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Zusatztext "A universal story of pain! loss! and the continuous need for love. . . . Dawesar's erotic prose jumps off the page like a dancer in flight." — Chicago Sun-Times "The characters in Dawesar's charmingly oddball novel care so passionately about art that it literally turns them on. . . . sharp intellectual back-and-forth drives both this unlikely romance and Dawesar's quirky novel." — Entertainment Weekly "A provocative tale of love and the literature it inspires . . . Dawesar's third novel is a contemplative! sensual! and literary mélange." — Booklist Informationen zum Autor Born in New Delhi, India, Abha Dawesar has written two other novels. Her most recent novel, Babyji, won the 2006 American Library Association'sStonewall Book Award. She is also a winner of an NYFA Fiction Fellowship. Klappentext From the award-winning author of Babyji comes an utterly seductive tale of an aging writer whose involvement with a young woman forces him to face the eternal question of love. Prem Rustum! a famous but reclusive Indian author! has spent most of his life consumed with writing. Feeling the weight of his seventy-five years! he resolves to put down his pen and live a little. He ventures online where he finds Maya! an aspiring young novelist who has boldly posted her admiration for Prem's work. Captivated by her charm! Prem decides on impulse to join her in the City of Light. During the summer that follows! Maya brings Prem into direct confrontation with his mortality and desires through the awakening of new longings and the rekindling of old ones. Written with sureness of style and tempo! That Summer in Paris reflects on how art informs love! and love! literature. part i When you admire a writer you become curious. You look for his secret. The clues to his puzzle. --ZUCKERMAN TO LONOFF IN PHILIP ROTH'S THE GHOST WRITER Prem Rustum was tired. Seventy-five and tired. Thirty-odd books, countless awards, and a Nobel Prize later, he argued with Pascal over the phone that this was allowed. He regretted the conversation. Pascal hadn't won the prize yet, and it was not clear anymore that he would. Pascal had taken the slight in his stride and pushed on. "It is the manner in which you write, my friend. You cannot stand at that tall table forever writing longhand. Move with the times, type on a computer, get online, buy your Viagra over the Internet. Prolong your youth. Learn to sit down." Prem was already online; he just couldn't write fiction sitting down. He couldn't think of overarching themes and transcendental moments with his ass stuck to a seat, not with the same cleanliness as while standing up. He suspected that no one could. In fact, he was sure that his novels had an edge over Pascal's and Pedro's because he did it standing up. The foremost of the three Ps, he had been called. Prem's ankles were stiff. There was a time not so long ago when he could go until noon without a break. He walked over to his bulletin board, where he had pinned the acupuncture chart that Homi had sent him from India. Prem traced his index finger over the drawing of the foot and its pressure points. Homi had sent a box of presents along with a card signed by Ratan that read I miss you, Grandpa . Ratan had probably chosen none of the items in the box other than the small G.I. Joe figure. If the chart were to be believed, the stomach and spine regions of Prem's foot were causing trouble. But his stomach and spine felt fine--only his feet hurt like mad. Prem lowered himself into the tan leather couch in the corner of his studio. For a few minutes he looked at nothing in particular. Then his eyes settled upon the stack of hardback books piled in the corner, their spines all blue, his own name in italicized yellow in a speedy font. This jacket cover was different from all the ones before....
