{"product_id":"the-bonesetters-daughter-isbn-9780345457370","title":"The Bonesetter's Daughter","description":"\u003cb\u003e#1 NATIONAL BESTSELLER • A \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eNOTABLE BOOK • “[An] absorbing tale of the mother-daughter bond” (\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e) from the renowned author of \u003ci\u003eThe Joy Luck Club \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Backyard Bird Chronicles\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“No one writes about mothers and daughters with more empathy than Amy Tan.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Philadelphia Inquirer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRuth Young and her widowed mother have always had a difficult relationship. But when she discovers writings that vividly describe her mother’s tumultuous life growing up in China, Ruth discovers a side of LuLing that she never knew existed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTransported to a backwoods village known as Immortal Heart, Ruth learns of secrets passed along by a mute nursemaid, Precious Auntie; of a cave where dragon bones are mined; of the crumbling ravine known as the End of the World; and of the curse that LuLing believes she released through betrayal. Within the calligraphied pages awaits the truth about a mother’s heart, secrets she cannot tell her daughter, yet hopes she will never forget. . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eConjuring the pain of broken dreams and the power of myths, \u003ci\u003eThe Bonesetter’s Daughter\u003c\/i\u003e is an excavation of the human spirit: the past, its deepest wounds, and its most profound hopes.“[An] absorbing tale of the mother-daughter bond . . . this book sing[s] with emotion and insight.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tan at her best . . . rich and hauntingly forlorn . . . The writing is so exacting and unique in its detail.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Bonesetter’s Daughter\u003c\/i\u003e dramatically chronicles the tortured, devoted relationship between LuLing Young and her daughter Ruth. . . . A strong novel, filled with idiosyncratic, sympathetic characters, haunting images, historical complexity, significant contemporary themes, and suspenseful mystery.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“For Tan, the true keeper of memory is language, and so the novel is layered with stories that have been written down—by mothers for their daughters, passing along secrets that cannot be said out loud but must not be forgotten.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Amy Tan [has] done it again. . . . \u003ci\u003eThe Bonesetter’s Daughter\u003c\/i\u003e tells a compelling tale of family relationships; it layers and stirs themes of secrets, ambiguous meanings, cultural complexity and self-identity; and it resonates with metaphor and symbol.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Denver Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“As compelling as Tan’s first bestseller \u003ci\u003eThe Joy Luck Club\u003c\/i\u003e . . . No one writes about mothers and daughters with more empathy than Amy Tan.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Philadelphia Inquirer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Poignant and bittersweet . . . A story of secrets and revelation, estrangement and reconciliation.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eRocky Mountain News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Compelling . . . Readers who loved Amy Tan’s bestselling novels about the complex ties between mothers and daughters\u003ci\u003e, The Joy Luck Club\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Kitchen God’s Wife, \u003c\/i\u003ewill also be captivated by \u003ci\u003eThe Bonesetter’s Daughter\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Orlando Sentinel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A woman’s struggle to find her voice has long been a favorite theme of Amy Tan. Nowhere has she explored it with more compassion or charm than in this touching new novel.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Richmond Times-Dispatch\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An enchanting story of a mother and daughter, the secrets they have kept from one another, and the common ground they finally come to occupy.... A powerful, luminously written saga in which past and present are bound together into the tangled skein of a human life.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Anniston Star\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A riveting, multi-layered tale . . . Tan’s storytelling skills are strong, and her plot line appeals to the rebellious daughter in all of us.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eToronto Globe and Mail\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eAmy Tan\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Joy Luck Club\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Kitchen God’s Wife\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e The Hundred Secret Senses\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eand two children’s books, \u003ci\u003eThe Moon Lady\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Chinese Siamese Cat\u003c\/i\u003e, which has been adapted as \u003ci\u003eSagwa\u003c\/i\u003e, a PBS series for children. Tan was also the co-producer and co-screenwriter of the film version of \u003ci\u003eThe Joy Luck Club\u003c\/i\u003e, and her essays and stories have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. Her work has been translated into more than twenty-five languages. Tan, who has a master’s degree in linguistics from San Jose University, has worked as a language specialist to programs serving children with developmental disabilities. She lives with her husband in San Francisco and New York.TRUTH\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThese are the things I know are true:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy name is LuLing Liu Young. The names of my husbands were\u003cbr\u003ePan Kai Jing and Edwin Young, both of them dead and our secrets\u003cbr\u003egone with them. My daughter is Ruth Luyi Young. She was born in a\u003cbr\u003eWater Dragon Year and I in a Fire Dragon Year. So we are the same\u003cbr\u003ebut for opposite reasons.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI know all this, yet there is one name I cannot remember. It is\u003cbr\u003ethere in the oldest layer of my memory, and I cannot dig it out. A\u003cbr\u003ehundred times I have gone over that morning when Precious Auntie\u003cbr\u003ewrote it down. I was only six then, but very smart. I could count. I\u003cbr\u003ecould read. I had a memory for everything, and here is my memory\u003cbr\u003eof that winter morning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was sleepy, still lying on the brick k'ang bed I shared with Precious\u003cbr\u003eAuntie. The flue to our little room was furthest from the stove\u003cbr\u003ein the common room, and the bricks beneath me had long turned\u003cbr\u003ecold. I felt my shoulder being shaken. When I opened my eyes, Precious\u003cbr\u003eAuntie began to write on a scrap of paper, then showed me\u003cbr\u003ewhat she had written. \"I can't see,\" I complained. \"It's too dark.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe huffed, set the paper on the low cupboard, and motioned that\u003cbr\u003eI should get up. She lighted the teapot brazier, and tied a scarf over her\u003cbr\u003enose and mouth when it started to smoke. She poured face-washing\u003cbr\u003ewater into the teapot's chamber, and when it was cooked, she started\u003cbr\u003eour day. She scrubbed my face and ears. She parted my hair and\u003cbr\u003ecombed my bangs. She wet down any strands that stuck out like\u003cbr\u003espider legs. Then she gathered the long part of my hair into two\u003cbr\u003ebundles and braided them. She banded the top with red ribbon, the\u003cbr\u003ebottom with green. I wagged my head so that my braids swung like\u003cbr\u003ethe happy ears of palace dogs. And Precious Auntie sniffed the air\u003cbr\u003eas if she, too, were a dog wondering, What's that good smell? That\u003cbr\u003esniff was how she said my nickname, Doggie. That was how she\u003cbr\u003etalked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe had no voice, just gasps and wheezes, the snorts of a ragged\u003cbr\u003ewind. She told me things with grimaces and groans, dancing eyebrows\u003cbr\u003eand darting eyes. She wrote about the world on my carry-around\u003cbr\u003echalkboard. She also made pictures with her blackened\u003cbr\u003ehands. Hand-talk, face-talk, and chalk-talk were the languages I\u003cbr\u003egrew up with, soundless and strong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs she wound her hair tight against her skull, I played with her\u003cbr\u003ebox of treasures. I took out a pretty comb, ivory with a rooster\u003cbr\u003ecarved at each end. Precious Auntie was born a Rooster. \"You wear\u003cbr\u003ethis,\" I demanded, holding it up. \"Pretty.\" I was still young enough\u003cbr\u003eto believe that beauty came from things, and I wanted Mother to favor\u003cbr\u003eher more. But Precious Auntie shook her head. She pulled off\u003cbr\u003eher scarf and pointed to her face and bunched her brows. What use\u003cbr\u003edo I have for prettiness? she was saying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer bangs fell to her eyebrows like mine. The rest of her hair was\u003cbr\u003ebound into a knot and stabbed together with a silver prong. She had\u003cbr\u003ea sweet-peach forehead, wide-set eyes, full cheeks tapering to a small\u003cbr\u003eplump nose. That was the top of her face. Then there was the\u003cbr\u003ebottom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe wiggled her blackened fingertips like hungry flames. See what\u003cbr\u003ethe fire did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI didn't think she was ugly, not in the way others in our family\u003cbr\u003edid. \"Ai-ya, seeing her, even a demon would leap out of his skin,\" I\u003cbr\u003eonce heard Mother remark. When I was small, I liked to trace my\u003cbr\u003efingers around Precious Auntie 's mouth. It was a puzzle. Half was\u003cbr\u003ebumpy, half was smooth and melted closed. The inside of her right\u003cbr\u003echeek was stiff as leather, the left was moist and soft. Where the\u003cbr\u003egums had burned, the teeth had fallen out. And her tongue was like a\u003cbr\u003eparched root. She could not taste the pleasures of life: salty and bitter,\u003cbr\u003esour and sharp, spicy, sweet, and fat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one else understood Precious Auntie 's kind of talk, so I had\u003cbr\u003eto say aloud what she meant. Not everything, though, not our secret\u003cbr\u003estories. She often told me about her father, the Famous Bonesetter\u003cbr\u003efrom the Mouth of the Mountain, about the cave where they found\u003cbr\u003ethe dragon bones, how the bones were divine and could cure any\u003cbr\u003epain, except a grieving heart. \"Tell me again,\" I said that morning,\u003cbr\u003ewishing for a story about how she burned her face and became my\u003cbr\u003enursemaid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was a fire-eater, she said with her hands and eyes. Hundreds of\u003cbr\u003epeople came to see me in the market square. Into the burning pot of my\u003cbr\u003emouth I dropped raw pork, added chilis and bean paste, stirred this up,\u003cbr\u003ethen offered the morsels to people to taste. If they said, \"Delicious!\" I\u003cbr\u003eopened my mouth as a purse to catch their copper coins. One day, however,\u003cbr\u003eI ate the fire, and the fire came back, and it ate me. After that, I decided\u003cbr\u003enot to be a cook-pot anymore, so I became your nursemaid instead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI laughed and clapped my hands, liking this made-up story best.\u003cbr\u003eThe day before, she told me she had stared at an unlucky star falling\u003cbr\u003eout of the sky and then it dropped into her open mouth and burned\u003cbr\u003eher face. The day before that, she said she had eaten what she\u003cbr\u003ethought was a spicy Hunan dish only to find that it was the coals used\u003cbr\u003efor cooking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo more stories, Precious Auntie now told me, her hands talking\u003cbr\u003efast. It's almost time for breakfast, and we must pray while we're still\u003cbr\u003ehungry. She retrieved the scrap of paper from the cupboard, folded it\u003cbr\u003ein half, and tucked it into the lining of her shoe. We put on our\u003cbr\u003epadded winter clothes and walked into the cold corridor. The air\u003cbr\u003esmelled of coal fires in other wings of the compound. I saw Old\u003cbr\u003eCook pumping his arm to turn the crank over the well. I heard a tenant\u003cbr\u003eyelling at her lazy daughter-in-law. I passed the room that my\u003cbr\u003esister, GaoLing, shared with Mother, the two of them still asleep. We\u003cbr\u003ehurried to the south-facing small room, to our ancestral hall. At the\u003cbr\u003ethreshold, Precious Auntie gave me a warning look. Act humble. Take\u003cbr\u003eoff your shoes. In my stockings, I stepped onto cold gray tiles. Instantly,\u003cbr\u003emy feet were stabbed with an iciness that ran up my legs,\u003cbr\u003ethrough my body, and dripped out my nose. I began to shake.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe wall facing me was lined with overlapping scrolls of couplets,\u003cbr\u003egifts to our family from scholars who had used our ink over the\u003cbr\u003elast two hundred years. I had learned to read one, a poem-painting:\u003cbr\u003e\"Fish shadows dart downstream,\" meaning our ink was dark, beautiful,\u003cbr\u003eand smooth-flowing. On the long altar table were two statues,\u003cbr\u003ethe God of Longevity with his white-waterfall beard, and the Goddess\u003cbr\u003eof Mercy, her face smooth, free of worry. Her black eyes looked\u003cbr\u003einto mine. Only she listened to the woes and wishes of women, Precious\u003cbr\u003eAuntie said. Perched around the statues were spirit tablets of\u003cbr\u003ethe Liu ancestors, their wooden faces carved with their names. Not\u003cbr\u003eall my ancestors were there, Precious Auntie told me, just the ones\u003cbr\u003emy family considered most important. The in-between ones and\u003cbr\u003ethose belonging to women were stuck in trunks or forgotten.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePrecious Auntie lighted several joss sticks. She blew on them until\u003cbr\u003ethey began to smolder. Soon more smoke rose--a jumble of our\u003cbr\u003ebreath, our offerings, and hazy clouds that I thought were ghosts\u003cbr\u003ewho would try to yank me down to wander with them in the World\u003cbr\u003eof Yin. Precious Auntie once told me that a body grows cold when it\u003cbr\u003eis dead. And since I was chilled to the bone that morning, I was\u003cbr\u003eafraid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm cold,\" I whimpered, and tears leaked out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePrecious Auntie sat on a stool and drew me to her lap. Stop that,\u003cbr\u003eDoggie, she gently scolded, or the tears will freeze into icicles and poke\u003cbr\u003eout your eyes. She kneaded my feet fast, as if they were dumpling\u003cbr\u003edough. Better? How about now, better?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter I stopped crying, Precious Auntie lighted more joss sticks.\u003cbr\u003eShe went back to the threshold and picked up one of her shoes. I can\u003cbr\u003estill see it--the dusty blue cloth, the black piping, the tiny embroidery\u003cbr\u003eof an extra leaf where she had repaired the hole. I thought she\u003cbr\u003ewas going to burn her shoe as a send-away gift to the dead. Instead,\u003cbr\u003efrom the shoe 's lining, she took out the scrap of paper with the writing\u003cbr\u003eshe had showed me earlier. She nodded toward me and said with\u003cbr\u003eher hands: My family name, the name of all the bonesetters. She put\u003cbr\u003ethe paper name in front of my face again and said, Never forget this\u003cbr\u003ename, then placed it carefully on the altar. We bowed and rose,\u003cbr\u003ebowed and rose. Each time my head bobbed up, I looked at that\u003cbr\u003ename. And the name was--\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy can't I see it now? I've pushed a hundred family names\u003cbr\u003ethrough my mouth, and none comes back with the belch of memory.\u003cbr\u003eWas the name uncommon? Did I lose it because I kept it a secret too\u003cbr\u003elong? Maybe I lost it the same way I lost all my favorite things--the\u003cbr\u003ejacket GaoLing gave me when I left for the orphan school, the dress\u003cbr\u003emy second husband said made me look like a movie star, the first\u003cbr\u003ebaby dress that Luyi outgrew. Each time I loved something with a\u003cbr\u003especial ache, I put it in my trunk of best things. I hid those things for\u003cbr\u003eso long I almost forgot I had them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis morning I remembered the trunk. I went to put away the\u003cbr\u003ebirthday present that Luyi gave me. Gray pearls from Hawaii, beautiful\u003cbr\u003ebeyond belief. When I opened the lid, out rose a cloud of moths, a\u003cbr\u003estream of silverfish. Inside I found a web of knitted holes, one after\u003cbr\u003ethe other. The embroidered flowers, the bright colors, now gone. Almost\u003cbr\u003eall that mattered in my life has disappeared, and the worst is\u003cbr\u003elosing Precious Auntie 's name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePrecious Auntie, what is our name? I always meant to claim it as\u003cbr\u003emy own. Come help me remember. I'm not a little girl anymore. I'm\u003cbr\u003enot afraid of ghosts. Are you still mad at me? Don't you recognize\u003cbr\u003eme? I am LuLing, your daughter.New York Times bestseller; Author of The Backyard Bird Chronicles","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300022046949,"sku":"NP9780345457370","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345457370.jpg?v=1767738449","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-bonesetters-daughter-isbn-9780345457370","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}