{"product_id":"hardboiled-wonderland-and-the-end-of-the-world-isbn-9780679743460","title":"Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003e1Q84 \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Wind-Up Bird Chronicle \u003c\/i\u003ecomes a relentlessly inventive novel that dives deep into the very nature of consciousness.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Fantastical, mysterious, and funny . . . a fantasy world that might have been penned by Franz Kafka.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Philadelphia Inquirer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAcross two parallel narratives, Murakami draws readers into a mind-bending universe in which Lauren Bacall, Bob Dylan, a split-brained data processor, a deranged scientist, his shockingly undemure granddaughter, and various thugs, librarians, and subterranean monsters collide to dazzling effect. What emerges is a hyperkinetic novel that is at once hilariously funny and a deeply serious meditation on the nature and uses of the mind.“Murakami’s bold willingness to go straight over the top [is] a signal indication of his genius . . . a world-class writer who has both eyes open and takes big risks.” –\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post Book World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He has become the foremost representative of a new style of Japanese writing: hip, cynical, highly stylized, set at the juncture of cyberpunk, postmodernism, and hard-boiled detective fiction. . . . Murakami [is] adept at deadpan wit, outrageous style.” –\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fantastical, mysterious, and funny . . . a fantasy world that might have been penned by Franz Kafka.” –\u003ci\u003ePhiladelphia Inquirer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Rich in action, suspense, odd characters and unexpected trifles . . . [a] provocative work.” –\u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Murakami’s gift is for ironic observations that hint at something graver. . . . He is wry, absurd, and desolate.” –\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] mix of American fun and Japanese dread.” –Esquire\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An intertwining DNA model of seemingly contrary elements . . . a combination of Kafka’s castle, Borges’s library, and the Prisoner’s TV village.” –\u003ci\u003eVillage Voice Literary Supplement\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Off the wall . . . hilariously bizarre . . . splendid . . . a remarkable book . . . Alfred Birnbaum . . . has captured the crazed, surreal feel of Murakami’s Japanese.” –\u003ci\u003eThe Times\u003c\/i\u003e (London)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“His novels . . . are set on fast-forward: raucous, slangy, irreverent.” –\u003ci\u003eDetails\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eHaruki Murakami \u003c\/b\u003eis a best-selling Japanese writer. His works of fiction and non-fiction have garnered critical acclaim and numerous awards, including the Franz Kafka Prize, the Frank O'Connor International Short Story Award and the Jerusalem Prize, among others. Murakami's fiction is humorous and surreal, focusing on themes of alienation and loneliness. He is considered an important figure in postmodern literature. The Guardian praised Murakami as \"among the world's greatest living novelists\" for his works and achievements. Murakami is the author of \u003ci\u003e1Q84, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles, Men Without Women \u003c\/i\u003eand many more.\u003cb\u003e1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eElevator, Silence, Overweight\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe  elevator continued its impossibly slow ascent. Or at least I imagined  it was ascent. There was no telling for sure: it was so slow that all  sense of direction simply vanished. It could have been going down for  all I knew, or maybe it wasn’t moving at all. But let’s just assume it  was going up. Merely a guess. Maybe I’d gone up twelve stories, then  down three. Maybe I’d circled the globe. How would I know?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvery  last thing about this elevator was worlds apart from the cheap die-cut  job in my apartment building, scarcely one notch up the evolutionary  scale from a well bucket. You’d never believe the two pieces of  machinery had the same name and the same purpose. The two were pushing  the outer limits conceivable as elevators.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFirst of all, consider  the space. This elevator was so spacious it could have served as an  office. Put in a desk, add a cabinet and a locker, throw in a  kitchenette, and you’d still have room to spare. You might even squeeze  in three camels and a mid-range palm tree while you were at it. Second,  there was the cleanliness. Antiseptic as a brand-new coffin. The walls  and ceiling were absolutely spotless polished stainless steel, the floor  immaculately carpeted in a handsome moss-green. Third, it was dead  silent. There wasn’t a sound—literally not one sound—from the moment I  stepped inside and the doors slid shut. Deep rivers run quiet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother  thing, most of the gadgets an elevator is supposed to have were  missing. Where, for example, was the panel with all the buttons and  switches? No floor numbers to press, no DOOR OPEN and DOOR CLOSE, no  EMERGENCY STOP. Nothing whatsoever. All of which made me feel utterly  defenseless. And it wasn’t just no buttons; it was no indication of  advancing floor, no posted capacity or warning, not even a  manufacturer’s nameplate. Forget about trying to locate an emergency  exit. Here I was, sealed in. No way this elevator could have gotten fire  department approval. There are norms for elevators after all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStaring  at these four blank stainless-steel walls, I recalled one of Houdini’s  great escapes I’d seen in a movie. He’s tied up in how many ropes and  chains, stuffed into a big trunk, which is wound fast with another thick  chain and sent hurtling, the whole lot, over Niagara Falls. Or maybe it  was an icy dip in the Arctic Ocean. Given that I wasn’t all tied up, I  was doing okay; insofar as I wasn’t clued in on the trick, Houdini was  one up on me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTalk about not clued in, I didn’t even know if I was moving or standing still.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI  ventured a cough, but it didn’t echo anything like a cough. It seemed  flat, like clay thrown against a slick concrete wall. I could hardly  believe that dull thud issued from my own body. I tried coughing one  more time. The result was the same. So much for coughing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stood  in that hermetically sealed vault for what seemed an eternity. The doors  showed no sign of ever opening. Stationary in unending silence, a still  life: \u003ci\u003eMan in Elevator.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI started to get nervous. What if  the machinery had malfunctioned? Or suppose the elevator  operator—assuming there was one in the building—forgot I was here in  this box? People have lost track of me before.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI strained to hear  something, anything, but no sound reached my ears. I pressed my ear  against the stainless-steel wall. Sure enough, not a sound. All I  managed was to leave an outline of my ear on the cold metal. The  elevator was made, apparently, of a miracle alloy that absorbed all  noise. I tried whistling \u003ci\u003eDanny Boy\u003c\/i\u003e, but it came out like a dog wheezing with asthma.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere  was little left to do but lean up against a wall and count the change  in my pockets. For someone in my profession, knowing how to kill time is  as important a method of training as gripping rubber balls is for a  boxer. Although, in any strict sense, it’s not killing time at all. For  only through assiduous repetition is it possible to redistribute skewed  tendencies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI always come prepared with pockets full of loose  change. In my right pocket I keep one-hundred- and five-hundred-yen  coins, in my left fifties and tens. One-yen and five-yen coins I carry  in a back pocket, but as a rule these don’t enter into the count. What I  do is thrust my hands simultaneously into both pockets, the right hand  tallying the hundreds and five-hundreds in tandem with the left hand  adding up the fifties and tens.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s hard for those who’ve never  attempted the procedure to grasp what it is to calculate this way, and  admittedly it is tricky at first. The right brain and the left brain  each keep separate tabs, which are then brought together like two halves  of a split watermelon. No easy task until you get the hang of it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhether  or not I really do put the right and left sides of my brain to separate  accounts, I honestly can’t say. A specialist in neurophysiology might  have insights to offer on the matter. I’m no neurophysiologist, however.  All I know is that when I’m actually in the midst of counting, I feel  like I’m using the right side and left side of my brain differently. And  when I’m through counting, it seems the fatigue that sets in is  qualitatively quite distinct from what comes with normal counting. For  convenience sake, I think of it as right-brain-totals-right-pocket,  left-brain-totals-left-pocket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the whole, I think of myself as  one of those people who take a convenience-sake view of prevailing world  conditions, events, existence in general. Not that I’m such a blasé,  convenience-sake sort of guy—although I do have tendencies in that  direction—but because more often than not I’ve observed that convenient  approximations bring you closest to comprehending the true nature of  things.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor instance, supposing that the planet earth were not a  sphere but a gigantic coffee table, how much difference in everyday life  would that make? Granted, this is a pretty farfetched example; you  can’t rearrange facts of life so freely. Still, picturing the planet  earth, for convenience sake, as a gigantic coffee table does in fact  help clear away the clutter—those practically pointless contingencies  such as gravity and the international dateline and the equator, those  nagging details that arise from the spherical view. I mean, for a guy  leading a perfectly ordinary existence, how many times in the course of a  lifetime would the equator be a significant factor?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut to return  to the matter at hand—or rather, hands, the right and the left each  going about its own separate business—it is by no means easy to keep  running parallel counts. Even for me, to get it down took the longest  time. But once you do, once you’ve gotten the knack, it’s not something  you lose. Like riding a bike or swimming. Which isn’t to say you can’t  always use a little more practice. Repetition can improve your technique  and refine your style. If for no other reason than this, I always keep  my hands busy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis time I had three five-hundred-yen coins and  eighteen hundreds in the one pocket, and seven fifties and sixteen tens  in the other. Making a grand total of three-thousand eight-hundred-ten  yen. Calculations like this are no trouble at all. Simpler than counting  the fingers on my hands. Satisfied, I leaned back against the  stainless-steel wall and looked straight ahead at the doors. Which were  still not opening.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat could be taking so long? I tentatively  wrote off both the equipment-malfunction theory and the  forgotten-by-operator theory. Neither very realistic. This was not to  say that equipment malfunction or operator negligence couldn’t  realistically occur. On the contrary, I know for a fact that such  accidents are all too common in the real world. What I mean to say is  that in a highly exceptional reality—this ridiculously slick elevator a  case in point—the non-exceptional can, for convenience sake, be written  off as paradoxically exceptional. Could any human being capable of  designing this Tom Swift elevator fail to keep the machinery in working  order or forget the proper procedures once a visitor stepped inside?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe answer was obvious. No.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNever happen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot after \u003ci\u003ethey\u003c\/i\u003e had been so meticulous up to that point. They’d seen to minute details,  measuring each step I’d taken virtually to the millimeter. I’d been  stopped by two guards at the entrance to the building, asked whom I was  there to see, matched against a visitors’ list, made to produce my  driver’s license, logged into a central computer for verification, after  which I was summarily pushed into this elevator. You don’t get this  much going over when you visit the Bank of Japan. It was unthinkable  that they, having done all that, should slip up now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe only possibility was that they had intentionally placed me in this particular situation. They \u003ci\u003ewanted\u003c\/i\u003e the elevator’s motions to be opaque to me. They \u003ci\u003ewanted\u003c\/i\u003e the elevator to move so slowly I wouldn’t be able to tell if it were  going up or down. They were probably watching me with a hidden TV camera  now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo ward off the boredom, I thought about searching for the  camera lens. But on second thought, what would I have to gain if I found  it? That would alert them, they’d halt the elevator, and I’d be even  later for my appointed hour.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo I decided to do nothing. I was here in proper accordance with my duties. No need to worry, no cause for alarm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI  leaned against the elevator wall, thrust my hands in my pockets, and  once more counted my change. Three-thousand seven-hundred-fifty yen.  Nothing to it. Done in a flash.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThree-thousand seven-hundred-fifty yen?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething was wrong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’d made a mistake somewhere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy palms began to sweat. In three years of counting, never once had I screwed up. This was a bad sign.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI  shut my eyes and made my right brain and left brain a blank, in a way  you might clean your glasses. Then withdrawing both hands from my  pockets, I spread my fingers to dry the sweat. Like Henry Fonda in \u003ci\u003eWarlock\u003c\/i\u003e, where he steels himself before a gunfight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith  palms and fingers completely dry, both hands dived into my pockets to  do a third count. If the third sum corresponded to either of the other  sums I’d feel better. Everybody makes mistakes. Under the peculiar  conditions I found myself, I may have been anxious, not to mention a  little overconfident. That was my first mistake. Anyway, an accurate  recount was all I needed to remedy the situation, to put things right.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut  before I could take the matter in hand, the elevator doors opened. No  warning, no sound, they just slid open to either side. I was  concentrating so hard on the critical recount that I didn’t even notice.  Or more precisely, my eyes had seen the opening doors, but I didn’t  fully grasp the significance of the event. Of course, the doors’ opening  meant the linking of two spaces previously denied accessible continuity  by means of those very doors. And at the same time, it meant the  elevator had reached its destination.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI turned my attention to  what lay beyond the doors. There was a corridor and in the corridor  stood a woman. A young woman, turned out in a pink suit, wearing pink  high heels. The suit was coutured of a polished material, her face  equally polished. The woman considered my presence, then nodded  succinctly. “Come this way,” she seemed to indicate. I gave up all hope  of that recount, and removing my hands from my pockets, I exited the  elevator. Whereupon the elevator doors closed behind me as if they’d  been waiting for me to leave.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStanding there in the corridor, I  took a good look around, but I encountered no hint of the nature of my  current circumstances. I did seem to be in an interior passage of a  building, but any school kid could have told you as much.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe  interior was gloomy, featureless. Like the elevator. Quality materials  throughout; no sign of wear. Marble floors buffed to a high luster; the  walls a toasted off-white, like the muffins I eat for breakfast. Along  either side of the corridor were tall wooden doors, each affixed with  metal room numbers, but out of order. \u0026lt;936\u0026gt; was next to  \u0026lt;1213\u0026gt; next to \u0026lt;26\u0026gt;. Something was screwy. Nobody numbers  rooms like that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe young woman hardly spoke. “This way, please,”  was all she told me, but it was more her lips forming the words than  speaking, because no sound came out. Having taken two months of  lipreading since starting this line of work, I had no problem  understanding what she said. Still, I thought there was something wrong  with my ears. After the dead silence of the elevator, the flattened  coughs and dessicated whistling, I had to be losing my hearing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo  I coughed. It sounded normal. I regained some confidence in my hearing.  Nothing’s happened to my ears. The problem must be with the woman’s  mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI walked behind her. The clicks of her pointy high heels  echoed down the empty corridor like an afternoon at the quarry. Her  full, stockinged legs reflected clearly in the marble.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman  was on the chubby side. Young and beautiful and all that went with it,  but chubby. Now a young, beautiful woman who is, shall we say, plump,  seems a bit off. Walking behind her, I fixated on her body.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAround  young, beautiful, fat women, I am generally thrown into confusion. I  don’t know why. Maybe it’s because an image of their dietary habits  naturally congeals in my mind. When I see a goodly sized woman, I have  visions of her mopping up that last drop of cream sauce with bread,  wolfing down that final sprig of watercress garnish from her plate. And  once that happens, it’s like acid corroding metal: scenes of her eating  spread through my head and I lose control.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYour plain fat woman is  fine. Fat women are like clouds in the sky. They’re just floating  there, nothing to do with me. But your young, beautiful, fat woman is  another story. I am demanded to assume a posture toward her. I could end  up sleeping with her. That is probably where all the confusion comes  in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich is not to say that I have anything against fat women.  Confusion and repulsion are two different things. I’ve slept with fat  women before and on the whole the experience wasn’t bad. If your  confusion leads you in the right direction, the results can be  uncommonly rewarding. But of course, things don’t always take the right  course. Sex is an extremely subtle undertaking, unlike going to the  department store on Sunday to buy a thermos. Even among young,  beautiful, fat women, there are distinctions to be made. Fleshed out one  way, they’ll lead you in the right direction; fleshed out another way,  they’ll leave you lost, trivial, confused.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn this sense, sleeping  with fat women can be a challenge. There must be as many paths of human  fat as there are ways of human death.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis was pretty much what I was thinking as I walked down the corridor behind this young, beautiful, fat woman.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA  white scarf swirled around the collar of her chic pink suit. From the  fullness of her earlobes dangled square gold earrings, glinting with  every step she took. Actually, she moved quite lightly for her weight.  She may have strapped herself into a girdle or other paraphernalia for  maximum visual effect, but that didn’t alter the fact that her wiggle  was tight and cute. In fact, it turned me on. She was my kind of chubby.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow  I’m not trying to make excuses, but I don’t get turned on by that many  women. If anything, I think of myself as more the non-turn-on type. So  when I do get turned on, I don’t trust it; I have to investigate the  source.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI scooted up next to her and apologized for being eight or  nine minutes late for the appointment. “I had no idea the entrance  procedures would take so long,” I said. “And then the elevator was so  slow. I was ten minutes early when I got to the building.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe gave me a brisk I-know sort of nod. A hint of \u003ci\u003eeau de cologne\u003c\/i\u003e drifted from her neckline. A scent reminiscent of standing in a melon  patch on a summer’s morn. It put me in a funny frame of mind. A  nostalgic yet impossible pastiche of sentiments, as if two wholly  unrelated memories had threaded together in an unknown recess. Feelings  like this sometimes come over me. And most often due to specific scents.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Long  corridor, eh?” I tried to break the ice. She glanced at me, but kept  walking. I guessed she was twenty or twenty-one. Well-defined features,  broad forehead, clear complexion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was then that she said, “Proust.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr  more precisely, she didn’t pronounce the word “Proust,” but simply  moved her lips to form what ought to have been “Proust.” I had yet to  hear a genuine peep out of her. It was as if she were talking to me from  the far side of a thick sheet of glass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eProust?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eMarcel\u003c\/i\u003e Proust?” I asked her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe  gave me a look. Then she repeated, “Proust.” I gave up on the effort  and fell back in line behind her, trying for the life of me to come up  with other lip movements that corresponded to “Proust.” \u003ci\u003eTruest? . . . Brew whist? . . . Blue is it? . . .\u003c\/i\u003e One after the other, quietly to myself, I pronounced strings of  meaningless syllables, but none seemed to match. I could only conclude  that she had indeed said, “Proust”. But what I couldn’t figure was, what  was the connection between this long corridor and Marcel Proust?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePerhaps  she’d cited Marcel Proust as a metaphor for the length of the corridor.  Yet, supposing that were the case, wasn’t it a trifle flighty—not to  say inconsiderate—as a choice of expression? Now if she’d cited this  long corridor as a metaphor for the works of Marcel Proust, that much I  could accept. But the reverse was bizarre.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA corridor as long as Marcel Proust?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhatever,  I kept following her down that long corridor. Truly, a long corridor.  Turning corners, going up and down short flights of stairs, we must have  walked five or six ordinary buildings’ worth. We were walking around  and around, like in an Escher print. But walk as we might, the  surroundings never seemed to change. Marble floors, muffin-white walls,  wooden doors with random room numbers. Stainless-steel door knobs. Not a  window in sight. And through it all, the same staccato rhythm of her  heels, followed by the melted rubber gumminess of my jogging shoes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSuddenly  she pulled to a halt. I was now so tuned in to the sound of my jogging  shoes that I walked right into her backside. It was wonderfully  cushioning, like a firm rain cloud. Her neck effused that melon \u003ci\u003eeau de cologne\u003c\/i\u003e. She was tipping forward from the force of my impact, so I grabbed her shoulders to pull her back upright.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Excuse me,” I said. “I was somewhere else in my thoughts.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe chubby young woman blushed. I couldn’t say for sure, but she didn’t seem at all bothered. “\u003ci\u003eTozwn’sta\u003c\/i\u003e,” she said with a trace of a smile. Then she shrugged her shoulders and added, “\u003ci\u003eSela\u003c\/i\u003e.” She didn’t actually say that, but need I repeat, her lips formed the words.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eTozum’sta?\u003c\/i\u003e” I pronounced to myself. “\u003ci\u003eSela?\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eSela\u003c\/i\u003e,” she said with conviction.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTurkish  perhaps? Problem was, I’d never heard a word of Turkish. I was so  flustered, I decided to forget about holding a conversation with her.  Lipreading is very delicate business and not something you can hope to  master in two months of adult education classes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe produced a  lozenge-shaped electronic key from her suit pocket and inserted it  horizontally, just so, into the slot of the door bearing the number  \u0026lt;728\u0026gt;. It unlocked with a click. Smooth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe opened the door, then turned and bid me, “\u003ci\u003eSaum’te, sela\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich, of course, is exactly what I did.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304398213349,"sku":"NP9780679743460","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780679743460.jpg?v=1767728704","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/hardboiled-wonderland-and-the-end-of-the-world-isbn-9780679743460","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}