9781934824153

Book Description: OPEN LETTER, 2009. Paperback. Book Condition: New. New book. Shipped from US. Bookseller Inventory # IB-9781934824153

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Book Description: Open Letter Books; Univ of Nebraska Press. PAPERBACK. Book Condition: New. 1934824151 Brand New. Bookseller Inventory # Z1934824151ZN

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Book Description: Book Condition: New. Bookseller Inventory # 6389681-n

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Book Description: Open Letter Books; Univ of Nebraska Press. PAPERBACK. Book Condition: New. 1934824151 Brand New. Bookseller Inventory # Z1934824151ZN

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Book Description: Open Letter, United States, 2009. Paperback. Book Condition: New. 216 x 140 mm. Brand New Book with Free Worldwide Delivery. Aracoeli--Elsa Morante's final novel--is the story of an aging man's attempt to recover the past and get his life on track in the process. The Aracoeli of the title is the narrator's deceased mother, who grew up in a small Spanish town before marrying an upper-class Italian navy ensign. The idyllic years she spends with her only son--Manuel, the narrator of the novel--are shattered when she contracts an incurable disease (probably syphilis) and becomes a nymphomaniac. Now, at the age of 43, Manuel, an unattractive, self-loathing, recovering drug addict who works a dead-end job at a small publishing house, decides to travel to her hometown in Spain in order to look for her. Filled with dreams and remembrances the novel creates a Seboldian landscape of memory out of this painful journey, painting a portrait that is both touching and bleak. Appearing here for the first time in paperback--the hardcover was published in 1984--Aracoeli is an important, and long-neglected, work in Morante's oeuvre. For about two months now I have had a temporary job with a little publishing firm, where I am engaged in translating or in reading texts under consideration, on which I prepare brief written reports. For the most part these are little pamphlets or popularizing works of a practical-scientific nature, or socio-political, or even snobbish-didactic. The firm, as far as I know, consists altogether of two office rooms complemented by a dark, windowless toilet. One of the little rooms serves chiefly as storeroom; the other is occupied by me. Though the Chief (in his not infrequent but hasty appearances) sometimes refers to his "office personnel," to all appearances the only personnel in the place is me.The glass door on the landing bears the words Ypsilon publishing and, below, the word push. It announces visitors with a long hiss, immediately followed by the entrance of the visitor in question. These, as a rule, are aspiring authors--the majority of them elderly--who, with their famished and almost grim appearance, increase the natural chill of the place and plunge me at once into a confused distress. In the office, according to the agreement, I must spend my days, from nine till one and from four till seven-thirty. At first, I welcomed this job as a stroke of luck (in fact, my income, always pitiful, recently has not been enough to pay the rent of a little furnished room); but I very quickly realized that my brain sentenced it to irreparable rejection. On reading those little treatises, from the very first lines, I had the sensation of swallowing glue. I cared nothing about their subjects; indeed it was inconceivable to me that other thinking brains could care about them. Now and then I lost the thread. And though I had given up, some time earlier, all drugs, light or heavy, and even--within the confines of possibility--alcoholic beverages, I would relapse into my morbid vice; sleep. Then all of a sudden I would pitch forward, asleep, mouth agape, onto my works. And I would bestir myself, with an effort, at the hiss of the front door, to find before me, all ready and waiting, another of those dire visitors, standing there and looking askance at my swollen eyes and the line of saliva trickling down my chin. It also happened that those bouts of dozing brought me dreams, or rather, fleeting deliriums, futile and grim. For example, the print, there beneath my nose, would become myriadmoths, which swarmed from the pages, reducing them to a white powder. Every day new pamphlets and new galleys were unloaded on my desk. And the mere sight of those piles, the moment I entered, was enough to nauseate me. My scant productivity surely could not escape even the busy, quick glances of my laconic boss. And no doubt Ypsilon Publishing for some time had anticipated my inevitable, imminent discharge. In any case, towards the end of October I was paid my second month's salary, which remained almost intact in my pocket. Bookseller Inventory # AAC9781934824153

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Book Description: Paperback. Book Condition: New. Bookseller Inventory # 1431236

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Book Description: Univ of Nebraska Pr. Book Condition: BRAND NEW. BRAND NEW Softcover Publisher List Price= $13.95 A Brand New Quality Book from a Full-Time Bookshop in business since 1992!. Bookseller Inventory # 487679

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Book Description: Open Letter Books; Univ of Nebraska Press 2009-07-30, 2009. Book Condition: New. Brand new book, sourced directly from publisher. Dispatch time is 24-48 hours from our warehouse. Book will be sent in robust, secure packaging to ensure it reaches you securely. Bookseller Inventory # NU-ING-00545352

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Book Description: Open Letter Books; Univ of Nebraska Press. Paperback / softback. Book Condition: new. BRAND NEW, Aracoeli, Elsa Morante, William Weaver, Robert Boyers, Aracoeli--Elsa Morante's final novel--is the story of an aging man's attempt to recover the past and get his life on track in the process. The Aracoeli of the title is the narrator's deceased mother, who grew up in a small Spanish town before marrying an upper-class Italian navy ensign. The idyllic years she spends with her only son--Manuel, the narrator of the novel--are shattered when she contracts an incurable disease (probably syphilis) and becomes a nymphomaniac. Now, at the age of 43, Manuel, an unattractive, self-loathing, recovering drug addict who works a dead-end job at a small publishing house, decides to travel to her hometown in Spain in order to look for her. Filled with dreams and remembrances the novel creates a Seboldian landscape of memory out of this painful journey, painting a portrait that is both touching and bleak. Appearing here for the first time in paperback--the hardcover was published in 1984--Aracoeli is an important, and long-neglected, work in Morante's oeuvre. For about two months now I have had a temporary job with a little publishing firm, where I am engaged in translating or in reading texts under consideration, on which I prepare brief written reports. For the most part these are little pamphlets or popularizing works of a practical-scientific nature, or socio-political, or even snobbish-didactic. The firm, as far as I know, consists altogether of two office rooms complemented by a dark, windowless toilet. One of the little rooms serves chiefly as storeroom; the other is occupied by me. Though the Chief (in his not infrequent but hasty appearances) sometimes refers to his "office personnel," to all appearances the only personnel in the place is me.The glass door on the landing bears the words Ypsilon publishing and, below, the word push. It announces visitors with a long hiss, immediately followed by the entrance of the visitor in question. These, as a rule, are aspiring authors--the majority of them elderly--who, with their famished and almost grim appearance, increase the natural chill of the place and plunge me at once into a confused distress. In the office, according to the agreement, I must spend my days, from nine till one and from four till seven-thirty. At first, I welcomed this job as a stroke of luck (in fact, my income, always pitiful, recently has not been enough to pay the rent of a little furnished room); but I very quickly realized that my brain sentenced it to irreparable rejection. On reading those little treatises, from the very first lines, I had the sensation of swallowing glue. I cared nothing about their subjects; indeed it was inconceivable to me that other thinking brains could care about them. Now and then I lost the thread. And though I had given up, some time earlier, all drugs, light or heavy, and even--within the confines of possibility--alcoholic beverages, I would relapse into my morbid vice; sleep. Then all of a sudden I would pitch forward, asleep, mouth agape, onto my works. And I would bestir myself, with an effort, at the hiss of the front door, to find before me, all ready and waiting, another of those dire visitors, standing there and looking askance at my swollen eyes and the line of saliva trickling down my chin. It also happened that those bouts of dozing brought me dreams, or rather, fleeting deliriums, futile and grim. For example, the print, there beneath my nose, would become myriadmoths, which swarmed from the pages, reducing them to a white powder. Every day new pamphlets and new galleys were unloaded on my desk. And the mere sight of those piles, the moment I entered, was enough to nauseate me. My scant productivity surely could not escape even the busy, quick glances of my laconic boss. And no doubt Ypsilon Publishing for some time had anticipated my inevitable, imminent discharge. In any case, towards the end of October I was paid my second month's salary, which remained almos. Bookseller Inventory # B9781934824153

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Book Description: Open Letter Books; Univ of Nebraska Press. PAPERBACK. Book Condition: New. 1934824151 Special order direct from the distributor. Bookseller Inventory # R9781934824153

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