A Visit from the Goon Squad. View PDF. Winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction Jennifer Egan's spellbinding work circles Bennie Salazar, an aging former. for organizing fictional space, postmodernism with its immanent playfulness,. selfYparody, selfYirony, and plurality is challenged by the contemporaneity which . [P.D.F] A Visit from the Goon Squad [Ebook, EPUB, KINDLE] By Jennifer Egan. A Visit from the Goon Squad. A Visit from . Author: Jennifer Egan. Pages:
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A Visit From the Goon Squad. Home · A Visit From the Goon Squad Author: Egan Jennifer. downloads Views 2MB Size Report. DOWNLOAD EPUB. NATIONAL BESTSELLER National Book Critics Circle Award Winner PEN/ Faulkner Award Finalist A New York Times Book Review Best Book One of the Best. Jennifer Egan's spellbinding interlocking narratives circle the lives of Bennie Salazar, an aging former punk rocker and record executive, and Sasha, the.
The point of connection between music and language is that both are deep and basic forms of human expression. Coz liked the couch, he'd told her, because it relieved them both of the burden of eye contact. Jennifer Egan. Mar 22, Pages Buy. Looking for More Great Reads? Sasha wished feverishly that she'd left the wallet there, as if this were an impulse she'd barely resisted. In a breathtaking array of styles and tones ranging from tragedy to satire to PowerPoint, Egan captures the undertow of self-destruction that we all must either master or succumb to; the basic human hunger for redemption; and the universal tendency to reach for both—and escape the merciless progress of time—in the transporting realms of art and music.
The truth is, I only know it well as a consumer. The one part of the industry that I do know, though, is what it feels like to be a teen who hopes music will transform or subsume her. So, first, what is a great rock and roll pause? And what inspired this chapter in this particular form? I remember exactly when that idea came to me: I attempted a story that failed, and assumed that would be the end of it.
I became absolutely consumed with the project of writing that PowerPoint. It seems the idea of the pause is very much at work in your book—in the spaces between when people last met or between who they once were as one of your characters says pre-marriage, pre-parenthood, pre-money, pre-hard drug renunciation, pre-responsibility of any kind and who they are now.
What intrigues you about the pause? Unconsciously, I think this must be what intrigued me about the idea of pauses in songs when I first encountered it.
But not yet. While much of the action takes place in New York City and San Francisco, you also take readers to Africa, to Italy, to a secret compound inhabited by a third world dictator. How important is setting in your fiction? In almost every case, I began with a place, or even an atmosphere that precedes place, and out of that came people, and events, and eventually a story.
Bennie gets a surprise visit from one of his former band mates Scotty Hausmann, once the young star but now a down and out part-time custodial worker for the city. I want to know what happened between A and B. First, I conceived of this book not as a novel or a story collection, but as an LP: Like any LP, it has an A side and a B side, organized on the same principles of evolution and contrast.
In our era of atomized song-buying, the LP is not just a physical relic, but a conceptual one—which is partly why I wanted to honor and exploit it as a structural model in this book.
Are you nervous about the future of language? But what I often end up feeling, even as I experience vertigo at the thought of the future—is that human beings are immensely resourceful, and capable of great beauty and genius, and that language and inner life will survive and even thrive because of those qualities, whatever threats they may face.
Is that so? Can you talk about this connection between music and language?
The point of connection between music and language is that both are deep and basic forms of human expression. At the moment, they both feel imperiled, from a business standpoint will there still be publishing or a music industry in the future?
Culturally and humanistically, these are vast, gaping questions. Join Reader Rewards and earn your way to a free book!
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Pass it on! Stay in Touch Sign up. We are experiencing technical difficulties. Please try again later. Not a bangle jangled; her bony hands were spastic at most things, but she was good at this-made for it, she often thought, in the first drifty moments after lifting something. And once the screwdriver was in her hand, she felt instant relief from the pain of having an old soft-backed man snuffling under her tub, and then something more than relief: Sasha had heard Coz shift behind her and felt something happen in the room: It floated between them: How did she feel?
There was a right answer, of course. At times Sasha had to fight the urge to lie simply as a way of depriving Coz of it. I felt bad. Shit, I'm bankrupting myself to pay for you-obviously I get that this isn't a great way to live.
More than once, Coz had tried to connect the plumber to Sasha's father, who had disappeared when she was six. She was careful not to indulge this line of thinking. But in that direction lay only sorrow. Sasha and Alex crossed the lobby of the Lassimo Hotel in the direction of the street.
Sasha hugged her purse to her shoulder, the warm ball of wallet snuggled in her armpit. As they passed the angular budded branches by the big glass doors to the street, a woman zigzagged into their path.
Sasha felt a twang of terror. It was the woman whose wallet she'd taken-she knew this instantly, although the person before her had nothing in common with the blithe, raven-haired wallet owner she'd pictured.
This woman had vulnerable brown eyes and flat pointy shoes that clicked too loudly on the marble floor. There was plenty of gray in her frizzy brown hair. Sasha took Alex's arm, trying to steer him through the doors.
She felt his pulse of surprise at her touch, but he stayed put. My ID is gone, and I have to catch a plane tomorrow morning. I'm just desperate! It was the sort of frank need that New Yorkers quickly learn how to hide, and Sasha recoiled. It had never occurred to her that the woman was from out of town. But I'm also wondering-could it have fallen out somewhere?
Sasha relaxed slightly. This woman was the type who annoyed people without meaning to; apology shadowed her movements even now, as she followed Alex to the concierge's desk. Sasha trailed behind. She had Xanax in her purse, but she couldn't open her purse.
Even with it zipped, she feared that the wallet would blurt into view in some way that she couldn't control, unleashing a cascade of horrors: Alex turned to the concierge.
Don't you have, like, security? The words "robbed" and "security" managed to pierce the soothing backbeat that pumped through not just the Lassimo but every hotel like it in New York City. There was a mild ripple of interest from the lobby.
Sasha glanced at Alex. He was angry, and the anger made him recognizable in a way that an hour of aimless chatter mostly hers, it was true had not: He came from someplace smaller. He had a thing or two to prove about how people should treat one another.
Two security guys showed up, the same on TV and in life: They dispersed to search the bar. Sasha wished feverishly that she'd left the wallet there, as if this were an impulse she'd barely resisted. The bathroom was empty. Sasha opened her purse, took out the wallet, unearthed her vial of Xanax, and popped one between her teeth. They worked faster if you chewed them. As the caustic taste flooded her mouth, she scanned the room, trying to decide where to ditch the wallet: In the stall?
Under the sink?
The decision paralyzed her. She had to do this right, to emerge unscathed, and if she could, if she did-she had a frenzied sense of making a promise to Coz. The bathroom door opened, and the woman walked in.
Her frantic eyes met Sasha's in the bathroom mirror: There was a pause, during which Sasha felt that she was being confronted; the woman knew, had known all along. Sasha handed her the wallet. She saw, from the woman's stunned expression, that she was wrong.
Copyright by Jennifer Egan. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House Inc. Accessibility links Skip to main content Keyboard shortcuts for audio player.
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