Rabu, 26 Februari 2014

^^ Download PDF In Our Prime: The Fascinating History and Promising Future of Middle Age, by Patricia Cohen

Download PDF In Our Prime: The Fascinating History and Promising Future of Middle Age, by Patricia Cohen

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In Our Prime: The Fascinating History and Promising Future of Middle Age, by Patricia Cohen

In Our Prime: The Fascinating History and Promising Future of Middle Age, by Patricia Cohen



In Our Prime: The Fascinating History and Promising Future of Middle Age, by Patricia Cohen

Download PDF In Our Prime: The Fascinating History and Promising Future of Middle Age, by Patricia Cohen

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In Our Prime: The Fascinating History and Promising Future of Middle Age, by Patricia Cohen

Now in paperback from New York Times reporter Patricia Cohen, a “lively, well-researched chronicle” (The New York Times Book Review) of the concept of middle age, from the nineteenth century to the present.

The director behind the Hollywood close-up and the inventor of the “midlife crisis,” the doctors who promised to restore men’s sexual vigor with monkey gland transplants and the neuroscientists mapping the middle-aged brain, the fashion designers and the feminists: They are all part of the fascinating parade of businessmen, entertainers, scientists, and hucksters who have shaped our understanding and experience of middle age.

Midlife has swung between serving as a symbol of power and influence and a metaphor for decline, yet the invention and history of this vital period of life have never before been fully told. Acclaimed New York Times reporter Patricia Cohen finally fills the gap with a book that provokes surprise, outrage, and delight. In Our Prime takes readers from turn-of-the-century factories that refused to hire middle-aged men to high-tech laboratories where researchers are unraveling the secrets of the middle-aged mind and body. She traces how midlife has been depicted in film, television, advertisements, and literature. Cohen exposes the myths of the midlife crisis and empty-nest syndrome and investigates antiaging treatments such as human growth hormones, estrogen, Viagra, Botox, and plastic surgery.

Exhilarating and empowering, In Our Prime will compel readers to reexamine a topic they think they already know.

  • Sales Rank: #1980218 in Books
  • Published on: 2013-01-22
  • Released on: 2013-01-22
  • Original language: English
  • Number of items: 1
  • Dimensions: 8.37" h x .80" w x 5.50" l, .70 pounds
  • Binding: Paperback
  • 336 pages

Review
"With lively writing, astute observations, and extensive research, this cultural history looks well beyond cougars and Botox."--Karen Holt, Oprah.com

"Very fine...lucid, straightforward and conversational... a thorough--and thoroughly fascinating--cultural history of aging."--Julia Keller, "Chicago Tribune"

"A lively, well-researched chronicle of the social and scientific forces that brought midlife America to its current befuddled state..."--Laura Shapiro, "New York Times Book Review"""

""In Our Prime" is a fascinating study of this complex stage of life, a book whose appeal is likely to extend beyond the middle-age demographic to readers approaching or looking back on that key stage of life."--Jerry Harkavy, Associated Press

"A brilliant, wide-ranging book...Cohen's lively prose and thoughtful insights make this a joy to read."--Kate Tuttle, "Boston Globe"

""In Our Prime" is a fascinating biography of the 'idea of middle age' in American society...Comprehensively researched...A thoughtful inquiry."--Tom Lavoie, Shelf Awareness

"A thoroughly engaging cultural history..."--Christine Sismondo, "Toronto Star"

"A fascinating biography of the idea of middle age...solidly researched."--Gail Sheehy, "The New York Times"

"Witty and engaging...this comprehensive and entertaining social history highlights the possibilities of the middle years--and shows how middle age reflects the attitudes and customs of each generation that passes through it."--"Publishers Weekly "

"A comprehensive look at middle age through the eyes of scientists, historians, psychologists, medical doctors, marketers and many more."--Julie Carl, "Winnipeg Free Press"

About the Author
Patricia Cohen has been a New York Times reporter for thirteen years. She has also worked at The Washington Post, New York Newsday, and Rolling Stone. She has a BA from Cornell University and a graduate degree from the Woodrow Wilson School at Princeton University.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1
The Prime Meridian

For the first time, middle-aged men and women are the largest, most influential, and richest segment in the country. Floating somewhere between 40 and 64, they constitute one-third of the population and control nearly seventy percent of its net worth. In booms and recessions, a trillion-dollar economy feeds and fuels their needs, whims, and desires. Better-educated and healthier than their predecessors, these early and late midlifers are happier, more productive, and more involved than any other age group. Women are part of the first generation to enter their 40s and 50s after the feminist movement, and they have options that their mothers and grandmothers could barely imagine. Life spans have increased as scientific advances have overcome many of the body’s once-unavoidable limitations. Viagra has recharged the sex lives of middle-aged men. Beauty treatments like Botox and facial fillers can erase the stigmata of facial wrinkles. New surgical procedures and recuperative strategies for worn-out knees and creaky rotator cuffs allow aging bodies to ski moguls and surf twenty-footers.

A century ago, circumstances—from the disillusionment that followed World War I to the emergence of Hollywood and mass consumerism—conspired to create a cult of youth. “The hero of our 20th century” was the adolescent, the historian Philippe Ariès declared in his seminal book Centuries of Childhood (1963), celebrated for his “purity, physical strength, naturism, spontaneity and joie de vivre.” Those circumstances have changed. Now, with an unprecedented number of Americans in midlife who can expect to live three, four, or five more decades, it seems the twenty-first century belongs to the middle-ager.

Yet if this is the best possible moment to be middle-aged, why then is this period of life still commonly greeted with resignation or regret, disappointment or evasion? No one is eager to show off the AARP membership card that arrives in the mail unbidden shortly before you turn fifty. Birthday congratulations are replaced with jokes about hearing loss, plunging libidos, and afternoon naps. Middle age is a punch line.

Hundreds of self-help manuals, spiritual handbooks, and memoirs promise to guide anxious readers through the middle decades. Cooking with Hot Flashes, How to Survive Middle Age, In a Dark Wood: Personal Essays by Men on Middle Age are among the titles that offer advice on sex, exercise, diet, looks, childbirth, elderly parents, menopause, midlife crises, divorce, remarriage, religion, and memory loss. Countless online blogs and print columns supply personal recollections, counsel, and relentless cheerleading. Facebook and Twitter are flooded with middle-agers’ quotidian dramas.

Such anxieties and ministrations would have thoroughly baffled Americans living in the early 1800s because the concept of middle age did not exist; it had not been invented yet. Middle age may seem like a Universal Truth, a fundamental law of nature, like Earth’s rotation around the sun or the force of gravity, but it is as much a man-made creation as polyester or the rules of chess.

The notion that the term “middle age” would be a source of identity, shaping the way we envision our inner lives, view our family and professional obligations, and locate ourselves in the community and culture, would have been as alien to our ancestors as iPads and airplanes. For ordinary men and women, middle age was not a topic that merited reflection or analysis. Scholars did not devote years to its study. Periodicals and books did not publish essays on the topic, nor did correspondents and diarists devote pages in their letters or journals to its qualities. Advice manuals did not refer to behavior, clothes, or activities that were appropriate for people in their middle years as opposed to any other time of life. There were no medicines, organizations, leisure activities, treatments, music, or empowerment gurus designated specifically for people in middle age. Prior to 1900, the Census Bureau did not even bother to ask for a date of birth. You were young, you were an adult, and then you were old.

Life stages are all manufactured. As Ariès showed when he traced the invention of childhood back to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, or C. S. Lewis when he dated the invention of romantic love to the Middle Ages, even the most familiar assumptions were not always a part of our mental map. Only over time did they become second nature and recede into the grain of everyday existence to become “just the way life is.”

Of course, people have always fallen in love, just as there have always been children. But Lewis, in The Allegory of Love (1936), pointed out that the happily-ever-after story based on mutual respect, affection, and individual choice first arose in the West among medieval troubadours. In Centuries of Childhood, Ariès demonstrated that children were perceived as miniature adults until the Renaissance, when their status changed among the aristocracy. The idea finally trickled down to the rest of society in the late nineteenth century as evidenced by the push for child labor laws and universal schooling.

Similarly, Aristotle and Shakespeare refer to the “ages of man.” Dante begins the Inferno “Midway in the journey of our life.” But only in the last 150 years was middle age acknowledged as a discrete category of development with unique characteristics; only then was it subjected to bureaucratic dictates, scientific classification, political concerns, and business and marketing interests.

The choice to chop up the uninterrupted flow of years is just that—a choice. Whether age 13 signals the coming of adulthood as in the Jewish religion, whether 18 or 21 is mature enough to vote and drink, whether a minimum age of 35 is necessary to be president, whether 65 is the time to retire are choices made by a particular group at a particular moment for particular reasons. Currently, academics and policy makers are debating the existence of a new stage—“emerging adulthood.” Americans between 20 and 34 are taking more time to finish their education, establish themselves in careers, marry, have children, and become financially independent. The road to adulthood has lengthened because of a shift from manufacturing to a globalized, technological, and service-based economy, the women’s movement, and shifting attitudes about single parenthood and marriage. Other experts suggest that extended life spans mean people between 55 and 70 or 75 constitute a new stage—post–middle age, pre–old age—because of their ability to keep working and pursue personal or civic endeavors.

Whether or not these are genuinely new stages, they do illuminate just how contingent our notions of midlife really are. Middle age is a “cultural fiction,” constructed differently around the globe, says Richard A. Shweder, a University of Chicago anthropologist. Outside America and Europe, middle age is often defined by one’s position in the family. Hindu women in the Indian state of Orissa have a term—prauda—for the period when a married woman takes over the household, but not for middle age. In Samoa, where birthdays are seldom celebrated, there is no word for midlife; instead tagata matua is used to denote a person of maturity and good judgment.

I thought about our cultural fiction one sun-bleached afternoon while sitting on a beach with some friends, all of us past 40. As our children busied themselves building crab condominiums in the sand, we talked about the cycle of our lives, the opportunities and experiences we had compared with our parents and grandparents. According to the calendar, we were in middle age, but that was not at all the way we felt. For those of us born after World War II, the middle age we inherited did not fit quite right. We slipped our arms into the sleeves, but middle age pretty much hung there, heavy and oversized, like a bulky, drab woolen greatcoat. The oldest members of the baby boom generation have been trying to tailor midlife to suit them better, but it still feels like a hand-me-down. When my mother watched me play in the sand, she was in her 20s. By the time she reached middle age, I was finishing up graduate school and traveling. I married at 39, became a parent at 40, and still thought about what I wanted to do when I grew up. Some of my friends were on my mother’s timetable, while I was checking out preschools and shopping for tricycles.

Considering how dramatically the experience of middle age had shifted in one generation, I wondered what it was like even further back. I wanted to examine how specific ideas about midlife were created and why one won out over another. When the average life expectancy was 40, did people think of 20 or 25 as middle age? Now that it is pushing past 80, has the traditional 40-year-old starting line moved forward? Before the twentieth century, did Americans view the middle years as a time of decline and retrenchment, a prelude to death? Did they lie about their age to make themselves seem younger? Were women embarrassed about creases around their mouths? Did men fret about the first gray hair? How is it that midlife is portrayed simultaneously as crisis-ridden and dully uneventful? Despite a freighter’s worth of books written about midlife, hardly any explore its history in depth.

This book is a biography of the idea of middle age from its invention in the second half of the nineteenth century to its current place at the center of American society, where it wields enormous economic, psychological, social, and political power. This stage’s advent has generated an unfamiliar landscape of possibilities, creating new conceptions of our selves, our business opportunities, and our avenues of social control.

The history of middle age is a companion to America’s entry into the modern world. Its invention accompanied the country’s astonishing metamorphosis into an urban, bureaucratic, and industrial society. Middle age was a product of scientific rationalism, which assumed that every aspect of existence could be managed, categorized, and controlled. It was molded by the buoyant growth of mass consumerism, which extolled the young and new as a source of vitality, innovation, and renewal at the expense of the old and familiar. Advertisements, movies, and later television dressed, powdered, and repackaged middle age and then circulated the image through the miles of cable and constellation of satellites that connect the far corners of the country and globe.

Our attitudes toward middle age were shaped by the American individualist ethos and never-ending search for fulfillment. The exuberant self-help ideology that assumes people are self-directed and capable of positive transformation is the legacy of a merit-based democracy. The task of improving our midlife selves is an expression of a profound belief in what the literary critic Alfred Kazin labeled the “most revolutionary force in modern times”: the “insistence on personal happiness.” This impulse has led to profound creativity and satisfaction, but it has also been cleverly exploited by marketers, resulting in wasteful consumption and a warped image of aging.

Middle age is also a story we tell about ourselves. Colonial- and Revolutionary-era Americans saw the middle years as part of a spiritual journey, a pilgrim’s progress that ended with an ascension to heaven. Early capitalists and social scientists set middle age in a Darwinian tale of survival where older workers were pushed out by more adaptable younger ones. Doctors, con men, and dreamers have written it into utopian fantasies, imagining a healthy, fit, and wrinkle-free aging process. Middle age has been cast in a series of roles: a measure of productivity, a threat to beauty and sexuality, a scientific conundrum, a marketing tool, a stage of psychological development, a social and political metaphor, a literary device. These interpretations or frames have affected how individuals have understood and experienced the middle decades and influenced the narratives we construct about our lives.

Our ideas about middle age are continually evolving, which is one reason it remains elusive, a changeling with no fixed entry or endpoint, clinging to youth and spilling over into old age. Forty has long been the traditional turning point in adulthood in the West, although there is no particular biological or sociological basis for it. Scholars believe the number’s symbolic power dates back to biblical times (i.e., the flood lasted forty days and nights, as did Jesus’s fast in the wilderness; the Israelites wandered in the desert for forty years). The New American Heritage dictionary defines middle age as “the period between youth and adulthood, generally 40 to 60.” The Oxford English Dictionary cites 45 to 60, while Webster’s and the U.S. Census Bureau peg middle age at 45 to 64. The nonprofit Pew Research Center uses 50 to 64 (dubbing it the “threshold generation”) and classifies those between 30 and 49 in its “younger adult” category. Extensive surveys reveal that the definition shifts depending on a respondent’s age, sex, class, and ethnicity. Those with more schooling tended to mark its onset later, as do those who are older; men thought it began earlier than women did. Males between 25 and 34 said middle age commences at 40 and ends at 56, for example, while females between 65 and 74 said it starts at 48 and lasts until 62. As life expectancy has increased (by more than three decades in the twentieth century), people have stretched the ribbon of middle age like a rubber band, extending it into their 70s. In 2009, Pew asked people between 50 and 64 when midlife ended. Most chose age 71. Middle age is a kind of never-never land, a place that you never want to enter or never want to leave.

The mammoth ongoing study of middle age currently funded by the federal government and called Midlife in the United States opted for comprehensiveness over specificity. Its originators considered the core of midlife to be between 40 and 60, with outer boundaries of 30 and 70. Yet outside of a petri dish, a category that encompasses a 30- or 40-year period and includes a single woman finishing up a graduate degree, working parents with school-aged children, and a retired widower with grandchildren is not very meaningful. We are like the tourists in a John Donohue cartoon: “You Are Here,” a street-corner map instructs, with an “X” in the middle of a line labeled “birth” at one end and “death” at the other.

As Bernice Neugarten, a pioneer in the study of adult development, put it: “Life is restructured in terms of time left-to-live rather than time-since-birth.” Midlife is a point of no return, that place in a journey where the beginning is further away than the end.

Middle age is much more than chronology, however. Biology may leave its mark with a delicate fan of lines around the eyes, but it is insufficient for understanding the way middle age plays out in our culture and our psyches. Historically, middle age has frequently been defined in terms of social relations or psychology. It arrives when children leave home, careers are settled, or parents are failing or dead. Alternately, it is considered a state of mind, when a person confronts his or her own mortality or pauses to assess what came before and what lies ahead.

To tell the story of middle age, I reached back into history and ahead to the latest research, visiting laboratories and scouring newly constructed digital archives. Frederick Winslow Taylor, founder of scientific management, who introduced efficiency, segmentation, and standardization into the workplace, the home, and theories about aging, is among the personalities, famous and obscure, who figure in the drama. I write about Serge Voronoff, the Russian surgeon who sparked near-riots in the twenties with his promise to return middle-aged men to vigor with grafts of monkey testicles, and about Bruce Barton, a founder of modern marketing who envisioned Jesus Christ as the first adman.

I begin in Madison, Wisconsin, where scientists are mapping the middle-aged brain, and travel to Las Vegas, where antiaging charlatans and visionaries who practice a new kind of middle age medicine gather annually to share the latest elixirs and technological advancements. I have interviewed neurologists and social scientists, television executives and writers, film directors and actors, advertisers, drug manufacturers, and many others to chronicle the varying forces that shape our current understanding of middle age.

I was frequently surprised by what I discovered. Living longer is not the primary reason middle age emerged in the latter half of the nineteenth century; much more important was that parents had fewer children. Women in midlife, so often the target of deprecatory aging jokes, initially benefited most from the invention of middle age because it created a new episode in their lives aside from the child-rearing years. And what delicious irony to discover that the decade when research into middle age began in earnest was the 1960s, the era of not trusting anyone over 30. The flood of studies that followed revealed that supposedly common fixtures of a middle-aged household such as the midlife crisis and empty nest syndrome are actually quite rare. Even now, amid the ceaseless discussion of middle age in the media, members of some poor and minority enclaves don’t think of themselves as “middle-aged” or even use the term. It is a “missing category” from their lineup of life stages. In a place where employment is intermittent and grandmothers fill in for absent parents, middle age does not describe personal experience much more meaningfully than the term prauda or tagata matua.

Two themes run through the history of middle age. The first is the constant struggle over how it is defined and by whom. Whether the words “middle age” conjure up an influential, wealthy, and satisfied figure or a paunchy, sexless, and discouraged one depends on who is doing the conjuring: bureaucrats, doctors, philosophers, politicians, advertisers, novelists, or filmmakers. Each has an interest in relating his or her own version of middle age. Gray hair is unsightly if you manufacture hair dye, and male menopause is a genuine affliction if you produce pharmaceuticals; middle age extends to 70 if you worry about the solvency of Social Security and want to encourage people to work longer, or ends at 60 if you hope they’ll retire and create opportunities for the next generation.

The second theme concerns the tension between self-help’s ability to empower or manipulate us. The market has largely co-opted the vibrant tradition of personal improvement to draw its own version of the middle-aged face and body, to set midlife priorities and produce a sense of security or anxiety. The overt message of advertisements is that you, too, can have a middle age that is vital, innovative, sexy, and fun, but underneath lies the implicit threat that a failure to take advantage of proffered enhancements will leave you unhealthy, unwanted, unsexy, and unemployable.

Before the twentieth century, men and women were often seen as reaching the height of their power and influence in their 40s and 50s. When middle age grew into a subject of popular conversation after the Civil War, an orchestra of voices offered comments and assessments. Descriptions of middle age as the prime of life were as common as depictions of it as old-fashioned and stale.

By the 1920s, science and business had seized the discourse and defined middle age primarily as a biological phenomenon as opposed to a psychological or spiritual one. Factory work favored the young for their speed and stamina, while businesses created an array of products from smoothing creams to cereals that promised to help customers mimic an idealized youth. Midlife was narrowly measured in terms of productivity and youthful beauty. In this context, middle age became a powerful metaphor for decline—one that has remained with us.

In the fifties and sixties, psychologists “rediscovered” middle age and recast it as a psychological stage of human development. For the first time, social science researchers considered midlife to be a significant period in which positive change was possible, but they also burdened it with psychic maladies. Middle age was an unavoidable “passage,” to use the term Gail Sheehy popularized in her 1974 blockbuster book. “A sense of stagnation, disequilibrium, and depression is predictable as we enter the passage to midlife,” she wrote, when we are obsessed with our own death.

By the mid-1970s, a handful of researchers recognized that this definition, too, was wanting. The cultural revolutions that the sixties launched into orbit were settling into place, and the neat series of life stages carefully lined up like dominoes—childhood, adolescence, middle and old age—were toppled as women in great numbers entered or returned to college classrooms, joined the workforce, and delayed or rejected marriage and children. Divorce, single parenthood, cohabiting gay and straight adults, and frequent job shifts were all on the rise. As researchers attempted to redefine midlife to take account of these novel circumstances, they ended up transforming the way human development as a whole was studied. Stage theories were nudged aside by a more comprehensive perspective that emphasized development as a lifelong process continually shaped and pounded by physical, mental, historical, and economic changes.

The idea of middle age has shifted position in the popular imagination as baby boomers (born between 1946 and 1964) reached their 40s, 50s, and 60s and as Gen Xers (born between 1965 and 1980) followed close behind. The association of midlife with deterioration and torpor is still strong, but a growing countercultural story that emphasizes more positive affiliations is gaining momentum.

Today, we exist in a world of multiple middle ages. We each have a personal midpoint molded by individual experience, a generational midpoint determined by the historical era of our birth, and a huge cultural storeroom of off-the-rack middle ages offered by Hollywood and marketers. Varieties of middle age also depend on whether we graduated from high school or college, work as janitors or bankers, use the women’s or men’s room, and live in rural Texas or downtown Chicago.

Our ability to defy biological, social, and psychological clocks and construct a more enriched version of middle age has never been greater. Yet instead of re-creating middle age, this generation is trying to disown it. Americans haven’t abandoned their youthful infatuations. The contemporary ideal of beauty continues to spurn mature voluptuousness, thickening waists, and wrinkles, and glorifies ice-cream-stick figures and whipped-butter complexions. Middle-aged men and women are applauded for their ability to simulate the attributes of those twenty to thirty years younger rather than for their experience and wisdom. A successful midlife has become equated with an imitation of youth.

There is a more capacious conception of middle age, one that contradicts itself and “contains multitudes,” as Walt Whitman put it in “Song of Myself” when he was on the cusp of middle age, “in perfect health begin, / Hoping to cease not till death.” This middle age recognizes the inevitable loss of youth and a foreshortened future, but it also celebrates a deeper well of experience and insight, and takes advantage of an expanded buffet of prospects. Middle age takes many forms. Men and women of a certain age push strollers, drop the kids off at college, embark on world tours, and take up pole dancing. They forsake basketball for golf, pack away the small sizes, fill prescriptions for Lipitor, try and fail and try again to give up fatty foods; they take care of their grandchildren, leave jobs, switch careers, get fired, marry for the first (or second or third) time, strike out on their own after a divorce, or avoid matrimony altogether. They are the anchor point for children, new graduates, and aging parents.

Think of the word “meridian” and its manifold meanings. It can refer to one of the many imaginary lines that circle the globe from north to south, dividing it in half, and it can denote the high point or peak of one’s powers. Middle age is like a meridian: it was imagined into existence, it can create a legion of pathways, and it marks a time when we are in our prime.

© 2012 Patricia Cohen

Most helpful customer reviews

11 of 14 people found the following review helpful.
A wonderful, well-researched and insightful view of middle age
By Jeanne M. Haws
This comprehensive view of middle age is an excellent history of middle age -- and explains how it has changed over the years, especially the changes created by feminism, and medical advances. What's especially interesting is the fact that middle age didn't even exist until the end of the 19th century -- and yet, so much marketing is directed toward "helping" us middle-agers "cope" with our aging. I found Cohen's data explaining how rich and enjoyable middle age is -- and busting so many of the myths around "mid-life crises" and marriage dissolutions, etc -- to be comforting and, in the case of me and many of my friends, very rewarding. Her descriptions of the "Midlife Industrial Complex" - and how much companies prey on our insecurities by marketing "youth" to us was especially interesting. All in all, a great read.

5 of 6 people found the following review helpful.
Deconstructing a label
By Horsekeeping
Ms. Cohen gives middle agers a gift - room to roam out of the wretched trope of what used to be seen as 'the stage before one dies when everything falls apart'. At 52 I felt pressured, or even destined to feel that sorry way, but do not. "In Our Prime" confirms that, to some extent, youth is wasted on the young. As I tell my kids, I would not go back to where they are for a minute. I am now in control of my life, have true friends who know me well, know myself and my likes and dislikes, understand my strengths and weaknesses (the real ones - not the ones you invent on your first resume), and possess the psychic energy to build upon this foundation so laboriously laid in earlier years. The wisdom that comes with all that living is a prize worth indulging and celebrating, not a curse to endure or dread. Ms Cohen deconstructs the "invention" and gives chase to the mythology that WAS "middle age." Bravo!

4 of 5 people found the following review helpful.
The Feminine Mystique for Middle Age
By Robert H
I read this book soon after re-reading The Feminine Mystique (although I am happily a woman of a later era having been born in the 60s) and realized I felt the same shock of recognition and delight reading this book that women of that era must have felt when reading that book. I am now 50, happy, feel healthy, but aware that society does not necessarily regard me as valuable and robust as when I was much less happy, fulfilled, and competent in my 20s and 30s. I loved this book! It is a fascinating cultural and social history of views about Middle Age. As important, the book is full of readable, fascinating accounts of recent research that dispels many of the myths about middle age. I am now sending this book to all my friends and urging this on acquaintances. This is a must-read book. Engaging, insightful, and inspiring. Hooray! I want more books like this!

See all 17 customer reviews...

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Second Glance: A Novel, by Jodi Picoult

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Second Glance: A Novel, by Jodi Picoult

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Second Glance: A Novel, by Jodi Picoult

"Sometimes I wonder....Can a ghost find you, if she wants to?"
An intricate tale of love, haunting memories, and renewal, Second Glance begins in current-day Vermont, where an old man puts a piece of land up for sale and unintentionally raises protest from the local Abenaki Indian tribe, who insist it's a burial ground. When odd, supernatural events plague the town of Comtosook, a ghost hunter is hired by the developer to help convince the residents that there's nothing spiritual about the property.
Enter Ross Wakeman, a suicidal drifter who has put himself in mortal danger time and again. He's driven his car off a bridge into a lake. He's been mugged in New York City and struck by lightning in a calm country field. Yet despite his best efforts, life clings to him and pulls him ever deeper into the empty existence he cannot bear since his fiancée's death in a car crash eight years ago. Ross now lives only for the moment he might once again encounter the woman he loves. But in Comtosook, the only discovery Ross can lay claim to is that of Lia Beaumont, a skittish, mysterious woman who, like Ross, is on a search for something beyond the boundary separating life and death. Thus begins Jodi Picoult's enthralling and ultimately astonishing story of love, fate, and a crime of passion.
Hailed by critics as a "master" storyteller (Washington Post), Picoult once again "pushes herself, and consequently the reader, to think about the unthinkable" (Denver Post). Second Glance, her eeriest and most engrossing work yet, delves into a virtually unknown chapter of American history -- Vermont's eugenics project of the 1920s and 30s -- to provide a compelling study of the things that come back to haunt us -- literally and figuratively. Do we love across time, or in spite of it?

  • Sales Rank: #56376 in Books
  • Brand: Picoult, Jodi
  • Published on: 2008-08-05
  • Released on: 2008-08-05
  • Original language: English
  • Number of items: 1
  • Dimensions: 8.25" h x 1.20" w x 5.31" l,
  • Binding: Paperback
  • 448 pages
Features
  • Used Book in Good Condition

Amazon.com Review
Ghosts and ghost hunters collide in this compelling tale of the paranormal set in Vermont's green mountains. When the patriarch of the Abenaki Indian tribe that was nearly eradicated by that state's eugenics project in the 1930s encounters Ross Wakeman, the miraculous survivor of several attempted suicides who wants nothing more than to be reunited with the woman he loved and lost, they set in motion a chain of events that will unravel an ancient murder and lead to a second chance at life and love for the victim's descendants. Picoult, author of Salem Falls, brings the past alive and peoples it with a cast of extraordinarily well-realized characters whose reach into the future touches the lives of a dying boy, a frightened girl, and their mothers--two women who've given up on love until the revenants stirred up by a plan to develop an ancient burial ground show them what they're missing. Second Glance is an intricate and suspenseful ghost story that enchants and illuminates all the way to its powerful conclusion. --Jane Adams

From Publishers Weekly
It is August in Comtosook, Vt., yet suddenly the temperature fluctuates wildly, rose petals mysteriously fall like snow, patches of land are completely frozen and roiling garter snakes cover the ground. Suspense and the supernatural are artfully interwoven in this 10th novel by Picoult (Perfect Match, etc.), in which a man desperately seeks to join his fiancee in death, and a 1930s eugenics project comes back to haunt a small town in Vermont. Ever since his beloved Aimee was killed in a car accident, Ross Wakeman has deliberately put himself at risk, hoping to die. When nothing works, and a job with a paranormal investigator brings him no closer to Aimee, he moves in with his sister, Shelby, in Comtosook. As chance would have it, strange phenomena are plaguing the town, and Ross is drawn into an investigation of a piece of land that local Abenaki Indians claim is an old burial ground. In the process, he meets lovely Lia Beaumont, who has some mysterious connection to sinister goings-on 70 years before in Comtosook. Many more characters are essential to the elaborate, engrossing plot, including Spencer Pike, once a eugenics expert and now a tormented old man in a nursing home; Meredith Oliver, a genetic diagnostician with an uncanny resemblance to Lia Beaumont; and Ross's eight-year-old nephew, Ethan, who suffers from a condition that makes him allergic to sunlight. Picoult's ability to bring them all vividly to life is remarkable. Firmly rooting her otherworldly tale in everyday reality, she produces a spellbinding suspense novel offering insight into the human spirit and the depths of true love.
Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information, Inc.

From Library Journal
Hired as a "ghost hunter," over-the-edge Ross Wakeman is really hoping to encounter his long-dead fianc e. Instead, he encounters lovely Lia-and a crumbling gravestone carrying her name.
Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Most helpful customer reviews

109 of 111 people found the following review helpful.
This book keeps you guessing!
By rebelmomof2
This is not your typical mystery. With a first sentence like this:
"Ross Wakeman succeeded the first time he killed himself, but not the second or the third."
One would think this is a depressing book. It's not. It's a very different type of reading ~~ with different characters scattered who knows where but it all comes together nicely. They all have one thing in common and that is the real mystery of the novel. Ross, Shelby, Ethan, Eli, Az, Meredith, Lucy, Ruby, Spencer and Lia all have a story to tell and how it is all connected, Picoult does her painstakingly thorough work as usual to tie them all together. And I am not disappointed with the results!
Be patient is what I would say about this book. There are a lot of characters in this book, and sometimes it seems like Picoult gives the reader too much information about them or sometimes it seems repetitive but it's not. She really gives a good insight of each character and you find yourself turning the page hoping for more indepths to the characters. You find yourself sitting up late at night guessing the truth and finding out that it wasn't so predictable after all.
The theme of this novel is about love and ghosts. It is also about people solving a 70-year old murder mystery. It is about people losing the ones they love and finding love again in mysterious ways. Lies unravel in the face of the truth. Dreams get shattered and broken in this novel then painstakingly brought back together again. It is a good insight on love and relationships and the paranormal has a big part in how this book flows together. This is one of the best Picoult novels I have yet read (I've read them all). I am looking forward to more of her books since she has not failed to meet my expectations!
Grab this one without delay ~~ it's perfect fall reading. Just to be sure to snuggle under your blanket and be prepared to be swept away by Picoult's lyrical writings.
10-13-03

40 of 40 people found the following review helpful.
Haunting
By Stephen Dedman
Second Glance is an amazing novel, which careens across genre boundaries so energetically that it's difficult to describe (or design a cover for, judging by the results). It is undeniably a ghost story, and a murder mystery with strong police procedural elements, as well as a romance or two, plus a fascinating slab of historical novel about one of the lesser-known real horrors of 1930s America. Even if you don't normally enjoy any of these types of book, you may want to read this just for Picoult's skill at creating fascinating characters.
Beginning with a great first line - "Ross Wakeman succeeded the first time he killed himself, but not the second or third." - Second Glance introduces so many characters so quickly that you may find yourself having to take notes before the first chapter is done. Ross is an investigator of alleged hauntings, who has given up suicide because he suspects he's invincible. An ancient professor hears a baby crying in an old people's home. A cop rousts teenagers from a cemetery as it snows rose petals. Ghostly flies spell out a Native American word for 'baby'. A mother with a nine-year-old son fatally allergic to ultraviolet light has exchanged day for night, and has nightmares while she's awake.
Slowly, these threads and others begin to weave themselves into an intricate tapestry. As a supernatural thriller, Second Glance is on a par with The Sixth Sense or The Others, or one of Stephen King's novels without the more visceral elements. Running parallel to the ghost story is an equally well constructed scientific detective story, complete with coroner's reports and detailed DNA charts. The real strength, though, is the troubled but likeable characters - Ross, Ethan, Shelby, Eli, Cecilia, and others.
Second Glance is not without flaws. The plot occasionally hinges on coincidences which verge on the miraculous. Some of the clues might as well have neon signs attached, so some of the 'surprises' aren't particularly surprising. Picoult's children seem too mature for their age - much less convincing than those in Stephen King's It or The Body. There are inconsistencies in the timeline, such as a character in 2001 having newspaper clippings from 2002. And the romance subplots and writing become a little mawkish in places, especially near the end. On the whole, though, this is a thoroughly intriguing novel which should appeal to a wide variety of reading tastes.

41 of 43 people found the following review helpful.
Ghost story or history lesson?
By Lacey Savage
"Do we love across time? Or in spite of it?"
That's the theme that Jodi Picoult examines in SECOND GLANCE. By the end of the novel, I'm still not sure of the answer to that question. And as far as I can tell, the characters couldn't figure it out either. Perhaps it's meant to be an eternal mystery, but one thing's for sure: a number of people get hopelessly entangled in each other's lives while trying to unravel the mysteries of the past in this novel.
Ross Wakeman has tried to kill himself so many times, he's lost track. The only thing he lives for is catching a glimpse of his deceased fiancée, but he's never so much as even seen a ghost. He works as a paranormal investigator, and his travels bring him to Comtosook, Vermont, to visit with his sister, Shelby. While there, he finds more clues pointing to the existence of ghosts than ever before, and he meets beautiful and intriguing Lea Beaumont, a woman who stirs feelings in his heart he never thought he'd feel again. But what mysteries is she hiding? And will Ross ever be the same after finding out?
There are a whole slew of characters making their way through this novel, so take that as a warning. You might need to scribble down names and relationships even before you finish the first chapter. Though the plotline seems entangled, it all wraps up nicely (if not quite satisfyingly) in the end. Jodi Picoult has written a novel that's an interesting blend of ghost story and history lesson, though it may bore some readers with its foray into the eugenics movement of the 1930s. The characterization is also weak at times, as evidenced by Ross' complete inability to differentiate between love and obsession with the idea of love.
Pick this one up if you're looking for an interesting read, but don't expect a page turner.

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!! Download PDF Caesars' Wives: Sex, Power, and Politics in the Roman Empire, by Annelise Freisenbruch Ph.D.

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Caesars' Wives: Sex, Power, and Politics in the Roman Empire, by Annelise Freisenbruch Ph.D.

In scandals and power struggles obscured by time and legend, the wives, mistresses, mothers, sisters, and daughters of the Caesars have been popularly characterized as heartless murderers, shameless adulteresses, and conniving politicians in the high dramas of the Roman court. Yet little has been known about who they really were and their true roles in the history-making schemes of imperial Rome’s ruling Caesars—indeed, how they figured in the rise, decline, and fall of the empire.

Now, in Caesars’ Wives: Sex, Power, and Politics in the Roman Empire, Annelise Freisenbruch pulls back the veil on these fascinating women in Rome’s power circles, giving them the chance to speak for themselves for the first time. With impeccable scholarship and arresting storytelling, Freisenbruch brings their personalities vividly to life, from notorious Livia and scandalous Julia to Christian Helena. Starting at the year 30 BC, when Cleopatra, Octavia, and Livia stand at the cusp of Rome’s change from a republic to an autocracy, Freisenbruch relates the story of Octavian and Marc Antony’s clash over the fate of the empire—an archetypal story that has inspired a thousand retellings—in a whole new light, uncovering the crucial political roles these first "first ladies" played. From there, she takes us into the lives of the women who rose to power over the next five centuries—often amid violence, speculation, and schemes—ending in the fifth century ad, with Galla Placidia, who was captured by Goth invaders (and married to one of their kings). The politics of Rome are revealed through the stories of Julia, a wisecracking daughter who disgraced her father by getting drunk in the Roman forum and having sex with strangers on the speaker’s platform; Poppea, a vain and beautiful mistress who persuaded the emperor to kill his mother so that they could marry; Domitia, a wife who had a flagrant affair with an actor before conspiring in her husband’s assassination; and Fausta, a stepmother who tried to seduce her own stepson and then engineered his execution—afterward she was boiled to death as punishment.

Freisenbruch also tells a fascinating story of how the faces of these influential women have been refashioned over the millennia to tell often politically motivated stories about their reigns, in the process becoming models of femininity and female power. Illuminating the anxieties that persist even today about women in or near power and revealing the female archetypes that are a continuing legacy of the Roman Empire, Freisenbruch shows the surprising parallels of these iconic women and their public and private lives with those of our own first ladies who become part of the political agenda, as models of comportment or as targets for their husbands’ opponents. Sure to transform our understanding of these first ladies, the influential women who witnessed one of the most gripping, significant eras of human history, Caesars’ Wives is a significant new chronicle of an era that set the foundational story of Western Civilization and hung the mirror into which every era looks to find its own reflection.

  • Sales Rank: #1751519 in Books
  • Published on: 2011-10-25
  • Released on: 2011-10-25
  • Original language: English
  • Number of items: 1
  • Dimensions: 8.44" h x 1.20" w x 5.50" l, .78 pounds
  • Binding: Paperback
  • 384 pages

From Publishers Weekly
Former BBC freelance researcher Freisenbruch addresses a long-neglected topic in this intriguing study of the first ladies of the Roman Empire. While emphasizing such colorful individuals as Livia, the long-lived, scheming wife of Augustus; Agrippina, the mother of Nero, whose assertion of authority over him ended in her execution; and Julia Domna, the brilliant and tragic wife of the African-born Emperor Septimius Severus, Freisenbruch has also given us valuable information on less dramatic but steadier women whose presence enabled the Western Empire to flourish. Particularly significant were the roles of Helena and Fausta, the mother and wife respectively of Constantine the Great, in ensuring the triumph of Christianity in the Empire. Weakened only by a slight tendency to compare and contrast events with the modern media versions of Rome, Freisenbruch's debut is both fascinating and enjoyable. (Nov.) (c)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Review
“A groundbreaking study of some of the most powerful women in early Western civilization….The author breathes new life into these overlooked subjects. A captivating look at imperial Rome’s roots in the making of the modern stateswoman.”

—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“Fascinating and enjoyable.” --Publishers Weekly

“A book both scholarly and racy…[Freisenbruch] restores to life some of the toughest, most colorful, and most bizarre women who ever existed.” –Robert Harris for Sunday Times (London)

About the Author
Annelise Freisenbruch was born in 1977 in Paget, Bermuda, and moved to the UK at the age of eight. She studied Classics to postgraduate level at Cambridge University, receiving a PhD in 2004 for her thesis on the correspondence between the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius and his tutor Cornelius Fronto. During that time, she also taught Classics at a private school in Cambridge. She has worked as a research assistant on a number of popular books and films about the ancient world, and regularly gives talks to schools about Classics in popular culture. Annelise Freisenbruch was the researcher to Bettany Hughes on her critically acclaimed book Helen of Troy (Vintage). She was also a specialist series researcher on the BBC1 docu-drama series Ancient Rome: The Rise and Fall of an Empire, and is currently working on films on Attila the Hun and Spartacus for the BBC. Annelise holds a PhD in Classics from Cambridge University and has worked as a freelance history researcher in the media for the last four years. She lives in Cambridge, where she teaches Latin to middle-school children. Caesars' Wives is her first book.

Most helpful customer reviews

18 of 19 people found the following review helpful.
Caesars' Wives are much more interesting that the real housewives of TV notoriety
By C. M Mills
Caesars' Wives is the first book by Dr. Annelise Freisenbruch. The author was born in Bermuda, raised in England and sports a Ph.D from Cambridge University! Not bad for a young woman in her early 30s! Friesenbruch has also done work as a freelance classical historian for the British Broadcasting Company.
Caesars' Wives covers in detailed prose the lives of the most prominent imperial spouses in the four hundred years from the Julio-Claudian emperors of the first century AD. to the end of the Roman empire in 476 AD. Wives discussed include such colorful and murderous wives as Livia who was married to Augustus for over fifty years and their infamous daughter Julia Also chronicled are important rulers from the eastern empire. Especially to be noted are Cleopatra VII the wife of Mark Antony; Berenice the Judean princess who wed Titan and Helena who was the mother of the first Christian emperor Constantine.
The problem I had with the book is there are so many names and dynasties to keep track of it boggles the mind of the historicla layman! This is particularly true as the book nears its 465 page end. It is a well researced book written in a scholarly style. Freisenbruch has done her homework quoting extensively from such ancient authors as Suetonious, Dio Cassius,
Pliny, Ovid, Tacitus and countless others both pagan and Christians.
The book could well be used as a resource in a collegetiate level course on the Roman Empire. Along with information about the women we find good descriptions of changes in fashion, childbirth customs and the role of women in the ancient world. A good book by a fine young classical scholar. Look upon it as "I Claudius" and "Rome" (TV programs on the period covered in this book) put in print and viewed from a female perspective. The book includes illustrations of coinage and portraits of many of the women mentioned in the text.

12 of 15 people found the following review helpful.
Unfocused presentaiton
By Lance B. Hillsinger
No single book can tell the story of the Roman Empire. The best any one book can do is focus on one aspect and tell the story of Roman Empire through that focus. Through the lives of the notable women of the Empire -- not just those who were married to a Caesar - Annelise Freisenbruch gives us the history of Imperial Rome.
Anyone familiar with the history of the Roman Empire knows that recounting the historical narrative is difficult; many historical figures are known by multiple names and the same name is common to many historical figures. Frisenbruch included multiple genealogical charts to help the reader navigate through the morass of names.

However, Frisenbruch's style of writing adds to the confusion. For instance, in the first paragraph of chapter one, the story begins with Nero and his seventeen year old wife, Livia, running for their lives in a burning forest. In the next paragraph, the text jumps to the political fallout following the assaination of Julius Caesar. This is followed by a comparison of Livia to Cleopatra which is followed by a brief biography of Nero. Nowhere in the chapter does the author take the reader back to the burning forest and how Nero and Livia made their escape.

Similarly, chapter five begins with a discussion two plays about the emperor Titus and his mistress Berenice. These are plays that premiered in 1610! Berenice's story is quite an interesting historical figure; she is even mentioned the Bible. It would have been a lot clearer for the author to recount her story first and then report that in the Middle Ages her life was made into competing plays -- not the other way around. The confusing style continues in chapter eight. That chapter begins with a discussion of a 1950 historical novelization of the life of Empress Helena. As the first Christian Empress, Helena's story is very important not just within the history of the Roman Empire, but the history of early Christianity as well. The reader doesn't need a reference to a book written in 1950s to tell the reader why Helena is important.

In places, Caesar Wives can be quite informative. When Frisenbruch writes about the symbolism of dress/hair styles or the symbolism found in coins and statues, or the evolving definition of the ideal Roman woman, the storyline is clearer. The text becomes particularly interesting when Frisenbruch's recounts those rare occasions when the empresses - or other female member of the Roman elite - exercised real political power or engaged in philanthropic largesse.

While there is slight feminist slant to her writing, when Frisenbrush writes about coins, dress, power, or philanthropy, she gives a fresh, and well-documented, analysis of the history of women inside the telling of the history of the Imperial Roman. It is unfortunate that this analysis is too often clouded by an unfocused presentation.

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
An overdue perspective on Ancient History!
By Doug Welch
Long overlooked, the stories of the women behind the powerful men in Roman history get their stories told in this book. Author Annelise Freisenbruch pulls back the veil to reveal how the wives, sisters and daughters of the Julio-Claudians, Flavians, Antonines and Severans were involved in the jockeying for power and influence around the Emperor and future emperors. Livia gets a huge biography from Freisenbruch giving readers a much needed back story, including her father's flight from the partisans of Julius Caesar during the Civil War.
Among the ancient civilizations, Rome was unique in allowing women a place in public where the Greeks and everybody else kept their women sequestered. Freisenbruch goes far in showing sexual double standards being the foundation of social relations between the sexes and social class and social elevation were huge motivators and obstacles in people's lives at this time. Freisenbruch brings in a great depth and breadth of scholarship in antiquity but also women's issues across the ages. I myself have been really interested in the application of modern social theories and perspectives to the study of Classical Antiquity and the degree to which it makes stories from thousands of years ago seem very immediate and recognizable. This book definitely does that!

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My Empire of Dirt: How One Man Turned His Big-City Backyard into a Farm, by Manny Howard

My Empire of Dirt: How One Man Turned His Big-City Backyard into a Farm, by Manny Howard



My Empire of Dirt: How One Man Turned His Big-City Backyard into a Farm, by Manny Howard

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My Empire of Dirt: How One Man Turned His Big-City Backyard into a Farm, by Manny Howard

For seven months, Manny Howard—a lifelong urbanite—woke up every morning and ventured into his eight-hundred-square-foot backyard to maintain the first farm in Flatbush, Brooklyn, in generations. His goal was simple: to subsist on what he could produce on this farm, and only this farm, for at least a month. The project came at a time in Manny’s life when he most needed it—even if his family, and especially his wife, seemingly did not. But a farmer’s life, he discovered—after a string of catastrophes, including a tornado, countless animal deaths (natural, accidental, and inflicted), and even a severed finger—is not an easy one. And it can be just as hard on those he shares it with.

Manny’s James Beard Foundation Award–winning New York magazine cover story—the impetus for this project—began as an assessment of the locavore movement. We now think more about what we eat than ever before, buying organic for our health and local for the environment, often making those decisions into political statements in the process. My Empire of Dirt is a ground-level examination—trenchant, touching, and outrageous—of the cultural reflex to control one of the most elemental aspects of our lives: feeding ourselves.

Unlike most foodies with a farm fetish, Manny didn’t put on overalls with much of a philosophy in mind, save a healthy dose of skepticism about some of the more doctrinaire tendencies of locavores. He did not set out to grow all of his own food because he thought it was the right thing to do or because he thought the rest of us should do the same. Rather, he did it because he was just crazy enough to want to find out how hard it would actually be to take on a challenge based on a radical interpretation of a trendy (if well-meaning) idea and see if he could rise to the occasion.

A chronicle of the experiment that took slow-food to the extreme, My Empire of Dirt tells the story of one man’s struggle against environmental, familial, and agricultural chaos, and in the process asks us to consider what it really takes (and what it really means) to produce our own food. It’s one thing to know the farmer, it turns out—it’s another thing entirely to be the farmer. For most of us, farming is about food. For the farmer, and his family, it’s about work.

  • Sales Rank: #1721299 in Books
  • Published on: 2010-04-27
  • Released on: 2010-04-27
  • Original language: English
  • Number of items: 1
  • Dimensions: 8.44" h x 1.10" w x 5.50" l, .88 pounds
  • Binding: Hardcover
  • 288 pages

Review
“The night I turned forty Manny Howard, a younger guy from the neighborhood, led me to the top of the Brooklyn Bridge. We even stole the flag. It was about five in the morning; we weren't sober. It is a great pleasure to now be able to follow him on this slightly safer—well, safer for me—adventure. What a unique wonder this book is! Like a collaboration between Joseph Mitchell, Moe Howard, and Xavier de Maistre (A Journey Around My Room). Informative, grungy, rollicking, hilarious, horrifying, obsessive; most of all, a really great story, lived and written by a writer whose heart is as capacious and teeming as all of Brooklyn.”
—Francisco Goldman, author of The Art of Political Murder

“With My Empire of Dirt, Manny Howard has created a new job category, gonzo agriculturalist. The squeamish and the vegan-hearted shall enter at their own risk, for this is no gentle Farmer’s Almanac. It’s more like war reportage—on one side, angry rabbits, crazed chickens, and a patch of backyard clay so dry it makes concrete seem loamy; on the other, a Brooklyn-raised City Boy, who won’t take crop failure for an answer. Howard takes living off the land to an urban extreme that will make people think even harder about where their food comes from. Ultimately, though, as tornadoes come and fig trees nearly go, he discovers a marriage that needs tending to, proving that when it comes to love, at least, you shall definitely reap what you sow.”
—Robert Sullivan, author of Rats and Cross Country

“Manny Howard—husband, father, novice farmer—is not the sort of person who does things halfway, and thank goodness for that. Here is the dark, charming, hilarious—and thoroughly original—account of his simple, insane plan to live off the land . . . in Brooklyn. (Crops will be destroyed, tempers will be lost, and a marriage may, or may not, survive.) All of this personal drama is improbably enriched by virtuoso passages on everything from the science of tornadoes to the art of breeding rabbits. What a book!”
—Jonathan Mahler, author of Ladies and Gentlemen, the Bronx Is Burning

“Manny Howard's wonderful book is much more than a breezy romp across the line that divides urban from rural life. Yes, it crackles with intelligence and good humor, sparkles with hilarious anecdotes, and is studded with entertaining factoids about the agrarian life that Howard decided, so improbably, to adopt (you'll never hear the phrase ‘pecking order’ in quite the same way again). But at its core this book belongs to a great American tradition that goes back to Thoreau: a lone man with big ideas decides to confront Nature on his own. That the nature in question happens to be in Brooklyn gives this book—which like its author is characterized by an unmistakably New York mix of huge ambition and wry self-deprecation—its unique and ultimately quite touching charm.”
—Daniel Mendelsohn, author of The Lost

About the Author
Manny Howard is a veteran of the magazine world, having written and/or edited for New York, The New York Times Magazine, GQ, Esquire, Harper's, Rolling Stone, Gourmet, Food & Wine, Details, Men's Journal, Men's Health, Harper's Bazaar, Elle, Marie Claire, Cosmopolitan, Us Weekly, National Geographic, and Travel & Leisure, among many others. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife, two children, and a dwindling number of farm animals.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
PROLOGUE: THE RAFT

Fifteen minutes gone that we can never get back and all we are doing is staring through the wrought-iron railings of the Promenade fence out over the East River, two eight-year-olds just stuck inside a day. There are no bullies to run from in the park, no rats to stalk in the undergrowth beyond the playground. Though, it’s true, we have never, either of us, ever seen a black party balloon before, still we ran out of good stuff to throw at the one stuck in the tree above us almost right away. Our bikes haven’t turned into police motorcycles yet. This is not an adventure at all.

A soot-smeared orange ferry on its way to Staten Island drifts out of its decrepit, oxidizing dock at the Battery. A tugboat with a gravel barge stuck to its nose pushes its way against the current and, ever so slowly, upriver toward, and eventually beyond, the Brooklyn Bridge. We lay limp against the fence, both unable to imagine how we will survive this endlessly dull day ahead, but both too polite to complain to each other.

Hey, wait. There it is right in front of us. We aren’t pressing our faces up against the fence rails anymore; suddenly these are the twisted bars of a great, dark cage, and right there, staring back at us, is Adventure. “Let’s build a raft,” I breathe, too excited to speak the words.

Chris’s eyes strain against the side of his skull, trying to see my face, gauge my intention without taking his head away from the sun-warmed metal bars. “A raft out of what?”

“Wood,” I say, not certain that rafts can be built from anything else.

“Where would we go?” my friend asks.

“There.” I point with my arm fully extended through the bars out across the river, north of the Fulton Fish Market, to the only visible sliver of beach on Manhattan Island.

“Where will we get the wood?” asks Chris, quickening to the plan.

“I’ll show you,” I reply, the plan coming together as I gallop the few yards to my bike. It is yellow, has a black banana seat, and best of all it has three speeds. The gear shifter looks just like one in a cool muscle car. Rather than being on the chrome handlebars, it’s mounted on the crossbar. The selector has a pommel grip you pull toward you as you work through the gears. It shows the gear you’re in with a red line next to each number, one, two, three. If I pedal hard enough, I have convinced myself, sparks will shoot out of the pipe at the back just behind my seat where the chrome plastic cap has fallen off and left an exhaust-pipe kind of hole. We mount our bikes and make our way north along the Promenade, fly down Suicide Hill to Old Fulton Street and the abandoned cobbled streets beyond, under the noisy roadway of the Brooklyn Bridge and down New Dock Street, which ends hard against the East River. Beyond the low guardrail that we are scrambling over, the river has long since swept the tar-flecked wooden mooring posts and concrete docking into a chaos of enormous, jutting, broken teeth. It functions as a maw, catching the flotsam of a river at its environmental nadir. Collected here among the filth is everything two eight-year-old boys in search of adventure could ever need to build a raft.

The rest of the day and—because Chris is sleeping over and then my mom says it is okay for us to spend the whole day—the next were filled scrambling across the collapsed pier, collecting odd lengths and diameters of rope and faded scraps of plastic—once umbrellas, municipal office-furniture upholstery, buckets, a red flip-flop. We pry planks and boards of waterlogged, tar-streaked wood from between the concrete slabs, slipping in up to our knees in the filthy, whirling eddies as the current first ebbs, then flows.

At the end of the second day when we return home near what we estimated to be dinnertime, Chris’s dad, Mr. Dupassage, is waiting for us outside my apartment building. He leans impatiently against his orange BMW 2002, arms folded until we come to a tire-screeching skid a few feet from him. I’m sure that the orange BMW is the first European car I’ve ever seen. Chris says his dad can go a hundred miles an hour in it. Mr. Dupassage wants to know what is all over our clothes. Chris does not tell him that the tar on our hands and faces and shoes and jeans and our nearly identical terry-cloth polo shirts is from the wood we salvaged for the raft we are going to build.

Chris says he does not remember what it is. I straddle the crossbar of my yellow banana-seat bike, studiously watching the derailleur move when I shift gears. I think that Chris might be ashamed of our raft adventure.

Opening the trunk of his orange European car, Mr. Dupassage tries another tack, asks Chris where the stuff all over his clothes came from. Chris says he does not remember that either.

Mr. Dupassage takes a lime green towel from the trunk and shakes white paint flecks off it onto the faded gray asphalt of the street and, draping it over the supple, beige leather passenger seat, warns Chris that he is going to have to sit right on the towel and not move a muscle the whole way home or he might get that stuff on his clothes all over the upholstery of the orange European car.

I wonder if sparks come out of the back of Mr. Dupassage’s orange car when he goes one hundred miles an hour in it. Mr. Dupassage smiles when he says good-bye to me. He tells me to be careful not to touch the walls in the halls or in the elevator on my way upstairs, then he gets into his orange car. I think the car must be going almost one hundred miles an hour when it reaches the corner, but from where I am standing, still straddling my yellow banana-seat bike, I can’t see any sparks flying out behind it.

Chris is French, or his parents are, or his father is. I wonder how long it takes to get to France from Pierrepont Street. My mom calls from the window on the second floor where we live. She wants to know if I know what time it is. I look at the red LED readout on my Texas Instruments watch and I tell her it is eight fifty-six.

In the elevator, when I lean against the wall, some of the tar from the raft wood wipes off my shirt onto the brown-and-white-flecked enamel wall. I suppose that French people must not like rafts very much. French people like river barges better than rafts.

When my mom tells me to explain how I got myself covered in tar, I tell her that Chris and I are building a raft to sail across the East River.

The East River is not, in truth, a river. It is a tidal strait that joins with the Harlem River, also a part of the same tidal strait that was painstakingly, over twenty years during the nineteenth century, hollowed out to accommodate ship traffic. This strait connects the Long Island Sound up north to New York’s Upper Bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond to the south. Because the narrow waterway joins two such whopping great bodies of water, the tide roars up during the flow tide, then twelve hours later, down during the ebb tide. In its narrower stretches the tide moves at speeds approaching six knots. Manhattan turned the riverbank to stone on its western bank, as did Brooklyn and eventually Queens on the opposite shore, so now, call it a tidal strait or a river, it is more a sluice than a naturally occurring body of water. People who fall or dare to jump in it have few places where they can pick their way out. The East River hosts a handful of accidental drownings every year.

For this and many other reasons, the East River is no place for an eight-year-old to play. Another person’s mother might have made this point immediately after her son announced his intentions to cross it on a raft that he and his buddy Chris Dupassage planned to build from found material piling up on the tide line along its rocky banks and fetid beaches. Not my mother. She supported every insane notion or scheme I ever presented to her. It was a conscious—determined, really—effort to shield what she considered my creative gift, to protect my imagination, my notion of the possible, from the crush of practical reality.

The lower reaches of the East River have teemed with traffic since the earliest Dutch settlements in the 1670s, and I spent most of my childhood living up on the bluffs above Old Fulton Street, the site where, in 1814, Robert Fulton inaugurated regular steamboat-ferry service between Brooklyn and Manhattan and made Brooklyn boom. The ferry kept Brooklyn’s economy running, fueled its growth from Dutch farming village to throbbing Anglocentric factory town and international port until 1924, forty-one years after the Brooklyn Bridge was completed. The cobblestone streets bustled and the town became a city. The horse-drawn construction of the Eagle Warehouse and all the other warehouses and towering factories put an end to any doubt that Brooklyn was rising just as confidently as its neighbor across the river. By the 1970s, though, those factories and warehouses were slipping into decrepitude, creating a vacant canyon land where packs of dogs and kids on bikes from the various bordering neighborhoods competed for territory among the low-slung, Civil War–era brick warehouses with rusting, arched iron doors that still smelled of the pepper they once housed. Here on the flats stood a dozen monolithic, white cement factories built at the turn of the nineteenth century by the Scottish-born king of the cardboard box, the industrialist Robert Gair. In 1926, Gair moved his light-industrial empire upstate to Piermont. By the 1970s, “Gairville” had become a collection of empty or emptying monuments to the slow death of urban manufacturing.

A week passes and Chris still hasn’t returned to fix our raft. During that gap I check on our pile of salvaged raft material at least twice a day. If, when I get down to the river’s edge, any other kids happen to be hanging around on the north side of New Dock Street, in the paved lot long since gone to seed, forsaken by its owner, or the city or whoever abandons the vast spoiled tracts in the landscape of my childhood, I wait for them to leave, to leave without molesting our raft pile. I position myself a calculated distance from our pile. Not so close that I will draw attention to the salvage, but near enough so that if some nosy kid does notice the pile, he’ll know it is mine and that I am watching him. I worry a lot about what I’ll do if the nosy kid who does notice our raft-makings also wants to build a raft and sail it across the East River. I worry especially about what I will do if that nosy kid who shares my nautical ambitions is much bigger or more aggressive than me. But I stay at my post by the pile all the same. I lie on my back on the sun-baked pavement, my shoulders propped against a discarded tire—hundreds and hundreds of tires are heaped behind the concrete wall of the Sanitation Department depot on the south side of New Dock Street. I lie on the hot sidewalk, my chin resting on my chest just like James Coburn in The Magnificent Seven. His shoulders on his saddle, his chin on his chest, his back in the dust of that West Texas cattle station, he reclines, unconcerned and unmoving, while dangerous men fuss needlessly around him.

Time passes slowly out here on the river. I catalog the hours. I count the days. Try to calculate the minutes until Chris returns to the raft. While I am not picking over the ingredients of our unmade raft, I am filling a composition notebook. It is a diary of the project, an account of the project and a fable of the adventures to come, with meticulously drafted plans for The Raft’s construction. Chris never does return.

I am grown now. I am still restless. Often uncomfortable in my husk, feeling it tighten around me when the world falls quiet. Those who know me well have grown used to both grand gestures and grim antics. I come through in a pinch if a spasm of physical strength (and, on the rare occasion, bravery) is required. I fall down on the job if the most rudimentary clerical precision is called for. My mind is a whirl; concocting stories, nursing regret, scheming, and—more often than I like—suspecting the worst. I talk too much and I listen intently.

This past February, suffering through a three-month hangover, the result of a failed effort at a career change, I am untethered, undone really.

Years of magazine writing had taught me to trust that after a requisite period of inward-aimed anger, doubt, and pity, inspiration always returns. The plan had been to bide my time, await the rebound strategy, the plan for renewal or reinvigoration that has always been just one good night’s sleep away.

If only I could sleep.

© 2010 Manny Howard, Inc.

Most helpful customer reviews

47 of 50 people found the following review helpful.
Like the garden -- sprawling and unplanned
By C. McGrath
Like most of the reviewers, I saw Manny Howard on Colbert. He was funny and self-deprecating, and he seemed like the perfect guy to tell a story of ambition gone wrong. Turns out, though, the book went far more wrong than the farm.

I can't think of another book as disjointed -- as completely discombobulated -- as this. Roosters are about to be castrated in one chapter, but chapters later are still crowing. Obvious questions such as 'how much did this fiasco cost?' go unanswered, although oddly he does mention it in the original magazine article. He mentions calloo, many times, and then decides he should identify the unfamiliar plant... a hundred pages later. Anecdotes go rambling out of control. He drags in Wendell Berry's ghost, using long swathes of Berry's writing, ostensibly as a literary device, but clearly for padding. He throws in pages of poorly integrated Brooklyn history. He rambles about the start of his relationship with his wife. He grasps at any thread that will add pages, because, it turns out, aside from his horrific animal husbandry tales, he doesn't really have anything to say.

I agree with the reviewers who point out that his treatment of the livestock is vile, and that he and his wife come across as horribly unpleasant. But the real problem is that the book itself is an unstructured mess. Maybe the tornado that flattened his garden blew away his notes. Maybe he was too busy feuding with his wife to remember to take any.

Or maybe he just grabbed his advance and forgot that he was supposed to deliver a book..

27 of 28 people found the following review helpful.
A shocking account of cruelty, hubris and ignorance
By N. B. Kennedy
If you've read the New York magazine article (Sept. 10, 2007) on which this book is based, you might be eager to settle down with this account of the author's attempt to eat only food that he has grown or raised for 30 days. The article is well researched and charmingly written, and the author comes across as diligent and self-effacing, and a bit of a bumbler. He's no Barbara Kingsolver (Animal, Vegetable, Miracle) and he knows it.

Yet within the first few pages of his book, Mr. Howard reveals that he divorced his first wife, got his girlfriend (current wife) pregnant and urged her to abort the baby, became bored in the working world and dropped out, downloads porn in his spare time, and bought his daughter a dozen birds and left them all to kill each other... oh, all except for the one that he smashes against a wall in a drunken rage.

I had to read that part about the birds again, it was so shocking. What in this man's character would compel me to read on? Read on I did, though, hoping that through his urban farming experiment, Mr. Howard would learn a few lessons about humility, compassion and responsibility. Sadly, he does not.

His cruelty to animals is breathtaking -- time after time, he acquires animals without any knowledge of how to care for them, and the result is always the same -- they die. Or, he kills them in particularly brutal ways, like smashing them against whatever hard surface is at hand. He beats a rabbit about to give birth until it is paralyzed and then, after she has given birth, cruelly moves her water dishes out of her reach. "Something good has to come of this grotesque error," he writes before he kills her.

His drunken rages repeatedly rear their ugly head. And, he demeans the very people who could help him, writing in a shorthand that puts people in their place -- the feed store owner, for example, is "Cowcatcher." He professes to love his wife, yet takes digs at her, repeatedly referring to her "uniform" or her "business rig," meaning she's dressed well for a job she excels at and pays the household bills with. Unlike her husband. He mentions that his name is not on the deed to their house... I'm sure that will be an important fact at some future date.

At one point, just before Mr. Howard leaves a squirrel to die slowly of starvation in a trap -- as a self-styled "warning" to other squirrels -- he asks himself, "Why haven't I seen this obvious disaster?" It's a question any reader might ask of him.

54 of 62 people found the following review helpful.
Animal cruelty...and I'm not a PETA fanatic
By Peter J. Brofman
I was very excited to read this book after seeing him interviewed on Stephen Colbert. The author has a very dry sense of humor which is great. However, halfway through the book I was tired of reading about multiple cases of animal cruelty. Such instances include negligence in caring for birds he got as a gift for his child followed by manually and deliberately killing them, trapping a squirrel and letting it sit without food or water for 2-3 days before drowning it, and letting a rabbit suffer to die by being eaten inside out by maggots instead of putting it out of it's misery (a veterinarian, a swift head shot, he'll even drowning it would have been better). I had to stop reading halfway through as I really hated to hear him treat animals that way. Maybe he did it for shock value; if so he's a jackass. Maybe you'll read the book just to hear those stories; in which case you're a jackass.

See all 84 customer reviews...

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