Ulteriori informazioni
Zusatztext “Mercilessly! masterfully nails its target. . . . Astonishing. . . . A discipline of craft and sensitivity to place that do for Central Asia what Paul Bowles did for North Africa.” – The Chicago Tribune “[Bissell's] wit and dry-eyed compassion are on ample display! along with a precocious capacity for invention that would put most golden codgers to shame. . . . These stories are one more proof of a stunning and prodigious talent.” – Los Angeles Times Book Review “Terrific. . . . Scabrously funny. . . . Dazzling. . . . 'A'.” – Entertainment Weekly “Bissell has a keen awareness of human loneliness — what O’Connor defined as the mark of great short story writers. . . . [He] reveals himself to be not only a subtle craftsman but also a mordant observer of a new generation lost in a complex and dangerous world.” – The New York Times Book Review “Gobsmackingly great . . . Bissell traverses the landscape of modern war! and he does it with the tough bluntness and literary assurance of a young Hemingway.” – Outside “Razor-sharp! blackly comic. . . . Bissell always avoids easy cynicism! dotting each bleak plot twist with big-hearted detail and pitch-perfect humor. This is fiction full of friction . . . [and] it's a thrill to watch the sparks fly.” – Newsweek Informationen zum Autor Tom Bissell is the author of Chasing the Sea (available in paperback from Vintage Books) and contributes to Harper’s Magazine, The Believer, and other publications. He lives in New York. Klappentext Young Americans abroad in Central Asia find themselves pushed to their limits in these acclaimed, prize-winning stories by one of our most exciting and talented new authors. Combining bleak humor, ironic insight, deep compassion, and unflinching moral and ethical inquiry, Tom Bissell gives us a gripping collection that is both timeless and profoundly relevant to today's complex world. Leseprobe Graves had been sick for three days when, on the long straight highway between Mazar and Kunduz, a dark blue truck coming toward them shed its rear wheel in a spray of orange-yellow sparks. The wheel, as though excited by its sudden liberty, bounced twice not very high and once very high and hit their windshield with a damp crack. "Christ!" Donk called out from the backseat. The driver, much too late, wrenched on the steering wheel, and they fishtailed and then spun out into the dunes alongside the road. Against one of the higher sandbanks the Corolla slammed to a dusty halt. Sand as soft and pale as flour poured into the partially opened windows. The shattered but still intact windshield sagged like netting. After a moment Donk touched his forehead, his eyebrow bristles as tender as split stitches. Thin watery blood streaked down his fingers. From the front passenger seat Graves asked if the other three men-Donk, Hassan, the driver-were all right. No one spoke. Graves sighed. "Glad to hear it." He gave his dune-pinned door two small impotent outward pushes, then spent the next few moments staring out the splintery windshield. The air-freshener canister that had been suckered to the windshield lay quietly frothing lilac-scented foam in Graves's lap. The spun-around Corolla now faced Kunduz, the city they had been trying to escape. "I'm glad I'm not a superstitious man," Graves said at last. The driver's hands were still gripped around the steering wheel. Donk climbed out on the Corolla's open side, cupping his throbbing eye socket and leaning forward, watching his blood patter onto the sand in perfect red globules. He did not have the faintest idea what he had struck his head against until Hassan, wincing and rubbing his shoulder, muscled his way out of the car behind him. Hassan looked at Donk and shrug-smiled, his eyes rimmed with such a fine black line they looked as if they had been Maybellined. His solid belly filled the...
