2001, ISBN: 9780345359476

Gebundene Ausgabe

Monthly Review Press, 1975. This is an ex-library book and may have the usual library/used-book markings inside.This book has hardback covers. In fair condition, suitable as a study cop… Mehr…

Monthly Review Press, 1975. This is an ex-library book and may have the usual library/used-book markings inside.This book has hardback covers. In fair condition, suitable as a study copy. Dust jacket in good condition. Please note the Image in this listing is a stock photo and may not match the covers of the actual item,600grams, ISBN:0853453357, Monthly Review Press, 1975, 0, Bantam Books. Good. 6.93 x 1.54 x 4.29 inches. Paperback. 1993. 346 pages. Cover worn. <br>A very funny book... no character is m inor: they're all hilarious. --Houston Chronicle. In The Road T o Gandolfo, Robert Ludlum introduced us to the outrageous General MacKenzie Hawkins and his legal wizard, Sam Devereaux, whose plo t to kidnap the Pope spun wildly out of control into sheer hilari ty. Now Ludlum's two wayward heroes return with a diabolical sche me to right a very old wrong -- and wreak vengeance on the (exple tive deleted) who drummed the hawk out of the military. Their out raged opposition will be no less than the White House. Byzantine Treachery. Discovering a long-buried 1878 treaty with an obscure Indian tribe, the hawk -- a.k.a. Chief Thunder Head -- hatches a brilliant plot that will ultimately bring him and his reluctant l awyer Sam before the Supreme Court. Their goal: to reclaim a choi ce piece of American real estate -- the state of Nebraska. Which just happened to the headquarters of the U.S. Strategic Air Comma nd! Will they succeed against the powers that be? Will the Wopota mi tribe ever have their day in the Supreme Court? From the Oval Office to the Pentagon, all the president's men are outfitted, un til it rests with CIA Director Vincent Vinnie the Bam-Bam Mangeca vallo to cut Sam and Hawk off at the pass. And only one thing is certain: Robert Ludlum will keep us in nonstop suspense and side- splitting laughter-through the very last page. From the Paperbac k edition. Editorial Reviews Review Praise for Robert Ludlum an d The Road to Omaha A very funny book . . . No character is mino r: They're all hilarious.--Houston Chronicle Don't ever begin a Ludlum novel if you have to go to work the next day.--Chicago Sun -Times --This text refers to the hardcover edition. From the Pub lisher A very funny book... no character is minor: they're all hi larious. --Houston Chronicle. In The Road To Gandolfo, Robert L udlum introduced us to the outrageous General MacKenzie Hawkins a nd his legal wizard, Sam Devereaux, whose plot to kidnap the Pope spun wildly out of control into sheer hilarity. Now Ludlum's two wayward heroes return with a diabolical scheme to right a very o ld wrong -- and wreak vengeance on the (expletive deleted) who dr ummed the hawk out of the military. Their outraged opposition wil l be no less than the White House. Byzantine Treachery. Discoveri ng a long-buried 1878 treaty with an obscure Indian tribe, the ha wk -- a.k.a. Chief Thunder Head -- hatches a brilliant plot that will ultimately bring him and his reluctant lawyer Sam before the Supreme Court. Their goal: to reclaim a choice piece of American real estate -- the state of Nebraska. Which just happened to the headquarters of the U.S. Strategic Air Command! Will they succee d against the powers that be? Will the Wopotami tribe ever have t heir day in the Supreme Court? From the Oval Office to the Pentag on, all the president's men are outfitted, until it rests with CI A Director Vincent Vinnie the Bam-Bam Mangecavallo to cut Sam and Hawk off at the pass. And only one thing is certain: Robert Ludl um will keep us in nonstop suspense and side-splitting laughter-t hrough the very last page. --This text refers to the hardcover ed ition. About the Author Robert Ludlum was the author of twenty-o ne novels, each a New York Times bestseller. There are more than 210 million of his books in print, and they have been translated into thirty-two languages. In addition to the Jason Bourne series -The Bourne Identity, The Bourne Supremacy, and The Bourne Ultima tum-he was the author of The Scarlatti Inheritance, The Chancello r Manuscript, and The Apocalypse Watch, among many others. Mr. Lu dlum passed away in March, 2001. From the Paperback edition. --T his text refers to the hardcover edition. From the Inside Flap f unny book... no character is minor:  they're all hilarious. --Hou ston  Chronicle. In The Road To  Gandolfo, Robert Ludlum introd uced us to the  outrageous General MacKenzie Hawkins and his lega l  wizard, Sam Devereaux, whose plot to kidnap the  Pope spun wil dly out of control into sheer hilarity.  Now Ludlum's two wayward heroes return with a  diabolical scheme to right a very old wron g -- and  wreak vengeance on the (expletive deleted) who  drummed the hawk out of the military. Their outraged  opposition will be no less than the White House.  Byzantine Treachery. Discovering a long-buried 1878  treaty with an obscure Indian tribe, the hawk --  a.k.a. Chief Thunder Head -- hatches a brilliant plot  that will ultimately bring him and his reluctant  lawyer Sam before th e Supreme Court. Their goal: t --This text refers to the hardcove r edition. Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All rights reserv ed. 1 The small, decrepit office on the top floor of the govern ment building was from another era, which was to say nobody but t he present occupant had used it in sixty-four years and eight mon ths. It was not that there were dark secrets in its walls or male volent ghosts from the past hovering below the shabby ceiling; qu ite simply, nobody wanted to use it. And another point should be made clear. It was not actually on the top floor, it was above th e top floor, reached by a narrow wooden staircase, the kind the w ives of New Bedford whalers climbed to prowl the balconies, hopin g--most of the time--for familiar ships that signaled the return of their own particular Ahabs from the angry ocean. In summer mo nths the office was suffocating, as there was only one small wind ow. During the winter it was freezing, as its wooden shell had no insulation and the window rattled incessantly, impervious to cau lking, permitting the cold winds to whip inside as though invited . In essence, this room, this antiquated upper chamber with its s parse furniture purchased around the turn of the century, was the Siberia of the government agency in which it was housed. The las t formal employee who toiled there was a discredited American Ind ian who had the temerity to learn to read English and suggested t o his superiors, who themselves could barely read English, that c ertain restrictions placed on a reservation of the Navajo nation were too severe. It is said the man died in that upper office in the cold January of 1927 and was not discovered until the followi ng May, when the weather was warm and the air suddenly scented. T he government agency was, of course, the United States Bureau of Indian Affairs. For the current occupant, however, the foregoing was not a deterrent but rather an incentive. The lone figure in the nondescript gray suit huddled over the rolltop desk, which wa sn't much of a desk, as all its little drawers had been removed a nd the rolling top was stuck at half-mast, was General Mac?Ken?zi e Hawkins, military legend, hero in three wars and twice winner o f the Congressional Medal of Honor. This giant of a man, his lean muscular figure belying his elderly years, his steely eyes and t anned leather-lined face perhaps confirming a number of them, had once again gone into combat. However, for the first time in his life, he was not at war with the enemies of his beloved United St ates of America but with the government of the United States itse lf. Over something that took place a hundred and twelve years ago . It didn't much matter when, he thought, as he squeaked around in his ancient swivel chair and propelled himself to an adjacent table piled high with old leather-bound ledgers and maps. They we re the same pricky-shits who had screwed him, stripped him of his uniform, and put him out to military pasture! They were all the goddamned same, whether in their frilly frock coats of a hundred years ago or their piss-elegant, tight-assed pinstripes of today. They were all pricky-shits. Time did not matter, nailing them di d! The general pulled down the chain of a green-shaded, goosenec ked lamp--circa early twenties--and studied a map, in his right h and a large magnifying glass. He then spun around to his dilapida ted desk and reread the paragraph he had underlined in the ledger whose binding had split with age. His perpetually squinting eyes suddenly were wide and bright with excitement. He reached for th e only instrument of communication he had at his disposal, since the installation of a telephone might reveal his more than schola rly presence at the Bureau. It was a small cone attached to a tub e; he blew into it twice, the signal of emergency. He waited for a reply; it came over the primitive instrument thirty-eight secon ds later. Mac? said the rasping voice over the antediluvian conn ection. Heseltine, I've got it! For Christ's sake, blow into th is thing a little easier, will you? My secretary was here and I t hink she thought my dentures were whistling. She's out? She's o ut, confirmed Heseltine Broke?michael, director of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. What is it? I just told you, I've got it! Got w hat? The biggest con job the pricky-shits ever pulled, the same pricky-shits who made us wear civvies, old buddy! Oh, I'd love t o get those bastards. Where did it happen and when? In Nebraska. A hundred and twelve years ago. Silence. Then: Mac, we weren't around then! Not even you! It doesn't matter, Heseltine. It's t he same horseshit. The same bastards who did it to them did it to you and me a hundred years later. Who's 'them'? An offshoot of the Mohawks called the Wopotami tribe. They migrated to the Nebr aska territories in the middle 1800s. So? It's time for the sea led archives, General Broke?michael. Don't say that! Nobody can do that! You can, General. I need final confirmation, just a few loose ends to clear up. For what? Why? Because the Wopotamis m ay still legally own all the land and air rights in and around Om aha, Nebraska. You're crazy, Mac! That's the Strategic Air Comma nd! Only a couple of missing items, buried fragments, and the fa cts are there.&#8200;.&#8200;.&#8200;. I'll meet you in the cella rs, at the vault to the archives, General Broke?michael.&#8200;.& #8200;.&#8200;. Or should I call you co-chairman of the Joint Chi efs of Staff, along with me, Heseltine? If I'm right, and I know damn well I am, we've got the White House-Pentagon axis in such a bind, their collective tails won't be able to evacuate until we tell 'em to. Silence. Then: I'll let you in, Mac, but then I fa de until you tell me I've got my uniform back. Fair enough. Inci dentally, I'm packing everything I've got here and taking it back to my place in Arlington. That poor son of a bitch who died up i n this rat's nest and wasn't found until the perfume drifted down didn't die in vain! The two generals stalked through the metal shelves of the musty sealed archives, the dull, webbed lights so dim they relied on their flashlights. In the seventh aisle, Mac?K en?zie Hawkins stopped, his beam on an ancient volume whose leath er binding was cracked. I think this is it, Heseltine. Good, and you can't take it out of here! I understand that, General, so I 'll merely take a few photographs and return it. Hawkins removed a tiny spy camera with 110 film from his gray suit. How many rol ls have you got? asked former General Heseltine Broke?michael as Mac?Ken?zie carried the huge book to a steel table at the end of the aisle. Eight, replied Hawkins, opening the yellow-paged volu me to the pages he needed. I have a couple of others, if you nee d them, said Heseltine. Not that I'm so all fired-up by what you think you may have found, but if there's any way to get back at E thelred, I'll take it! I thought you two had made up, broke in M ac?Ken?zie, while turning pages and snapping pictures. Never! I t wasn't Ethelred's fault, it was that rotten lawyer in the Inspe ctor General's office, a half-assed kid from Harvard named Devere aux, Sam Devereaux. He made the mistake, not Brokey the Deuce. Tw o Broke?michaels; he got 'em mixed up, that's all. Horseshit! Br okey-Two put the finger on me! I think you're wrong, but that's not what I'm here for and neither are you.&#8200;.&#8200;.&#8200; . Brokey, I need the volume next to or near this one. It should s ay CXII on the binding. Get it for me, will you? As the head of I ndian Affairs walked back into the metal stacks, the Hawk took a single-edged razor out of his pocket and sliced out fifteen succe ssive pages of the archival ledger. Without folding the precious papers, he slipped them under his suit coat. I can't find it, sa id Broke?michael. Never mind, I've got what I need. What now, M ac? A long time, Heseltine, maybe a long, long time, perhaps a y ear or so, but I've got to make it right--so right there's no hol es, no holes at all. In what? In a suit I'm going to file again st the government of the United States, replied Hawkins, pulling a mutilated cigar out of his pocket and lighting it with a World War II Zippo. You wait, Brokey-One, and you watch. Good God, for what?&#8200;.&#8200;.&#8200;. Don't smoke! You're not supposed t o smoke in here! Oh, Brokey, you and your cousin, Ethelred, alwa ys went too much by the book, and when the book didn't match the action, you looked for more books. It's not in the books, Heselti ne, not the ones you can read. It's in your stomach, in your gut. Some things are right and some things are wrong, it's as simple as that. The gut tells you. What the hell are you talking about? Your gut tells you to look for books you're not supposed to rea d. In places where they keep secrets, like right in here. Mac, y ou're not making sense! Give me a year, maybe two, Brokey, and t hen you'll understand. I've got to do it right. Real right. Gener al Mac?Ken?zie Hawkins strode out between the metal racks of the archives to the exit. Goddamn, he said to himself. Now I really g o to work. Get ready for me, you magnificent Wopotamis. I'm yours ! Twenty-one months passed, and nobody was ready for Thunder Hea d, chief of the Wopotamis. 2 The President of the United States , his jaw firm, his angry eyes steady and penetrating, accelerate d his pace along the steel-gray corridor in the underground compl ex of the, Bantam Books, 1993, 2.5, New York Ballantine 1984. Good. 120 x 180mm. Paperback. 1984. 224 pages. Cover worn. <br>In 1914, when Jean-Marc Montjean, a yo ung French doctor, falls for the beautiful Katya, his love leads to devastating trauma, horror, and tragedy for himself and Katya' s family Editorial Reviews Review A most exquisite, elegant, in genious thriller. --New York Daily News A tour de force . . . A story that explores meticulously some of the darker corners of th e human soul. --Washington Post --This text refers to an out of p rint or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author Trev anian's books have been translated into more than fourteen langua ges and have sold millions of copies worldwide. He lives in the F rench Basque mountains. He is the author of The Crazyladies of Pe arl Street, Shibumi, The Eiger Sanction, The Loo Sanction, and Th e Main. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edit ion of this title. Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All right s reserved. salies-les-bains: august 1938 Every writer who has d ealt with that last summer before the Great War has felt compelle d to comment on the uncommon perfection of the weather: the endle ss days of ardent blue skies across which fair-weather clouds toi led lazily, the long lavender evening freshened by soft breezes, the early mornings of birdsong and slanting yellow sunlight. From Italy to Scotland, from Berlin to the valleys of my native Basse Pyrenees, all of Europe shared an exceptional period of clear, d elicious weather. It was the last thing they were to share for fo ur terrible years-save for the mud and agony, hate and death of t he war that marked the boundary between the nineteenth and twenti eth centuries, between the Age of Grace and the Era of Efficiency . Many who have described that summer claim to have sensed somet hing ominous and terminal in the very excellence of the season, a last flaring up of the guttering candle, a Hellenistic burst of desperate exuberance before the death of a civilization, a final, almost hysterical, moment of laughter and joy for the young men who were to die in the trenches. I confess that my own memory of that last July, assisted to a modest degree by notes and sketches in my journal, carries no hint that I viewed the exquisite weath er as an ironic jest of Fate. Perhaps I was insensitive to the om ens, young as I was, filled with the juices of life, and poised e agerly on the threshold of my medical career. These last words p rovoke a wry smile, as only the conventions of language allow me to describe the quarter century I have passed as a bachelor docto r in a small Basque village as a medical career. To be sure, the bright hardworking young man that I was had every reason to hope he was on the first step of a journey to professional success, al though he might have drawn some hint of a more limited future fro m the humiliatingly trivial tasks he was assigned by his sponsor and patron, Doctor Hippolyte Gros, who emphasized his assistant's subordinate position in dozens of ways, both subtle and bold, no t the least effective of which was reminding patients that I was indeed a full-fledged doctor, despite my apparent youth and palpa ble lack of experience. Doctor Montjean will attend to writing o ut your prescription, he would tell a patient with a benevolent s mile. You may have every confidence in him. Oh, the ink may still be wet on his certificate, but he is well versed in all the most modern approaches to healing, both of body and mind. This last g ibe was aimed at my fascination with the then new and largely mis trusted work of Doctor Freud and his followers. Doctor Gros would pat the hand of his patient (all of whom were women of a certain age, as he specialized in the discomforts associated with menopa use) and assure her that he was honored to have an assistant who had studied in Paris. The widened eyes and tone of awe with which he said Paris were designed to suggest, in broad burlesque, that a simple provincial doctor, such as he, felt obliged to be humbl e before a brilliant young man from the capital who had everythin g to recommend him-save perhaps experience, compassion, wisdom, u nderstanding, and success. Lest I create too unflattering a port rait of Doctor Gros, let me admit that it was kind of him to invi te me to be his summer assistant, as I was fresh out of medical s chool, penniless, without any prospects for purchasing a practice , and burdened by a most uncomplimentary report of my year of int ernship at the mental institution of Passy. However, far from sho wing Doctor Gros the gratitude he had a right to expect, I courte d his displeasure by confessing to him that I considered his area of specialization to be founded on old wives' tales, and his pro fitable summer clinic to be little more than a luxury resort for women with more leisure than common sense. In sharing these obser vations with him, I am sure I believed myself to be admirably ope n and honest for, with the callous assurance of youth, I often mi stook insensitivity for frankness. It is little wonder that he oc casionally retaliated against my callow self-confidence with thru sts at my inexperience and my peculiar absorption with the darker workings of the mind. Indeed, one day in the clinic when I had been holding forth on the ethical parallels between withholding t reatment from the sick and giving it to the healthy, he said to m e, You have no doubt wondered, Montjean, why I chose you to assis t me this summer. Possibly you came to the conclusion that I was staggered by your academic accomplishments and impressed by the a ltruism revealed by your year of unpaid service at Passy. Well, t here was some of that, to be sure. Then too, there was the fact t hat you were born in this part of France, and your dark Basque go od looks are an asset to a clinic catering to women of a certain age and uncertain appetites. After all, having a Basque boy fiddl e with their bits lends to the local color. But foremost among yo ur qualities was your willingness to work cheap, which I admired because humility is an attractive and rare quality in a young doc tor. However, little by little, I am coming to the view that what I mistook for humility was, in fact, an accurate evaluation of y our worth. And, the truth be told, I wasn't of all that much val ue to him, as there was not really enough work at the clinic to o ccupy two doctors. My principal worth was as insurance against hi s falling ill for a day or two, and as freedom for him to take th e occasional day off-days he implied were devoted to romantic pre occupations. For Doctor Gros had something of a reputation as a r ake and a devil with the women who were his patients. He never bo asted openly of his conquests to the worthies of Salies who were his companions over a few glasses each evening in one of the arca de cafes around the central square. Instead he relied on the sile nt smile, the shrug, the weak gesture of protest, to establish hi s reputation, not only as a romancer of potency, but as a man pos sessed of great discretion and a finely tuned sense of honor. No r did Doctor Gros's particularly advantageous position in the str eam of sexual opportunity engender the jealousy one might have ex pected among his peers, for he was protected from their envy by a fully deserved reputation as the ugliest man in Gascony, perhaps in all of France. His was a uniquely thoroughgoing ugliness embr acing both broad plan and minute detail, an ugliness the total of which was greater than the sum of the parts, an ugliness to whic h each feature contributed its bit, from the bulbous veiny nose, to the blotched and pitted complexion, well warted and stained, t o the slack meaty mouth, to the flapping wattles, to the gnarled, irregular ears, to the undershot chin overbalanced by a beetling brow. Only his eyes, glittering and intelligent within their sun ken, rheumy sockets, escaped the general aesthetic holocaust. But withal there was a peculiar attraction to his face, a fascinatio n at the abandon with which Nature can embrace ruin, that lured o ne's glance again and again to his features only to have the gaze deflected by self-consciousness. Doctor Gros was by far the wit tiest and best-educated man in Salies, but the audience for his p ompous, rather purple style of monologue were the dull-minded men who controlled the spa community: the owners of the hotel-restau rants, the manager of the casino, the village lawyer, the banker, all of whom felt a certain reluctant debt to the doctor, for it was his clinic that was the principal attraction for the summer t ourist/patients who were the economic foundation of the town. Sti ll-even though Profit occupies so dominant a position in the mora l order of the French bourgeois mentality that vague impulses tow ards fair play and decency are easily held in rein-it is possible that the more prudish of Salies's merchants might have found Doc tor Gros's cavalier treatment of the lady patients offensive, had these pampered, well-to-do women been genuinely ill. But in fact they were robust middle-class specimens whose only physical dist ress was having attained an age at which fashionable society allo wed them to flap and flutter over women's problems, the clinical details of which they whispered to one another with that appalled delectation later generations would reserve for sex. So it was t hat I alone found Doctor Gros's sexual hinting and double entendr es medically unethical and socially distasteful, a view that my y outhful addiction to moral simplism required me to express. Looki ng back, I wonder that Doctor Gros put up with my self-assured ce nsure at all, but the peculiar fact was that he rather seemed to like me, in a gruff sort of way. He took impish delight in outrag ing my tidy and compact sense of ethics. Also, I was in a positio n, by virtue of education, to catch his puns and comic images tha t went over the heads of his merchant-minded cronies. But I belie ve the principal reason he was fond of me was nostalgic egotism: he saw in me, in both my ambitions and limitations, the young man he had been before time and fate reduced his brilliance to mere table wit, and eroded the scope of his aspirations to the dimensi ons of a profitable small-town clinic. Perhaps this is why his r eaction to my attitude of moral superiority was limited to giving me only the most trivial tasks to perform. And, in fact, I was n ot all that distressed at being relegated to the role of an eleva ted pharmacist, for I had just finished years of grinding work an d study that had drained mind and body and was in need of a lazy summer with time on my hands, with freedom to wander through the quaint, slightly shoddy resort village or to loaf on the banks of the sparkling Gave, overarched by ancient trees and charming sto ne bridges. I wanted time to rest, to dream, to write. Ah yes, w rite. For at that time in my life I felt capable of everything. H aving attempted nothing, I had no sense of my limitations; having dared nothing, I knew no boundaries to my courage. During the ye ars of fatigue and dulling rote in medical school, I had daydream ed of a future confected of two careers: that of the brilliant an d caring doctor and that of the inspired and inspiring poet. And why not? I was an avid and sensitive reader, and I made the commo n error of assuming that being a responsive reader indicated late nt talent as a writer, as though being a gourmand was but a short step from being a chef. Indeed, my first interest in the pioneer work of Doctor Freud sprang, not from a concern for persons woun ded in their collisions with reality, but from my personal curios ity about the nature of creativity and the springs of motivation. So it was that, for several hours a day throughout that indolen t, radiant summer, I wandered into the countryside with my notebo ok, or sat alone at an out-of-the-way cafe, sipping an aperitif a nd holding imagined conversations with important and terribly imp ressed lions of the literary world, or I lounged by the banks of the Gave, notebook open, sketching romantic impressions, my lofty poetic intent inevitably withering to a kind of breathless shatt ered prose in the process of being recorded-a dissipation that I was sure I would learn to avoid once I had mastered the tricks of writing. Then, too, there was the matter of love. As the reader might suspect, the expansive young man that I was had no doubt b ut that he was capable of a great love . . . a staggering love. I was, after all, twenty-five years old, brimming with health, a d evourer of novels, fertile of imagination. It is no surprise that I was ripe for romance. Ripe for romance? Is that not only the self-conscious and sensitive young man's way of saying he was hea vy with passion? Is not, perhaps, romance only the fiction by mea ns of which the tender-minded negotiate their lust? No, not quit e. I am painfully aware that the young man I used to be was callo w, callous, self-confident, and egotistic. There is no doubt he w as heavy with passion. But, to give the poor devil his due, he wa s also ripe for romance. I slipped into a comfortable, rather la zy, routine of life, doing all that Doctor Gros demanded of me an d nothing more. A more ambitious person-or a less blindly confide nt one-would have filled his time with study and self-improvement , for any dispassionate analysis of my future prospects would hav e revealed them to be most uncertain. I was, after all, without f amily and without means; I was in debt for my education; and I ha d no inclination to waste my talents on some impoverished rural c ommunity. Yet I was content to laze away my days, resting myself in preparation for some unknown prospect or adventure that I was sure, without the slightest evidence, lay just around the corner. As events turned out, I would have wasted any time spent in work and study; for the war came that autumn and I was called up imme diately. Romantically-and quite stupidly-I joined the army as a s imple soldier. Four years of mud and trenches, stench, fear, bru talizing boredom. Twice wounded, once seriously enough to limit m y physical activities for the rest of my life. Four years recorde d in my memory as one endless blur of horror and disgust. Even to this day I am choked with nausea and rage when I stand among my fellow veterans in the graveyard of my village and recite the nam es of those mort pour la France. Why did I submit myself to the butchery of the trenches when I might have served in the echelons as a medical officer? Even the most rudimentary knowledge of Doc tor Freud would suggest that I was pursuing a death wish . . . as indeed I was. I knew this at the time, but that knowledge neithe r freed nor, New York Ballantine 1984, 1984, 2.5, Fawcett. Good. 4.2 x 0.5 x 6.9 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 1990. 224 pages. Spine worn.<br>When the body of Canfield Adams, a prof essor of Middle Eastern culture, is found on he pavement seven st ories below his open office window, the police think it was suici de. But those who knew the professor, knew that there were numero us people--on campus and off--who would have relished pushing him . Kate is asked to investigate, and she herself is not sure she w ants to succeed. For the murderer may well be a student she cares about...or a colleague...or even a friend.... If by some cruel o versight you haven't discovered Amanda Cross, you have an uncommo n pleasure in store for you. THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW Edit orial Reviews From the Publisher When I read THE JAMES JOYCE MUR DER, I instantly became a fan of Amanda Cross and her protagonist , English professor Kate Fansler. And I continued to devour this wonderful series: THE QUESTION OF MAX, DEATH IN A TENURED POSITIO N, NO WORD FROM WINIFRED -- and onward. In time, I (and many othe r readers) came to realize that Amanda Cross is a pseudonym for D r. Carolyn G. Heilbrun, the revered Columbia University professor whose WRITING A WOMAN'S LIFE and other nonfiction volumes are re cognized as ground-breaking classics in literary criticism and fe minist studies. My admiration for the author grew and grew -- in both her guises. And then a few years ago, I had the great good f ortune to become the editor of her Amanda Cross half. Which has g iven me many opportunities to get to know Carolyn personally (it helps that we live only a few blocks from each other). So I've be en in the company of this widely beloved author for autograph par ties, bookstore events, an honorary dinner, and recently at the A LA (American Library Association) conference, where scores of ado ring fans -- librarians and educators -- patiently queued up to g et personally autographed copies of THE PUZZLED HEART, the latest Fansler mystery, as well as backlist titles in the series. Even with the resultant writer's cramp, it was a great day for Amanda. And another cherished memory I have of this charming, gracious, and multitalented author. --Joe Blades, Associate Publisher Fro m the Inside Flap When the body of Canfield Adams, a professor of Middle Eastern culture, is found on he pavement seven stories be low his open office window, the police think it was suicide. But those who knew the professor, knew that there were numerous peopl e--on campus and off--who would have relished pushing him. Kate i s asked to investigate, and she herself is not sure she wants to succeed. For the murderer may well be a student she cares about.. .or a colleague...or even a friend.... If by some cruel oversight you haven't discovered Amanda Cross, you have an uncommon pleasu re in store for you. THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW ., Fawcett, 1990, 2.5<

1990, ISBN: 9780345359476

A Trap for Fools. Author: Amanda Cross. Published: Ballantine Books, 1990. Size: mass market. Binding: paperback. If you have. body, body > table > tbody > tr > td {margin: 0; padding: … Mehr…

A Trap for Fools. Author: Amanda Cross. Published: Ballantine Books, 1990. Size: mass market. Binding: paperback. If you have. body, body > table > tbody > tr > td {margin: 0; padding: 0;} body > table {table-layout: fixed; width: 100%; margin: 0; padding: 0; border-spacing: 0;} /*first eBay table*/ #gs8-design {-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; padding: 0 0; font-family: '-apple-system', BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', 'Roboto', 'Fira Sans', 'Droid Sans', 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; background: #fff;} #gs8-design, #gs8-design *, #gs8-design *:before, #gs8-design *:after {-webkit-box-sizing: border-box; -moz-box-sizing: border-box; box-sizing: border-box;} #gs-designArea {padding: 1px 0 25px 0; background: linear-gradient(rgba(255,255,255,0.5),rgba(255,255,255,0)) no-repeat scroll top center,linear-gradient(rgba(0,0,0,0),rgba(0,0,0,0.1)) no-repeat scroll bottom center,url(https://www.iwascoding.de/GarageSale/DesignTemplates/brushed/v4/bg-style3.jpg) repeat scroll top center; background-size: 100% 25px, 100% 25px, auto; background-color: #ccc; 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float: left; margin: 25px 0 0 0; max-width: 250px;} .gs-imageThumbs figcaption {text-align: left; display: none;} #gs-imagesTopRight {float: right;} #gs-imagesTopRight figure {margin: 0 0 20px 15%;} #gs-imagesTopLeft figure {margin: 0 15% 20px 0;} #gs-imagesBtm {clear: both;} #gs-imagesBtm figure {margin: 25px 0 0 0;} #gs-description ul {list-style-position: inside;} @media only screen and (min-width: 901px) { .gs-imageThumbs {width: auto; max-width: 500px;} .gs-imageThumbs figure {width: 250px;} #gs-imagesTopLeft figure {margin-right: 30px;} #gs-imagesTopRight figure {margin-left: 30px;} .gs-imageThumbs figcaption {display: block;} } Author: Amanda Cross Title: A Trap for Fools Binding: paperback Size: mass market Pagination: 213pp plus endmatter Published: Ballantine Books, 1990 Condition: Good; some scuffing of covers; spine cocked; fore-edge somewhat dingy; bookseler's price inside cover ISBN: 034535947x «2018» Take a close look at the auction images for details of contents and condition. If you have any questions at all please send a message through eBay before bidding. Be sure to check our eBay Store for thousands of other listings like this one. Orders will be sent out the next business day after receipt of payment. If you're in a hurry and would like expedited shipping (Priority or Express shipping), please let us know before paying so we can adjust your invoice. Books are sent Media Rate within the US, and other small items are sent Parcel by default. If you would like combined shipping, please (1) contact us to let us know, and then (2) wait to pay until you're finished shopping (but try to keep it within a 4 day period, please). Just leave the items in your eBay Cart and then request an updated invoice after you're done. If you pay for an item, we are obliged to ship it to you, and cannot combine it with subsequent purchases. If you're waiting for a separate auction item to finish, please contact us to let us know.  _gsrx_vers_1516 (GS 9.3 (1516)), Festpreisangebot, [LT: FixedPrice], Bestes Angebot, [LT: BestOffer], Language: English, Intended Audience: Adults, Custom Bundle: No, Ex Libris: No, Inscribed: No, Personalized: No, Signed: No, Book Title: A Trap for Fools, Format: Paperback, Genre: Mystery, Narrative Type: Fiction, Publication Year: 1990, Topic: Mystery, Book Series: Kate Fansler series, Number of Pages: 213, Country/Region of Manufacture: United States, Ballantine Books<

1990, ISBN: 9780345359476

Fawcett. Good. 4.2 x 0.5 x 6.9 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 1990. 224 pages. Spine worn.<br>When the body of Canfield Adams, a prof essor of Middle Eastern culture, is found on he… Mehr…

Fawcett. Good. 4.2 x 0.5 x 6.9 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 1990. 224 pages. Spine worn.<br>When the body of Canfield Adams, a prof essor of Middle Eastern culture, is found on he pavement seven st ories below his open office window, the police think it was suici de. But those who knew the professor, knew that there were numero us people--on campus and off--who would have relished pushing him . Kate is asked to investigate, and she herself is not sure she w ants to succeed. For the murderer may well be a student she cares about...or a colleague...or even a friend.... If by some cruel o versight you haven't discovered Amanda Cross, you have an uncommo n pleasure in store for you. THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW Edit orial Reviews From the Publisher When I read THE JAMES JOYCE MUR DER, I instantly became a fan of Amanda Cross and her protagonist , English professor Kate Fansler. And I continued to devour this wonderful series: THE QUESTION OF MAX, DEATH IN A TENURED POSITIO N, NO WORD FROM WINIFRED -- and onward. In time, I (and many othe r readers) came to realize that Amanda Cross is a pseudonym for D r. Carolyn G. Heilbrun, the revered Columbia University professor whose WRITING A WOMAN'S LIFE and other nonfiction volumes are re cognized as ground-breaking classics in literary criticism and fe minist studies. My admiration for the author grew and grew -- in both her guises. And then a few years ago, I had the great good f ortune to become the editor of her Amanda Cross half. Which has g iven me many opportunities to get to know Carolyn personally (it helps that we live only a few blocks from each other). So I've be en in the company of this widely beloved author for autograph par ties, bookstore events, an honorary dinner, and recently at the A LA (American Library Association) conference, where scores of ado ring fans -- librarians and educators -- patiently queued up to g et personally autographed copies of THE PUZZLED HEART, the latest Fansler mystery, as well as backlist titles in the series. Even with the resultant writer's cramp, it was a great day for Amanda. And another cherished memory I have of this charming, gracious, and multitalented author. --Joe Blades, Associate Publisher Fro m the Inside Flap When the body of Canfield Adams, a professor of Middle Eastern culture, is found on he pavement seven stories be low his open office window, the police think it was suicide. But those who knew the professor, knew that there were numerous peopl e--on campus and off--who would have relished pushing him. Kate i s asked to investigate, and she herself is not sure she wants to succeed. For the murderer may well be a student she cares about.. .or a colleague...or even a friend.... If by some cruel oversight you haven't discovered Amanda Cross, you have an uncommon pleasu re in store for you. THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW ., Fawcett, 1990, 2.5<

ISBN: 034535947X

Notes: Item in good condition. Festpreisangebot, [LT: FixedPrice], [PU: Ballantine Books]

ISBN: 034535947X

Book, Good, Festpreisangebot, [LT: FixedPrice], [PU: Ballantine Books]