ISBN: 9780375707346

Publishers Weekly " One of the very few contemporary authors whose novels deserve to live on well into the next century.". --Jane Smiley " Anita Brookner works a spell on the reader; bein… mais…

Publishers Weekly " One of the very few contemporary authors whose novels deserve to live on well into the next century.". --Jane Smiley " Anita Brookner works a spell on the reader; being under it is both an education and a delight.". The Nile on eBay   FREE SHIPPING UK WIDE   Undue Influence by Anita Brookner In Undue Influence, acclaimed novelist Anita Brookner proves once again that even in the most closely circumscribed of lives, hearts can venture into unknown-and potentially explosive-territory.Claire Pitt is nothing if not a practical young woman, living a life in contemporary London that is to all appearances placid, orderly and consciously lacking in surprise. And yet Claire&#039;s tangled interior life gives the lie to that illusion. She is prone to vivid speculation about the lives of others, and to fantasies about her own fate that lead her into a courtship so strange that even she wonders at its power to compel her. Martin Gibson and his chronically ill wife Cynthia come to depend on Claire to an extent that is nothing short of baffling, and yet Claire becomes ever bolder in her pursuit of their acquaintance-and, ultimately, of Martin&#039;s elusive affections. The result, a potent tale of urban loneliness and the chance intersections that assuage it, constitutes one of Brookner&#039;s finest and most psychologically acute achievements. FORMATPaperback LANGUAGEEnglish CONDITIONBrand New Publisher Description In Undue Influence , acclaimed novelist Anita Brookner proves once again that even in the most closely circumscribed of lives, hearts can venture into unknown-and potentially explosive-territory. Claire Pitt is nothing if not a practical young woman, living a life in contemporary London that is to all appearances placid, orderly and consciously lacking in surprise. And yet Claire's tangled interior life gives the lie to that illusion. She is prone to vivid speculation about the lives of others, and to fantasies about her own fate that lead her into a courtship so strange that even she wonders at its power to compel her. Martin Gibson and his chronically ill wife Cynthia come to depend on Claire to an extent that is nothing short of baffling, and yet Claire becomes ever bolder in her pursuit of their acquaintance-and, ultimately, of Martin's elusive affections. The result, a potent tale of urban loneliness and the chance intersections that assuage it, constitutes one of Brookner's finest and most psychologically acute achievements. Author Biography Anita Brookner trained as an art historian and taught at the Courtauld Institute of Art until 1988. She has written a number of books on art history, and nineteen novels, including the 1984 Booker Prize winner, "Hotel du Lac," She lives in London. Review Quote Praise for Anita Brookner " Brookner's impeccable craftsmanship and worldly irony make each of her novels memorable." -- Publishers Weekly " One of the very few contemporary authors whose novels deserve to live on well into the next century." -- The Washington Post Book World " Brookner's control over the material is absolute." --Jane Smiley " Anita Brookner works a spell on the reader; being under it is both an education and a delight." -- The Washington Post Book World " If Henry James were around, the only writer he'd be reading with complete approval would be Anita Brookner." -- The New York Times Book Review " Brookner is a writer of great skill and precision. Passages of brilliant writing abound, hard-won insights that startle us with Brookner's clarity and succinct intelligence." --Michael Dorris, Los Angeles Times Book Review Excerpt from Book At first the man in the basement looked to me like an older and more careworn version of the man with bowed head in the cafe in Marylebone Lane who was not Mrs Hildreth''s son and for whom I had imagined a whole illusory history. (I am not infallible.) This man had the same air of lassitude, which I detected in spite of his polished appearance. He was formally dressed for his visit to a dusty bookshop, although he could not have known that it would be quite so dusty. He wore a finely tailored grey suit with a faint chalk stripe, a very white shirt, and highly polished shoes. I think it was the brilliantly laundered shirt that led me to make the comparison with Mrs Hildreth''s putative son, as if this man too had emerged from the hands of a watchful woman and set out, fully caparisoned, to encounter the hazards of the ordinary working day. Except that this man obviously had no connection with the world of work: he was too careful, too immaculate. And besides, what sort of man do you find in a bookshop at ten o''clock on a Monday morning, unless he is some sort of don, about his own affairs? This man, however, was too presentable to be one of the academics we get in from time to time. He turned briefly when I said ''Good morning'' before turning back to the shelves. I had an impression of a fine blond head and a fair-skinned face prematurely worn into furrows of anxiety which gave him an elderly look, although his figure was tall and upright and rather graceful. In his hasty return to his earlier perusal of the shelves I sensed a reserve. This man would not waste time on a strange woman, with whom in any case he was not on terms of familiarity or friendship. I found him attractive, more attractive than the prospect of a day with St John Collier, who had begun to acquire a patina of benign tediousness. I pitied those two girls having to listen to him throughout their childhood, although the experience seemed to have done them no harm. Their respect for their father had remained intact, a fact at which I could only marvel. My own father had never emitted a single philosophical or semi-philosophical dictum, so that I had learned at an early age not to look to him for enlightenment, or even very much in the way of affection. He found me as tiresome as I found him, but I had never quite resolved the factors that made us so antagonistic. I took the cover off my typewriter and pretended to be studying my papers. It would be impolite to start work with this man at my back, although he was paying me no attention. From what I could judge he was reading his way steadily through whatever came to hand, as if he had found sanctuary in our basement and was in no hurry to leave. I also detected an almost unnatural stillness, almost a watchfulness about him, as if he were sensitive to my own inactivity, or as if he knew that I was not normally an inactive person whom he had no wish to constrain by his presence. For this reason he was conscious of me, as I was of him. I shuffled the typewritten pages on my desk; clearly I could not start on the women''s magazines while he appeared to be reading Heine''s collected poems. I corrected a few typing errors, resolving to work properly, innocent as well. I am alert now to signs of damage in a man. If this is combined with physical excellence I feel a perverse desire to take him over, as if his weakness excited me. When the two conditions are combined-attractiveness and hesitation-our conjunction is often spectacular. I sometimes think that my childish ruthlessness has survived undiminished, but in fact I am careful to cause no harm. Indeed I disappear discreetly, leaving several questions unanswered. I wish that this particular pattern did not impose itself, that I could happily offer affection without that slight feeling of vengeful satisfaction. On the whole I have managed quite well. It is just that my mother''s death, and the sight of those photograph albums, which kept company by her bed together with Palgrave''s Golden Treasury, had weakened me. And perhaps I was undergoing the influence of St John Collier''s sweet-natured assertions, as if to believe in a happier world were within the capacity of even fallen creatures like myself. For I knew myself to be at fault. The intolerance I had manifested towards my father had left a stain, which was why I was such a solitary person. A solitary person with a longing for wholeness, an experience which would cancel all the others. A baptism, if you like. The man in the basement, of whose presence I had become uncomfortably aware, as he had of mine, smelled discreetly of some subtle scent which was far removed from the blasts of aftershave one was likely to encounter in the early morning. He gave an impression of almost futile luxury, which was implemented when he drew a snowy handkerchief from his pocket and flicked a small speck of dust from his fingers. He implied an army of servants, either that or a lonely and obsessive drive towards perfection, probably the latter. He was probably rich, certainly idle. I imagined his empty day, every gesture aiming at sublimity. He had an iconic presence, and yet I was able to observe the occasional involuntary grimace which creased his fair thin-skinned face. He was a man torn between achievement and frustration, the balance tilted towards the latter. When I sneezed he gave a violent start, as if recalled to familiarity with greater upheavals. I offered to make him a cup of coffee but he refused effusively. I was beginning to find his continued presence rather tiresome. At the same time he impressed me as attractive. I wanted to know his story, which I was quite capable of inventing for myself. Perhaps because I had been thinking of my father I thought I detected an unhappy home background, an invalid sister to whom he was deeply attached. This selfless sister-for she would be all virtue, as in one of St John Collier''s scenarios-would urge him to go out and enjoy himself. But the poor fellow would be half-hearted in this pursuit, would seek refuge, indeed basements, where his presence would impress but, Random House USA INC International Concepts<

2001, ISBN: 0375707344

[EAN: 9780375707346], Neubuch, [PU: Vintage], New. In shrink wrap. Looks like an interesting title!, Books