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On the Calculation of Volume I
Kitab haqqında
Tara Selter has slipped out of time.
Every morning, she wakes up to the 18th of November. She no longer expects to wake up to the 19th of November, and she no longer remembers the 17th of November as if it were yesterday.
She comes to know the shape of the day like the back of her hand – the grey morning light in her Paris hotel; the moment a blackbird breaks into song; her husband's surprise at seeing her return home unannounced. But for everyone around her, this day is lived for the first and only time. They do not remember the other 18ths of November, and they do not believe her when she tries to explain.
As Tara approaches her 365th 18th of November, she can't shake the feeling that somewhere underneath the surface of this day, there's a way to escape. Shortlisted for the International Booker Prize and Winner of the Nordic Council Prize for Literature,
On the Calculation of Volume I is the first volume of the poetic, page-turning European masterpiece about one woman's fall through the cracks of time. 'Absolutely, absolutely incredible.' Karl Ove Knausgård 'A total explosion.' Nicole Krauss 'Unforgettable.' Hernan Díaz 'Breathtaking.' Chetna Maroo 'Brilliant.' Jon McGregor 'Absolutely marvellous.' Lauren Groff
** A
NEW YORKER, OBSERVER AND
PARIS REVIEW BOOK OF THE YEAR **
Janr və etiketlər
. I remembered that I had already been having problems with my mobile on the train to Clairon and before long it had gone completely dead, but I hadn’t needed a phone so it wasn’t something we dwelt on.
But he was probably right in that I had become unreliable. I had lost my sense of judgement. I had not been able to maintain my common sense. This troubled him. He really just wanted to get the evening over with and wake up to a normal world. That was not an option either.
A vacillation between credulity and doubt, an uncertainty which sprang not from unease at the thought of the fault in time I had told them about, but more likely from a growing scepticism, denial, a weighing up of my credibility perhaps.
because he couldn’t make up his mind.
It surprised me that the plant pot had not simply reverted to its activity of the eighteenth, careening back and forth on the cobbles.
