Revenge: Eleven Dark Tales by Yoko Ogawa (English) Paperback Book

Description: Revenge by Yoko Ogawa, Stephen Snyder An aspiring writer moves into a new apartment and discovers that her landlady has murdered her husband. Years later, the writers stepson reflects upon his stepmother and the strange stories she used to tell him. Meanwhile, a surgeons lover vows to kill him if he does not leave his wife. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description "Its not just Murakami but also the shadow of Borges that hovers over this mesmerizing book... [and] one may detect a slight bow to the American macabre of E.A. Poe. Ogawa stands on the shoulders of giants, as another saying goes. But this collection may linger in your mind -- it does in mine -- as a delicious, perplexing, absorbing and somehow singular experience." --Alan Cheuse, NPR Sinister forces collide---and unite a host of desperate characters---in this eerie cycle of interwoven tales from Yoko Ogawa, the critically acclaimed author of The Housekeeper and the Professor. An aspiring writer moves into a new apartment and discovers that her landlady has murdered her husband. Elsewhere, an accomplished surgeon is approached by a cabaret singer, whose beautiful appearance belies the grotesque condition of her heart. And while the surgeons jealous lover vows to kill him, a violent envy also stirs in the soul of a lonely craftsman. Desire meets with impulse and erupts, attracting the attention of the surgeons neighbor---who is drawn to a decaying residence that is now home to instruments of human torture. Murderers and mourners, mothers and children, lovers and innocent bystanders---their fates converge in an ominous and darkly beautiful web. Yoko Ogawas Revenge is a master class in the macabre that will haunt you to the last page. An NPR Best Book of 2013 Author Biography Yoko Ogawas fiction has appeared in The New Yorker, A Public Space, and Harpers Magazine. Since 1988, she has produced more than twenty works of fiction and nonfiction, which have been published in several countries. Her novel Hotel Iris was shortlisted for the Man Asian Literary Prize in 2010. Stephen Snyder teaches Japanese literature at Middlebury College. His translations include works by Kzaburo Oe, Ryu Murakami, Natsuo Kirino, and Miri Yu. Review "A secret garden of dark, glorious flowers: silky, heartbreakingly beautiful...and poison to their roots." --Joe Hill, author of Heart-Shaped Box and Horns "Yoko Ogawa is an absolute master of the Gothic at its most beautiful and dangerous, and Revenge is a collection that deepens and darkens with every story you read." --Peter Straub "Its not just Murakami but also the shadow of Borges that hovers over this mesmerizing book... [and] one may detect a slight bow to the American macabre of E.A. Poe. Ogawa stands on the shoulders of giants, as another saying goes. But this collection may linger in your mind -- it does in mine -- as a delicious, perplexing, absorbing and somehow singular experience." --Alan Cheuse, NPR "Spine-tingling... These are shiningly sinister stories that grab you by the vulnerable back of the neck and dont let go." --Elle "Fittingly, each tale seems to be its own torture chamber--dark and meticulous... More disturbing than the bloody imagery is the eerie calm with which each plot unfolds, as if one act of violence must necessarily transform into the portal for another." --The New Yorker "Magnificently macabre... Ogawa is the Japanese master of dread... These tales are not for the faint of heart, but Ms. Ogawa is more "Masque of the Red Death" than she is The Ring. She elevates herself above any limitations of the genre shes working in." --The New York Observer "Equally seductive and unsettling, these tales overwhelm the reader with sinister dreamscapes, each exquisitely rendered in cool, precise prose that has been rightfully compared to that of fellow Japanese author Haruki Murakami...her tales will long linger in the mind." --San Francisco Chronicle "[Revenge] Erupts into the ordinary world as if from the unconscious or the grave.... A haunting introduction to her work... the overall effect is [that of] David Lynch: the rot that lurks beneath the surface." --The Economist "If creepy were a place, Ms. Ogawa has come up with many ways to get there... Even while punctuated [by] macabre flourishes her book maintains its restraint, like a dark alley thats too quiet, or an insane person acting too calm." --Susannah Meadows, The New York Times "Every act of malice glows creepily against the plain background. Its a book that ought to be distributed to every fiction-M.F.A. candidate who tends to overwrite: Ogawa is an expert in doing more with less." --New York Magazine "[Ogawa] stresses the trustworthiness of the storyteller and the essential reality of what we are seeing, even as strange situations and surreal events create a dreamlike undertow, challenging our sense of security. The result is a profound unease that spreads out and permeates the narrative. Kafka is, of course, one of the great disseminators of this technique, and Murakami also uses it, but Ogawa makes it her own, with excellent results." --Los Angeles Review of Books "Reading Yoko Ogawa is akin to watching a film by David Lynch; the experience is an admixture of vertiginous revelation and dark defamiliarization... her stories seem to exist in a timeless, fluid medium all its own." --The Huffington Post "Eleven creeptastic stories, complete with Murakami-esque weirdness." --io9 "Japans best teller of macabre tales... Ogawa is such a master that she pushes the boundaries and suspends the mystery... You never know why, only that humans are slaves to time, and we keep on with our lives so that someday we might understand." --The Daily Beast "A storehouse of creepy and vicious behavior... [Ogawas] touches of horror sometimes put me in mind of the grown-up stories of Roald Dahl." --Jim Higgins, The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel "Ogawas language, in Stephen Snyders translation, is spare, quiet, content with being nimble rather than dwelling on beautiful phrases. Its a language that doesnt announce its own frugality and refuses to make a minimalists daring and obvious cuts. The seeming ease is the outcome of hard work, but it doesnt make the reader sweat. Ogawa moves swiftly; she has the power to move." --Stefan Kiesby, Los Angeles Review of Books "Woven through the 11 interconnected tales is a thread of the grotesque, the macabre, the mournful.... Ogawas language is both spare and searingly precise, crystallizing the details of everyday existence and capturing the unexpected shock of the bizarre.... Readers willing to explore the murkier edges of the human psyche will not be disappointed." --Associated Press "Eleven carefully calibrated creepy stories... This deliciously dark new collection should bring new fans to the prolific Japanese author Yoko Ogawa." --Jane Ciabattari, The Daily Beast "Disturbing... the delicate, slow-burning eeriness [lingers] long after the book is put down." --Time Out (New York) "Ogawa paints each tale exquisitely. . . . With dark calm and disquieting imagery, she leads readers on a journey of the macabre in a progression of tales that resound long after the last page is turned. . . . Ogawas writing is simple and effective, and her technique for merging the tales demonstrates her mastery of the written word." --Kirkus "[These are] haunted characters who could have walked, quite coolly, out of a Joyce Carol Oates or Koji Suzuki creation.... Not recommended for bedtime reading." --The Boston Phoenix "Ogawa is original, elegant, very disturbing." --Hilary Mantel, Booker Prize winning author of Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies "A dynamite first-person voice, a story about reckless ridiculous twisted adolescent love in a summertime resort in Japan." --Junot Díaz on Hotel Iris "Exquisitely disturbing...Ogawa steadily builds the tension to an unexpected crescendo that resolves into an uncertain reprieve." --Elle "Ogawas fiction reflects like a fun-house mirror, skewing conventional responses....[Like] Haruki Murakami, Ogawa writes stories that float free of any specific culture, anchoring themselves instead in the landscape of the mind." --The Washington Post Book World "Using spare strokes and macabre detail, Ogawa creates an intense vision of limited lives and the twisted ingenuity of people trapped within them." --Maureen Corrigan, NPRs Fresh Air "A conspicuously gifted writer...To read Ogawa is to enter a dreamlike state tinged with a nightmare, and her stories continue to haunt. She possesses an effortless, glassy, eerie brilliance." --The Guardian (London) Review Quote Yoko Ogawa is an absolute master of the Gothic at its most beautiful and dangerous, and Revenge is a collection that deepens and darkens with every story you read. Excerpt from Book AFTERNOON AT THE BAKERY It was a beautiful Sunday. The sky was a cloudless dome of sunlight. Out on the square, leaves fluttered in a gentle breeze along the pavement. Everything seemed to glimmer with a faint luminescence: the roof of the ice-cream stand, the faucet on the drinking fountain, the eyes of a stray cat, even the base of the clock tower covered with pigeon droppings. Families and tourists strolled through the square, enjoying the weekend. Squeaky sounds could be heard from a man off in the corner, who was twisting balloon animals. A circle of children watched him, entranced. Nearby, a woman sat on a bench knitting. Somewhere a horn sounded. A flock of pigeons burst into the air, and startled a baby who began to cry. The mother hurried over to gather the child in her arms. You could gaze at this perfect picture all day-an afternoon bathed in light and comfort-and perhaps never notice a single detail out of place, or missing. * * * As I pushed through the revolving door of the bakery and walked inside, the noise of the square was instantly muffled, and replaced by the sweet scent of vanilla. The shop was empty. "Excuse me," I called hesitantly. There was no reply, so I decided to sit down on a stool in the corner and wait. It was my first time in the bakery, a neat, clean, modest little shop. Cakes, pies, and chocolates were carefully arranged in a glass case, and tins of cookies lined shelves on either side. On the counter behind the register was a roll of pretty orange and light blue checkered wrapping paper. Everything looked delicious. But I knew before I entered the shop what I would buy: two strawberry shortcakes. That was all. The bell in the clock tower rang four times. Once more a flock of pigeons rose into the sky and flew across the square, settling in front of the flower shop. The florist came out with a scowl on her face and a mop to drive them away, and a flurry of gray feathers wafted into the air. There was no sign of anyone in the shop, and after waiting a little while longer I considered giving up and leaving. But I had only recently moved to this town and I did not know of another good bakery. Perhaps the fact that they could keep customers waiting like this was a sign of confidence, rather than rudeness. The light in the glass display case was pleasant and soft, the pastries looked beautiful, and the stool was quite comfortable-I liked the place, in spite of the service. A short, plump woman stepped from the revolving door. Noise from the square filtered in behind her and faded away. "Is anybody here?" she called out. "Where could she have gone?" she added, turning and smiling at me. "She must be out on an errand. Im sure shell be right back." She sat down next to me and I gave a little bow. "I suppose I could get behind the counter and serve you myself," the woman said. "I know pretty well how things work around here, I sell them their spices." "Thats very kind of you, but Im not in a hurry," I said. We waited together. She rearranged her scarf, tapped the toe of her shoe, and anxiously fidgeted with the clasp on a black leather wallet-apparently used to collect her accounts. I realized she was trying to come up with a topic for conversation. "The cakes here are delicious," she said at last. "They use our spices, so you know theres nothing funny in them." "Thats reassuring," I said. "The place is usually very busy. Strange that its so empty today. Theres often a line outside." People passed by the shop window-young couples, old men, tourists, a policeman on patrol-but no one seemed interested in the bakery. The woman turned to look out at the square, and ran her fingers through her wavy white hair. Whenever she moved in her seat, she gave off an odd smell; the scent of medicinal herbs and overripe fruit mingled with the vinyl of her apron. It reminded me of when I was a child, and the smell of the little greenhouse in the garden where my father used to raise orchids. I was strictly forbidden to open the do∨ but once, without permission, I did. The scent of the orchids was not at all disagreeable, and this pleasant association made me like the old woman. "I was happy to see they have strawberry shortcake," I said, pointing at the case. "Theyre the real thing. None of that jelly, or too much fruit piled on top, or those little figurines they use for decoration. Just strawberries and cream." "Youre right," she said. "I can guarantee theyre good. The best thing in the shop. The base is made with our special vanilla." "Im buying them for my son. Today is his birthday." "Really? Well, I hope its a happy one. How old is he?" "Six. Hell always be six. Hes dead." * * * He died twelve years ago. Suffocated in an abandoned refrigerator left in a vacant lot. When I first saw him, I didnt think he was dead. I thought he was just ashamed to look me in the eye because he had stayed away from home for three days. An old woman I had never seen before was standing nearby, looking dazed, and I realized that she must have been the one who had found him. Her hair was disheveled, her face pale, and her lips were trembling. She looked more dead than my son. "Im not angry, you know," I said to him. "Come here and let me give you a hug. I bought the shortcake for your birthday. Lets go back to the house." But he didnt move. He had curled up in an ingenious fashion to fit between the shelves and the egg box, with his legs carefully folded and his face tucked between his knees. The curve of his spine receded into a dark, cramped space behind him that I could not see. The skin on his neck caught the light from the open door. It was so smooth, covered in soft down-I knew it all too well. "No, it couldnt be," I said to the old woman nearby. "Hes just sleeping. He hasnt eaten anything, and he must be exhausted. Lets carry him home and try not to wake him. He should sleep, as much as he wants. Hell wake up later, Im sure of it." But the woman did not answer. * * * The reaction of the woman in the shop to my story was unlike anything Id encountered in the past. There was no sign of sympathy or surprise or even embarrassment on her face. I would have known if she was merely pretending to respond so placidly. The experience of losing my son had taught me to read people, and I could tell immediately that this woman was genuine. She neither regretted having asked me the question nor blamed me for confessing something so personal to a stranger. "Well," she said, "then it was lucky you chose this bakery. There are no better pastries anywhere; your son will be pleased. And they include a whole box of birthday candles for free. Theyre darling-red, blue, pink, yellow, some with flowers or butterflies, animals, anything you could want." She smiled faintly, in a way that seemed perfectly suited to the quiet of the bakery. I found myself wondering whether she understood that my son had died. Or perhaps she knew only too well about people dying. * * * Long after I had realized that my son would not be coming back, I kept the strawberry shortcake we were meant to have eaten together. I passed my days watching it rot. First, the cream turned brown and separated from the fat, staining the cellophane wrapper. Then the strawberries dried out, wrinkling up like the heads of deformed babies. The sponge cake hardened and crumbled, and finally a layer of mold appeared. "Mold can be quite beautiful," I told my husband. The spots multiplied, covering the shortcake in delicate blotches of color. "Get rid of it," my husband said. I could tell he was angry. But I did not understand why he would speak so harshly about our sons birthday cake. So I threw it in his face. Mold and crumbs covered his hair and his cheeks, and a terrible smell filled the room. It was like breathing in death. * * * The strawberry shortcakes were displayed right on the upper shelf of the pastry case, the most prominent place in the shop. Each was topped with three whole strawberries. They looked perfectly preserved, no sign of mold. "I think Ill be going," the old woman said. She stood up, smoothed her apron, and glanced out the window toward the square, as though looking one last time for the return of the bakery shop girl. "Ill wait a little longer," I said. "You do that," she said, reaching out to gently touch my hand. Hers was callused and wrinkled-made rough by her work-and she had dirt under her fingernails. Still, her hand was warm and comforting, perhaps like the heat from those little birthday candles she had mentioned. "Im going to check on a couple of places where the girl might be, and if I find her Ill tell her to come straight back." "Thank you," I said. "Not at all … Good-bye." Clutching her wallet under her arm, she turned to leave. As she stepped through the revolving door, I noticed that he Details ISBN0312674465 Author Stephen Snyder Short Title REVENGE Language English Translator Stephen Snyder ISBN-10 0312674465 ISBN-13 9780312674465 Media Book Format Paperback Birth 1962 Year 2013 Publication Date 2013-01-29 DEWEY FIC Subtitle Eleven Dark Tales Imprint St Martins Press Place of Publication New York Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2013-01-29 NZ Release Date 2013-01-29 US Release Date 2013-01-29 UK Release Date 2013-01-29 Pages 176 Publisher St Martins Press Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:50733013;

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