{"product_id":"i-had-a-brother-once-isbn-9780593134795","title":"I Had a Brother Once","description":"\u003cb\u003eA brilliant, genre-defying work—both memoir and epic poem—about the struggle for wisdom, grace, and ritual in the face of unspeakable loss\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“A bruised and brave love letter from a brother right here to a brother now gone . . . a soaring, unblinking gaze into the meaning of life itself.”—Marlon James, author of \u003ci\u003eBlack Leopard, Red Wolf\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003emy father said\u003cbr\u003edavid has taken his own life\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAdam is in the middle of his own busy life, and approaching a career high in the form of a #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling book—when these words from his father open a chasm beneath his feet. \u003ci\u003eI Had a Brother Once\u003c\/i\u003e is the story of everything that comes after. In the shadow of David’s inexplicable death, Adam is forced to re-remember a brother he thought he knew and to reckon with a ghost, confronting his unsettled family history, his distant relationship with tradition and faith, and his desperate need to understand an event that always slides just out of his grasp. This is an expansive and deeply thoughtful poetic meditation on loss and a raw, darkly funny, human story of trying to create a ritual—of remembrance, mourning, forgiveness, and acceptance—where once there was a life.“You’ve never read a book like this one, with such heart and such grace. Adam Mansbach unpacks a kind of loss most of us will never experience, and builds something at once majestic and intimate: a tribute, a totem, a life.”\u003cb\u003e—Daniel Alarcón, author of \u003ci\u003eThe King Is Always Above the People\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Poetry has always been the perfect vehicle for the unwieldy, intractable narrative—the pulsing injustice that refuses to dim, the love that swells unchecked, the numbing tragedy that bleeds past its borders. In \u003ci\u003eI Had a Brother Once\u003c\/i\u003e—Adam Mansbach’s penetrative chronicle of his younger brother’s suicide—there is an almost unbearable tension between an unrelenting poetic structure that just barely the contains the unthinkable and the exhaustive emotional range of the poem itself. I remember Adam around the time of his brother’s death—if there’s a top of the world, he was on top of that—and it’s sobering to now realize the grief he was shouldering, how vehemently that perfect world had shifted. \u003ci\u003eI Had a Brother Once\u003c\/i\u003e humbly touts itself as ‘A Poem,’ but it is so, so much more than that. It is a love story, an unbridled wail, an effectual and resounding clash of heartache and art.”\u003cb\u003e—Patricia Smith, author of the Pulitzer Prize finalist \u003ci\u003eIncendiary Art\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is a devastating, brilliant book. Somehow, in its completely authentic pain, it manages also to be full of life, at times even sweetly funny, maybe because we see struggles we recognize: of distance, of authenticity, of parenting, of performance, of love. This book feels deeply necessary, not just for the writer, but for all of us.”\u003cb\u003e—Matthew Zapruder, author of \u003ci\u003eWhy Poetr\u003c\/i\u003ey and \u003ci\u003eFather’s Day\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eI Had a Brother Once\u003c\/i\u003e is a brave, heartrending, and compelling book. It is consoling with no false notes, rich in both texture and feeling. Adam Mansbach has written a remarkable memoir.”\u003cb\u003e—Rabih Alameddine, artist and author of \u003ci\u003eAn Unnecessary Woman\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Angel of History\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A piercing poetic meditation on death, grief, and family . . . A wounded though loving paean that will speak to anyone who has lost a sibling, no matter the cause of death.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eReviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In this heartbreaking, brutally candid memoir, Mansbach employs long stanzas of free verse to recount events surrounding his brother's death, struggling through anger, sorrow, and confusion. Poetic conventions allow him to retreat into form, to distill the endless refrains of condolence in a way that re-creates the time grief occupies in tragedy’s immediate aftermath. . . . For an author who has written everything from screenplays to middle-grade novels to wildly popular picture books, this courageous and devastating memoir in verse stands out.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eAdam Mansbach\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller \u003ci\u003eGo the F**k to Sleep\u003c\/i\u003e, the novels \u003ci\u003eRage Is Back\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eAngry Black White Boy\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe End of the Jews\u003c\/i\u003e (winner of the California Book Award), and a dozen other books, most recently the bestselling \u003ci\u003eA Field Guide to the Jewish People\u003c\/i\u003e, co-written with Dave Barry and Alan Zweibel. Mansbach wrote the award-winning screenplay for the Netflix Original \u003ci\u003eBarry,\u003c\/i\u003e and his next feature film, \u003ci\u003eSuper High\u003c\/i\u003e, starring Andy Samberg, Craig Robinson, and Common, is forthcoming from New Line. His work has appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker, The New York Times Book Review, Esquire, The Believer,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e and on \u003ci\u003eThis American Life, The Moth\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eAll Things Considered\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cp\u003efirst of all i never\u003cbr\u003eusually stayed out past\u003cbr\u003emidnight or even ten,\u003cbr\u003ebut i was feeling\u003cbr\u003emyself that night.\u003cbr\u003esomething was ending\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; it was time to celebrate.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003emy friend emery had \u003cbr\u003ereserved the back room\u003cbr\u003eof a center city lounge\u003cbr\u003eso we could spin some\u003cbr\u003erecords for the first \u0026amp;\u003cbr\u003efinal time before i\u003cbr\u003epacked up the rented\u003cbr\u003ecarriage house \u0026amp;\u003cbr\u003eu-hauled out of town.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eone year in philly had\u003cbr\u003esprawled into two \u0026amp;\u003cbr\u003ei’d been digging weekly\u003cbr\u003ethat whole time\u003cbr\u003eat this spot called beautiful\u003cbr\u003eworld \u0026amp; another called\u003cbr\u003emilkcrate, plus mark’s\u003cbr\u003espot, which didn’t have\u003cbr\u003ea name, \u0026amp; then there was\u003cbr\u003eanother out past bryn mawr\u003cbr\u003ethat i found by accident,\u003cbr\u003ea place the local deejays\u003cbr\u003ehad long written off\u003cbr\u003eas trash, except i happened\u003cbr\u003eto fall through just as\u003cbr\u003ea new collection came up\u003cbr\u003efrom the basement, had not\u003cbr\u003eeven been filed yet, all\u003cbr\u003eholy grail joints--the del\u003cbr\u003ejones record, a mint\u003cbr\u003eoriginal headless heroes\u003cbr\u003eof the apocalypse lp,\u003cbr\u003ethe bo diddley with the\u003cbr\u003ebreak, the rhetta hughes,\u003cbr\u003ethe johnny houston, some\u003cbr\u003eforty pieces \u0026amp; nothing\u003cbr\u003estickered past eight bucks.\u003cbr\u003eit’s bound to happen if\u003cbr\u003eyou dig long \u0026amp; doggedly\u003cbr\u003eenough, but only about\u003cbr\u003eonce per decade. my last two\u003cbr\u003ehad been waterville maine\u003cbr\u003ein ninety-six \u0026amp; the jamaican\u003cbr\u003elady i met outside academy\u003cbr\u003erecords in manhattan double\u003cbr\u003eparked on twelfth street,\u003cbr\u003etruck sagging with roots\u003cbr\u003ereggae. there were two guys\u003cbr\u003eworking that day, a bald\u003cbr\u003eheaded whiteboy \u0026amp; a dread,\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; the wrong one jogged out.\u003cbr\u003ehe took a quick flip through\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; passed. i slid up \u0026amp; i asked\u003cbr\u003eif i could look, ended up\u003cbr\u003ejumping in the shotgun seat\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; driving back up to the bronx\u003cbr\u003eto see what she had left at home.\u003cbr\u003ethat was two thousand two\u003cbr\u003eor possibly oh-three\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; now it was may twenty-eight\u003cbr\u003etwo thousand eleven. i’d\u003cbr\u003eamassed two crates, one for\u003cbr\u003eeach year of my expiring\u003cbr\u003euniversity appointment, \u0026amp;\u003cbr\u003ebarely listened to a lot of it\u003cbr\u003emyself; all i had at the house\u003cbr\u003ewas a portable turntable emery\u003cbr\u003ehad let me hold, \u0026amp; all my\u003cbr\u003ethree year old wanted to hear\u003cbr\u003ewas the dixie cups crooning\u003cbr\u003eabout their trip to the chapel\u003cbr\u003eof love, maybe because her\u003cbr\u003emother \u0026amp; i were not\u003cbr\u003emarried ourselves.\u003cbr\u003ei had not spun out\u003cbr\u003esince leaving california, \u0026amp;\u003cbr\u003emusic always sounds different\u003cbr\u003ewhen you are rocking for\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003ea room, studying the way\u003cbr\u003eeach song hits. deejaying\u003cbr\u003eis the art of making people\u003cbr\u003ehear what you do. each\u003cbr\u003erecord transforms the crowd\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; each crowd the record.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003ei invited my grad students\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; most of them came. it\u003cbr\u003ewas a small mfa program,\u003cbr\u003etightknit, with little of the\u003cbr\u003epettiness or gamesmanship\u003cbr\u003ei recalled from my own.\u003cbr\u003eafter workshop we often\u003cbr\u003ewent for drinks, a motorcade\u003cbr\u003eof hatchbacks \u0026amp; tin cans\u003cbr\u003ecruising four blocks to the\u003cbr\u003etavern near campus because\u003cbr\u003ewalking even that far was\u003cbr\u003econsidered foolhardy in\u003cbr\u003ecamden at night. one bar\u003cbr\u003efor an entire university was\u003cbr\u003eone too few, meant i risked\u003cbr\u003eseeing my undergrads\u003cbr\u003edrunk, but it was no worse\u003cbr\u003ethan running into them while\u003cbr\u003ei was lifting weights at the\u003cbr\u003eschool gym, \u0026amp; for the most\u003cbr\u003epart we were all adept at\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enot getting in each other’s\u003cbr\u003eway, like housemates sharing\u003cbr\u003ea kitchen.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003esomebody took a flick\u003cbr\u003eof me behind the wheels\u003cbr\u003ethat night, probably leslie.\u003cbr\u003emy left hand is pressed\u003cbr\u003eto the wax, fingertips\u003cbr\u003ebackcuing the funky\u003cbr\u003elittle drumfill at the top\u003cbr\u003eof hit or miss, right hand\u003cbr\u003ea jutting peace sign,\u003cbr\u003eelbow cocked, arms tan,\u003cbr\u003eemery grinning beside me.\u003cbr\u003ethat was one of the last\u003cbr\u003erecords i played, which\u003cbr\u003emeans it was about twelve\u003cbr\u003ethirty \u0026amp; might even be after\u003cbr\u003ethe first call from my father,\u003cbr\u003ethe one i ignored, straight\u003cbr\u003ecognitive dissonance, there\u003cbr\u003ewas no earthly reason\u003cbr\u003ehe would call that late \u0026amp;\u003cbr\u003ei was in the middle of\u003cbr\u003emy set, no one was sick\u003cbr\u003eor frail, my last living\u003cbr\u003egrandparent was already\u003cbr\u003edead. i told myself\u003cbr\u003ehe must have dialed by\u003cbr\u003emistake in his car, home\u003cbr\u003ebound from the newspaper\u003cbr\u003eafter writing the first headline\u003cbr\u003ethe greater boston area would\u003cbr\u003esee tomorrow when they freed\u003cbr\u003ethe globe from its plastic\u003cbr\u003esheath, tipped their coffee\u003cbr\u003emugs mouthward, destroyed\u003cbr\u003ethe symmetry of their donuts.\u003cbr\u003ebut five minutes later\u003cbr\u003ehe called again \u0026amp; this time i\u003cbr\u003epicked up, cupping a palm\u003cbr\u003eover my open ear to blunt\u003cbr\u003e the funk booming behind.\u003cbr\u003ei still didn’t think anything\u003cbr\u003ewas wrong. in fact, i remember\u003cbr\u003eor think i remember being\u003cbr\u003eslightly annoyed, in the belief\u003cbr\u003ethat this call was a frivolous\u003cbr\u003eintrusion, which makes\u003cbr\u003eso little sense that perhaps\u003cbr\u003ei knew better \u0026amp; was frightened\u003cbr\u003eenough to erect this cardboard\u003cbr\u003ebuttress.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003emy father said\u003cbr\u003ei’ve put this off as\u003cbr\u003elong as possible\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat’s not what he said.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003ei mean me. i would live\u003cbr\u003ehere in this preamble\u003cbr\u003eforever. rework it. fold in\u003cbr\u003enew ingredients. knead it\u003cbr\u003etill the gluten breaks. yammer\u003cbr\u003eon about records. tell some\u003cbr\u003ejokes. have i mentioned\u003cbr\u003ethat on this night \u0026amp; for\u003cbr\u003ethe six weeks beforehand\u003cbr\u003ea book i had written that\u003cbr\u003edid not yet technically exist,\u003cbr\u003ecould not be held in hands till\u003cbr\u003ejune, was somehow outselling\u003cbr\u003eevery other book in the world?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethere was almost certainly\u003cbr\u003ea split second when i\u003cbr\u003econvinced myself my father\u003cbr\u003ewas calling about that,\u003cbr\u003ejubilant with some new\u003cbr\u003etidbit that had dropped into his\u003cbr\u003enewsroom off the a.p.\u003cbr\u003ewire, additional victims\u003cbr\u003eclaimed by this viral sensation\u003cbr\u003eof mine. we could talk about\u003cbr\u003ethe book. i could tell you\u003cbr\u003ea few stories about stories,\u003cbr\u003eflip a little wordplay, we could\u003cbr\u003ewarm up with some improv\u003cbr\u003egames. it has been eight\u003cbr\u003ef***ing years \u0026amp; i have written\u003cbr\u003eeverything but this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy father said\u003cbr\u003edavid has taken his own life\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; i answered as if i didn’t\u003cbr\u003eunderstand or hadn’t heard.\u003cbr\u003emy reply was what? \u0026amp; he\u003cbr\u003erepeated it. there is plenty\u003cbr\u003eto regret \u0026amp; perhaps this\u003cbr\u003eis insignificant but i wish\u003cbr\u003ei had not made him\u003cbr\u003esay it to me twice.\u003c\/p\u003e#1 New York Times bestselling author","brand":"One World","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305062846693,"sku":"NP9780593134795","price":26.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593134795.jpg?v=1767729644","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/i-had-a-brother-once-isbn-9780593134795","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}