Paris by the Book
A Novel
(Sprache: Englisch)
NATIONAL BESTSELLER
A missing person, a grieving family, a curious clue: a half-finished manuscript set in Paris
Once a week, I chase men who are not my husband. . . .
When eccentric novelist Robert Eady abruptly vanishes, he leaves behind his...
A missing person, a grieving family, a curious clue: a half-finished manuscript set in Paris
Once a week, I chase men who are not my husband. . . .
When eccentric novelist Robert Eady abruptly vanishes, he leaves behind his...
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NATIONAL BESTSELLERA missing person, a grieving family, a curious clue: a half-finished manuscript set in Paris
Once a week, I chase men who are not my husband. . . .
When eccentric novelist Robert Eady abruptly vanishes, he leaves behind his wife, Leah, their daughters, and, hidden in an unexpected spot, plane tickets to Paris.
Hoping to uncover clues--and her husband--Leah sets off for France with her girls. Upon their arrival, she discovers an unfinished manuscript, one Robert had been writing without her knowledge . . . and that he had set in Paris. The Eady girls follow the path of the manuscript to a small, floundering English-language bookstore whose weary proprietor is eager to sell. Leah finds herself accepting the offer on the spot.
As the family settles into their new Parisian life, they trace the literary paths of some beloved Parisian classics, including Madeline and The Red Balloon, hoping more clues arise. But a series of startling discoveries forces Leah to consider that she may not be ready for what solving this mystery might do to her family--and the Paris she thought she knew.
Charming, haunting, and triumphant, Paris by the Book follows one woman's journey as she writes her own story, exploring the power of family and the magic that hides within the pages of a book.
Lese-Probe zu „Paris by the Book “
Chapter 1I've long considered the front of our bookstore a trap, one carefully set.
This is as it must be. Although we are in the wearyingly popular Marais district, we are in the lower Marais, closer to the Seine but farther from the falafel stands and crperies, the pedestrian streets, and thus the crowds, and thus, customers. One side of our block is almost entirely taken up with the blank back wall of a monastery, which may or may not be occupied. Despite all the bells, I've never seen a monk on the sidewalk. Opposite the monastery, a succession of shops like ours, peering out from the ground floors of anonymous, flat-front buildings in various shades of cream forever wizening yellow. High above, zinc roofs slowly bruise black, windows shrug away shutters. Here and there appear flowers, or their remains. So, too, wrought iron railings, or their remains.
And our store, bright red, like an apple, a wound.
The store has always been red, but it was deeper, bluer, more toward the color of cabernet when I first saw it. It was my choice to update it to cherry, almost fire truck, red. This caused a mild scandal even though I'd cleared it with our landlord, the store's original proprietor, Madame Brouillard; one painter quit on me before he got started and another quit after scraping and priming. Upon the recommendation of my UPS driver (and unofficial street concierge), Laurent, I finally hired a Polish man who spoke almost as little French as I did and thus didn't care what anyone thought. I asked Laurent what he thought when the job was done. Laurent looked up and down the street. The painter had not only gotten exactly right the clarion red I wanted, he'd layered what looked to be thirty-six coats of clear lacquer on top. The place shone as if it had been enameled in molten lollipop.
Laurent said I should sell them, lollipops.
I shook my head.
He shook his.
We sell books. Gold letters say this on the window. bookshop to one side, librairie
... mehr
anglophone to the other. In the middle, our name, a debate. It had been named for the street, which is named for Saint Lucy. This confuses people; across town, there is another street named for her. More confusion: Lucy is the patron saint of writers, but Madame Brouillard said the name sometimes brought in religious shoppers, and most times, no one at all. Once upon a time, she insisted to me, the street had been crowded, not just with book buyers but booksellers. One by one, the stores departed, and many left their stock behind with Madame. The English-language volumes, not the French. The dross, not the treasures. And needless to say, the dead, not the living. She had hardly anything by living authors.
I suggested rechristening the store The Late Edition. Late as in we would henceforth specialize in authors who, unlike their books, were dead.
She didn't like it, but she let me proceed, as one of her keenest pleasures is bearing a grudge. I sometimes think it's why she let me, who knew little about bookstores (and even less about French), assume control of a bookshop she'd owned for decades. And it's likely why she watched with interest as the dead-authors angle turned out to be just the sort of Paris quirk travel writers craved (who are quick to note that I make living-authors exceptions for children's books and books of any sort by women).
Madame pays Laurent off the books to bring more stock from storage units outside Paris, where she's piled the leavings of her predecessors. Laurent says there aren't enough customers in the world for all the books waiting there.
Chapter 1
I've long considered the front of our bookstore a trap, one carefully set.
This is as it must be. Although we are in the wearyingly popular Marais district, we are in the lower Marais, closer to the Seine but farther from the falafel stands and crperies, the pedestrian streets, and thus the crowds, and thus, customers. One side of our block is almost entirely taken up with the blank back wall of a monastery, which may or may not be occupied. Despite all the bells, I've never seen a monk on the sidewalk. Opposite the monastery, a succession of shops like ours, peering out from the ground floors of anonymous, flat-front buildings in various shades of cream forever wizening yellow. High above, zinc roofs slowly bruise black, windows shrug away shutters. Here and there appear flowers, or their remains. So, too, wrought iron railings, or their remains.
And our store, bright red, like an apple, a wound.
The store has always been red, but it was deeper, bluer, more toward the color of cabernet when I first saw it. It was my choice to update it to cherry, almost fire truck, red. This caused a mild scandal even though I'd cleared it with our landlord, the store's original proprietor, Madame Brouillard; one painter quit on me before he got started and another quit after scraping and priming. Upon the recommendation of my UPS driver (and unofficial street concierge), Laurent, I finally hired a Polish man who spoke almost as little French as I did and thus didn't care what anyone thought. I asked Laurent what he thought when the job was done. Laurent looked up and down the street. The painter had not only gotten exactly right the clarion red I wanted, he'd layered what looked to be thirty-six coats of clear lacquer on top. The place shone as if it had been enameled in molten lollipop.
Laurent said I should sell them, lollipops.
I shook my head.
He shook his.
We sell books. Gold letters say this on the window. bookshop to one side, librairie anglophone to the other. In the middle, our name, a debate. It had been named for the street, which is named for Saint Lucy. This confuses people; across town, there is another street named for her. More confusion: Lucy is the patron saint of writers, but Madame Brouillard said the name sometimes brought in religious shoppers, and most times, no one at all. Once upon a time, she insisted to me, the street had been crowded, not just with book buyers but booksellers. One by one, the stores departed, and many left their stock behind with Madame. The English-language volumes, not the French. The dross, not the treasures. And needless to say, the dead, not the living. She had hardly anything by living authors.
I suggested rechristening the store The Late Edition. Late as in we would henceforth specialize in authors who, unlike their books, were dead.
She didn't like it, but she let me proceed, as one of her keenest pleasures is bearing a grudge. I sometimes think it's why she let me, who knew little about bookstores (and even less about French), assume control of a bookshop she'd owned for decades. And it's likely why she watched with interest as the dead-authors angle turned out to be just the sort of Paris quirk travel writers craved (who are quick to note that I make living-authors exceptions for children's books and books of any sort by women).
Madame pays Laurent off the books to bring more stock from storage units outside Paris, where she's piled the leavings of her predecessors. Laurent says there aren't enough customers in the world for all the books waiting there.
And Madame had a very small share of the world's customers. When we took ov
I suggested rechristening the store The Late Edition. Late as in we would henceforth specialize in authors who, unlike their books, were dead.
She didn't like it, but she let me proceed, as one of her keenest pleasures is bearing a grudge. I sometimes think it's why she let me, who knew little about bookstores (and even less about French), assume control of a bookshop she'd owned for decades. And it's likely why she watched with interest as the dead-authors angle turned out to be just the sort of Paris quirk travel writers craved (who are quick to note that I make living-authors exceptions for children's books and books of any sort by women).
Madame pays Laurent off the books to bring more stock from storage units outside Paris, where she's piled the leavings of her predecessors. Laurent says there aren't enough customers in the world for all the books waiting there.
Chapter 1
I've long considered the front of our bookstore a trap, one carefully set.
This is as it must be. Although we are in the wearyingly popular Marais district, we are in the lower Marais, closer to the Seine but farther from the falafel stands and crperies, the pedestrian streets, and thus the crowds, and thus, customers. One side of our block is almost entirely taken up with the blank back wall of a monastery, which may or may not be occupied. Despite all the bells, I've never seen a monk on the sidewalk. Opposite the monastery, a succession of shops like ours, peering out from the ground floors of anonymous, flat-front buildings in various shades of cream forever wizening yellow. High above, zinc roofs slowly bruise black, windows shrug away shutters. Here and there appear flowers, or their remains. So, too, wrought iron railings, or their remains.
And our store, bright red, like an apple, a wound.
The store has always been red, but it was deeper, bluer, more toward the color of cabernet when I first saw it. It was my choice to update it to cherry, almost fire truck, red. This caused a mild scandal even though I'd cleared it with our landlord, the store's original proprietor, Madame Brouillard; one painter quit on me before he got started and another quit after scraping and priming. Upon the recommendation of my UPS driver (and unofficial street concierge), Laurent, I finally hired a Polish man who spoke almost as little French as I did and thus didn't care what anyone thought. I asked Laurent what he thought when the job was done. Laurent looked up and down the street. The painter had not only gotten exactly right the clarion red I wanted, he'd layered what looked to be thirty-six coats of clear lacquer on top. The place shone as if it had been enameled in molten lollipop.
Laurent said I should sell them, lollipops.
I shook my head.
He shook his.
We sell books. Gold letters say this on the window. bookshop to one side, librairie anglophone to the other. In the middle, our name, a debate. It had been named for the street, which is named for Saint Lucy. This confuses people; across town, there is another street named for her. More confusion: Lucy is the patron saint of writers, but Madame Brouillard said the name sometimes brought in religious shoppers, and most times, no one at all. Once upon a time, she insisted to me, the street had been crowded, not just with book buyers but booksellers. One by one, the stores departed, and many left their stock behind with Madame. The English-language volumes, not the French. The dross, not the treasures. And needless to say, the dead, not the living. She had hardly anything by living authors.
I suggested rechristening the store The Late Edition. Late as in we would henceforth specialize in authors who, unlike their books, were dead.
She didn't like it, but she let me proceed, as one of her keenest pleasures is bearing a grudge. I sometimes think it's why she let me, who knew little about bookstores (and even less about French), assume control of a bookshop she'd owned for decades. And it's likely why she watched with interest as the dead-authors angle turned out to be just the sort of Paris quirk travel writers craved (who are quick to note that I make living-authors exceptions for children's books and books of any sort by women).
Madame pays Laurent off the books to bring more stock from storage units outside Paris, where she's piled the leavings of her predecessors. Laurent says there aren't enough customers in the world for all the books waiting there.
And Madame had a very small share of the world's customers. When we took ov
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Liam Callanan
Liam Callanan is a novelist, teacher, and journalist, whose first novel, The Cloud Atlas, was a finalist for an Edgar Award. Winner of the George W. Hunt, S.J., Prize for Excellence in Journalism, Arts and Letters, Liam has published in the Wall Street Journal, Slate, the New York Times, the Washington Post, and the San Francisco Chronicle, and has recorded numerous essays for public radio. He's taught for the Warren Wilson MFA Program for Writers and at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, and he lives in Wisconsin with his wife and daughters.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Liam Callanan
- 2018, 368 Seiten, Maße: 13,4 x 20,3 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Dutton
- ISBN-10: 1524743305
- ISBN-13: 9781524743307
- Erscheinungsdatum: 21.03.2018
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
"Sublime . . . Callanan has crafted a beautifully drawn portrait of a woman interrupted, set among the exquisite magic of Paris, where life frequently imitates art as the ghosts of the past linger just out of sight."-Publisher's Weekly (starred review)
"Callanan has woven a tale of grief, resentment, and the everyday madness of equivocating the unfathomable. . . . Callanan's sweet and compulsively readable tale invites readers to fall in love with Paris, Leah, and her family."
-Booklist
"A love letter to reading, writing, and all things French, Paris by the Book combines a charming first-person protagonist, a nuanced family drama, and the magic of Paris."
-ShelfAwareness (starred review)
"Liam Callanan's spirited Paris by the Book offers a near-irresistible package of twin glories, Paris and books (love of reading), delivering vibrant tours of each. . . . [A] witty mystery-adventure."
-San Francisco Chronicle
"Both playful and serious . . . Liam Callanan's new novel has two ingredients that make booksellers and readers swoon: Paris and bookstores . . . a must for fans of The Red Balloon and the Madeline stories."
-Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel
"Paris by the Book is inherently addicting, thrilling, and literary in more ways than one."
-Michigan Daily
"Liam Callanan's Paris by the Book is much more than an elegiac portrait of an artist who has vanished. Here we witness the sacrifices and yearnings of the ones left behind as they continue to love, live, and flourish. Like James Salter's Light Years, Callanan depicts the once seemingly simple conditions of a young marriage and what it takes to let such conditions go."
-Min Jin Lee, National Book Award finalist author of Pachinko
"This charming and poignant novel made me fall in love with Paris and all things French. Oh, to own a bookstore in any arrondissement! Within this love story there are reflections on the mystery of writing, the solace of reading, the ties that bind and those that don't,
... mehr
plus the joy of The Red Balloon, to name but a few of the pleasures of Paris by the Book."
-Jane Hamilton, author of The Excellent Lombards and A Map of the World
"In Paris by the Book, the marvelously gifted Liam Callanan tells a spellbinding story of reading and writing, romance and marriage, French frozen food and a small bookshop. I loved walking the streets of Marais with his eloquent narrator. And I loved how Callanan simultaneously reveals the history of her marriage and of her adopted city. Open a bottle of wine, open this wise and wonderful book, and enjoy."
-Margot Livesey, author of Mercury and The Flight of Gemma Hardy
"A haunting literary mystery and a multifaceted love story of husbands gone missing, of daughters left behind, of starting over, of books, and finally, of Paris. I love, love this novel."
-Caroline Leavitt, author of Cruel Beautiful World
"Liam Callanan's new novel is charming and full of fabled accordion music and wonderfully Márquezian magic--and best of all it's told by a narrator I came to love, whose funny, honest, wryly snarky voice drew me in from the first line."
-Dan Chaon, author of Ill Will
-Jane Hamilton, author of The Excellent Lombards and A Map of the World
"In Paris by the Book, the marvelously gifted Liam Callanan tells a spellbinding story of reading and writing, romance and marriage, French frozen food and a small bookshop. I loved walking the streets of Marais with his eloquent narrator. And I loved how Callanan simultaneously reveals the history of her marriage and of her adopted city. Open a bottle of wine, open this wise and wonderful book, and enjoy."
-Margot Livesey, author of Mercury and The Flight of Gemma Hardy
"A haunting literary mystery and a multifaceted love story of husbands gone missing, of daughters left behind, of starting over, of books, and finally, of Paris. I love, love this novel."
-Caroline Leavitt, author of Cruel Beautiful World
"Liam Callanan's new novel is charming and full of fabled accordion music and wonderfully Márquezian magic--and best of all it's told by a narrator I came to love, whose funny, honest, wryly snarky voice drew me in from the first line."
-Dan Chaon, author of Ill Will
... weniger
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