Items related to Cure For Suicide, A
***LONG-LISTED FOR THE NATIONAL BOOK AWARD***
From the author of Silence Once Begun, a beguiling new novel about a man starting over at the most basic level, and the strange woman who insinuates herself into his life and memory.
A man and a woman have moved into a small house in a small village. The woman is an “examiner,” the man, her “claimant.” The examiner is both doctor and guide, charged with teaching the claimant a series of simple functions: this is a chair, this is a fork, this is how you meet people. She makes notes in her journal about his progress: he is showing improvement yet his dreams are troubling. One day the examiner brings the claimant to a party, where he meets Hilda, a charismatic but volatile woman whose surprising assertions throw everything the claimant has learned into question. What is this village? Why is he here? And who is Hilda? A fascinating novel of love, illness, despair, and betrayal, A Cure for Suicide is the most captivating novel yet from one of our most audacious and original young writers.
From the author of Silence Once Begun, a beguiling new novel about a man starting over at the most basic level, and the strange woman who insinuates herself into his life and memory.
A man and a woman have moved into a small house in a small village. The woman is an “examiner,” the man, her “claimant.” The examiner is both doctor and guide, charged with teaching the claimant a series of simple functions: this is a chair, this is a fork, this is how you meet people. She makes notes in her journal about his progress: he is showing improvement yet his dreams are troubling. One day the examiner brings the claimant to a party, where he meets Hilda, a charismatic but volatile woman whose surprising assertions throw everything the claimant has learned into question. What is this village? Why is he here? And who is Hilda? A fascinating novel of love, illness, despair, and betrayal, A Cure for Suicide is the most captivating novel yet from one of our most audacious and original young writers.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
JESSE BALL is the author of four previous novels, including Silence Once Begun and Samedi the Deafness, and several works of verse, bestiaries, and sketchbooks. He has been named a finalist for the 2015 New York Public Library Young Lions Fiction Award and a 2014 Los Angeles Times Book Prize. Ball received an NEA creative writing fellowship for 2014 and the 2008 Paris Review Plimpton Prize, and his verse has been included in the Best American Poetry series. He gives classes on general practice at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago’s Master of Fine Arts Writing program. A Cure for Suicide is long-listed for the National Book Award 2015.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
It was a good situation, thought the examiner. He appears young and strong. He had woken remarkably soon after the shot—only eighteen hours, if the report was to be believed. The examiner had been at this job long enough to know that not all information was correct.
In fact, she thought, often it is wrong on purpose.
She busied herself making some tea. How should she start with this one?
The usual method? Or another approach? Lately she had been favoring the original way, the first way, although she had made her career with her unusual treatments. This time, she would stick to the original method. No speech until the claimant speaks. It was a measurement of sorts. The examiner believed very fervently in measurement.
She set the teapot down on the table and took a pen and paper off a shelf on the wall.
+
Arrived in Gentlest Village P6.
Received claimant. He appears healthy and ready for treatment.
+
The two could be seen through any window of the house, sitting together. He would sit in one chair and she would sit in another. They would sit for long hours, practically motionless.
Through another, they might be seen practicing skills. The old woman would mime the donning of clothes, and help him again and again and again to perform the basic tasks. No matter how he tried, the man could not button the buttons of his shirt. He failed again and again. But, if he was failing, the expression of the old woman seemed to say: This, what we are doing, it is the hardest thing in the world. No one has ever done it. No one until you. And now it has fallen to you to try. Let us try. Let us try again.
One could see them practicing the use of the stairwell, a thing to which one clung with both arms, while lowering leg after leg up and down. It was used for getting to and fro—for going from the top of the house to the bottom.
One could see the man standing in a tub while the old woman poured water over him and scrubbed and scrubbed until he was clean. And soon, he had learned to scrub as well. Soon, he could do it by himself.
If one waited some days and looked through the bottom windows, a different scene might present itself. The two sat at a long table, and blocks with pictures of things were passed back and forth. Large bound sheets full of pictures were shown and shared.
Sometimes a task would be terribly difficult—terribly, terribly difficult, and the man would cry. He would sit down on the floor and cry. Then the old woman would sit down beside him on the floor and wait, and when he was done crying, they would try again.
Her patience was the heart of it. She was as patient as a person could be.
++
The house was a tall Victorian house. That meant it was nicely made, and with good proportions. The rooms had high ceilings. The windows were large and bore many panes within their cavities. The floors had long wooden boards that ran the length of each room. Many were covered with fine carpets. When a person trod on the floors, the boards creaked, and in this way the house was a little bit alive.
Along the stairs there were photographs. At each step there was another photograph. By walking up and down the stairs one could find a sort of history—but of what it was hard to say. There were many photographs of machines. Winged machines, wheeled machines, farm machines. There were many people with somber clothing and blurry faces. Sometimes there were many people together in one photograph, and when there were, they usually all stood facing in the same direction. How could the photographer stand in front of them—so many, and not be noticed?
The banister was of a swooping brown wood and felt very pleasant under the hand. One could run the hand along it, all the way down the stairs, and then one would be at the bottom. All the way from the top to the bottom.
The bottom of the stairs faced a long, narrow hall—and at its end a door that was never open. This door was set with colored glass of every sort. It would be a nice place to lie, to lie flat on the back in the hall and be covered with the colored light.
There were two paintings in this hall—one of a bird with long feathers, and another of a woman who wore clothing that made her look very much like a bird. She was angry, and her face was cruel, and she filled the area around the door with her anger.
Many of the windows in the house had seats in them. The seats were covered in cushions, and a person could sit there as long as they liked. Eventually, the sun might become blinding. Or, the sky would become dark. Then it would be time to go to a different place.
The woman who walked about in the house was very old. She was always watching everything that happened, and always listening. She was a comfort because she would be there in an instant to help, or she would wait for hours until the next time she should be there in an instant to help. She wore dark stockings of wool and no shoes. Her clothes were the same color as the walls.
The kitchen was the airiest room in the house. It had many windows, and they looked out on a garden full of plants. Some things from the garden would end up in the kitchen. There were many times when one could leave the kitchen happily, and one would often come into it with great happiness, too. The kitchen was the best room in the house.
There were many places in the house for putting things. One could put things from one place to another, and they would go back to the place they had been before. This was a sort of game. As many times as one would do it, the things would return. Even paintings that were tilted, or hairs placed under small statues.
The man would get up and go to the stairs at first, and he would wait there, and wait until she came and then they would go down the stairs together. Or, later, he would go down sitting, go down sitting all the way. He had a hard time making his legs and arms work like the old woman could. Whenever she wanted to do something, she did it.
Finally, he could go down the stairs just like her. In fact, he could go down faster than that. He would go down the stairs and the old woman would find him and they would have things to do all day and then it would be time to sleep.
Whenever he didn’t have things to do, the old woman found something for him to do. But when he had something to do, she was never there.
The man liked the pants that he wore, and there was a day when he put all the clothes on by himself and came down the stairs by himself, and worked on a thing he had decided to do by himself and ate by himself and it was not until the evening that he saw her. Then they sat on the closed porch and she lit a candle and it was a sort of celebration.
++
And on the seventieth day, the man spoke.
++
—Can I, the water.
The examiner sat quietly looking at the claimant. She said nothing.
—Can you give me the water?
His words were clear and distinct.
She picked up the pitcher of water with both hands and gravely presented it to him.
—Here you are, she said.
—Thank you, said the claimant.
The examiner nodded and went back to what she had been doing as if nothing remarkable at all had just happened.
In fact, she thought, often it is wrong on purpose.
She busied herself making some tea. How should she start with this one?
The usual method? Or another approach? Lately she had been favoring the original way, the first way, although she had made her career with her unusual treatments. This time, she would stick to the original method. No speech until the claimant speaks. It was a measurement of sorts. The examiner believed very fervently in measurement.
She set the teapot down on the table and took a pen and paper off a shelf on the wall.
+
Arrived in Gentlest Village P6.
Received claimant. He appears healthy and ready for treatment.
+
The two could be seen through any window of the house, sitting together. He would sit in one chair and she would sit in another. They would sit for long hours, practically motionless.
Through another, they might be seen practicing skills. The old woman would mime the donning of clothes, and help him again and again and again to perform the basic tasks. No matter how he tried, the man could not button the buttons of his shirt. He failed again and again. But, if he was failing, the expression of the old woman seemed to say: This, what we are doing, it is the hardest thing in the world. No one has ever done it. No one until you. And now it has fallen to you to try. Let us try. Let us try again.
One could see them practicing the use of the stairwell, a thing to which one clung with both arms, while lowering leg after leg up and down. It was used for getting to and fro—for going from the top of the house to the bottom.
One could see the man standing in a tub while the old woman poured water over him and scrubbed and scrubbed until he was clean. And soon, he had learned to scrub as well. Soon, he could do it by himself.
If one waited some days and looked through the bottom windows, a different scene might present itself. The two sat at a long table, and blocks with pictures of things were passed back and forth. Large bound sheets full of pictures were shown and shared.
Sometimes a task would be terribly difficult—terribly, terribly difficult, and the man would cry. He would sit down on the floor and cry. Then the old woman would sit down beside him on the floor and wait, and when he was done crying, they would try again.
Her patience was the heart of it. She was as patient as a person could be.
++
The house was a tall Victorian house. That meant it was nicely made, and with good proportions. The rooms had high ceilings. The windows were large and bore many panes within their cavities. The floors had long wooden boards that ran the length of each room. Many were covered with fine carpets. When a person trod on the floors, the boards creaked, and in this way the house was a little bit alive.
Along the stairs there were photographs. At each step there was another photograph. By walking up and down the stairs one could find a sort of history—but of what it was hard to say. There were many photographs of machines. Winged machines, wheeled machines, farm machines. There were many people with somber clothing and blurry faces. Sometimes there were many people together in one photograph, and when there were, they usually all stood facing in the same direction. How could the photographer stand in front of them—so many, and not be noticed?
The banister was of a swooping brown wood and felt very pleasant under the hand. One could run the hand along it, all the way down the stairs, and then one would be at the bottom. All the way from the top to the bottom.
The bottom of the stairs faced a long, narrow hall—and at its end a door that was never open. This door was set with colored glass of every sort. It would be a nice place to lie, to lie flat on the back in the hall and be covered with the colored light.
There were two paintings in this hall—one of a bird with long feathers, and another of a woman who wore clothing that made her look very much like a bird. She was angry, and her face was cruel, and she filled the area around the door with her anger.
Many of the windows in the house had seats in them. The seats were covered in cushions, and a person could sit there as long as they liked. Eventually, the sun might become blinding. Or, the sky would become dark. Then it would be time to go to a different place.
The woman who walked about in the house was very old. She was always watching everything that happened, and always listening. She was a comfort because she would be there in an instant to help, or she would wait for hours until the next time she should be there in an instant to help. She wore dark stockings of wool and no shoes. Her clothes were the same color as the walls.
The kitchen was the airiest room in the house. It had many windows, and they looked out on a garden full of plants. Some things from the garden would end up in the kitchen. There were many times when one could leave the kitchen happily, and one would often come into it with great happiness, too. The kitchen was the best room in the house.
There were many places in the house for putting things. One could put things from one place to another, and they would go back to the place they had been before. This was a sort of game. As many times as one would do it, the things would return. Even paintings that were tilted, or hairs placed under small statues.
The man would get up and go to the stairs at first, and he would wait there, and wait until she came and then they would go down the stairs together. Or, later, he would go down sitting, go down sitting all the way. He had a hard time making his legs and arms work like the old woman could. Whenever she wanted to do something, she did it.
Finally, he could go down the stairs just like her. In fact, he could go down faster than that. He would go down the stairs and the old woman would find him and they would have things to do all day and then it would be time to sleep.
Whenever he didn’t have things to do, the old woman found something for him to do. But when he had something to do, she was never there.
The man liked the pants that he wore, and there was a day when he put all the clothes on by himself and came down the stairs by himself, and worked on a thing he had decided to do by himself and ate by himself and it was not until the evening that he saw her. Then they sat on the closed porch and she lit a candle and it was a sort of celebration.
++
And on the seventieth day, the man spoke.
++
—Can I, the water.
The examiner sat quietly looking at the claimant. She said nothing.
—Can you give me the water?
His words were clear and distinct.
She picked up the pitcher of water with both hands and gravely presented it to him.
—Here you are, she said.
—Thank you, said the claimant.
The examiner nodded and went back to what she had been doing as if nothing remarkable at all had just happened.
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherThe Text Publishing Company
- ISBN 10 1925240037
- ISBN 13 9781925240030
- BindingPaperback
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A Cure For Suicide (Paperback)
Published by
Text Publishing, Melbourne
(2015)
ISBN 10: 1925240037
ISBN 13: 9781925240030
New
Paperback
Quantity: 1
Seller:
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Book Description Paperback. Condition: new. Paperback. From the acclaimed author of Silence Once Begun comes a beguiling new novel about a man starting over at the most basic level, and the strange woman who insinuates herself into his life and memory.A man and a woman have moved into a small house in a small village. The woman is an 'examiner', the man, her 'claimant'. The examiner is both doctor and guide, charged with teaching the claimant a series of simple functions- this is a chair, this is a fork, this is how you meet people. She makes notes in her journal about his progress. He is showing improvement, but his dreams are troubling. One day, the examiner brings him to a party, and here he meets Hilda, a charismatic but volatile woman whose surprising assertions throw everything the claimant has learned into question. What is this village? Why is he here? And who is Hilda? A fascinating novel of love, illness, despair and betrayal, A Cure for Suicide is the most captivating novel yet from this audacious and original writer.Praise forSilence Once Begun'Strange, brief, beguiling. Ball's talents, both as a storyteller and a writer of prose, tend to burst the borders of his structures. His language is chastely lyrical, with a discreet masculinity. He is often appealingly funny, in an absurdist manner.' James Wood, New Yorker'A piercing tragedy in a language that combines subtlety and simplicity in such a way that it causes a reader to go carefully, not wanting to miss a word.'New York Times'Immediately and completely absorbing, sucking you in and-a too brief couple of hours later-spitting you right back out again.'Adelaide Advertiser'Silence Once Begunis a suspenseful, philosophical novel masquerading as reportage. Its preoccupations are complex, but it's written with great clarity.The resonances between the narratives-the recourse to silence, inexplicable disappearances, the ineffable qualities of love and loss-are treated with delicacy and restraint.'Weekend Australian Shipping may be from multiple locations in the US or from the UK, depending on stock availability. Seller Inventory # 9781925240030
Buy New
US$ 25.77
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Seller Image
A Cure For Suicide (Paperback)
Published by
Text Publishing, Melbourne
(2015)
ISBN 10: 1925240037
ISBN 13: 9781925240030
New
Paperback
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Paperback. Condition: new. Paperback. From the acclaimed author of Silence Once Begun comes a beguiling new novel about a man starting over at the most basic level, and the strange woman who insinuates herself into his life and memory.A man and a woman have moved into a small house in a small village. The woman is an 'examiner', the man, her 'claimant'. The examiner is both doctor and guide, charged with teaching the claimant a series of simple functions- this is a chair, this is a fork, this is how you meet people. She makes notes in her journal about his progress. He is showing improvement, but his dreams are troubling. One day, the examiner brings him to a party, and here he meets Hilda, a charismatic but volatile woman whose surprising assertions throw everything the claimant has learned into question. What is this village? Why is he here? And who is Hilda? A fascinating novel of love, illness, despair and betrayal, A Cure for Suicide is the most captivating novel yet from this audacious and original writer.Praise forSilence Once Begun'Strange, brief, beguiling. Ball's talents, both as a storyteller and a writer of prose, tend to burst the borders of his structures. His language is chastely lyrical, with a discreet masculinity. He is often appealingly funny, in an absurdist manner.' James Wood, New Yorker'A piercing tragedy in a language that combines subtlety and simplicity in such a way that it causes a reader to go carefully, not wanting to miss a word.'New York Times'Immediately and completely absorbing, sucking you in and-a too brief couple of hours later-spitting you right back out again.'Adelaide Advertiser'Silence Once Begunis a suspenseful, philosophical novel masquerading as reportage. Its preoccupations are complex, but it's written with great clarity.The resonances between the narratives-the recourse to silence, inexplicable disappearances, the ineffable qualities of love and loss-are treated with delicacy and restraint.'Weekend Australian Shipping may be from our Sydney, NSW warehouse or from our UK or US warehouse, depending on stock availability. Seller Inventory # 9781925240030
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Seller Image
A Cure For Suicide (Paperback)
Published by
Text Publishing, Melbourne
(2015)
ISBN 10: 1925240037
ISBN 13: 9781925240030
New
Paperback
Quantity: 1
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Paperback. Condition: new. Paperback. From the acclaimed author of Silence Once Begun comes a beguiling new novel about a man starting over at the most basic level, and the strange woman who insinuates herself into his life and memory.A man and a woman have moved into a small house in a small village. The woman is an 'examiner', the man, her 'claimant'. The examiner is both doctor and guide, charged with teaching the claimant a series of simple functions- this is a chair, this is a fork, this is how you meet people. She makes notes in her journal about his progress. He is showing improvement, but his dreams are troubling. One day, the examiner brings him to a party, and here he meets Hilda, a charismatic but volatile woman whose surprising assertions throw everything the claimant has learned into question. What is this village? Why is he here? And who is Hilda? A fascinating novel of love, illness, despair and betrayal, A Cure for Suicide is the most captivating novel yet from this audacious and original writer.Praise forSilence Once Begun'Strange, brief, beguiling. Ball's talents, both as a storyteller and a writer of prose, tend to burst the borders of his structures. His language is chastely lyrical, with a discreet masculinity. He is often appealingly funny, in an absurdist manner.' James Wood, New Yorker'A piercing tragedy in a language that combines subtlety and simplicity in such a way that it causes a reader to go carefully, not wanting to miss a word.'New York Times'Immediately and completely absorbing, sucking you in and-a too brief couple of hours later-spitting you right back out again.'Adelaide Advertiser'Silence Once Begunis a suspenseful, philosophical novel masquerading as reportage. Its preoccupations are complex, but it's written with great clarity.The resonances between the narratives-the recourse to silence, inexplicable disappearances, the ineffable qualities of love and loss-are treated with delicacy and restraint.'Weekend Australian Shipping may be from our UK warehouse or from our Australian or US warehouses, depending on stock availability. Seller Inventory # 9781925240030
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