Pinkerton Goes to Scotland Yard". FAIR ;. GILL, B. Gold Medal Book Soft Cover. Book Condition: Very Good. Good Girl Art Painted Cover! Like Kerrigan, the stevedore, the old-young man with the strength of three and the secret dreams of a life away from the hell of Vernon Street.
They fell in love and they would have been all right, except for Vernon Street. It stood between them, this crooked length of scarred, cracked asphalt - an abyss that held them worlds apart. Mass Market Paperback. Bookseller Inventory Book Condition: Near Good. First Paperback Ed. Precedes Lion by 4 years! Appears to be a factory cut! Crude looking, but rare book! News Stand Library Bookseller Inventory NL Lion Books LB Book Condition: Fair.
Second Edition. I have a gun. And I have used it. It I have to, I will use it again. I will use it on them, on the whole gang of them, and I will use it on her, though I love her.cropetuntac.ga
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They make me do it. They are hunting me, and they want to kill me. Here is the whole of explosive novel on which Columbia Pictures based the dynamic film starring Aldo Ray and Anne Bancroft. Top 1" of Spine missing. Re-Glued; Water stained. Still OK as a Reading copy!. Book Condition: Near Very Good. Good Girl Art Photo Cover! First Edition By This Publisher. Book Condition: Fair to Good.
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Insides are still quite nice! Still great as a cheap Reading copy!. Detective Book Club. Three Complete stories in one book! Goldthwaite pages. Book Condition: Good.
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Still a nice Reading copy!. He had to save her. He had to say the right thing. A weird sound came from the crowd in the street. She was ready to leap! As head of the Missing Persons Bureau of a great city, Paul Ballard was in the worst trouble of his life. He had closed the file on Myra Nichol's lost husband. Nichols claimed that Ballard had buried the case. Now she threatened suicide. Ballard knew that if she jumped, his department would be rocked by scandal.
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But what he didn't know was that if he saved her, she would be marked for a different and more horrible death. Book Condition: Very Good to Fine. Fat, soiled Hagen rules this street of prostitutes, workers, dope-pushers - and lost souls. Yet people love and live on Ruxton, as they do on any back street in your own home town. The terms seem apt enough, but they do not do much for us either to explain or to encapsulate the experience we have with this figure. For one thing, she will not wear the traditional saintly costume we'd like to deck her out in, the one we've grown so fond of.
We love to see those who triumph over our cruelties as wonderfully but somehow predictably unresentful, but Madonna Swan has attended to the words of her grandfather -- "Never trust a white man behind your back! They will stab you, in one way or another!
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She is always canny, quick to sense danger and to protect herself from the white savages hiding behind the trees: she fights off an employer who tries to molest her by kicking him "where it hurts men the most," and another white who pats her bottom is knocked cold by an uppercut from her purse, receiving also some choice words as he crashes to the cold and sodden barroom floor: "No white man is ever going to touch this 'squaw. Get up and I'll knock hell out of you again.
Later she and her husband laugh uproariously when they discover that the KO was delivered by a bottle of hand cream concealed like brass knuckles in her purse: the wannabe macho man was "done in by Jergens lotion. More slyly, Madonna Swan deflects all the sentimental cliches tying Indians to the cutesy in our vocabulary. She repeats, for instance, a story of her mother's about how mice answered the prayers of her grandmother, trapped in a cabin in winter without food or fuel, by inspiring Madonna's mother to go and check on the cabin, how the grateful family prepared an offering of thanks for the mice people, and how we can see from this how "everything on this earth has a purpose," exactly the sentimental conclusion we find so satisfactory from stories of people who are, after all, so very ecological, now aren't they!
But her mother goes on: "Everything on this earth has a purpose, the ants, badger, deer, even the flies! Everything but zuzeca [ snakes ]! The finest of the new novelists and poets emerging from among Native American writers are equally elusive, none more than Ray A. Young Bear, the brilliant and widely recognized post-modernist trickster. His "Black Eagle Child: The Facepaint Narratives," a dizzying re-creation in prose and poetry of the author's life he is of Mesquakie ancestry and his "own laborious Journey of Words," mixes voices, landscapes and tones in such a way as to move us deeply without letting us settle into any sense of tragic participation.
Partly this is a matter of Mr. Young Bear's relentless instancing of our "cosmic insignificance"; his bullying, Hardyesque deflation of any grandeur, even any consistent patterning of events. Mostly, though, we are unsettled by the merging of points of view, of naturalistic detail with the visionary a combination of spiritual journeys, chemical inducements and U. Describing his grandmother doing ribbon applique on dress panels or peeling potatoes at the table, he offers this image of how he is suddenly hit by the reality of their poverty: The distant oceans I only read about came over the top of the wooded hill, and the waves raced down, toppling what was otherwise a semblance of a strong household.
Young Bear's grotesque comedy refuses to release us into simplicity, not only because it reaches toward pain but because its distortions also dignify, as in the following passage where the narrator, the Mexican-American girl attracted to his "blood," and their dance-floor nuzzlings are ridiculed so thoroughly that somehow the bizarre poultry-bodies are redeemed: It was at best an uneven trade-off: a glimpse of ancient Woodlands wisdom for a precious face and body. Physically, we fit like a puzzle: my gut on her trim, muscular stomach, her famous breasts on my flat, bony chest; culturally we were separated by galaxies.
All that could be seen when we slow-danced were my chicken legs, leading, shuffling about, and scratching the floor for support. More formally traditional than Mr. Young Bear but equally startling and perhaps just as talented is Louis Owens, of Choctaw and Cherokee descent, whose novel, "The Sharpest Sight," constitutes a spectacular inaugural for a series on American Indian literature from the University of Oklahoma Press. The tendency to start these series -- and there are a rush of them -- is encouraging, but it also marks our rage to get all this material under control: to arrange series, give prizes, employ scholars and university presses as sorters, establish Indian sections at B.
But the abilities of Mr. Owens, who is a professor of literature at the University of California, Santa Cruz, and the author of several scholarly studies, are strong enough to prevail over any series or awards ceremonies. IN "The Sharpest Sight" he sets up what seems at first to be an intriguing but rather easily handled whodunit. At least that's what I thought before, some 50 pages in, I realized with some chagrin how thoroughly I'd been bamboozled. The mystery story doesn't go away, and it's great fun; but it's entwined with an artfully interfolded story of how knowledge is reached, constructed, approximated, or just plain faked.
How do we arrive at what we are finally willing to take as "knowing"? But that makes the work sound abstract and pretentious, when it is, in fact, invitingly loose-jointed, mixing in jokes, barbs, deep-cutting mockery of sympathetic whites "I've always been fascinated by Indians. Collected arrowheads and stuff. It was like I was trying to find out who I was.
I always thought Indians had names like Afraid-of-His-Horses. You speak Indian? Alternating between the central California coast and the Mississippi swamps, "The Sharpest Sight" makes both seem equally dangerous and uncontrollable. One especially profound current in this extraordinary novel traces the ways in which whites make genocide erotic, mixing their tingling desire for death with their lust for Indians, murdering them in a frenzy of love. Don Coldsmith's "Walks in the Sun" sets itself up as a potboiler: it's the 20th novel in his immensely successful and apparently endless Spanish Bit Saga, which, crows the publisher, now has "more than three million copies.
The book features very short chapters, lots of illustrations, and a sharply focused plot with few enough characters and a brisk enough narrative that it would fit comfortably into a harried traveler's mind buckled in from, say, Omaha to Atlanta. Rider Haggard rip-off, a colonial adventure story of an exploring party of Indians from the Great Plains who "went too far south" in the 's, wandering among the exotics in Central America and encountering comic-book terrors in every mudhole and under every tent flap.
There are deadly alligators "thunder-lizards" , snarling pythons dropping out of trees to strangle and swallow even big people whole, monstrous "tooth-fish" sharks, I think , jaguars who feed mainly on humans, cannibals wielding blowguns double-dip savagery , mutiny and jungle fever. But this simple, plain-spoken story actually carries the enormous charge of subversive fable, giving us mythmaking of the most alarming variety. As it comes to resemble more and more the form of the legend, it offers to us a seditious wisdom: the knowledge that we cannot understand.
This deceptively subtle work quietly refutes virtually every point of received wisdom about Indians and Indian culture, suggesting, for instance, that "tribes" were far less separate and distinct than we have liked to think and that Indian "beliefs" were far more sophisticated, provisional and metaphoric than we have understood. More pointedly, the story concerns a venture into a new culture, a new mode of experience, a venture that is a disaster not only physically but also conceptually. The title character, possessed of powerful medicine and magic, finds that the farther he moves out of his habitual climate, economy, religion and hunting territory, the less is he able to cast and read his bones, the less is he able to understand or to be understood: "Some of our stories, like that of how Bobcat lost his tail, were useless.
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