By Keith Gessen
A singular of affection, unhappiness, wasted adolescence, and literary and highbrow ambition-"a wincingly humorous debut" (Vogue) Keith Gessen is a courageous and trenchant new literary voice. often called an award-winning translator of Russian and a publication reviewer for courses together with the hot Yorker and the recent York instances, Gessen makes his debut with this severely acclaimed novel, a captivating but scathing portrait of younger maturity on the starting of the twenty-first century. the unconventional charts the lives of Sam, Mark, and Keith as they overthink their collage years, underthink their love lives, and fight to discover a semblance of adulthood, accountability, or even literary popularity.
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All the sad young literary men / Keith Gessen. p. cm. eISBN : 978-0-670-01855-0 Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.
I stopped on the street and stood for a second before Lauren saw me. On Madison Avenue she looked happy, flushed, a walking advertisement for our civilization, while her father wore his beard, his infamous beard, and I was surprised by how substantial he looked, how physically powerful. I wanted to say to Lauren “I’m sorry,” though she didn’t look like she needed it, and “I wish you were President” to her father, who looked like he did. I saw him flinch from me a little—from the way I froze on the sidewalk he might have thought I was another illwisher, another nut—but soon it was all over: Lauren looked at me, shabby and scattered with my phone in my hand, and I looked at the former Vice President, and we all paused for a moment while I kissed the Vice President’s daughter on the cheek, she assured me they were in a terrible hurry though it was nice to see me, and they crossed northward while I waited for the light.
They read and listened and wrote and argued. What would happen to them? Were they good enough, strong enough, smart enough? Were they hard enough, mean enough, did they believe in themselves enough, and would they stick together when push came to shove, would they tell the truth despite all consequences? They were right about Al-Shifa; they were right about the settlements. About Kosovo they were right and wrong. But what if they were missing it? What if it was happening, in New York, not a few blocks from them, what if they knew someone to whom it was happening, or who was making it happen—what if they were blind to it?