By Jonathan Lethem
From America's so much creative novelist, Jonathan Lethem, comes this compelling and compulsive riff at the vintage detective novel.
Lionel Essrog is Brooklyn's own self-appointed Human Freakshow, an orphan whose Tourettic impulses force him to bark, count number, and rip aside our language in startling and unique ways. Together with 3 veterans of the St. Vincent's domestic for Boys, he works for small-time mobster Frank Minna's limo provider cum detective company. lifestyles with out Frank Minna, the charismatic King of Brooklyn, will be incredible, so who cares if the projects he units them are, good, now not precisely felony. but if Frank is fatally stabbed, one in all Lionel's colleagues lands in penitentiary, the opposite vie for his place, and the victim's widow skips city. Lionel's international is by surprise topsy-turvy, and this outcast who has hassle even talking makes an attempt to untangle the threads of the case whereas attempting to retain the phrases directly in his head. Motherless Brooklyn is a brilliantly unique homage to the vintage detective novel through probably the most acclaimed writers of his new release.
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Extra resources for Motherless Brooklyn
One fist clutched a telephone; with the other hand he was jotting additions to a long list of items. He had an odd, glazed expression, and his glance flicked over Chris without seeing her. After what seemed a very long time, he mumbled a good-bye and hung up. "Liberated women," he snarled into the air above Chris's head. " She took one step closer to the counter. " the man snapped. " Chris looked over her shoulder, ready to run if necessary. "I suppose when you grow up you're going to want a career," the man jeered.
Uncle Ralph seemed pleased to have a job. He hurried off, and Grandma patted the bed beside her. "Sit here, Chrissy," she invited. "Now, how are things going? " The words spilled out. "Uncle Ralph doesn't want me with him. Oh, we get along okay"—she wanted to chase away Grandma's worried frown—"but he'll be glad when I'm gone. And so will I," she added. Grandma hugged her. "My Ralph is a loner, I'm afraid. He's lived by himself for a long time, and he's used to it. But I'm sure he's glad to have you with him, dear.
Time passed, and her muscles ached, but she stayed in her sheet-tent. When she peered out at last, the first gray light of morning was touching the windows. She stayed in bed another half-hour, listening to the world wake itself up. A cardinal sang. A squirrel scolded. The lake made its soft, lapping sounds. When she opened her bedroom door, the house was very still. Uncle Ralph's door was closed. The attic door was closed, too. There was nothing unusual to see, except for the chest. It stood out from the attic door at an angle, as if it had been roughly thrust aside.