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- KurzbeschreibungNational Best Seller - Named a Best Book of the Year by: New York Times , Washington Post, San Francisco Chronicle, NPR, Vogue, The Atlantic, Newsday <br>"A novel of head-snapping ambition and heart-stopping power-a novel that attests to its young author's boundless and unflagging talents." - Michiko Kakutani, New York Times <br>New York City, 1976. Meet Regan and William Hamilton-Sweeney, estranged heirs to one of the city's great fortunes; Keith and Mercer, the men who, for better or worse, love them; Charlie and Samantha, two suburban teenagers seduced by downtown's punk scene; an obsessive magazine reporter and his idealistic neighbor-and the detective trying to figure out what any of them have to do with a shooting in Central Park on New Year's Eve.<br>The mystery, as it reverberates through families, friendships, and the corridors of power, will open up even the loneliest-seeming corners of the crowded city. And when the blackout of July 13, 1977, plunges this world into darkness, each of these lives will be changed forever.<br>City on Fire is an unforgettable novel about love and betrayal and forgiveness, about art and truth and rock 'n' roll: about what people need from each other in order to live . . . and about what makes the living worth doing in the first place.
- AutorGarth Risk Hallberg
- SerieAlfred A. Knopf
- VerlagRandom House LCC US
- FormatGebundene Ausgabe
- Seiten944 Seiten
- Gewicht1333 g
- LeseprobeChapter 22<br>Those first few weeks of grief counseling, Charlie took the LIRR in. He was always late, though; invariably his train would get hung up in the East River tunnel. He couldn't tell how much time had passed unless he asked other people-his dad's watch still lay in a coffin-shaped box in his underwear drawer-and they were already looking at him funny because he was doing his nervous humming thing. The stares only made him more nervous, which led to more humming, and when he came out of the subway he'd bolt the last five blocks to the doctor's and arrive sweaty and short of breath, sucking on his inhaler. Dr. Altschul must have said something to Mom, because after he got his driver's license, in May, she insisted on his taking the station wagon, as she'd insisted on the counseling in the first place.<br>The office was on Charles Street, in the half-basement of a brownstone you wouldn't necessarily have known was anything other than a residence. Even the discreet plaque below the buzzer -All appointments please ring- made no mention of specialties. This was probably for the peace of mind of clients (patients?), so no one in the waiting room would know what you were there for, who needed board-certified grief counseling and who needed whatever it was Dr. Altschul's wife (also, confusingly, named Dr. Altschul) did. Honestly, that Dr. Altschul should be married at all was a mind-bender. He was the kind of bosomy overweight man who could make even a beard look sexless. Charlie kept trying to memorize the doctor's zippered cardigan, so that he could determine at the next session if it was the same one. But as soon as he'd settled in, Dr. Altschul would sort of tip back in his large leather chair and place his hands contentedly on his belly and ask, "So how are we doing this week?" Charlie's own hands stayed tucked under his thighs. We were doing fine.<br>Which could mean only one thing: Charlie was still in denial. For eight or ten weeks now, he'd been resisting the pressure of Dr. Altschul's questions, the Buddha-like invitation of those flattened but not knotted fingers. Charlie focused instead on the oddments of the therapist's desk and walls-diplomas, little carved-wood statuettes, intricate patterns woven into the tasseled rug. He'd had the suspicion, from the very first, that Dr. Altschul ( Bruce, he kept telling Charlie to call him) meant to vacuum out his skull, replace whatever was there with something else. It was connected with the doctor's studious skirting of the word "father" and its equivalents, which of course kept the person they referred to at the very front of Charlie's mind. But suppose they were right: the school guidance counselor, his mom
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