Dr. David M. Newman:Sociology: Exploring the Architecture of Everyday Life
- pocketboek 2009, ISBN: 9781412978132
gebonden uitgave
Bantam. Good. 4.18 x 1.06 x 6.88 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2004. 496 pages. Cover very worn. Text tanned<br>The dead don't talk. I don't know why. But they do try to c… Meer...
Bantam. Good. 4.18 x 1.06 x 6.88 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2004. 496 pages. Cover very worn. Text tanned<br>The dead don't talk. I don't know why. But they do try to communicate, with a short-ord er cook in a small desert town serving as their reluctant confida nt. Odd Thomas thinks of himself as an ordinary guy, if possessed of a certain measure of talent at the Pico Mundo Grill and raptu rously in love with the most beautiful girl in the world, Stormy Llewellyn. Maybe he has a gift, maybe it's a curse, Odd has never been sure, but he tries to do his best by the silent souls who s eek him out. Sometimes they want justice, and Odd's otherworldly tips to Pico Mundo's sympathetic police chief, Wyatt Porter, can solve a crime. Occasionally they can prevent one. But this time i t's different. n nA mysterious man comes to town with a voracious appetite, a filing cabinet stuffed with information on the world 's worst killers, and a pack of hyena-like shades following him w herever he goes. Who the man is and what he wants, not even Odd's deceased informants can tell him. His most ominous clue is a pag e ripped from a day-by-day calendar for August 15. n nToday is A ugust 14. n nIn less than twenty-four hours, Pico Mundo will awak en to a day of catastrophe. As evil coils under the searing deser t sun, Odd travels through the shifting prisms of his world, stru ggling to avert a looming cataclysm with the aid of his soul mate and an unlikely community of allies that includes the King of Ro ck 'n' Roll. His account of two shattering days when past and pre sent, fate and destiny converge is the stuff of our worst nightma res-and a testament by which to live: sanely if not safely, with courage, humor, and a full heart that even in the darkness must p ersevere. n nFrom the Hardcover edition. n nEditorial Reviews n n Review nOnce in a very great while, an author does everything rig ht-as Koontz has in this marvelous novel.... the story, like most great stories, runs on character-and here Koontz has created a h ero whose honest, humble voice will resonate with many.... This i s Koontz working at his pinnacle, providing terrific entertainmen t that deals seriously with some of the deepest themes of human e xistence: the nature of evil, the grip of fate and the power of l ove.-Publishers Weekly n nDean Koontz almost occupies a genre of his own. He is a master at building suspense and holding the read er spellbound.-Richmond Times-Dispatch n nDean Koontz is not just a master of our darkest dreams, but also a literary juggler.-The Times (London) n nOnce more Dean Koontz presents readers with a story and cast of characters guaranteed to entertain.-Tulsa World n nFrom the Hardcover edition. n nFrom the Inside Flap n?The dea d don't talk. I don't know why.? But they do try to communicate, with a short-order cook in a small desert town serving as their r eluctant confidant. Odd Thomas thinks of himself as an ordinary g uy, if possessed of a certain measure of talent at the Pico Mundo Grill and rapturously in love with the most beautiful girl in th e world, Stormy Llewellyn. Maybe he has a gift, maybe it?s a curs e, Odd has never been sure, but he tries to do his best by the si lent souls who seek him out. Sometimes they want justice, and Odd ?s otherworldly tips to Pico Mundo's sympathetic police chief, Wy att Porter, can solve a crime. Occasionally they can prevent one. But this time it's different. nA mysterious man comes to town wi th a voracious appetite, a filing cabinet stuffed with informatio n on the world's worst killers, and a pack of hyena-like shades f ollowing him wherever he goes. Who the man is and what he wants, not even Odd?s deceased informants can tell him. His most ominous clue is a page ripped from a day-by-day calendar for August 15. n nToday is August 14. n nIn less than twenty-four hours, Pico M undo will awaken to a day of catastrophe. As evil coils under the searing desert sun, Odd travels through the shifting prisms of h is world, struggling to avert a looming cataclysm with the aid of his soul mate and an unlikely community of allies that includes the King of Rock 'n' Roll. His account of two shattering days whe n past and present, fate and destiny converge is the stuff of our worst nightmares?and a testament by which to live: sanely if not safely, with courage, humor, and a full heart that even in the d arkness must persevere. n nFrom the Hardcover edition. n nAbout t he Author nDean Koontz, the author of many #1 New York Times best sellers, lives with his wife, Gerda, and the enduring spirit of t heir golden retriever, Trixie, in southern California. n nFrom th e Hardcover edition. n nExcerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All r ights reserved. nChapter One n nMY NAME IS ODD THOMAS, THOUGH IN THIS AGE WHEN fame is the altar at which most people worship, I a m not sure why you should care who I am or that I exist. n nI am not a celebrity. I am not the child of a celebrity. I have never been married to, never been abused by, and never provided a kidne y for transplantation into any celebrity. Furthermore, I have no desire to be a celebrity. n nIn fact I am such a nonentity by the standards of our culture that People magazine not only will neve r feature a piece about me but might also reject my attempts to s ubscribe to their publication on the grounds that the black-hole gravity of my noncelebrity is powerful enough to suck their entir e enterprise into oblivion. n nI am twenty years old. To a world- wise adult, I am little more than a child. To any child, however, I'm old enough to be distrusted, to be excluded forever from the magical community of the short and beardless. n nConsequently, a demographics expert might conclude that my sole audience is othe r young men and women currently adrift between their twentieth an d twenty-first birthdays. n nIn truth, I have nothing to say to t hat narrow audience. In my experience, I don't care about most of the things that other twenty-year-old Americans care about. Exce pt survival, of course. n nI lead an unusual life. n nBy this I d o not mean that my life is better than yours. I'm sure that your life is filled with as much happiness, charm, wonder, and abiding fear as anyone could wish. Like me, you are human, after all, an d we know what a joy and terror that is. n nI mean only that my l ife is not typical. Peculiar things happen to me that don't happe n to other people with regularity, if ever. n nFor example, I wou ld never have written this memoir if I had not been commanded to do so by a four-hundred-pound man with six fingers on his left ha nd. n nHis name is P. Oswald Boone. Everyone calls him Little Ozz ie because his father, Big Ozzie, is still alive. n nLittle Ozzie has a cat named Terrible Chester. He loves that cat. In fact, if Terrible Chester were to use up his ninth life under the wheels of a Peterbilt, I am afraid that Little Ozzie's big heart would n ot survive the loss. n nPersonally, I do not have great affection for Terrible Chester because, for one thing, he has on several o ccasions peed on my shoes. n nHis reason for doing so, as explain ed by Ozzie, seems credible, but I am not convinced of his truthf ulness. I mean to say that I am suspicious of Terrible Chester's veracity, not Ozzie's. n nBesides, I simply cannot fully trust a cat who claims to be fifty-eight years old. Although photographic evidence exists to support this claim, I persist in believing th at it's bogus. n nFor reasons that will become obvious, this manu script cannot be published during my lifetime, and my effort will not be repaid with royalties while I'm alive. Little Ozzie sugge sts that I should leave my literary estate to the loving maintena nce of Terrible Chester, who, according to him, will outlive all of us. n nI will choose another charity. One that has not peed on me. n nAnyway, I'm not writing this for money. I am writing it t o save my sanity and to discover if I can convince myself that my life has purpose and meaning enough to justify continued existen ce. n nDon't worry: These ramblings will not be insufferably gloo my. P. Oswald Boone has sternly instructed me to keep the tone li ght. n nIf you don't keep it light, Ozzie said, I'll sit my four- hundred-pound ass on you, and that's not the way you want to die. n nOzzie is bragging. His ass, while grand enough, probably weig hs no more than a hundred and fifty pounds. The other two hundred fifty are distributed across the rest of his suffering skeleton. n nWhen at first I proved unable to keep the tone light, Ozzie s uggested that I be an unreliable narrator. It worked for Agatha C hristie in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, he said. n nIn that first -person mystery novel, the nice-guy narrator turns out to be the murderer of Roger Ackroyd, a fact he conceals from the reader unt il the end. n nUnderstand, I am not a murderer. I have done nothi ng evil that I am concealing from you. My unreliability as a narr ator has to do largely with the tense of certain verbs. n nDon't worry about it. You'll know the truth soon enough. n nAnyway, I'm getting ahead of my story. Little Ozzie and Terrible Chester do not enter the picture until after the cow explodes. n nThis story began on a Tuesday. n nFor you, that is the day after Monday. Fo r me, it is a day that, like the other six, brims with the potent ial for mystery, adventure, and terror. n nYou should not take th is to mean that my life is romantic and magical. Too much mystery is merely an annoyance. Too much adventure is exhausting. And a little terror goes a long way. n nWithout the help of an alarm cl ock, I woke that Tuesday morning at five, from a dream about dead bowling-alley employees. n nI never set the alarm because my int ernal clock is so reliable. If I wish to wake promptly at five, t hen before going to bed I tell myself three times that I must be awake sharply at 4:45. n nWhile reliable, my internal alarm clock for some reason runs fifteen minutes slow. I learned this years ago and have adjusted to the problem. n nThe dream about the dead bowling-alley employees has troubled my sleep once or twice a mo nth for three years. The details are not yet specific enough to a ct upon. I will have to wait and hope that clarification doesn't come to me too late. n nSo I woke at five, sat up in bed, and sai d, Spare me that I may serve, which is the morning prayer that my Granny Sugars taught me to say when I was little. n nPearl Sugar s was my mother's mother. If she had been my father's mother, my name would be Odd Sugars, further complicating my life. n nGranny Sugars believed in bargaining with God. She called Him that old rug merchant. n nBefore every poker game, she promised God to spr ead His holy word or to share her good fortune with orphans in re turn for a few unbeatable hands. Throughout her life, winnings fr om card games remained a significant source of income. n nBeing a hard-drinking woman with numerous interests in addition to poker , Granny Sugars didn't always spend as much time spreading God's word as she promised Him that she would. She believed that God ex pected to be conned more often than not and that He would be a go od sport about it. n nYou can con God and get away with it, Grann y said, if you do so with charm and wit. If you live your life wi th imagination and verve, God will play along just to see what ou trageously entertaining thing you'll do next. n nHe'll also cut y ou some slack if you're astonishingly stupid in an amusing fashio n. Granny claimed that this explains why uncountable millions of breathtakingly stupid people get along just fine in life. n nOf c ourse, in the process, you must never do harm to others in any se rious way, or you'll cease to amuse Him. Then payment comes due f or the promises you didn't keep. n nIn spite of drinking lumberja cks under the table, regularly winning at poker with stone-hearte d psychopaths who didn't like to lose, driving fast cars with utt er contempt for the laws of physics (but never while intoxicated) , and eating a diet rich in pork fat, Granny Sugars died peaceful ly in her sleep at the age of seventy-two. They found her with a nearly empty snifter of brandy on the nightstand, a book by her f avorite novelist turned to the last page, and a smile on her face . n nJudging by all available evidence, Granny and God understood each other pretty well. n nPleased to be alive that Tuesday morn ing, on the dark side of the dawn, I switched on my nightstand la mp and surveyed the chamber that served as my bedroom, living roo m, kitchen, and dining room. I never get out of bed until I know who, if anyone, is waiting for me. n nIf visitors either benign o r malevolent had spent part of the night watching me sleep, they had not lingered for a breakfast chat. Sometimes simply getting f rom bed to bathroom can take the charm out of a new day. n nOnly Elvis was there, wearing the lei of orchids, smiling, and pointin g one finger at me as if it were a cocked gun. n nAlthough I enjo y living above this particular two-car garage, and though I find my quarters cozy, Architectural Digest will not be seeking an exc lusive photo layout. If one of their glamour scouts saw my place, he'd probably note, with disdain, that the second word in the ma gazine's name is not, after all, Indigestion. n nThe life-size ca rdboard figure of Elvis, part of a theater-lobby display promotin g Blue Hawaii, was where I'd left it. Occasionally, it moves--or is moved--during the night. n nI showered with peach-scented soap and peach shampoo, which were given to me by Stormy Llewellyn. H er real first name is Bronwen, but she thinks that makes her soun d like an elf. n nMy real name actually is Odd. n nAccording to m y mother, this is an uncorrected birth-certificate error. Sometim es she says they intended to name me Todd. Other times she says i t was Dobb, after a Czechoslovakian uncle. n nMy father insists t hat they always intended to name me Odd, although he won't tell m e why. He notes that I don't have a Czechoslovakian uncle. n nMy mother vigorously asserts the existence of the uncle, though she refuses to explain why I've never met either him or her sister, C ymry, to whom he is supposedly married. n nAlthough my father ack nowledges the existence of Cymry, he is adamant that she has neve r married. He says that she is a freak, but what he means by this I don't know, for he will say no more. n nMy mother becomes infu riated at the suggestion that her sister is any kind of freak. Sh e calls Cymry a gift from God but otherwise remains uncommunicati ve on the subject. n nI find i, Bantam, 2004, 2.5, Avon. Good. 4.19 x 1 x 6.75 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 1998. 400 pages. Cover worn. <br>He vowed he?d never marry. To Vane Cy nster, Bellamy Hall seems like the perfect place to temporarily h ide from London?s husband hunters. But when he encounters irresis tible Patience Debbington, Vane realises he?s met his match ... She vowed no man would catch her. Patience isn?t about to succum b to Vane?s sensuous propositions. Yes, his kisses leave her dizz y and his caresses made her melt; but Patience has promised herse lf she?ll never become vulnerable to a broken heart. Is this one vow that was meant to be broken? Editorial Reviews R eview To this second book of her Bar Cynster series, Stephanie La urens brings a thorough command of Regency style, as well as grap hic, uninhibited love scenes. Elegant, commanding Vane Cynster gr aciously bows to fate when he seeks shelter from a storm and meet s the woman he realizes he's destined to marry--Patience Debbingt on, the spinster niece of Vane's kindhearted godmother. Although her attraction to Vane is immediate and electrifying, Patience di strusts elegant gentlemen like her father, who broke her mother's heart by failing to return her love. To pursue Patience, Vane se ttles into his godmother's household, which consists of various p oor relatives and assorted hangers-on, and is caught up in the se arch for a petty thief and occasional Spectre who is harassing th em. It requires all of Vane's investigative abilities to catch th e criminal, and all of his considerable powers of persuasion--as well as many ardent couplings with Patience--to convince her that family, loyalty, and love come first for him. Laurens is especia lly skillful at capturing Regency males, aristocrats whose refine d restraint barely masks their powerful underlying urges. Appeara nces by others of the extended, devoted Cynster family ensures th at readers will become increasing attached to this ongoing series . --Ellen Edwards From the Back Cover He vowed he?d never marry . To Vane Cynster, Bellamy Hall seems like the perfect place to temporarily hide from London?s husband hunters. But when he encou nters irresistible Patience Debbington, Vane realises he?s met hi s match ... She vowed no man would catch her. Patience isn?t ab out to succumb to Vane?s sensuous propositions. Yes, his kisses l eave her dizzy and his caresses made her melt; but Patience has p romised herself she?ll never become vulnerable to a broken heart. Is this one vow that was meant to be broken? About the Author #1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens began wri ting as an escape from the dry world of professional science, a h obby that quickly became a career. Her novels set in Regency Engl and have captivated readers around the globe, making her one of t he romance world's most beloved and popular authors. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. October 1819 Nort hamptonshire You want to get a move on. Looks like the Hounds of Hell are on our heels. What? Jerked from uneasy contemplation, Vane Cynster lifted his gaze from his leader's ears and glanced a round, bringing Duggan, his groom, into view-along with the bank of lowering thunderheads sweeping down on them from behind. Blast ! Vane looked forward and flicked the reins. The pair of matched greys harnessed to his curricle stepped out powerfully. He glance d over his shoulder. Think we can outrun it? Considering the sto rm clouds, Duggan shook his head. We got three miles on it, maybe five. Not enough to turn back to Kettering, nor yet to make Nort hampton. Vane swore. It wasn't the thought of a drenching that e xercised his mind. Desperation dug in its spurs; his eyes on the road as the greys swept on, he searched for some option, some rou te of escape. Only minutes before, he'd been thinking of Devil, Duke of St. Ives, his cousin, boyhood companion, and closest frie nd--and of the wife fate had handed him. Honoria, now Duchess of St. Ives. She who had ordered Vane and the other four as-yet-unma rried members of the Bar Cynster not only to pay for but attend t he dedication service for the roof of the church in Somersham. vi llage, close by the ducal seat. Admittedly, the money she'd decre ed they surrender had been ill-gotten gains, their winnings from a wager of which neither she nor their mothers had approved. The ageold adage that the only women Cynster males need be wary of we re Cynster wives still held true for this generation as it had fo r those past. The reason why was not something any male Cynster l iked to dwell on. Which was why he felt such a driving need to g et out of the path of the storm. Fate, in the guise of a storm, h ad arranged for Honoria and Devil to meet, in circumstances that had all but ensured their subsequent marriage. Vane wasn't about to take unnecessary chances. Bellamy Hall. He clung to the idea like a drowning man. Minnie will give us shelter. That's a thoug ht. Duggan sounded more hopeful. The turnoff should be close. It was around the next bend; Vane took the turn at speed, then curs ed and slowed his cattle. The narrow lane was not as well surface d as the road they'd left. Too fond of his high-stepping horses t o risk injuring them, he concentrated, easing them along as fast as he dared, grimly conscious of the deepening gloom of an unnatu ral, too-early twilight and the rising whine of the wind. He'd l eft Sornersham Place, Devil's principal residence, soon after lun cheon, having spent the morning at church, at the dedication serv ice for the roof he and his cousins had paid for. Intending to vi sit friends near Leamington, he'd left Devil to enjoy his wife an d son and headed west. He'd expected to reach Northampton and the comfort of the Blue Angel with ease. instead, thanks to fate, he would be spending the night with Minnie and her inmates. At lea st he would be safe. Through the hedges to their left, Vane glim psed distant water, leaden grey beneath the darkening sky. The Ri ver Nene, which meant Bellamy Hall was close; it stood on a long, sloping rise looking down on the river. It had been years since he'd visited--he couldn't offhand remember how many, but of his welcome he had not a doubt. Araminta, Lady Bellamy, eccentric rel ict of a wealthy man, was his godmother. Unblessed with children, Minnie had never treated him as a child; over the years, she'd b ecome a good friend. A sometimes too-shrewd friend uninhibited in her lectures, but a friend nonetheless. Daughter of a viscount, Minnie had been born to a place in the ton. After her husband, S ir Humphrey Bellamy, died, she'd retired from socializing, prefer ring to remain at Bellamy Hall, presiding over a varying househol d of impecunious, relatives and worthy charity cases. Once, when he'd asked why she surrounded herself with such hangers-on, Minn ie had replied that, at her age, human nature was her main source of entertainment. Sir Humphrey had left her wealthy enough to st and the nonsense, and Bellamy Hall, grotesquely gargantuan, was l arge enough to house her odd menage. As a sop to sanity, she and her companion, Mrs. Timms, indulged in the occasional bolt to the capital, leaving the rest of the household in Northamptonshire. Vane always called on Minnie whenever she was in town. Gothic tu rrets rose out of the trees ahead, then brick gateposts appeared, the heavy wrought-iron gates left ajar. With a grimly satisfied smile, Vane turned his horses through; they'd beaten the storm-fa te had not caught him napping. He set the greys trotting down the straight drive. Huge bushes crowded close, shivering in the wind ; ancient trees shrouded the gravel in shifting shadows. Dark an d somber, its multitude of windows, dull in the encroaching gloom , watching like so many flat eyes, Bellamy Hall filled the end of the tunnel-like drive. A sprawling Gothic monstrosity, with coun tless architectural elements added cheek by jowl, all recently em bellished with Georgian lavishness, it ought to have looked hideo us, yet, in the overgrown park with the circular courtyard before it, the Hall managed to escape outright ugliness. It was, Vane thought, as he swept about the courtyard and headed for the stabl es, a suitably esoteric dwelling for an eccentric old woman and h er odd household. As he rounded the side of the house, he saw no sign of life. There was, however, activity in the stables, groom s hurriedly settling horses in preparation for the storm. Leaving Duggan and Minnie's stableman, Grisham, to deal with the greys. . . </div About the Author #1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science, a hobby that quickly became a career. He r novels set in Regency England have captivated readers around th e globe, making her one of the romance world's most beloved and p opular authors. ., Avon, 1998, 2.5, Paperback. Acceptable., 2.5, Paperback. Good., 2.5, [ Edition: Eighth ]. Good Condition. [ No Hassle 30 Day Returns ][ Ships Daily ] [ Underlining/Highlighting: NONE ] [ Writing: NONE ] Publisher: Pine Forge Press Pub Date: 12/8/2009 Binding: Paperback Pages: 592, 2.5<
