Word: picador
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...hell with all that, the browser, the literary gossip and even the Maynard fan must think at some point: tell us something we really want to know. And now, Maynard has tried to oblige. In At Home in the World (Picador; 352 pages; $25)--yes, it's another memoir--she lifts the veil on the devastating affair she had with J.D. Salinger when she was 18 and the reclusive author of Catcher in the Rye was 53. Maynard's recounting is full of all those key details sympathetic girlfriends require. He made her eat frozen Birds Eye peas for breakfast...
This drumming ancestral cadence, after building slowly in Ricci's two earlier, related novels (including the prize-winning The Book of Saints), comes to a mist-wreathed climax in Where She Has Gone (Picador USA; 325 pages; $25). Here the sins of the Old World seep across the New as blood across a sheet. Vittorio Innocente--the name itself doesn't travel light--lives unanchored in a Toronto of immigrants, with nothing, as he says, but his freedom. Driving around town in his late father's Oldsmobile, he cannot slough off his mother's infidelity and the out-of-wedlock...
...hard not to love even a squat, stumpy and probably leaky boat made of wood. Two amiable new books about the perilous beguilement of wood boats are Sea Change, by Peter Nichols (Viking; 238 pages; $23.95) and Sailing in a Spoonful of Water, by Joe Coomer (Picador; 256 pages...
...from trends as the passage of seasons it records, In the Deep Midwinter (Picador USA; 278 pages; $23) homes in on these four fallen but forgivable souls as they try to find the right way to act in a world where women smoke but never swear, and pregnancy and infidelity can destroy. It's no coincidence that author Robert Clark sets his debut novel at precisely the moment when America's confidence in leading the world and its belief in its higher myths about itself began to crack...
Kelly makes his first kills as a teenager; becomes known; acquires hangers-on, women, a car; kills more people; is jailed; gets out; kills; is shot. As Irish writer Eoin McNamee, 33, imagines the progression in Resurrection Man (Picador USA; 233 pages; $21), his terse, forceful first novel, it is not the fact of random murders, which of course are normal, that makes the city uneasy and somehow complicit. It is the gaudiness of the knifework, the unseemly calling of attention, that feels wrong. As the killings continue, the language of official statements quoted in news reports slides instinctively toward...