Jeanne hired Michael’s lawyer. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">A million dollars. To a woman who owned her pricey home free and clear and had six figures in stocks and bonds. The thought of that much money made Michael almost physically ill. She could easily afford to help him out of his present difficulty. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Mom?”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Mm-hmm?”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>No, not yet. </em>“Nothing.” It was too soon to ask for her help and to confess his failure. He said instead, “I’m just glad you’re okay. Take it easy.” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Okay, honey, thanks for calling.”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Of course. Bye.”</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Bye.” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Michael hung up. He had planned to call his other investors but decided tomorrow would do. He grabbed his jacket, locked the door, and walked the mile to his two-bedroom apartment on Ocean at the end of Montana. Normally, he would have driven his Porsche 911 to the office, but it was ten years old and not as reliable as it once had been. Like a lot of things. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>This excerpt is adapted from the forthcoming book, <em><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Come-November-Scott-Lord/dp/B0BZNNNHZ1/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3BIIPY8UWA1U5&amp;keywords=scott+lord+come+november&amp;qid=1686000404&amp;sprefix=scott+lord%2Caps%2C732&amp;sr=8-1" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">Come November</a> (July 2023)</em>, by Scott Lord. It’s published here with permission.</strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Highbrow Magazine</strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Image Sources:</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>--Lukas Rychvalsky (<a href="https://pixabay.com/photos/man-loneliness-sea-evening-2915187/" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">Pixabay</a>, Creative Commons)</em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>--Lucky Silver1 (<a href="https://pixabay.com/photos/italy-sorrento-villa-cimbrone-228952/" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">Pixabay</a>, Creative Commons)</em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>--Greenleaf Book Group Press</em></span></span></p> <p> </p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-tags field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Tags:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/scott-lord" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">scott lord</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/come-november" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">come november</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-books" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new books</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-novels" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new novels</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/international-thriller" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">international thriller</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new fiction</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-text field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Scott Lord</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-pop field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Popular:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">not popular</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-bot field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Bottom Slider:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">In Slider</div></div></div> Mon, 05 Jun 2023 21:35:07 +0000 tara 11923 at https://www.highbrowmagazine.com https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/24012-scott-lord-pens-new-international-thriller-come-november#comments New Novel Weaves a Tale of International Intrigue https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/23977-new-novel-weaves-tale-international-intrigue <div class="field field-name-field-cat field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"><a href="/books-fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">Books &amp; Fiction</a></div></div></div><span class="submitted-by">Submitted by tara on Thu, 05/18/2023 - 17:39</span><div class="field field-name-field-image field-type-image field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="og:image rdfs:seeAlso" resource="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1statedinner.jpg?itok=87KPSv1C"><img typeof="foaf:Image" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1statedinner.jpg?itok=87KPSv1C" width="480" height="360" alt="" /></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"><p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>1982. Gabriel Ash serves as United Nations chief delegate for the fictional East European nation of Keshnev. As war rages in the Falklands, a series of scandalous incidents in New York—some self-inflicted, some not—prompts the Minister for State Security to recall Gabriel back to his adopted homeland, deep behind the Iron Curtain. </em></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Two days after my arrival in Keshnev, the bellhop delivered a printed invitation to a state dinner at the Foreign Ministry. A tailor conducted a personal fitting and, three hours later, a sleek, custom-made tuxedo appeared—this, in a country where it takes weeks to buy a loaf of bread. “That’s more like it,” I said, tipping the elated bellhop an extra 30 <em>klei</em>.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">My euphoria lasted only until the limousine ride through the city. The notorious Planz Quarter was once the haunt of art smugglers and fallen European playboys; now I saw row after row of crumbling block towers. Old men gazed out of broken windows. Feral dogs clashed over the spoils of an overturned trash can. From my backseat window, I saw two men roughing up a third man in an alley. The assailants raised their tombstone faces as the limo passed, then resumed pummeling their victim.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>Oh, Keshnev!</em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Nausea rose in my gut, stomach-wrenching revulsion at what had become of the old country. I hated Petrescu for ordering my return, hated the secret police eavesdropping on my hotel room, hated even the man under siege in the alley. The sooner I could plead my case and expedite passage home, the better. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Government buildings loomed up on every corner, each structure with its own hideous pillars and statuary. Klieg lights installed on the roof of the Foreign Ministry building—itself, a bleak ten-story monolith—beamed down on arriving guests. I fell in with a crowd of cigar-puffing <em>apparatchiks </em>and their brawny wives, all of us moving down a herringbone-parquet hallway into a stately ballroom. The mincing waiter led me to a table in the rear, far from the podium and head table, around which the evening’s festivities would revolve.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">I sat alone, simmering. Too many ups and downs for my dignity. First my unheralded crossing the border into Keshnev, then the surprise VIP treatment at the Metropole, and now at an elegant state dinner, this ridiculous seating arrangement. Would I ever receive a proper welcome home, or had I become <em>persona non grata</em>? It seemed the powers that be couldn’t make up their minds.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Eventually, two couples and a single woman—small-boned, with dusty blonde hair, in her mid-thirties—joined me at the table. Of the husbands and wives, I registered little beyond ample waistlines and boisterous high spirits. Vera, as the blonde woman introduced herself, held far more interest for me. She had an appealing smile, but something in her voice, the slight tilt of her head, and the way the chandelier light caught her face suggested some underlying sorrow. A self-described lowly morgue technician, Vera was only attending tonight’s dinner because her sick boss couldn’t make it. In a green, low-cut dress, she charmed us all with tales of berserk mourners and cadavers gone missing.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Is true what they say?” One husband, a beefy gent with eyebrows like furry caterpillars, pumped his fist up and down in a universally obscene gesture. “Men come to morgue, make <em>yaki-yaki </em>with dead bodies?”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">The wives roared with laughter; they’d come tonight to be entertained, and by God, this was entertaining. I watched Vera fiddle with a gold band on her finger. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/2statedinner.jpg" style="height:650px; width:421px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Dinner was being served at other tables, notably those nearest the podium. As for the rest of us, the plates of scrawny chicken breasts drowning in turnip sauce would arrive on the waiter’s timetable, not ours. In Manhattan, I would have loudly complained about this appalling lack of customer service. The others around the table seemed grateful just to be here.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">And there was wine.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Upon discovering a diplomat in their midst, talk among the couples turned to conflict in the Falklands. The husband with squiggly eyebrows had strong feelings about the war, as did his drinking buddy, a middle-aged man so tightly cossetted into a rented tuxedo that his eyes bulged like a frog’s. <em>Why</em>? these men and their wives wanted to know. <em>Why did England go to war in the first place? Why not welcome the junta’s willingness to take the colony off their hands?</em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Two bald men,” I replied.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">They gawped at me, witless as cows.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Someone far wiser than I am said, the war is like two bald men fighting over a comb.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Vera's laugh cued the others and briefly, hilarity reigned. Swept up in anti-Western fever, Eyebrows pounded his big Communist fist on the table. “Screw England! Screw Margret Thatcher!” His pal Frog Eyes agreed. “Screw Iron Lady!” </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">The wives guffawed, nearly in tears. Vera sighed and turned her button-nose profile elsewhere.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“You tell Iron Lady, OK?” Frog Eyes said. “Tell her for us, <em>Screw you.</em>”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Sure,” I said. “Anything else?”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“America, too!” he shouted. “Tell all of them, <em>Screw you</em>.”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/3statedinner.jpg" style="height:650px; width:432px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">I took a sip of the disastrously inferior wine, sensing Vera’s embarrassment on my behalf. “At the UN, I serve as the voice of the People,” I told the couples. “Therefore, I serve as <em>your </em>voice.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Excited murmurs swept through the ballroom. Curtains opened, admitting a pair of white-haired commissars in shiny tuxedos slowly heading towards the podium. A third man followed, wearing a gray field uniform and black hobnail boots. All eyes fixed on him as he and the commissars settled at the main table. Even from this polar distance, I knew who I was looking at. Thicker and stockier than I remembered, and still sporting an implausible full head of black hair. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Minister Petrescu, in the flesh.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">The ballroom grew deathly silent, as quiet as Vera’s morgue, until someone remembered to applaud. This triggered an ovation sounding much more supplicatory than heartfelt. Across the ballroom, a trio of musicians in lederhosen and Tyrolean hats struck up a lively polka. The two couples at the table, resigned to dinner not coming anytime soon, headed for the dance-floor.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“These people, I apologize for,” Vera said. “Probably they are drinking before they come here.” She noticed my sickened gaze at Petrescu. “The Minister … Do you know him?”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“From long ago.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Old friends! But why are you so much away at the table?”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">I smiled, unable to choose from among my countless infelicities. I touched her hand, the one with the gold wedding band. “May I have this dance?”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">The Tyrolean band played a lilting Alpine melody, as guests in their once-a-year evening wear waltzed across the dance floor. Holding a woman for the first time in weeks felt revelatory—the clean smell of Vera’s neck, her breasts in the cocktail dress pressed against me, the exquisite nestling of her hip and my loins, a sort of carnal joint-and-beam arrangement.</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/4statedinner.jpg" style="height:652px; width:392px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Why didn’t your husband join you this evening?”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Vera raised her head from my shoulder. “What? Oh—no husband. The ring is a … convenience.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Deceitful, too.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">She laughed, did a quick twirl on the dance floor. “Sometimes I like to be with the living!”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">A short man came to his feet at a table nearest the podium and began addressing the guests. His bowtie was askew, his tux wilted from sweat. In a booming voice, he introduced himself as mayor of Trevya, a factory town in the southern provinces. The mayor lifted his wine-glass and made a slurred toast to the people of Keshnev, combining praise for their national fortitude with a drunken, weepy account of misfortunes in his personal life. The commissars glared in silence, while Minister Petrescu’s attention seemed locked in on a bowl of borscht set in front of him. A merciful waiter finally took the sniveling mayor by the arm and guided him away.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">The music resumed, a jaunty Polonaise that got guests dancing again, though now with spirits considerably subdued. Vera and I drew closer, a newfound intimacy borne out of this awful, shared experience.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“You do not talk much about what you do,” she said. “For a man, this is strange.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“What would you like to know?”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Why you are here in Olt, not at UN.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I’ve been recalled.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“‘Re-called’? What is that?”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/5statedinner.jpg" style="height:542px; width:650px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">From the dance floor I had a clear view of the Minister, still looking down and contemplating his borscht. Probably he had no idea I was even here.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Some bad things happened in New York,” I said. “You could say I’ve come back to atone for my sins.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Vera’s face went white. “Atone to … <em>him</em>?”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Don’t worry. It’ll be no more than a scolding.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“No,” she whispered, clutching my hand as we danced. “<em>Here</em> can be so much worse.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">I smiled, feeling as stupidly sentimental about life as the mayor of Trevya. “Vera, are you concerned about me?”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">She looked up—wounded blue eyes, an almost unwilling smile—as if the two of us shared the same thought. <em>Tonight didn’t turn out so badly after all. </em>I leaned in and kissed her.<em> </em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“<em>Ne valusca,” </em>I said. “No more sadness.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Moments later—after bidding farewell to the inebriated couples at our table—Vera and I stood outside on the steps of the Ministry building. The klieg lights on the roof had shut down, casting the ten-story structure into darkness. Only a few cars were visible on <em>Strata Leniniskii, </em>even fewer people. Vera drew her coat tight against the evening chill, her gaze on me eager and acquisitive—<em>Your place or mine</em>?—and we kissed again, more urgently than before. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Suddenly a hand clamped on my shoulder and spun me around. I faced a burly man in a trench coat and a black fedora. A second man, dressed like his partner minus the hat, took hold of Vera’s elbow and led her towards a waiting car. Vera struggled. The hatless man slapped her hard across the face.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Hey!” I cried.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">I took a step forward but arms thick as cordwood enveloped my chest from behind, a python grip steadily cutting off my oxygen supply. Before I was about to pass out, I saw the hatless man shove Vera into the car and, as it sped away, her bruised, mascara-streaked face pressed to the window. The hatless man signaled his partner to release me.  </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“What—” I gulped air. “What the hell is going on?”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“This is to inform you,” the man with the fedora said. “You are under arrest.”</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Over my protests, the two men bundled me back inside the Ministry building, down a hallway and into a metal-grille elevator cage. No one spoke during our interminable ascent, and I kept my trembling hands by my sides, certain they could hear every thump of my jackhammer heart. Who were these men? What did they want? The elevator opened on the top floor to an empty corridor reeking of urine and garbage. The hatless man unlocked a door at the end of the corridor and pushed me up steps to yet another door.</span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Then we were on the roof.  </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong><em>Copyright </em></strong></span></span><span style="font-size:12pt"><span style="font-family:&quot;Calibri&quot;,sans-serif"><strong><span style="font-family:&quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif">© </span></strong></span></span><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong><em>2023 Lee Polevoi. </em></strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Confessions-Gabriel-Ash-Lee-Polevoi/dp/1955062587/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=polevoi+confessions&amp;qid=1678633337&amp;sprefix=polevoi%2Caps%2C283&amp;sr=8-1" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline"><strong>The Confessions of Gabriel Ash</strong></a><strong><em>, a new novel by </em>Highbrow Magazine <em>chief book critic Lee Polevoi, will be published this month. This excerpt, "The State Dinner," is published by permission of Running Wild Press.</em></strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Image Sources:</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>--Whiteghost.ink (<a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Dining_table_laid_at_Chatsworth_House.jpg" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">Wikimedia</a>, Creative Commons)</em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>--David Guerrero (<a href="https://www.pexels.com/photo/a-man-in-a-suit-10258949/" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">Pexels</a>, Creative Commons)</em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>--Anaterate (<a href="https://pixabay.com/illustrations/woman-man-few-to-dance-3194509/" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">Pixabay</a>, Creative Commons)</em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>--<a href="https://www.maxpixel.net/Drink-Blonde-Person-Food-Table-Salad-Young-Woman-6351762" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">Maxpixel</a> (Creative Commons)</em></span></span></p> <p><em><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">--Succo (<a href="https://pixabay.com/photos/desktop-background-background-1647928/">Pixabay,</a> Creative Commons)</span></span></em></p> <p> </p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-tags field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Tags:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/confessions-gabriel-ash" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">The Confessions of Gabriel Ash</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/lee-polevoi" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">Lee Polevoi</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-novels" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new novels</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-books" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new books</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new fiction</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-text field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Lee Polevoi</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-pop field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Popular:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">not popular</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-bot field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Bottom Slider:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">In Slider</div></div></div> Thu, 18 May 2023 21:39:15 +0000 tara 11889 at https://www.highbrowmagazine.com https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/23977-new-novel-weaves-tale-international-intrigue#comments New Novel Explores the Lives of Heroines Who Fought the Gestapo https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/23535-new-novel-explores-lives-heroines-who-fought-gestapo <div class="field field-name-field-cat field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"><a href="/books-fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">Books &amp; Fiction</a></div></div></div><span class="submitted-by">Submitted by tara on Tue, 04/11/2023 - 12:03</span><div class="field field-name-field-image field-type-image field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="og:image rdfs:seeAlso" resource="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1leidenbook.jpg?itok=BolLYr6Z"><img typeof="foaf:Image" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1leidenbook.jpg?itok=BolLYr6Z" width="480" height="406" alt="" /></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"><p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Hetty Steenhuis had never smuggled hand grenades before.</span></span></p> <p><br /> <span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">She scanned the nine passengers standing on the platform in the cavernous station for any hint that a Nazi operative might be among them. They appeared to be ordinary Dutch people, nervous and distracted after four years of German occupation, waiting innocently for Tram No. 1 to Delft. It was October, a cold month in the Netherlands, and her fellow passengers raised their collars against the morning chill as a brisk wind whipped through The Hague from the North Sea. Hetty took in a deep breath of the icy air to help her stay awake. She had stayed up most of the night practicing lifting her heavy suitcase; it had to appear natural, so as not to give away its explosive contents. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Despite her fatigue, Hetty was committed to her mission. She was about to board the tram when two German soldiers whisked by, armed with submachine guns. Hetty stopped breathing and let the soldiers pass. It took every bit of fortitude in her 97-pound frame to appear unfazed by their presence. If she collapsed or gasped from lack of air, then all eyes would be on her. She had come too far to lose everything now. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">By October 1944, the Allied armies had advanced from their Normandy beachhead, offering hope of rescue to the war-weary Dutch, but instead of giving up, the Germans had only worked harder to catch people like her. Hetty exhaled slowly when the soldiers walked by without a second glance, smoking their cigarettes as they patrolled the tram’s loading area. When the other passengers began to stir, Hetty picked up her suitcase and moved closer to the boarding point to assure a good seat. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/2leidenbook.jpg" style="height:652px; width:432px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>*********</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Karl DeBoer stood next to the tracks at Rotterdam terminal, waiting anxiously for the train to arrive. His penetrating blue eyes were framed by his long, dark hair and full beard, making him appear more like a Visigoth from the 5th century than the university student that he was. Of average height, Karl had a strong build after years of making bicycles at his uncle’s factory. “The train’s not due for another hour,” said Uncle Jef, putting a hand on his nephew’s back. “Let’s go inside the waiting room and relax.” </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I can’t relax,” said Karl, pacing in circles. “The entire time we were training this week, Hetty was all I thought about. I can’t believe I made such a mess of things.” </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Karl studied the train schedule on the wall of the terminal. It was May 10, 1940, only three weeks since he and Hetty had celebrated her 20th birthday together. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Karl had met Hetty seven months ago at a pub near the university in Leiden, where she was having a beer with his roommate, Brecht. Karl was smitten immediately. Feisty and confident, she was unlike any woman he’d met. But she was Brecht’s girlfriend, so he tried to let the moment pass. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/3leidenbook.jpg" style="height:383px; width:600px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Thinking about the occasion now, Karl was surprised that he had been attracted less by her physical allure—though she was not lacking in that department—than by her quick wit and laughing eyes, coupled with his sense that she was not someone who could be pushed around. He knew Hetty was taken, but he saw no harm in having a three-way chat with Brecht and his girlfriend. He ordered another round of beer and tried to start a conversation. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">But before he could say a word, Hetty started in. “Brecht told me you’re a communist,” Hetty said, smiling in that bantering style he later learned to love. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I’ve been to a few of their meetings,” he replied cautiously, watching her expression closely for a sign whether this had ruined his chances with her. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Don’t communists believe that ‘the history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles’?” she asked. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Hetty was quoting from Marx’s <em>Manifesto</em>, but Karl admitted he had no idea what she was talking about. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“Ha,” Brecht guffawed. “I told you she’s smart, Karl.” </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Hetty ignored Brecht’s compliment, instead zeroing in on Karl. “Don’t you believe in class struggle, Mr. DeBoer?” </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“I never gave it any thought,” Karl replied, still flummoxed by the effect this young woman had on him. “All I know is that the communists are the only ones preparing to organize a resistance when Hitler comes.” </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/4leidenbook.jpg" style="height:516px; width:653px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">The next thing Karl knew, Hetty invited herself to attend a meeting of the communists. He was thrilled that this fascinating young woman, who had challenged him with such grace and charm, wanted to spend more time with him. She wanted to know about the communists because the German Reich had just invaded Poland, she said, and she had no confidence that Hitler would abide by the neutrality agreement he had signed with the Netherlands. </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Brecht sensed the mutual attraction between Karl and Hetty and was not happy </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">about it—and rightfully so. By the time Karl and Hetty attended their first communist </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">meeting, she had broken up with Brecht. Feeling the inevitable pressure of impending war </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">to make every moment count and to live authentically, Karl and Hetty shared their first kiss after the second meeting, standing at the Leiden station while Hetty waited for her train home to The Hague. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong><em>This is an excerpt from </em></strong><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Lioness-Leiden-Robert-Loewen/dp/B0BDXWBXZ4/ref=sr_1_1?crid=18ER0G7N2PXCC&amp;keywords=the+lioness+of+leiden&amp;qid=1681226788&amp;sprefix=the+lioness+of+leiden%2Caps%2C90&amp;sr=8-1" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline"><strong><em>The Lioness of Leiden</em></strong></a><strong><em> by Robert Loewen (Green Leaf Book Group Press). It’s published here with permission.</em></strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Highbrow Magazine</strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Image Sources:</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>--U.S. National Archives (<a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:%22Nicole%22_a_French_Partisan_Who_Captured_25_Nazis_in_the_Chartres_Area,_in_Addition_to_Liquidating_Others,_Poses_with..._-_NARA_-_5957431_-_cropped.jpg" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">Wikimedia.org</a>, Creative Commons)</em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>--Green Leaf Book Group Press</em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>--Ping News (<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/pingnews/442013913" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">U.S. National Archives</a>, Flickr, Creative Commons)</em></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><em>--<a href="https://www.rawpixel.com/image/8736493/photo-image-vintage-cigarette-public-domain" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">Rawpixel</a> (Creative Commons)</em></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p> </p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-tags field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Tags:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/robert-loewen" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">Robert Loewen</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/lioness-leiden" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">the lioness of leiden</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/world-war-ii" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">world war II</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-novels" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new novels</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/historical-fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">historical fiction</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/books-about-war" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">books about the war</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/war-books" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">war books</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/nazis-0" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">the nazis</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/gestapo" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">gestapo</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/dutch" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">the dutch</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/holland" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">holland</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/hague" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">the hague</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-text field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Robert Loewen</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-pop field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Popular:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">not popular</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-bot field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Bottom Slider:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">In Slider</div></div></div> Tue, 11 Apr 2023 16:03:19 +0000 tara 11800 at https://www.highbrowmagazine.com https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/23535-new-novel-explores-lives-heroines-who-fought-gestapo#comments Manhunt in the New World in Robert Harris’s ‘Act of Oblivion’ https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/21700-manhunt-new-world-robert-harris-s-act-oblivion <div class="field field-name-field-cat field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even"><a href="/books-fiction" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">Books &amp; Fiction</a></div></div></div><span class="submitted-by">Submitted by tara on Tue, 10/04/2022 - 11:32</span><div class="field field-name-field-image field-type-image field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="og:image rdfs:seeAlso" resource="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1harrisbook.jpg?itok=lYWAh6HF"><img typeof="foaf:Image" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/field/image/1harrisbook.jpg?itok=lYWAh6HF" width="366" height="480" alt="" /></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="content:encoded"><p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Act of Oblivion</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>By Robert Harris</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Harper </strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>480 pages</strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">1661. Two English officers, Colonel William Goffe and his father-in-law Colonel Edward Whalley, flee England after King Charles II signs the Act of Oblivion—a call to execute 59 men who signed a death warrant for his father, King Charles I, 11 years earlier. Hot on the trail of these so-called “regicides” is Richard Nayler, Clerk of the Privy Council, charged with tracking them down, but most especially the signatories, Whalley and Goffe.</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">That’s a bare-bones summary of <em>Act of Oblivion, </em>Robert Harris’s new novel. But the story is about a lot more than that.</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Some reviewers have described this novel—the latest in a long line of historical thrillers crafted by Harris—as proceeding at “breakneck speed.” That’s misleading. <em>Act of Oblivion</em> is more like a “slow build,” taking place over a span of 14 years, across oceans and continents. Many pages pass before Nayler, the Crown’s sworn manhunter, sails across the Atlantic to New England in search of the two colonels. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">But because these characters—the fugitive officers and their relentless pursuer—are given time to grow, the relatively slow pace of the first hundred or so pages is hardly a barrier to enjoying the novel. The prose is admirably lucid throughout, as when Whalley and Goffe embark on a pre-dawn expedition to yet another hiding place on the North American frontier:</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/2harrisbook.jpg" style="height:506px; width:335px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">“It was difficult to see much in the darkness. The rutted mud had frozen into ridges overnight, hard as iron, that could break a man’s ankle if he wasn’t careful. They stumbled down the rough road, past the vague shapes of the houses on either side, setting off a barking dog. A light appeared in an upstairs window, and instinctively, despite the night, they pulled down the brims of their hats and bent their heads. Somewhere in the town, a cock was crowing.”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">In <em>Act of Oblivion, </em>“real time” overtakes what could have been a more conventional (and time-limited) story of pursuit and capture. Years pass, people age, and some die in obscurity, rather than at the hands of the law. Harris makes readers complicit in this passage of time. We closely follow the desperate efforts by Whalley and Goffe (known more commonly as Ned and Will) to evade capture, while we’re also caught up in Nayler’s obsessive, years-long quest to apprehend them. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">At the same time, Harris works hard to enlighten readers unfamiliar with religious conflicts in 17<sup>th</sup> century America. Readers who lack an in-depth knowledge of this era will nonetheless come away with a general grasp of the warring forces, and the novel’s focus never strays for long.</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Within a more or less straightforward narrative, there are welcome flashes of wit, as when a minor character’s husband asks her opinion about something: “Mary’s opinion was that it was a little late in the day for him to start soliciting her views.” Late in the novel, Nayler’s philandering mistress returns home one night from a suspected tryst: “Her tone [upon entering] was unusually soft and affectionate, which generally meant she had just made love to someone else.”</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/sites/default/files/3harrisbook.jpg" style="height:534px; width:652px" typeof="foaf:Image" /></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Richard Nayler turns out to be very good at what he does, that is, locating and capturing the many signatories of King Charles I’s death warrant. The subsequent punishment of these men—including, but not limited to, hanging, castration, and dismemberment—is portrayed in just a few shocking pages. Only the fugitives in the New World elude his dragnet. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Ned and Will are sympathetic protagonists, even though most of the time their goal is simply locating a place of refuge in the wilderness. Nayler, who in addition to his official duties as a Clerk of the Privy Council has personal reasons for hunting them down, is more compellingly drawn.</span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">Robert Harris is known for writing engaging, suspenseful novels based on historical events. <em>Act of Oblivion </em>is among his best so far. </span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Author Bio:</strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong><em>Lee Polevoi, </em>Highbrow Magazine’s <em>chief book critic, is the author of </em>The Confessions of Gabriel Ash<em>, a novel to be published in 2023. </em></strong></span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"> </span></span></p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>For Highbrow Magazine</strong></span></span></p> <p> </p> <p><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif"><strong>Image Sources:</strong></span></span></p> <p><em><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">--Ann Longmore-Etheridge (<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/60861613@N00/3966876971" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">Flickr</a>, Creative Commons)</span></span></em></p> <p><em><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">--Harper</span></span></em></p> <p><em><span style="font-size:18px"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman,Times,serif">--<a href="https://pxhere.com/en/photo/700973" style="color:#0563c1; text-decoration:underline">Pxhere</a> (Creative Commons)</span></span></em></p> <p> </p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-tags field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Tags:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/robert-harris" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">robert harris</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/act-oblivion" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">act of oblivion</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-novels" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new novels</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/new-books" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">new books</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/charles-ii" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">charles II</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/1600s" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">1600s</a></div><div class="field-item even" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/historical-novels" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">historical novels</a></div><div class="field-item odd" rel="dc:subject"><a href="/british-history" typeof="skos:Concept" property="rdfs:label skos:prefLabel" datatype="">british history</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-text field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">Lee Polevoi</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-pop field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Popular:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">not popular</div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-bot field-type-list-boolean field-label-above"><div class="field-label">Bottom Slider:&nbsp;</div><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even">In Slider</div></div></div> Tue, 04 Oct 2022 15:32:11 +0000 tara 11365 at https://www.highbrowmagazine.com https://www.highbrowmagazine.com/21700-manhunt-new-world-robert-harris-s-act-oblivion#comments