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Dead End in Norvelt: (Newbery Medal Winner) (Norvelt Series, 1) Paperback – Illustrated, May 7, 2013
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Dead End in Norvelt is the winner of the 2012 Newbery Medal for the year's best contribution to children's literature and the Scott O'Dell Award for Historical Fiction!
Melding the entirely true and the wildly fictional, Dead End in Norvelt is a novel about an incredible two months for a kid named Jack Gantos, whose plans for vacation excitement are shot down when he is "grounded for life" by his feuding parents, and whose nose spews bad blood at every little shock he gets. But plenty of excitement (and shocks) are coming Jack's way once his mom loans him out to help a feisty old neighbor with a most unusual chore―typewriting obituaries filled with stories about the people who founded his utopian town. As one obituary leads to another, Jack is launched on a strange adventure involving molten wax, Eleanor Roosevelt, twisted promises, a homemade airplane, Girl Scout cookies, a man on a trike, a dancing plague, voices from the past, Hells Angels . . . and possibly murder.
Endlessly surprising, this sly, sharp-edged narrative is the author at his very best, making readers laugh out loud at the most unexpected things in a dead-funny depiction of growing up in a slightly off-kilter place where the past is present, the present is confusing, and the future is completely up in the air.
- Print length384 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- Grade levelKindergarten and up
- Lexile measure920L
- Dimensions5.15 x 1.05 x 7.6 inches
- PublisherSquare Fish
- Publication dateMay 7, 2013
- ISBN-101250010233
- ISBN-13978-1250010230
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Editorial Reviews
Review
“This is a brilliant book, full of history, mystery, and laughs. It reminded me of my small-town childhood, although my small town was never as delightfully weird as Norvelt.” ―Dave Barry
“* A bit of autobiography works its way into all of Gantos's work, but he one-ups himself in this wildly entertaining meld of truth and fiction by naming the main character . . . Jackie Gantos.” ―Publishers Weekly, starred review
“A fast-paced and witty read.” ―School Library Journal
“A more quietly (but still absurdly) funny and insightful account of a kid's growth, kin to Gantos's Jack stories, that will stealthily hook even resistant readers into the lure of history.” ― Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books (BCCB)
“This winning novel, both humorous and heartwarming, takes place during the summer of 1962, when narrator Jack Gantos turns 12 and spends most of his days grounded. Jack's main ‘get out of jail free card,' and one of the novel's most charming characters, is Miss Volker. The blossoming of their friendship coincides with the blooming of Jack's character.” ―Shelf Awareness Pro
“* There's more than laugh-out-loud gothic comedy here. This is a richly layered semi-autobiographical tale, an ode to a time and place, to history and the power of reading.” ―The Horn Book, starred review
“Gantos, as always, delivers bushels of food for thought and plenty of outright guffaws.” ―Booklist
“* An exhilarating summer marked by death, gore and fire sparks deep thoughts in a small-town lad not uncoincidentally named 'Jack Gantos.' The gore is all Jack's, which to his continuing embarrassment 'would spray out of my nose holes like dragon flames' whenever anything exciting or upsetting happens. And that would be on every other page, seemingly. . . . Characteristically provocative gothic comedy, with sublime undertones.” ―Kirkus Reviews, starred review
“Nobody can tell a story like Jack Gantos can. And this is a story like no other. It's funny. It's thoughtful. It's history. It's weird. But you don't need me to attempt to describe it. Get in there and start reading Gantos.” ―Jon Scieszka, founder of guysread.com and author of the Spaceheadz series
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Dead End in Norvelt
By Jack GantosSquare Fish
Copyright © 2013 Jack GantosAll right reserved.
ISBN: 9781250010230
1
School was finally out and I was standing on a picnic table in our backyard getting ready for a great summer vacation when my mother walked up to me and ruined it. I was holding a pair of camouflage Japanese WWII binoculars to my eyes and focusing across her newly planted vegetable garden, and her cornfield, and over ancient Miss Volker’s roof, and then up the Norvelt road, and past the brick bell tower on my school, and beyond the Community Center, and the tall silver whistle on top of the volunteer fire department to the most distant dark blue hill, which is where the screen for the Viking drive-in movie theater had recently been erected.
Down by my feet I had laid out all the Japanese army souvenirs Dad had shipped home from the war. He had been in the navy, and after a Pacific island invasion in the Solomons he and some other sailor buddies had blindly crawled around at night and found a bunker of dead Japanese soldiers half buried in the sand. They stripped everything military off of them and dragged the loot back to their camp. Dad had an officer’s sword with what he said was real dried blood along the razor-sharp edge of the long blade. He had a Japanese flag, a sniper’s rifle with a full ammo clip, a dented canteen, a pair of dirty white gloves with a scorched hole shot right through the bloody palm of the left hand, and a color-tinted photo of an elegant Japanese woman in a kimono. Of course he also had the powerful binoculars I was using.
I knew Mom had come to ruin my fun, so I thought I would distract her and maybe she’d forget what was on her mind.
“Hey, Mom,” I said matter-of-factly with the binoculars still pressed against my face, “how come blood on a sword dries red, and blood on cloth dries brown? How come?”
“Honey,” Mom replied, sticking with what was on her mind, “does your dad know you have all this dangerous war stuff out?”
“He always lets me play with it as long as I’m careful,” I said, which wasn’t true. In fact, he never let me play with it, because as he put it, “This swag will be worth a bundle of money someday, so keep your grubby hands off it.”
“Well, don’t hurt yourself,” Mom warned. “And if there is blood on some of that stuff, don’t touch it. You might catch something, like Japanese polio.”
“Don’t you mean Japanese beetles?” I asked. She had an invasion of those in her garden that were winning the plant war.
She didn’t answer my question. Instead, she switched back to why she came to speak to me in the first place. “I just got a call from Miss Volker. She needs a few minutes of your time in the morning, so I told her I’d send you down.”
I gazed at my mom through the binoculars but she was too close to bring into focus. Her face was just a hazy pink cupcake with strawberry icing.
“And,” she continued, “Miss Volker said she would give you a little something for your help, but I don’t want you to take any money. You can take a slice of pie but no money. We never help neighbors for cash.”
“Pie? That’s all I get?” I asked. “Pie? But what if it makes her feel good to give me money?”
“It won’t make me feel good if she gives you money,” she stressed. “And it shouldn’t make you feel good either. Helping others is a far greater reward than doing it for money.”
“Okay,” I said, giving in to her before she pushed me in. “What time?”
Mom looked away from me for a moment and stared over at War Chief, my uncle Will’s Indian pony, who was grinding his chunky yellow teeth. He was working up a sweat from scratching his itchy side back and forth against the rough bark on a prickly oak. About a month ago my uncle visited us when he got a pass from the army. He used to work for the county road department and for kicks he had painted big orange and white circles with reflective paint all over War Chief’s hair. He said it made War Chief look like he was getting ready to battle General Custer. But War Chief was only battling the paint which wouldn’t wash off, and it had been driving him crazy. Mom said the army had turned her younger brother Will from being a “nice kid” to being a “confused jerk.”
Earlier, the pony had been rubbing himself against the barbed wire around the turkey coop, but the long-necked turkeys got all riled up and pecked his legs. It had been so long since a farrier had trimmed War Chief’s hooves that he hobbled painfully around the yard like a crippled ballerina. It was sad. If my uncle gave me the pony I’d take really good care of him, but he wouldn’t give him up.
“Miss Volker will need you there at six in the morning,” Mom said casually, “but she said you were welcome to come earlier if you wanted.”
“Six!” I cried. “I don’t even have to get up that early for school, and now that I’m on my summer vacation I want to sleep in. Why does she need me so early?”
“She said she has an important project with a deadline and she’ll need you as early as she can get you.”
I lifted my binoculars back toward the movie. The Japanese were snaking through the low palmettos toward the last few marines on Wake Island. One of the young marines was holding a prayer book and looking toward heaven, which was a sure Hollywood sign he was about to die with a slug to a vital organ. Then the scene cut to a young Japanese soldier aiming his sniper rifle, which looked just like mine. Then the film cut back to the young marine, and just as he crossed himself with the “Father, Son, and Holy—” BANG! He clutched his heart and slumped over.
“Yikes!” I called out. “They plugged him!”
“Is that a war movie?” Mom asked sharply, pointing toward the screen and squinting as if she were looking directly into the flickering projector.
“Not entirely,” I replied. “It’s more of a love war movie.” I lied. It was totally a war movie except for when the soon-to-be-dead marines talked about their girlfriends, but I threw in the word love because I thought she wouldn’t say what she said next.
“You know I don’t like you watching war movies,” she scolded me with her hands on her hips. “All that violence is bad for you—plus it gets you worked up.”
“I know, Mom,” I replied with as much huffiness in my voice as I thought I could get away with. “I know.”
“Do I need to remind you of your little problem?” she asked.
How could I forget? I was a nosebleeder. The moment something startled me or whenever I got overexcited or spooked about any little thing blood would spray out of my nose holes like dragon flames.
“I know,” I said to her, and instinctively swiped a finger under my nose to check for blood. “You remind me of my little problem all day long.”
“You know the doctor thinks it’s the sign of a bigger problem,” she said seriously. “If you have iron-poor blood you may not be getting enough oxygen to your brain.”
“Can you just leave, please?”
“Don’t be disrespectful,” she said, reminding me of my manners, but I was already obsessing about my bleeding-nose problem. When Dad’s old Chevy truck backfired I showered blood across the sidewalk. When I fell off the pony and landed on my butt my nose spewed blood down over my chest. At night, if I had a disturbing dream then my nose leaked through the pillow. I swear, with the blood I was losing I needed a transfusion about every other day. Something had to be wrong with me, but one really good advantage about being dirt-poor is that you can’t afford to go to the doctor and get bad news.
“Jack!” my mom called, and reached forward to poke my kneecap. “Jack! Are you listening? Come into the house soon. You’ll have to get to bed early now that you have morning plans.”
“Okay,” I said, and felt my fun evening leap off a cliff as she walked back toward the kitchen door. I knew she was still soaking the dishes in the sink so I had a little more time. Once she was out of sight I turned back to what I had been planning all along. I lifted the binoculars and focused in on the movie screen. The Japanese hadn’t quite finished off all the marines and I figured I’d be a marine too and help defend them. I knew we wouldn’t be fighting the Japanese anymore because they were now our friends, but it was good to use movie enemies for target practice because Dad said I had to get ready to fight off the Russian Commies who had already sneaked into the country and were planning to launch a surprise attack. I put down the binoculars and removed the ammo clip on the sniper rifle then aimed it toward the screen where I could just make out the small images. There was no scope on the rifle so I had to use the regular sight—the kind where you lined up a little metal ball on the far end of the barrel with the V-notch above the trigger where you pressed your cheek and eye to the cool wooden stock. The rifle weighed a ton. I hoisted it up and tried to aim at the movie screen, but the barrel shook back and forth so wildly I couldn’t get the ball to line up inside the V. I lowered the rifle and took a deep breath. I knew I didn’t have all night to play because of Mom, so I gave it another try as the Japanese made their final “Banzai!” assault.
I lifted the rifle again and swung the tip of the barrel straight up into the air. I figured I could gradually lower the barrel at the screen, aim, and pick off one of the Japanese troops. With all my strength I slowly lowered the barrel and held it steady enough to finally get the ball centered inside the V, and when I saw a tiny Japanese soldier leap out of a bush I quickly pulled the trigger and let him have it.
BLAM! The rifle fired off and violently kicked out of my grip. It flipped into the air before clattering down across the picnic table and sliding onto the ground. “Oh sweet cheeze-us!” I wailed, and dropped butt-first onto the table. “Ohhh! Cheeze-us-crust!” I didn’t know the rifle was loaded. I hadn’t put a shell in the chamber. My ears were ringing like air raid warnings. I tried to stand but was too dizzy and flopped over. “This is bad. This is bad,” I whispered over and over as I desperately gripped the tabletop.
“Jaaaack!” I heard my mother shriek and then the screen door slammed behind her.
“If I’m not already dead I soon will be,” I said to myself.
She sprinted across the grass and mashed through a bed of peonies and lunged toward me like a crazed animal. Before I could drop down and hide under the picnic table she pounced on me. “Oh … my … God!” she panted, and grabbed at my body as I tried to wiggle away. “Oh dear Lord! There’s blood! You’ve been shot! Where?” Then she gasped and pointed directly at my face. Her eyes bugged out and her scream was so high-pitched it was silent.
I tasted blood. “Oh cheeze!” I shouted. “I’ve been shot in the mouth!”
With the dish towel still clutched in her hand she pressed it against my forehead.
“Am I dying?” I blubbered. “Is there a hole in my head? Am I breathing?”
I felt her roughly wiping my face while trying to get a clear look at my wound. “Oh, good grief,” she suddenly groaned, and flung her bloodied arms down to her side.
“What?” I asked desperately. “Am I too hurt to be fixed?”
“It’s just your nose problem!” she said, exasperated. “Your dang bloody nose!” Then she pressed the towel to my face again. “Hold it there tightly,” she instructed, “I’ll go get another one.”
She stomped back toward the house, and I sat there for a few torturous minutes with one hand pressing the towel against my nose and breathed deeply through my mouth. Even through the blood I could smell the flinty gunpowder from the bullet. Dad is going to kill me, I thought. He’ll court-martial me and sentence me to death by firing squad. Before I could fully imagine the tragic end of my life I heard an ambulance wailing up the Norvelt road. It took a turn directly into Miss Volker’s driveway and stopped. The driver jumped out and sprinted toward her house and jerked open the porch door.
That’s not good, I thought and turned cold all over. If I shot Miss Volker through the head Mom will never believe it was an accident. She’ll think I was just trying to get out of going to her house in the morning.
I lowered myself down onto the picnic bench and then onto the grass which was slippery from my blood. I trotted across the yard to our screen door. I was still bleeding so I stood outside and dripped on the doormat. Please, please, please, don’t let me have shot her, I thought over and over. I knew I had to say something to Mom, so I gathered up a little courage and as casually as possible said, “Um, there happens to be an ambulance at Miss Volker’s house.”
But Mom was a step ahead of me. “Don’t worry,” she said right back. “I just now called down there. She’s fine. You didn’t shoot her if that is what you are thinking.”
“I was,” I admitted. “I thought I shot her dead!”
“It wasn’t that,” she said, now frowning at me from the other side of the door. “The shock from hearing the rifle go off caused her to drop her hearing aid down the toilet—I guess she had it turned up too high.”
“So why’d she call an ambulance? Did she get her arm stuck going after it?”
“No. She called the plumber, but he’s also the ambulance driver so he made an emergency call. Really,” she said with some admiration, “it’s good that people around this town know how to help out in different ways.”
“Hey, Mom,” I said quietly before going to wash my face at the outside work sink, “please don’t tell Dad about the gun accident.” He was out of town but you never knew when he’d finish a construction job and suddenly show up.
“I’ll consider it,” she said without much promise. “But until he returns you are grounded—and if you do something this stupid again you’ll barely live to regret it. Understand?”
I understood. I really didn’t want Dad knowing what had happened because he would blow a fuse. On top of him not wanting me to touch his stuff he was always trying to teach me about gun safety, and I figured after this gun episode he might give up on me and I didn’t want him to.
“Here,” she said, and handed me a wad of tissues so I could roll them into pointy cones to plug up my nose holes. “And before bed I want you to take a double dose of your iron drops,” she stressed. “The doctor doesn’t want you to become anemic.”
“It’s just a nosebleed,” I said glumly.
“There may be more to it,” she replied. “Besides, given that stunt you just pulled, it’s in your best interest to do exactly what I say.”
I did exactly what she said and cleaned all my blood off and took my medicine and went to bed, but firing that rifle had me all wound up. How could that bullet have gotten into the chamber? The ammo clip was off. I thought about it as I tossed back and forth, but couldn’t come up with an answer. Plus, it was hard to fall asleep with my nose stuffed with massive wads of bloody tissue while breathing through my dry mouth. I turned on my bedside lamp and picked a book from one of the tall stacks Mom had given me. She did some charity auction work for the old elementary school over in Hecla which was closing, and in return they gave her a bunch of books including their beat-up Landmark history series, which had dozens of titles about famous explorers. I was a little too drifty in school so she thought it was a good idea that I read more books, and she knew I liked history and adventure stories.
I started reading about Francisco Pizarro’s hard-to-believe conquest of the Incas in Peru. In 1532 Pizarro and fewer than two hundred men captured Atahualpa, the Inca chief, who had an army of fifty thousand soldiers. Pizarro’s men fired off an old flintlock blunderbuss and the noise and smoke scared the Inca army and Pizarro jumped on Atahualpa and held a sword to his neck and in that very instant the entire Inca empire was defeated. Amazing!
Pizarro then held Atahualpa hostage for a ransom of gold so the Incas brought Pizarro piles of golden life-size people and animals and plants—all sculpted from solid gold as if the Incas had the Midas touch while they strolled through their fantastic cities and farms and jungles and everything they even gently brushed up against turned into pure gold. But no one will ever again see that life-size golden world because once the conquistadors got their greedy hands on the gold they melted it down. They turned all those beautiful golden sculptures into boring Spanish coins and shipped boatloads of them back to the king and queen of Spain, who loved the gold but wanted even more.
Pizarro then raided all the temples and palaces and melted down the gold he found and sent that back. Still, it wasn’t enough for the king and queen. Pizarro even dug up the dead when it was discovered that they were buried with gold. He had their jewelry melted down and sent back to Spain. But it still wasn’t enough. So Pizarro’s men forced the Inca people to work harder in the gold mines. They melted the gold ore and sent that back to Spain, and when there was no more gold Pizarro broke his promise and strangled the Inca king. He turned the Inca people into slaves and they died by the thousands from harsh work and disease.
Finally, one of Pizarro’s own men sneaked up and stabbed him to death because he thought Pizarro was cheating him out of his share of gold for helping to conquer the Incas. Gold had driven the conquistadors crazy and they ended up killing themselves and all of those poor Incas. It was a really tragic story. I just wished I had been with Atahualpa and his army when the conquistadors fired off that blunderbuss. I could have told Atahualpa that I had fired off a rifle too and that it was scary, but not to panic. Then we could have ordered the Inca army to capture the gold-crazed conquistadors and saved the Inca civilization, and history would have been different. If only …
Text copyright © 2011 by Jack Gantos
Continues...
Excerpted from Dead End in Norvelt by Jack Gantos Copyright © 2013 by Jack Gantos. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Product details
- Publisher : Square Fish; First Edition (May 7, 2013)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 384 pages
- ISBN-10 : 1250010233
- ISBN-13 : 978-1250010230
- Reading age : 9 - 12 years, from customers
- Lexile measure : 920L
- Grade level : Kindergarten and up
- Item Weight : 10.2 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.15 x 1.05 x 7.6 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #104,114 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
JACK GANTOS
Email: gantosbooks@gmail.com (for school visits)
Website: www.jackgantos.com
GANTOS SHORT BIO:
JACK GANTOS is the author of over fifty books for children from the ROTTEN RALPH picture books, collections of JACK HENRY short stories (5 in the series), upper elementary and middle school JOEY PIGZA novels (5 in the series), DEAD END IN NORVELT (Newbery Award) and FROM NORVELT TO NOWHERE, young adult novels--THE TROUBLE IN ME, LOVE CURSE OF THE RUMBAUGHS, DESIRE LINES, and an award winning memoir, HOLE IN MY LIFE, which is required reading in High Schools. His work can lead readers from the cradle to the grave.
Mr. Gantos was a professor at Emerson College where he developed the Masters Degree Program in Children's Literature, Writing and Publishing. He now spends his time writing and is an active speaker at book and literacy conferences, schools and libraries. His works have received a Newbery Award, Scott O'Dell Award, Newbery Honor, Printz Honor, Sibert Honor, National Book Award Finalist honor and he is the 2010 recipient of the NCTE/ALAN AWARD for his contribution to the field of Young Adult and Children's Literature. DEAD END IN NORVELT received both the 2012 John Newbery Award and the Scott O'Dell award for Historic Fiction. The companion novel, FROM NORVELT TO NOWHERE. His most recent releases are THE TROUBLE IN ME (middle/high school memoir) and WRITING RADAR: Using Your Journal to Snoop Out and Craft Great Stories--the best selling book on how to become a great young writer.
GANTOS: LETTER TO YOUNG WRITERS
Dear Readers and Writers,
I am no different than any other writer in that the desire to write came to me after my desire to read. It is the reading that saturates the imagination with vast possibilities. Not just the possibility of creating a story, but with the possibility of holding a book in your hand that has your name printed on the cover.
In school I was a library helper. I shelved books and you can probably guess that the G section was my favorite. I would walk my fingers across the spines of the G authors until I came to my slot with GALDONE on one side and GEORGE on the other. I could imagine my book, with my last name fitting on the shelf between those two authors. Every school day I would pass that G shelf and imagine my book, with my name on it, proudly reaching out at me.
Of course, when you are young, it is easy to imagine a book with your name on it, but as I grew older I realized a bit of effort was going to go into the construction of a book. So I bought a small black writing journal and on the spine I took a pen knife and carved my last name into the black cover. I wasn't sure what to title the book and so I didn't. After a while
I just called it my "Black Book." I took that book everywhere. I wrote very unorganized stories in it. But I did have an eye for the odd moment. I saw my dog eaten by an alligator. I wrote about it in my Black Book. I saw an airplane crash in my neighborhood. I wrote it down. I broke my brothers arm--three times! I wrote it down. And I kept filling up the Black Book. And when it was full of odds and ends and bits and pieces of stories I made a fake library call number and pasted it on the spine of my book. I glued a card pocket on the inside back cover and slipped a Date Due card inside. Then I carved my title on the spine: JACKS BLACK BOOK. When no one was looking I went to the book shelf and slipped it between GALDONE and GEORGE. Each day I would pass it in the library. Weeks went by. It didn't move. Then one day it was gone!
I was thrilled.
But after many long weeks went by I thought maybe it was pretty foolish of me to put the only copy of my book on the shelf. Whoever checked it out was probably laughing at me. I was feeling pretty dejected. The empty gap on the shelf where my book had been now looked like a sad missing tooth.
Then it came back. I was working in the library and found it in the BOOK RETURN bin. I quickly flipped to the back where I had written a note on the last page asking the reader if he or she liked the book. They had responded. Eagerly I read: "Whoever wrote this book should seek mental help." I did. But it wasn't a doctor. I went to my teacher and told her what I had done and asked for help on how to organize my stories. She did help me. She, and reading more books, made me a better writer. Now I've published WRITING RADAR: Using Your Journal to Snoop Out and Craft Great Stories. In this book I've put in my best 'how-to' writing tips for your writers who want to be published writers!
I went to college for creative writing. I have published forty-five books from the ROTTEN RALPH series to the JACK HENRY series to the JOEY PIGZA series to HOLE IN MY LIFE and more--all the way to DEAD END IN NORVELT, the 2012 Newbery Medal winner. I have won many awards, but the Newbery Medal tops them all. My next job as a writer is to top myself. Now, FROM NORVELT TO NOWHERE has just been released with Starred Reviews. In the fall of 2014 THE KEY THAT SWALLOWED JOEY PIGZA was published. It is the final Joey Pigza book. When you read it let me know what you think.
Now Out Is:
WRITING RADAR: Using Your Journal to Snoop Out and Craft Great Stories.
All Best, Jack Gantos
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The book is tightly woven from the point of view of a good-natured eleven- (then twelve-) year old boy growing up in the early '60s, a bit used and abused by the adults in his world.
The writing is wonderful, and in my opinion the author's metaphors and similes are often dazzling: "I could see the flames leaping into the air, and the confetti of glowing ash that floated above the flames...[The]blistering flames rising above the house...waving goodbye to everyone who was watching." About old, arthritic Mrs. Volker: "When she finished she plopped down onto her couch like a string puppet that had been cut loose. All her jumbled pieces slumped into herself, and with her forehead pressed against her tucked-up knees she fell into a deep sleep."
The unity of the book is complete, dealing, as it does, with the boy's obsession with death -- his own, the death of the town, the deaths of the town's old people, the death-work of the embalmer....
The main characters and secondary characters including the boy's mother, Mrs. Volker, Bunny, and Mr. Spizz are endearing and funny, and unlikely to be forgotten.
Having said all that, I'm not so sure that this is really a kid's book; at the end, when the mystery is solved, there is no moral payoff. Someone is outed, but there is no real consequences to the person's ill deeds. Life goes on -- or not, actually -- with little shock or horror, whereas the rest of the book deals, humorously, with right vs wrong.
It's really a terrific book, if for adults. The best part is that it's tear-inducing hilarious.
As his WWII veteran father returns to home with an army surplus J-3, he asks Jack to mow down his mother's precious cornfield to make a runaway and a bomb shelter. Already on the risk with his gun accident and his overwhelming will to get on board in the plane, Jack mows down the corn and gets into a serious trouble with his mother: grounded for summer. Now, not only he cannot contribute to the baseball team, his only way of escape is by doing chores and helping neighbors.
By helping Mrs. Volker, he had a rather interesting summer. As he helped her, or should I say, typed the obituaries Mrs. Volker spoke to him, he soaked in all the necessary histories about Norvelt and learned to respect history. However, this book is not always peaceful. As all the original Norvelters started to die off in a very quick rate, rumors spread on town of the crazy dance diesis coming back to life to haunt them, or that the town is cursed. This mystery draws Jack deeply into risks of another trouble, and events.
Leaving out the unusual case of frequent nose bloodsheds, Jack is considered a usual boy looking to spend the summer vacation in his own way, enjoying every bits instead of having to have to worry about watch his back every time. This is a very fun book to read, especially for a early-teenager like me. It has enough twists and turns for chapters that every time one cools down, other starts. I tried to listen it in an audio book instead, but it did not work because I had to pause every bits since I was laughing my head off way higher than the audio itself.
Again, highly recommended: you will find yourself/past self as Jack and laugh along as he tries to set things right. ^^
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El libro es bastante cómico en algunas partes, y el único pero sería que el protagonista parece un mero observador de todo y no parece tener mucha iniciativa.
No existe versión en castellano de este libro, aunque yo creo que cualquiera con nivel medio de inglés lo puede entender. Existe una segunda parte y quizás algún día le de una oportunidad.
ときは1962年(宇宙飛行士のジョン・グレンが地球周回軌道を飛行した、という記述があります)。ところはペンシルバニア州のノーヴェルト(実在の町)。ガントス家はジャックと両親の3人暮らし。ガントス少年が12歳の誕生日を迎えるひと夏の物語です。
とある事情からジャックは夏休みの間、母親から謹慎処分をくらいます。自宅から出かけてよいのは町内に住むMiss Volkerの手伝いをするときぐらい。Miss Volkerは(元)看護婦。ノーヴェルトが町として誕生したときからの住人。彼女は町の住人が亡くなると新聞に追悼記事を書くのですが、加齢のためMiss Volkerは指先が不自由。そこでジャックはMiss Volkerが追悼記事のための文章を口述するのを筆記し、それをタイプライターで清書、記事を新聞社にもっていくのでした。Miss Volkerは、ノーヴェルトの当初からの住人全ての追悼記事を書くまでは(つまり、最後に亡くなるのは彼女ということ)結婚はしない、と決めたまま歳をとってしまったのでした。
さて、謹慎処分をくらったジャックはまだまだ遊び盛り。家では好きな歴史の本を読んで過ごしますが、いかんせん退屈。Miss Volkerからの呼び出しがある度に勇んで家を飛び出します。ところが、ジャックならずともこの本を読んでいる途中、読者はふと「ひと夏のことなのに、よくもまあ何人もの老人が亡くなることよ」と疑問をもつでしょう。そうです。本作品はミステリー小説でもあるのです。老人の連続死の謎。犯人は誰か。いったい何のために。本作はYA小説という枠に収まらない多様な側面をもつ小説です。
今年に入って読んだ本の中では、今のところ最もおもしろい本でした。腹を抱えて笑える箇所が多くあります。
と同時に、とても心を動かされた本でした。特に、日本人である私には、作者がMiss Volkerをして8月6日の広島への原爆投下について語らしめた部分に本当に心を振るわされました(第23章)。作者のフィロソフィーを含めてひとつの小説に感動したのは久しぶりのことです。
是非お読みください。お勧めです。