Über dieses Produkt
- KurzbeschreibungFrom the author of the "thrilling" ( The Christian Science Monitor ) novel The Other Typist comes an evocative, multilayered story of ambition, success, and secrecy in 1950s New York.
In 1958, Greenwich Village buzzes with beatniks, jazz clubs, and new ideas-the ideal spot for three ambitious young people to meet. Cliff Nelson, the son of a successful book editor, is convinced he's the next Kerouac, if only his father would notice. Eden Katz dreams of being an editor but is shocked when she encounters roadblocks to that ambition. And Miles Tillman, a talented black writer from Harlem, seeks to learn the truth about his father's past, finding love in the process. Though different from one another, all three share a common goal: to succeed in the competitive and uncompromising world of book publishing. As they reach for what they want, they come to understand what they must sacrifice, conceal, and betray to achieve their goals, learning they must live with the consequences of their choices. In "Three-Martini Lunch", Suzanne Rindell has written both a page-turning morality tale and a captivating look at a stylish, demanding era-and a world steeped in tradition that's poised for great upheaval.
- AutorSuzanne Rindell
- FormatGebundene Ausgabe
- Seiten512 Seiten
- Gewicht720 g
- LeseprobeThis excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof
Copyright © 2016 Suzanne Rindell
Greenwich Village in '58 was a madman's paradise. In those days a bunch of us went aroundtogether drinking too much coffee and smoking too much cannabis and talking allthe time about poetry and Nietzsche and bebop. I had been running around with the same guys I knew from Columbia - giveor take a colored jazz musician here or a benny addict there - and together wewould get good and stoned and ride the subway down to Washington Square. I guess you could say I liked my Columbiabuddies all right. They were swellenough guys but when you really got down to it they were a pack of poserwannabe-poets in tweed and I knew it was only a matter of time before I outgrewthem. Their fathers were bankers andlawyers and once their fascination with poetic manifestos wore off they wouldsettle down and become bankers and lawyers, too, and marry a nicedebutante. I was different from theseguys because even before I went to college I knew I was meant to be an artist,even if I didn't know just yet exactly what form I wanted my creativity totake. As far as I was concerned academiawas for the birds anyhow, and the more I spent time below 14thStreet, the more I realized that the Village was my true education.
When I finally threw in the towel and dropped my last classat Columbia, My Old Man came poking around my apartment in MorningsideHeights. He ahemmed quietly to himself and fingered the waxy leaves of theplants in the window and finally sat with his rump covering a water-stain on ahand-me-down Louis XVI sofa my great-aunt had deemed too ugly to keep in herown apartment. Together we drank acouple of fingers of bourbon neat, and then he shook my hand in a dignified wayand informed me the best lesson he could teach me at this point in my life was self-reliance . His plan mainly involved cutting me off fromthe family fortune and making long speeches on the superior quality of earned pleasures .
Once My Old Man broke the news about how I was going tohave to pave my own road it was all over pretty quickly after that. I threw a couple of loud parties and didn'tpay my rent and then the landlord had me out lickety-split and I had to golooking for a new place.
Which is how, as I entered into mystudy of the relative value of earned pleasures, I found myself renting aone-room studio in the Village with no hot water and a toilet down thehall. The lid was missing on the tank ofthat toilet and I remember the worst thing I ever did to my fellow hall-mateswas to get sick after coming home drunk one night and mistake the open tank forthe open bowl. But even without mywhiskey-induced embellishments the building was a dump
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