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The Body Artist: A Novel [Paperback]

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  • Category: Books (Fiction)
  • Author:  DeLillo, Don
  • Author:  DeLillo, Don
  • ISBN-10:  0743203968
  • ISBN-10:  0743203968
  • ISBN-13:  9780743203968
  • ISBN-13:  9780743203968
  • Publisher:  Scribner
  • Publisher:  Scribner
  • Pages:  128
  • Pages:  128
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Pub Date:  01-Nov-2002
  • Pub Date:  01-Nov-2002
  • SKU:  0743203968-11-MING
  • SKU:  0743203968-11-MING
  • Item ID: 100120141
  • Seller: ShopSpell
  • Ships in: 2 business days
  • Transit time: Up to 5 business days
  • Delivery by: Nov 27 to Nov 29
  • Notes: Brand New Book. Order Now.

A stunning novel by the bestselling National Book Award–winning author ofWhite NoiseandUnderworld.

Since the publication of his first novelAmericana,Don DeLillo has lived in the skin of our times. He has found a voice for the forgotten souls who haunt the fringes of our culture and for its larger-than-life, real-life figures. His language is defiantly, radiantly American.

InThe Body Artisthis spare, seductive twelfth novel, he inhabits the muted world of Lauren Hartke, an artist whose work defies the limits of the body. Lauren is living on a lonely coast, in a rambling rented house, where she encounters a strange, ageless man, a man with uncanny knowledge of her own life. Together they begin a journey into the wilderness of time, love and human perception.

The Body Artistis a haunting, beautiful and profoundly moving novel from one of the finest writers of our time.Chapter One

Time seems to pass. The world happens, unrolling into moments, and you stop to glance at a spider pressed to its web. There is a quickness of light and a sense of things outlined precisely and streaks of running luster on the bay. You know more surely who you are on a strong bright day after a storm when the smallest falling leaf is stabbed with self-awareness. The wind makes a sound in the pines and the world comes into being, irreversibly, and the spider rides the wind-swayed web.

It happened this final morning that they were here at the same time, in the kitchen, and they shambled past each other to get things out of cabinets and drawers and then waited one for the other by the sink or fridge, still a little puddled in dream melt, and she ran tap water over the blueberries bunched in her hand and closed her eyes to breathe the savor rising.

He sat with the newspaper, stirring his coffee. It was his coffee and his cup. They shared the newspaper but it was actually, unspokenly, hers.

I wanlc

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