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Jennifer Egan - Look at Me

Here you can read online Jennifer Egan - Look at Me full text of the book (entire story) in english for free. Download pdf and epub, get meaning, cover and reviews about this ebook. year: 2001, publisher: Nan A. Talese, genre: Art. Description of the work, (preface) as well as reviews are available. Best literature library LitArk.com created for fans of good reading and offers a wide selection of genres:

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Jennifer Egan Look at Me
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    Look at Me
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Acclaim for Jennifer Egans LOOK AT ME Ambitious, swiftly paced. Egan writes with such shimmering lan that its easy to follow her cast on its journey. The Wall Street Journal Look at Me is so engrossing, energetic, sharp, and funny, it reminded me of Ralph Ellisons masterpiece, Invisible Man , another novel that charts the modernist riddle of human identity. Maureen Corrigan, Fresh Air (NPR) Intriguing. An unlikely blend of tabloid luridness and brainy cultural commentary. The novels uncanny prescience gives Look at Me a rare urgency. Time Egan has created some compelling characters and written provocative meditations on our times. [She] has captured our culture in its edge-city awfulness. The Washington Post Book World Look at Me is a complicated novel but the questions it raises are worth following a lifetime of labyrinths toward the answers. Los Angeles Times Prescient and provocative. The characters jump from the pages and dare you to care about them. The prose is crisp and precise. The pieces fit together at the end with a satisfying click. The Philadelphia Inquirer Propelled by plot, peppered with insights, enlivened by quirkily astute characterizations, and displaying an impressive prescience about our newly altered world, Look at Me takes us beyond what we see and hints at truths we have only just begun to understand. Few recent books have so eloquently demonstrated how often fiction, in its visionary form, speaks of truth. Salon.com Look at Me makes us think about our trust in the images that bombard us, and what we give away in the process. Chicago Tribune Egans rich new novel is about bigger things: double lives; secret selves; the difficulty of really seeing anything in a world so flooded with images. The Nation Stunning. This is more than a story, its a thought-world, a novel of ideas brilliantly cloaked in the skin of characters. The Sunday Oregonian Egans take is surreal and profoundly ironic and exaggerated, but it still rings true. Beneath it all, she finds characters worth saving. The Hartford Courant Breathtaking. Combines the tautness of a good mystery with the measured, exquisitely articulated detail and emotional landscape of the most literary of narratives. Sure to leave readers thinking about these very real characters for some time to come. BookPage An imaginative, well-paced read with serious questions about the elusiveness of meaning inside the gilded cage. Egan has intelligence to burn but plenty of feeling too. People Part mystery, part cultural critique, [Look at Me] masterfully entwines the novels secondary characters, building to a conclusion that is unexpected and disturbing, and making an incisive statement about our societys obsession with fame and glamour. San Francisco Chronicle Riveting. As the book gains momentum, Egans writing is both fluid and driven, with wonderful slashes of satire. A remarkable study of our culture and of our palpable need to be known. O, The Oprah Magazine Egan has created a compelling world. With [her] graceful prose and vivid characterizations, she navigates her plot lines churning waters with admirable skill. Seattle Weekly [A] scintillating inquiry into the complex and profound dynamics of perception. Egan animates a superb cast of intriguing and unpredictable characters, and tells an elegantly structured, emotionally arresting and slyly suspenseful story. Newsday Dark, hugely ambitious. As riveting as a roadside wreckand noxiously, scathingly funny. Elle Intelligent and refreshingly dark, Egans eerie tale has the same mesmerizing pull as the culture it skewers. Us Weekly Fresh, accurate, clear and inventive. The vocabulary, the crisp, graceful sentences, the intelligence of tone, all suggest that behind the narrative is a consciousness, and behind the consciousness a writer who knows what shes doing. Francine Prose, The New York Observer This masterfully plotted work bears the stamp of a perceptiveif not clairvoyantwriter whose disturbing vision rings all too true. SF Weekly Egans ability to move with ease between sincerity and satire sets Look at Me apart. Her authentic-feeling details give a sense of unusual immediacy. Vogue
Also by Jennifer Egan Emerald City The Invisible Circus
Jennifer Egan
LOOK AT ME Jennifer Egan is the author of The Invisible Circus and the story collection Emerald City. Her stories have been published in such magazines as The New Yorker, Harpers, GQ, Zoetrope , and Ploughshares , and her nonfiction appears frequently in The New York Times Magazine. Egan lives with her husband and son in Brooklyn. For further information about Jennifer Egan, visit her Web site at www.jenniferegan.com.

In Memory DEE WDK We walk through ourselves meeting robbers - photo 1

In Memory
D.E.E.
W.D.K.

We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves. ULYSSES , JAMES JOYCE
Part One
Double Life

Chapter One

After the accident , I became less visible. I dont mean in the obvious sense that I went to fewer parties and retreated from general view. Or not just that. I mean that after the accident, I became more difficult to see.

In my memory, the accident has acquired a harsh, dazzling beauty: white sunlight, a slow loop through space like being on the Tilt-A-Whirl (always a favorite of mine), feeling my body move faster than, and counter to, the vehicle containing it. Then a bright, splintering crack as I burst through the windshield into the open air, bloody and frightened and uncomprehending.

The truth is that I dont remember anything. The accident happened at night during an August downpour on a deserted stretch of highway through corn and soybean fields, a few miles outside Rockford, Illinois, my hometown. I hit the brakes and my face collided with the windshield, knocking me out instantly. Thus I was spared the adventure of my car veering off the tollway into a cornfield, rolling several times, bursting into flame and ultimately exploding. The air bags didnt inflate; I could sue, of course, but since I wasnt wearing my seatbelt, its probably a good thing they didnt inflate, or I might have been decapitated, adding injury to insult, you might say. The shatterproof windshield did indeed hold fast upon its impact with my head, so although I broke virtually every bone in my face, I have almost no visible scars.

I owe my life to what is known as a Good Samaritan, someone who pulled me out of the flaming wreck so promptly that only my hair was burned, someone who laid me gently on the perimeter of the cornfield, called an ambulance, described my location with some precision and then, with a self-effacement that strikes me as perverse, not to mention un-American, chose to slink away anonymously rather than take credit for these sterling deeds. A passing motorist in a hurry, that sort of thing.

The ambulance took me to Rockford Memorial Hospital, where I fell into the hands of one Dr. Hans Fabermann, reconstructive surgeon extraordinaire. When I emerged from unconsciousness fourteen hours later, it was Dr. Fabermann who sat beside me, an elderly man with a broad, muscular jaw and tufts of white hair in both ears, though most of this I didnt see that nightI could hardly see at all. Calmly Dr. Fabermann explained that I was lucky; Id broken ribs, arm and leg, but had no internal injuries to speak of. My face was in the midst of what he called a golden time, before the grotesque swelling would set in. If he operated immediately, he could get a jump on my gross asymmetrynamely, the disconnection of my cheekbones from my upper skull and of my lower jaw from my midface. I had no idea where I was, or what had happened to me. My face was numb, I saw with slurry double vision and had an odd sensation around my mouth as if my upper and lower teeth were out of whack. I felt a hand on mine, and realized then that my sister, Grace, was at my bedside. I sensed the vibration of her terror, and it induced in me a familiar desire to calm her, Grace curled against me in bed during a thunderstorm, the smell of cedar, wet leaves. Its fine, I wanted to say. Its a golden time.

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