Disclaimer

Que tu sois religieux ou non, l'idée te viendrais jamais d'aller zinguer quelqu'un dans un confessionnal, je parie ?

Eh bien tout le monde n'est pas comme toi, mon joli ! A preuve, cette dame défuntée de mort violente dans la guitoune aux péchés.

Mais le plus farce, si j'ose dire, c'est qu'elle-même s'apprêtait à flinguer son confesseur ! Tu parles d'une chasse à courre, mon neuveu !

Cela dit, ce que je te raconte n'est que le début du .

Son gracieux point de départ.

Je te cause pas de l'arrivée !

Alors là, espère : ceux qu'auront pas numéroté leurs abattis auront intérêt à retourner chez leur mère pour lui demander qu'elle les refasse !

Après tout, pourquoi elles auraient pas droit à un brouillon, les mamans ? Je constate de plus en plus qu'en neuf mois t'as pas le temps de faire quelque chose de bien !

Le plus terrifiant bras de fer de ma carrière me met aux prises avec un tyran fou.

Il pleut des morts !

Partout le danger !

D'accord, je baise énormément pour pouvoir conserver le moral, n'empêche que je traverse une zone à hauts risques davantage semée d'embûches que la place de la Concorde.

Là où je vais, si tu veux revoir Paris, faut ouvrir l'œil et serrer les miches.

Seulement moi, tu me connais ?

C'est les poings que je serre et la porte de devant de mon bénard que j'ouvre.

En grand !

C'est bon pour la ventilation de mes aumônières.

Faut toujours se gaffer des pays où il ne se passe rien.

Parce que en général, il s'y passe des trucs-machins pires qu'ailleurs.

Ainsi de l'Uruguay.

Moi je croyais que Montevideo, sa capitale, n'était intéressante que pour les cinq pieds qu'elle apporte à une chanson.

Fume !

Si nous n'avions pas été à la hauteur, Béru et moi, on y aurait laissé nos belles plumes de coq !

Heureusement qu'on a pu s'y faire rigoler la zize à s'en gonfler les amygdales sud !

Quand on a tout paumé, il nous reste au moins le chibre.

Nos petites potesses n'en demandent pas davantage, t'es d'accord ?

D'après certains renseignements que j'ai obtenus, il y a deux basset-hound dans la vie de San-Antonio.

Le premier était une chienne nommée Jezabelle, mais qui s'appellait Belle tout court. Elle est morte pour avoir mangé une taupe empoisonnée.

Le deuxième, c'est moi : Salami.

Malgré mes origines britanniques, je sors d'un élevage italien dirigé par un ancien chef de la Police romaine.

Je dispose de plusieurs particularités dont la principale est de comprendre couramment le langage humain, voire même de le parler pour peu qu'on établisse un code.

Autre singularité de mon personnage : je préfère les femmes aux chiennes, bien que je n'aie pas eu l'occasion d'en consommer à ce jour.

Encore un fait saillant : je ne réponds pas quand on me siffle. Mon hérédité anglaise, sans doute. Au restaurant, j'abomine « la gamelle à Médor » sous la table. Généralement, je prends mon repas assis sur une chaise, en face ds San-A.

J'ai encore beaucoup, beaucoup d'autres choses pas tristes à révéler ; mais je ne vais pas résumer au dos d'une couverture ce que mon connard de maître à raconté en trois cents pages !

Il aurait l'air de quoi ?

Ah ! si M. Prince n'avait pas fauché le truc magique du tueur pendant que M. Adolphe s'envoyait Mme Eva, rien de tout cela ne serait arrivé.

T'aurais pas eu droit aux coliques incoercibles de Pinuche, ni au coït flamboyant de Béru, non plus qu'à l'hécatombe ci-jointe.

Et à moi, ça m'aurait évité 250 pages de déconnage.

Mais t'es pas forcé de les lire.

La nouvelle est tombée, sèche comme un coup de bite d'octogénaire : il n'existe, dans notre bon vieux système solaire, aucune planète habitée en dehors de la notre !

Je le pressentais, mais ça fait tout de même un choc. Nous sommes juste quelques milliards de glandus à nous branler les cloches sur une boule minuscule perdue dans l'immensité sidérale. Ça te remonte pas les testicules à la place des amygdales, toi ?

Les gens existent et sont cruels ! Comment se peut-ce ?

Je te prends les personnages de ce livre…

Des démons vivants ! Des sadiques ! Des sangunaires !

A sulfater tout crus !

A empiler dans une fosse emplie de chaux vive !

Les frangines pire que les matous !

Te sucent le pénis, mais te bouffent les roustons à pleines chailles ! Se laissent baiser pour mieux te véroler l'existence !

Comparé à elles, le démon est un enfant de chœur qui gagne à être connu.

J'exagère ?

Viens faire un tour dans ce , tu comprendras !

Allez, ! C'est l'heure de la prière.

"A novel that looks our technocratic, militarized present in the face, tells the story of a night watchman who discovers weaponized weather modification technologies. It sounds crazy, but in de Silva’s hands it all makes perfect (and terrifying) sense."

— 

"Part mystery, part sci-fi thriller… highly topical for Americans today."

— 

"Mark de Silva’s truly accomplished defies all categories. Provocative, fascinating, and edifying, is a fiercely intelligent and thrillingly inventive novel."

— Dana Spiotta

"Enticing and enthralling, [] aims to hit all the literary neurons. This might be the closest we get to David Mitchell on LSD. is the perfect concoction for the thirsty mind."

— 

"The novel of ideas is alive and well in de Silva's high-minded debut, in which the pursuit of art, the exercise of power, and climate control are strangely entwined."

— 

"Intriguing. A satisfying twist on more traditional dystopian fare… De Silva manages these varied plots skillfully."

— 

"A brilliant debut, ambitious with its ideas, extraordinary in their syntheses and execution, and its stylish prose lit up everywhere by a piercing intelligence."

— Neel Mukherjee

" is, above all, just excellent. Mark de Silva’s prose is simultaneously uncompromising and unassailable. The resulting work is kinetic with an almost wistful erudition that relentlessly but organically plumbs the intersections between art, politics, and our baser human qualities. Ultimately, the novel's defiance of easy categorization or explication charges the story with a compelling mental resonance that somehow feels instructive."

— Sergio De La Pava

Carl Stagg, a writer researching imperial power struggles in 17th century Sri Lanka, ekes out a living as a watchman in a factionalized America where confidence in democracy has eroded. Along his nightly patrol, Stagg finds a beaten prostitute, one in a series of monstrous attacks. Suspicious of his supervisor's intentions, Stagg partners with a fellow part-time watchman, Ravan, to seek the truth. Ravan hails from a family developing storm-dispersal technologies, whose research is jointly funded by the Indian and American governments.

The watchmen's discoveries put a troubling complexion on Stagg's research, giving it new shape and impetus, just as the weather modification project begins to appear less about dispersing storms than weaponizing them.

By gracefully weaving a study of the psychological effects of a militarized state upon its citizenry with topics as diverse as microtonal music and cloud physics, signals the triumphant arrival of a young writer certain to be considered one of the most ambitious and intelligent of his generation. Gatefold cover.

Everyone has heard of guardian angels - we probably have the best PR department in the world. On the other hand, they're also very good about keeping the true nature of our job out of the press, so to speak. Oh, don't misunderstand - some guardian angels do exactly what is advertised. That is the job of a few... to uphold the myth that we are there for the protection of mankind. Most guardian angels don't protect - they offer hope to the scared and the lonely and the wounded. But for a few even that is not their primary function.

No, for a very few guardian angels, their job is to be there at a crucial time in their charge's life. They are supposed to guide and help a person make the right choice. Only sometimes, they're not in the right place at the right time and that's where I come in.

My job is clean up. When the guardian angel misses their opportunity, my job is to determine if the charge can be salvaged in spite of the guardian screw-up or if there is another choice that can be made or another opportunity offered.

This is the story of one such charge.

Every family has its problems. But even among the most troubled, the Plumb family stands out as spectacularly dysfunctional. Years of simmering tensions finally reach a breaking point on an unseasonably cold afternoon in New York City as Melody, Beatrice, and Jack Plumb gather to confront their charismatic and reckless older brother, Leo, freshly released from rehab. Months earlier, an inebriated Leo got behind the wheel of a car with a nineteen-year-old waitress as his passenger. The ensuing accident has endangered the Plumbs joint trust fund, “The Nest” which they are months away from finally receiving. Meant by their deceased father to be a modest mid-life supplement, the Plumb siblings have watched The Nest’s value soar along with the stock market and have been counting on the money to solve a number of self-inflicted problems.

Melody, a wife and mother in an upscale suburb, has an unwieldy mortgage and looming college tuition for her twin teenage daughters. Jack, an antiques dealer, has secretly borrowed against the beach cottage he shares with his husband, Walker, to keep his store open. And Bea, a once-promising short-story writer, just can’t seem to finish her overdue novel. Can Leo rescue his siblings and, by extension, the people they love? Or will everyone need to reimagine the future they’ve envisioned? Brought together as never before, Leo, Melody, Jack, and Beatrice must grapple with old resentments, present-day truths, and the significant emotional and financial toll of the accident, as well as finally acknowledge the choices they have made in their own lives.

This is a story about the power of family, the possibilities of friendship, the ways we depend upon one another and the ways we let one another down. In this tender, entertaining, and deftly written debut, Sweeney brings a remarkable cast of characters to life to illuminate what money does to relationships, what happens to our ambitions over the course of time, and the fraught yet unbreakable ties we share with those we love.

The most indispensable poems of Brazil's greatest poet.

Brazil, according to no less an observer than Elizabeth Bishop, is a place where poets hold a place of honor. "Among men, the name of ‘poet' is sometimes used as a compliment or term of affection, even if the person referred to is. . not a poet at all. One of the most famous twentieth-century poets, Manuel Bandeira, was presented with a permanent parking space in front of his apartment house in Rio de Janeiro, with an enamelled sign POETA — although he never owned a car and didn't know how to drive." In a culture like this, it is difficult to underestimate the importance of the nation's greatest poet, Carlos Drummond de Andrade.

Drummond, the most emblematic Brazilian poet, was a master of transforming the ordinary world, through language, into the sublime. His poems — musical protests, twisted hymns, dissonant celebrations of imperfection — are transcriptions of life itself recorded by a magnanimous outcast. As he put it in his "Seven-Sided Poem": "When I was born, one of those twisted / angels who live in the shadows said: / ‘Carlos, get ready to be a misfit in life!'. . World so wide, world so large, / my heart's even larger."

Multitudinous Heart, the most generous selection of Drummond's poems available in English, gathers work from the various phases of this restless, brilliant modernist. Richard Zenith's selection and translation brings us a more vivid and surprising poet than we knew.

Downloaded from the Islamic Workplace blog at<

Written before stalking became a social issue, Stephen Dixon’s novel about a young man’s obsessive love for a beautiful woman takes place over twenty-four hours in New York City.<

The wisest, richest, funniest, and most moving novel in years from Don DeLillo, one of the great American novelists of our time — an ode to language, at the heart of our humanity, a meditation on death, and an embrace of life.

Jeffrey Lockhart’s father, Ross, is a billionaire in his sixties, with a younger wife, Artis Martineau, whose health is failing. Ross is the primary investor in a remote and secret compound where death is exquisitely controlled and bodies are preserved until a future time when biomedical advances and new technologies can return them to a life of transcendent promise. Jeff joins Ross and Artis at the compound to say “an uncertain farewell” to her as she surrenders her body.

“We are born without choosing to be. Should we have to die in the same manner? Isn’t it a human glory to refuse to accept a certain fate?”

These are the questions that haunt the novel and its memorable characters, and it is Ross Lockhart, most particularly, who feels a deep need to enter another dimension and awake to a new world. For his son, this is indefensible. Jeff, the book’s narrator, is committed to living, to experiencing “the mingled astonishments of our time, here, on earth.”

Don DeLillo’s seductive, spectacularly observed and brilliant new novel weighs the darkness of the world — terrorism, floods, fires, famine, plague — against the beauty and humanity of everyday life; love, awe, “the intimate touch of earth and sun.”

A fast-paced novel told heavily through dialogue, examines just how far one is willing to go to live under his own terms.<

A wild, fragmented portrait of the late 70s and the punk scene with a rich and diverse cast of characters including an idealistic editor of a political rag, a pony-riding Boston Brahmin intent on finding herself and shedding her husband, an up-and-coming punkster who fancies evenings at the Knights of Columbus Ladies Auxiliary, an editorial assistant named Topsy Otaka, and more.<