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On Sale: June 12, 2007
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Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

Yates is a Futurist.Which is a fancy way of saying he flies around the world, lecturing various conferences, confabs, and conglomerates, dispensing prepackaged bullshit in an attempt to stay just ahead of the latest trend and claim he saw it first. But now Yates has lost faith in the very future that he’s paid to sell and gives what should be a career-ending rant. Instead, a mysterious governmental group hires him to travel the globe and discover why the world seems to hate America. From Middle Eastern war zones to Polynesian superluxe corporate retreats, James Othmer takes us on a mordantly hilarious journey through corporate double-speak and global unrest to find the truth beneath the buzz.

Excerpt

Futureworld

The Futurist never saw it coming. But now that he thinks of it, it’s not surprising. Not surprising that she’s telling him in the most intentionally archaic way: a pen-and-ink note slipped into his state-of-the-art carry-on. Written in past tense. The only way Lauren could have topped the irony of this is to have told him via foot messenger. Or carrier pigeon. Or smoke signals. All of which would be hard to do right now, since he’s 37,000 feet in the air somewhere between New York and Johannesburg. But she does top this. Right after a passage that begins with Among the many reasons I can suffer you no longer and concludes with delusional, sociopathic prognosticator, she tells Yates–the Futurist–that she’s leaving him for a sixth-grade history teacher.

“Healing.”

“What?” Yates asks.

“It’s blue-flame hot. Everyone thought it would be revenge. Or some crippling mass anxiety. But it’s healing.” Blevins is sitting beside Yates in first class. He consults part-time for Yates and moonlights as a class reunion designer.

“What, are kickboxing-for-healers classes suddenly popping up at the Soho Equinox? Has Miramax optioned the rights to the word?”

“I’m just saying–”

“Tonight on the Healing Channel–”

Blevins presses on. “Anything Celtic, for some reason, is still hot. The charming little-people part, not the warring hordes. Ancient disasters continue to fascinate. Mountain tragedies and/or nautical disasters, with the fascination value of said disaster increasing relative to its respective depth or height.”

“With an underwater mountain tragedy being the ultimate.” Yates reaches for the Maker’s Mark.

“Angels were hot, but now you can’t give them away. Buddhism, we are thinking, is due to break through in the U.S. in a big way.”

“Is that related to the healing?”

“Buddhism and unprotected sex. The I-don’t-give-a-fuck factor has never been so mainstreamed.”

“I hear Turkey’s still hot. Despite . . .”

“Yeah. But it’s never just a place. It’s the combination of extreme American activity and obscure locale.”

“Skateboarding in Mongolia.”

“Boogie-boarding the Yangtze.”

“Fucking in outer space.”

“Exactly.” Blevins smacks his hands together, waking the British resin-furniture mogul in 4D. “So?”

Yates stares at the small screen on the seat back in front of him. The progress of his flight is charted by a flashing dot on a map of the hemisphere. Eight hours from refueling in Cape Verde, another four from the Futureworld Conference in Johannesburg.

“Hardly H. G. Wellsian.”

“Pardon?”

“William Gibsonian.”

“I agree. Which is why . . . Did you get a chance to look at the other stuff?”

“What?”

“The insights with a little more substance.”

“ ‘The Future of Racism’? ‘The Invisible Poor’?”

“Yeah. What’d you think?”

“I didn’t get a chance to read them. In fact, I left them home.”

“For Africa alone I have tons of stuff on AIDS, famine, education.”

“This shouldn’t be news to you: nobody wants to hear a bleak futurist, Blevins. And it’s not like I haven’t tried.”

“But you haven’t tried in a while.”

Yates lowers his drink, stares at Blevins, and thinks, You’re picking a bad time to lay a guilt trip on me.

“Besides, it doesn’t have to be so bleak if you spin it right. If you serve it up as an opportunity rather than an indictment.”

Yates yawns. Blevins takes a breath, pushes on. “There’s a lot more. I just beamed it onto your laptop.”

Yates looks down at his crotch, feeling more than a little violated knowing that part of Blevins has gotten so close. And it’s the worst part of Blevins at that–the well-intentioned part. He looks back at the tiny screen map. For a moment the flashing dot seems to go in reverse, one hundredth of a degree latitude back toward America.

He tries to picture her planning it, curling up on the couch and listing the best ways to push his forward-thinking buttons with the most humiliating results. Let’s see. Whom to leave him for? An archaeologist? Genealogist? Antiques dealer? Presidential biographer? Or–this is perfect–a history teacher. He closes his eyes and there she is in the apartment of a lanky, bearded vegan with body odor, coupling on the floor atop a suede-elbowed tweed jacket and thirty-two scattered, Internet-plagiarized essays on the battle of Hastings. He wonders if a circumstance can be ironic if it’s been so malevolently choreographed.

From the seat pocket in front of him he removes the folder containing the outline of his unfinished speech and, somehow, the emergency evacuation instructions for the Boeing 747. Most in his field would kill just to be able to network at something like Futureworld, but Yates is even more privileged. He is a VIP speaker, a bona fide A-list player in the culture of expectation, a highly compensated observer of the global soul, with press clippings a yard high to prove it. Indeed, he’s been in constant demand since the day four years ago that he coined the phrase which for fifteen minutes became the rallying cry of a generation. Ballplayers worked it into postgame clichés. The president used it in a speech before both houses of Congress. Even a pornographic movie was named after it. In many ways Yates’s star has never been brighter, but now he feels it coursing through him, a crisis of faith, a waning confidence in the very future he sells. After so many years of it–several books (mostly ghostwritten), commencement speeches (all ghostwritten), a fawning Charlie Rose, conferences like TED, Davos, Tomorrow-a-Go-Go–after repeated optimistic promises of a better world yet to come, he’s convinced that none of it will ever be. He no longer feels excitement for the future, but a deep nostalgia for it. As if the future is something already lost.


A young black man with a placard bearing Yates’s name greets him at the international arrivals gate in Johannesburg. “I’m David, your chaperone,” he says, handing Yates a business card. “Whatever you need. Transportation, shopping–anything, anytime.” At customs, David goes to a special line, nods to the agent, and Yates is waved through. At the terminal exit, Yates glances back and sees Blevins still fumbling with his documents, scanning the ceiling for a sign that can make sense of the chaos.


Chattel houses in primary colors. Smoking heaps of sidewalk trash. Barefoot children in the shadow of Colonel Sanders. High-rises and corporate parks inhabited by squatters. The shucked shell of a city. Yates observes the world through windows that roll only a third of the way down. Through black-tinted, bulletproof glass. He sits alone in back seats and attempts candid conversations with drivers paid to accommodate. He gleans local lore from chatty bellhops, from Condé Nast Traveler. From the top steps of grand hotels he elicits profound sociological insights. From a part in the curtains of eighteenth-floor executive suites he absorbs geopolitical expertise. He gets it with his healthy start breakfast from English-speaking room service waiters. From free newspapers dropped outside his door. From SpectraVision. Then he chronicles it, rolls it around in his head, and distills it down to anecdote, to conversation starter, to pithy one-liner, and finally he turns it into a highly proprietary, singularly respected worldly expertise that is utter and complete bullshit.

Outside the window, thousands in the morning fog, walking. “Where are they going, David?”

“The bus terminal, sir. To jobs in the suburbs. Sandton. Fourways. There’s no work in the city, in places like Soweto. The business and the money surround the real city now. But the core is hollow.”

“How can it survive?”

“Exactly, sir. This is an issue the Ministry of Business Development is addressing. And why they lobbied to have a conference with the prestige of Futureworld here. To have people like you stimulate thought, progress. The economy.”

Yates looks at Lauren’s letter, runs his finger along the blue veins of her cursive script as if searching for a pulse. His phone vibrates and Blevins’s number comes up. Blevins, last seen drowning in a riptide of humanity. Should have offered him a ride. But after seventeen hours of his earnest babbling . . . Still, the poor bastard.

“Hey, David. Why don’t you pull over, let me hop up front.”

“I can’t, sir.”

“Why not? It’ll be easier to talk.”

“I would love to, sir. But it’s not safe to stop here. Besides, if you’re seen up front with me, I will lose my job.”


He once did a trust fall at an anarchists’ convention. He once gave the keynote address at a sports mascots’ seminar, including a Q&A session that touched upon costuming, mime bashing, and health care. He once was a replacement judge at the Miss Crete contest. He
once addressed the sales force of a failing dot-com and a rollicking Luddite symposium in the same week and received standing ovations at both.

At registration they give him a canvas bag filled with corporate goodies, the latest digital gadgets, a menagerie of mahogany African animals, a leather Futureworld bomber jacket, and two bottles of Cape Town merlot. He scans the lobby for familiar faces. The preliminary materials had promised the likes of Jobs, Bezos, and Spielberg, the Google guys, Angelina Jolie, and a recently defeated presidential candidate. He sees none of them. But he does see Faith B. Popcorn, mother of all legitimate futurists. Faith B. Popcorn, Yates feels, can see more than the future. She can see through him. His sycophantic projections, his scientifically lewd dance with plagiarism–he’s certain she’s on to all of it and is itching to bring him down. Which is precisely why he lowers his head, turns away, and moves toward the elevators.

In his room at 10 A.M. he uncorks the first bottle of complimentary merlot, turns on Sky News, and opens his laptop. At every conference Yates answers to two sponsors. One is the true host, whose name appears on the posters. The second is almost always a corporate or political sponsor that pays him to subtly and sometimes not so subtly disseminate its message. This time it’s the Johannesburg CBD, or Central Business District. Struggling economically, racially divided, ravaged by AIDS, poverty, and violence, Jo’burg wants to be a player on a global scale again. The speechwriting task is to somehow ignore the desperate reality and take the existing recipe and replace it with what the corporate world wants to hear. Insert name of relevant construction project here. Next cite the top-notch leadership team in place and of course the passionate people who work for it. Then sprinkle generous amounts of quotes from Thoreau, Verne, and–for tomorrow–Mandela. Throw in a dash of best-of one-liners, with apologies to everyone from Black Elk and John Lennon to Marshall McLuhan and the tabs of wisdom tied to Celestial Seasons tea bags. Be sure to suck up to the panelists, especially those who detest you most. Now add an uplifting anecdote about a local who overcame great odds, perhaps something from the Jo’burg Times or whatever it’s called, or maybe about a profound scene witnessed en route from the airport. Then end it on a note of pure optimistic adrenaline. Paint a vivid picture of what can be. Describe it in absolutes. A day when every South African will be wirelessly connected to the free world. When Jo’burg will again be synonymous with the world’s great capitals. A corporate renaissance. A health-care miracle. Racial harmony . . .

Yates used to believe it. Used to think things like this were possible, or at least admirable goals. He used to do his homework and think things through. He actually would talk to the locals, research the region, eschew partisan money. And he would earnestly try to
come up with conscientious, albeit undoable and improbably quick solutions to ancient problems. But now . . .


He e-mails Lauren, suggesting that they talk, but it gets kicked back. Next he tries her home number, which has been disconnected. Finally he dials her cell and lets it ring for fifteen minutes. Here’s an observation that won’t make it into his next telecom speech: right now it is possible to be dumped in real time from another continent, to careen into a digital wall of resentment and hostility at the speed of light.

A knock on the door. A young black woman in a tight red dress. Joani from Swaziland. Courtesy of the CBD. He gives her 100 rands and the commemorative Futureworld bomber jacket and sends her away. He sits back down and drinks. Channel surfs. Procrastinates. An hour later, another knock. David the chaperone.

“I thought you were another complimentary hooker.”

“Sir?”

“Nothing. Glass of wine?”

David looks at his watch. “I’m here to take you to the football match.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s on your itinerary. It is an important game.”

“I really can’t deal with soccer right now.”

“It’s part of your appearance contract.”


Yates has never been to a soccer game, and this is a big one. Ellis Park Stadium is filled beyond capacity. The crowd rocks and sways with a tidal grace and magnitude, a singing, chanting force of nature. Looking around, he wonders if he’s the only white man in the stadium. The riot begins soon after he’s seated, but it is a while before he notices. A player receives a yellow card. Yates receives a gin and tonic. A teenage boy is stabbed in general admission. A joke is cracked in the VIP box. Blood flows on the hot concrete of section 214 and people start running for the tunnels. But the game continues. When the tunnels clog, a rush is made toward the field, which is caged off with thick wire. Yates notices none of it. The primal roar and collective groan that come when flesh presses upon itself to the point of bursting he chalks up to raucous enthusiasm. The gunshots he thinks are fireworks, and cheap Third World ones at that. The men scrambling up the barrier wire he thinks are performing some kind of indigenous sporting ritual, like the wave, not clawing for their lives. To Yates, it’s all a spectacle performed on his behalf, and when he’s handed his second drink he’s already wondering how he can integrate this into tomorrow’s speech. Such passionate people!

The first clue that something’s wrong occurs to him when an aide grimly whispers into the ear of the minister of business development. The second is the dozens of policemen wading into the crowd. But instead of stopping the stampede, they enflame it. Far above the fray, surrounded by security guards, Yates watches the shiver and press of the mob. Black clubs strobe across the sun-blasted sky and plunge into the multitude. Gunshots. Bodies compacting against barrier wire, crushed in a vise of their own making. A young man in green face paint atop the cage is shot in the chest by someone in red face paint and falls back upon the others.

At midfield, the referees huddle with players from both teams. They’ve become the spectators, watching the life-and-death competition in the grandstands.


Half an hour later the officials walk Yates onto the field, toward the stiffening dead, past the stunned next of kin, faces pressed against the wire, waiting for permission to mourn. They certainly would prefer that Yates were not here, but there’s nothing they can do
about it now. A man lies unattended on a stretcher, splintered tibia exposed through a bloody gash in his pants. Two policemen are removing film from a journalist’s camera. All Yates hears is the sound of sirens going the other way. All he sees are the privileged and the dead. Body bags in the goal mouth, some zipped, others empty, waiting to be filled. He stares at the faces of the dead, painted just hours ago with ritual strokes for the opposite of death. A child of five, alone, looks at Yates. Yates cannot hold his stare.

“How many?” asks the minister of business development.

“Forty-three,” answers a policeman. “More heading to the hospital.”

The policeman looks at Yates, as if he thinks Yates can actually do something to change any of this. Yates looks down, sees blood drops on the white line dust of the goal crease.

“Tell me,” the minister of business development asks Yates. “In your opinion, what can be done to minimize the fallout, to ensure that this will not diminish our chances of hosting the World Cup here in two years?”


From the Hardcover edition.
James P. Othmer|Author Q&A

About James P. Othmer

James P. Othmer - The Futurist

Photo © Michael Benabib

James P. Othmer is a former creative director at advertising giant Young & Rubicam, and the author of the novels Holy Water and The Futurist

James P. Othmer is represented by Random House Speakers Bureau (www.rhspeakers.com)

Author Q&A

There are three questions at the heart of Yates’s crisis at the end of the first section: What does it mean to live a fulfilling twenty-first-century life? Is there room for a futurist in a terrified, compromised, morally ambiguous world? And, why does everyone hate us? Does he ever get answers? Are there answers?

Um… No. And even if he did get the answers, do you think he’d believe them? Unless they came from (insert spiritual deity here) or Simon Cowell, would you? More than being questions to be answered, for Yates they served as a kind of moral GPS for the journey he had to take. If anything Yates becomes the anti-answer man. He finds bliss in the cluelessness, a kind of morbid satisfaction in the searching. Just asking questions and thinking about things like vocation and “Am I making the most of my life?” “What do other people, other countries think of me/us?” is, in a way, more fulfilling, healthy and satisfying than a pat, and most likely wrong, answer could ever be.


In his Coalition of the Clueless Speech Yates renounces his profession and all who seem to know all the answers. Ironically, it’s only when he claims to know nothing that Yates finds himself and his most passionate audience? Why?

Because most of us are just sick of people who feel obligated to have an opinion, and a passionate one at that. A while back, when I was finishing up The Futurist, I read a quote by Jon Stewart that said The Daily Show “is about not knowing what the truth is.” I thought that was brilliant, because TV news, then and now, was filled with partisan blowhards; rather than people exploring, questioning, trying to make sense of the world they were imposing their opinions upon it.

I chose a futurist as my protagonist because, while most books feature someone that tries to make sense of some aspect of his or her life, or world, I thought it would be interesting, to have someone whose job is to try to make sense of every aspect of the world–and not just the present–but the future. And at the time I was writing, 2003-2005, that seemed, absurd, impossible and hilarious.

In his really nice little book On Bullshit, Harry G. Frankfurt, at one point, says, “Bullshit is unavoidable wherever circumstances require someone to talk without knowing what he’s talking about.”

I don’t think this is just a futurist-based phenomenon–it’s rotting and stinking throughout the corporate world, the political arena, and various interpersonal relationships. Why? I don’t know. Saying I don’t know, by the way, I think is one of the most honest and brave things a person can say. They are the words of a secure person. Although frequent repetitions of the phrase might not be advised; better to say something along the lines of, I don’t know, but I certainly intend to find out.


Near the end in Bas ‘ar, Blevins says that Yates is just like America. Do you agree? And does this theme of Yates-equals-America evolve as the book progresses?

I didn’t set out to write Yates as a metaphor for the rise and slippage of the American empire, but as I roughed out his career and moral arc, certain, um, parallels began to emerge: Once promising, powerful, idealistic, earnest and capable of greatness, of anything. Now flawed, compromised, at a crossroads, squandering opportunities, power and morals. When we find him, his ignorant, shallow, occasionally well-intentioned but ultimately self-serving behavior casts two completely blind eyes to the real needs of the rest of the world. The parallels began to emerge with the first line: “The Futurist never saw it coming.” Of course recent events kind of fed the metaphor on a depressingly regular basis. Great for the writing. Bad for humanity.


If Yates is a metaphor for America, what does Blevins represent?

He represents all the things in the world that need the help of capable others. He represents the third world. He represents the environment. Racism. He’s a desperate voice in the back of your conscience that is being drowned out by the surround-sound, subwoofer of consumerism, globalism and corporate amorality. And of course, to be true to the metaphor, he needed to be overly idealistic, irrational and, ultimately, bonkers.


Please explain how the relationship between Yates and Marjorie evolves? How do you think they feel about each other at the end? Do they have a future?

From the beginning I was wary of certain things, certain traps and clichés: the hooker with the heart of gold, etc. At first, Marjorie just wants to make a few rands and get out of this drunk guy’s room. Then he helps her and she sees him as someone who could help her more, who could perhaps speed up her five-year plan. In addition, by choosing not to have sex with her, he has gained a glimmer of her trust. On the other hand, Yates takes a liking to Marjorie because she does not speak bullshit or tolerate his. She is blunt and critical and constructive. This moves him to the point where he offers her a way out. Helping her will make him feel good. In Fiji things change. They talk more intimately and there is a hint that there may be more than a friendship between them but I didn’t think it should go further. First of all, the age difference and the vulnerability of her situation would have made any kind of sexual relationship seem creepy. When they go back to the home of his youth for his father’s funeral their feelings for each other deepen through actions and you start to feel that maybe the romance would be earned, would be something you might as a reader want to see. But then he has to go off to Bas ‘ar. I would hope they have a future, but as the end of the book infers, who the hell knows anything about tomorrow?


We never meet Yates’s father, yet he figures prominently in Yates’s conscience. How did Yates’s father influence him in life, and then death?

Yates’s father, like Blevins, provided another type, a moral counterweight for a man whose psyche is teetering on the edge. If Blevins tugged at Yates’s global conscience, his father worked on his personal side. His father was blue-collar, meticulous, hard-working, liked to see tangible results. He never compromised. And he was judgmental. On the surface he was the opposite of Yates. How did he influence him in life and death? As a child Yates idolized the man. As an adult he found him insufferable. And after his father died, he began to see him in full, his flaws and strengths, his concrete moral code and the incongruities–Roberto Clemente, the fascination with the stars–that make us all impossible to figure out.


Discuss the real world, contemporary parallels to things like space tourism, Destination Bas ‘ar, staged/scripted news conferences, corporate excess, the selling of Brand America to the World?

On first read, some of these things may sound made up, but they were dropping into my lap left and right. Space Tourism is always in the news. See Paul Allen’s project and Richard Branson. Corporate excess? Enron, Halliburton and Tyco I believe are only the beginning, and not just a byproduct of NASDAQ hysteria. Staged, scripted press conferences? See Donald Rumsfeld in Iraq. Karen Hughes in Saudi Arabia. Ari Fleischer. Scott McClellan. See the U.S. paying the Arabic media to run “Things are looking up!” stories. Even before Karen Hughes was sent to the Middle East as cultural liaison, there was an ex ad exec named Charlotte Beers who was charged with selling Brand America to the region. That was our answer to 9/11. Bad TV. And finally, when I was writing this, I stumbled upon a Web site for an actual business expo called Destination Baghdad that was scheduled to take place months after American troops took the city. Since then I believe it has been postponed and rescheduled numerous times. But it was there, and it was clearly all about making money on the new nation. And I knew right away that Yates had to go to something very similar.


Why, as a society, are we so future obsessed? Have we always been that way or is it a more contemporary symptom?

I believe we’ve always been that way–from the time of prophets, the Oracle at Delphi, Nostradamus, Da Vinci–right up until now. It gives us a thrill. Hope, even though it’s often false, and optimism.

In part because it used to be my job, I became a bit of a junky for that kind of discourse; because of the intellectual tease, the possibilities. I loved and still love the inquiry, the speculation. What I don’t love, and rarely trust, are the bold prognostications, the people who speak of the future in absolutes, as edicts from Tomorrowland rather than something to be considered and weighed.

I worked as a creative director on the AT&T business in the early ’90s, just as the net was beginning to boom. We were doing the “You Will” commercials that predicted everything from the wrist phone to a home that ran itself. I was going to Bell Labs, pre-Lucent, every few weeks and seeing these incredible inventors talk about the future and I couldn’t help but believe.

In fact all tech and telecom ads from that era were incredibly optimistic about the transformative power of the Internet. The global village. Bringing the world together, etc. At the very best, the proclamations were premature. At their worst, they were flat out wrong.

Anyway, back in the ’90s, working on tech and telecom accounts, just as things were about to really blast off, I became fascinated with that culture, with what intellectuals and futurists had to say about the digital revolution, what philosophers had to say about the way it would or wouldn’t change the way we communicate, the way we exist. And because of my job, I had access to incredibly fascinating people like Nicholas Negroponte of the MIT Media lab, the founders of Wired magazine, Watts Wacker, Faith Popcorn, George Gilder, Lori Anderson, not to mention Carrot Top and Tom Selleck. Some actually influenced the moment, the age, the trend. Some truly saw it coming. Some observed it as it happened and labeled it, coined a phrase for it that marketers could glom onto, thus making themselves immortal. But others, most others, they just got it totally wrong.


In The Futurist a society obsessed with “What’s Next?” is seemingly paralyzed by the present, forced to ask itself, in effect, “What now?” Explain.

I also believe (and again, what do I know), that the times will dictate the popularity of something like futurism, our fascination with what’s coming. I know that my protagonist was there for the heady times, the Internet boom, the thrill of possibilities, the skyrocketing NASDAQ. But it was a lot more interesting for me to explore what his life would be like after the shit hit the fan: The unfulfilled promise of the net, the market crash, Enron, corporate excess and scandals, a controversial election, a horrible terrorist attack, a war, an occupation, and a preoccupation with what horrible thing will befall us next? What the hell could a futurist possibly make of all this? For a while we thought we had it very good, peace, prosperity, power, and we thought it would never end. When it did, it was sudden and ubiquitous and it freaked a lot of us out.


From the hermit-like existence of the billionaire Campbell to the disillusioned Peace Corps deserter to, of course, Yates, a central theme of the book is vocation. More clearly: What do I do with myself now? How does this theme reflect the world we live in?

People who thought they knew what they wanted to do, what they wanted from life and out of it, have had their world violently shaken. The major they chose in college suddenly seems trite. The twelve years they just put in at the glass and steel tower suddenly seems a waste. People who thought they were universally loved are discovering that 4/5 of the world hates them. What is a human being to do but try to figure out why?


From the Hardcover edition.

Praise

Praise

“Pushes right up to the edge of satire but never over it. The Futurist is at turns glib, trenchant, cynical, heartfelt, daffy, and harrowing – often on the same page.”—Entertainment Weekly “Superbly cynical. . . . A book so blackly accurate it can predict tomorrow’s headlines. . . . Othmer has a wild comic touch.” —The Village Voice“A funny, thoughtful satire of corporate life, mass media and political manipulation. . . .You’re laughing, and then you’re feeling deeply unsettled about the state of the world.”—The Washington Post Book World“A tour de force. Othmer’s cultural riffing is a true joy, and his caustic humor is a devilish delight. Like The Corrections, this novel bristles with heady contemporary concepts, yet you can polish it off on an overnight flight.”—L.A. Weekly

  • The Futurist by James P. Othmer
  • June 12, 2007
  • Fiction - Literary; Fiction
  • Anchor
  • $16.00
  • 9780307275141

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