{"product_id":"the-closed-circle-isbn-9780375713958","title":"The Closed Circle","description":"The characters of \u003ci\u003eThe Rotters’ Club\u003c\/i\u003e–Jonathan Coe’s beloved novel of adolescent life in the 1970s–have bartered their innocence for the vengeance of middle age in this incisive portrait of Cool Britannia at the millennium.\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Wonderfully witty and compulsively readable. . . . Often laugh-out-loud funny–but Coe has also fashioned a movingly human novel. . . .It’s the best novel to date from this talented author.” –\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Jonathan Coe may be the most exciting novelist you've never heard of. . . . Coe has every tool a writer can possess, as though he were a super-novelist assembled from the best parts of others.\" –\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"With a nineteenth-century novelist's discursiveness and reach, Coe gives us a meditation on the consequences of terrorism, an examination of the post-9\/11 political zeitgeist, a satire of everything from book reviewers to modern parenting.\" –\u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic Monthly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“One of the glories of Coe's writing is a magically buoyant narrative technique that makes you feel as though you have been fostering a comfortable intimacy with all his characters since they, and you, were young.” –\u003ci\u003eThe Daily Telegraph \u003c\/i\u003e(London)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Immensely satisfying. . . . Coe is a witty writer with a talent for social satire that singes characters without burning away their humanity.\" –\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post Book World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eJonathan Coe’s awards include the John Llewellyn Rhys Prize, the Prix du Meilleur Livre Etranger, the Prix Médicis Etranger, and, for \u003ci\u003eThe Rotters’ Club\u003c\/i\u003e, the Bollinger Everyman Wodehouse Prize for Comic Writing. He lives in London with his wife and their two daughters.Etretat\u003cbr\u003eTuesday, 7th December, 1999\u003cbr\u003eMorning\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSister Dearest,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe view from up here is amazing, but it's too cold to write very  much. My fingers can barely hold the pen. But I promised myself I'd  start this letter before returning to England, and this really is my  last chance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLast thoughts, then, on leaving the European mainland? On coming home?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm scouring the horizon and looking for omens. Calm sea, clear blue  sky. Surely that has to count for something.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePeople come up here to kill themselves, apparently. In fact there's a  boy further down the path, standing dangerously close to the edge,  who looks as though he may be planning to do exactly that. He's been  standing there for as long as I've been on this bench and he's only  wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Must be freezing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWell, at least I haven't got to that point yet; although there have  been some bad moments, these last few weeks. Moments when it seemed  like I'd lost my bearings completely, that it was all spinning out of  control. You must have known that feeling, once. In fact I know you  did. Anyway, it's over now. Onwards and upwards.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeneath me I can see Etretat, the wide curve of its beach, the  pinnacled rooftops of the chateau where I stayed last night. I never  did manage to explore the town. Funny how, when you have the freedom  to do anything you want, you end up doing so little. Infinite choice  seems to translate into no choice at all. I could have headed out for  sole dieppoise and ended up being plied with free Calvados by a  flirty waiter; instead I stayed inside and watched some old Gene  Hackman movie dubbed into French.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFour out of ten, for that. See me afterwards. Could do better. Is  this any way to begin a new life?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAm I really beginning a new life, in any case? Perhaps I'm just  resuming an old one, after a long and finally pointless interruption.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn board the ferry, Pride of Portsmouth\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the restaurant\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTuesday, 7th December, 1999\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLate afternoon\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wonder how they manage to make a profit from this line, at this  time of year? Apart from me and the man behind the counter--what  should I call him, is he the steward or purser or something?--this  place is deserted. It's dark outside now and there is rain flecking  the windows. Perhaps it's just spray. Makes me want to shiver looking  at it, even though it's warm inside, almost overheated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm writing this letter in the little A5 notebook I bought in Venice.  It has a silky blue hardback cover with a marbled pattern, and lovely  thick, roughly cut pages. When I've finished--if I ever finish--I  suppose I could always cut the pages out and put them in an envelope.  But there wouldn't be much point, would there? Anyway, it hasn't got  off to a flying start. Rather self-indulgent so far, I'd say. You'd  think I'd know how to write to you, after the thousands and thousands  of words I've written in the last few years. But somehow, every new  letter I write to you feels like the first one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI've got a feeling this is going to be the longest of all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I sat down on that bench high on the chalk cliffs above Etretat,  I hadn't even decided whether it was you I was going to write to, or  Stefano. But I chose you. Aren't you proud of me? You see, I'm  determined that I'm not going to go down that road. I promised myself  that I wouldn't contact him, and a promise to yourself is the most  binding of all. It's difficult, because there hasn't been a day for  four months when we haven't spoken, or emailed, or at least texted.  That kind of habit is hard to break. But I know it will get better.  This is the cold turkey period. Looking at my mobile sitting on the  table next to the coffee, I feel like an ex-smoker having a packet of  fags dangled in front of her nose. It would be so easy to text him.  He taught me how to send text messages, after all. But that would be  a crazy thing to do. He'd hate me for it, anyway. And I'm scared of  him starting to hate me--really scared. That scares me more than  anything. Silly, isn't it? What difference does it make, if I'm not  going to see him again?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'll make a list. Making a list is always a good displacement activity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLessons I've learned from the Stefano disaster:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1. -Married men rarely leave their wives and daughters for single  women in their late thirties.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2. -You can still be having an affair with someone, even if you're  not having sex.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e3.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI can't think of a number three. Even so, that's not bad going. Both  those lessons are important. They'll stand me in good stead, the next  time something like this happens. Or rather, they'll help me to make  sure (I hope) that there won't be a next time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWell, that looks good, on paper--especially this expensive, thick,  creamy, Venetian paper. But I remember a line that Philip always used  to quote to me. Some crusty old pillar of the British establishment  who said, in his dotage: \"Yes--I've learned from my mistakes, and I'm  sure I could repeat them perfectly.\" Ha, ha. That will probably be me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFourth coffee of the day\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNational Film Theatre Cafe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLondon, South Bank\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWednesday, 8th December, 1999\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfternoon\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, I'm back, sister darling, after an interruption of twenty hours  or so, and the first question that occurs to me, after a morning  spent more or less aimlessly wandering the streets, is this: who are  all these people, and what do they do?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's not that I remember London very well. I don't think I've been  here for about six years. But I do (or thought I did) remember where  some of my favorite shops were. There was a clothes shop in one of  the back streets between Covent Garden and Long Acre, where you could  get nice scarves, and about three doors along, there used to be some  people who did hand-painted ceramics. I was hoping to get an ashtray  for Dad, a sort of peace-offering. (Wishful thinking, for sure: it  would take more than that . . . ) Anyway, the point is, neither of  these places seems to be there any more. Both have been turned into  coffee shops, and both of them were absolutely packed. And also, of  course, coming from Italy I'm used to seeing people talking on their  mobiles all day, but for the last few years I've been saying to  everyone over there, in a tone of great authority, \"Oh, you know,  they're never going to catch on in Britain--not to the same extent.\"  Why do I always do that? Bang on about stuff I know nothing about, as  if I was a world expert? Jesus, everybody here has got one now.  Clamped to their ears, walking up and down the Charing Cross Road,  jabbering to themselves like loons. Some of them have even got these  earpieces which mean you don't realize they're on the phone at all,  and you really do think they must be care-in-the-community cases.  (Because there are plenty of those around as well.) But the question  is--as I said--who are all these people and what do they do? I know I  shouldn't generalize from the closure of a couple of shops (anyway,  perhaps I got the wrong street), but my first impression is that  there are vast numbers of people who don't work in this city any  more, in the sense of making things or selling things. All that seems  to be considered rather old-fashioned. Instead, people meet, and they  talk. And when they're not meeting or talking in person, they're  usually talking on their phones, and what they're usually talking  about is an arrangement to meet. But what I want to know is, when  they actually meet, what do they talk about? It seems that's another  thing I've been getting wrong in Italy. I kept going round telling  everybody how reserved the English are. But we're not,  apparently--we've become a nation of talkers. We've become intensely  sociable. And yet I still don't have a clue what's being said.  There's this great conversation going on all over the country,  apparently, and I feel I'm the one person who doesn't know enough to  join in. What's it about? Last night's TV? The ban on British beef?  How to beat the Millennium bug?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd another thing, while I remember: that bloody great wheel that's  appeared on the side of the Thames, next to County Hall. What's that  for, exactly?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnyway, that's enough social commentary for now, I think. The other  things I wanted to tell you are, first of all, that I've decided to  face the music, bite the bullet and so on, and go back to Birmingham  tonight (because the hotel prices here are phenomenal, and I simply  can't afford to stay here for another day); and also that I may have  been back in England for less than twenty-four hours, but already I'm  faced with a blast from the past. It comes in the form of a flyer I  picked up at the Queen Elizabeth Hall. There's going to be a reading  there on Monday, the title of which is \"Goodbye to All That.\" Six  \"figures from public life\" (it says here) are going to tell us \"what  they most regret leaving behind or what they are happiest to see the  back of, at the end of the second Christian Millennium.\" And look  who's number four on the list: no, not Benjamin (although he was the  one we all thought would be a famous writer), but Doug Anderton--who  we are told is a \"journalist and political commentator,\" if you  please.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother omen, maybe? A sign I'm not making a bold foray into the  future after all, but taking the first involuntary steps on a journey  backwards? I mean, for God's sake, I haven't seen Doug in about  fifteen years. The last time was at my wedding. At which, I seem to  remember, he pressed me drunkenly up against a wall and told me that  I was marrying the wrong man. (He was right, of course, but not in  the sense that he meant it.) How weird would it be now, to sit in an  audience and listen to him pontificating about pre-millennial angst  and social change? I suppose it would just be a version of what we  all had to put up with more than twenty years ago, sitting around the  editorial table of the school magazine. Only now we're all developing  grey hair and back problems.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs your hair grey yet, I wonder, dear Miriam? Or is that not  something you have to worry about any more?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere's a Birmingham train in fifty minutes. I'm going to make a dash for it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSecond coffee of the day\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCoffee Republic\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNew Street, Birmingham\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFriday, 10th December, 1999\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMorning\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, Miriam--the house! That bloody house. It hasn't changed. Nothing  about it has changed, since you left it (and a quarter of a century  has gone by since then: almost exactly), except that it is colder,  and emptier, and sadder (and cleaner) than ever. Dad pays someone to  keep it spotless, and apart from her coming in twice a week to do the  dusting, I don't think he speaks to a soul, now that Mum's gone. He's  also bought this little place in France and seems to spend a lot of  time there. He spent most of Wednesday night showing me pictures of  the septic tank and the new boiler he's had installed, which was  thrilling, as you can imagine. Once or twice he said that I should go  over there some time and stay for a week or two, but I could tell  that he didn't really mean it, and besides, I don't want to. Nor do I  want to stay under his roof for more nights than I can help it, this  time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLast night I had a meal out with Philip and Patrick.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow--I hadn't seen Philip for more than two years, and I suppose it's  pretty common, in these circumstances, for ex-wives to look at their  ex-husbands and wonder what on earth it was that drew them together  in the first place. I'm talking about physical attraction, more than  anything else. I remember that when I was a student, and lived in  Mantova for the best part of a year, back in 1981 if I can believe  myself when I write that (God!), I was surrounded by young Italian  men, most of them gorgeous, all of them as good as begging me to go  to bed with them. A posse of teenage Mastroiannis in their sexual  prime, gagging for it, not to mince words. My Englishness made me  exotic in a way which would have been unthinkable in Birmingham, and  I could have had my pick of that lot. I could have had them all, one  after the other. But what did I choose instead? Or who did I choose,  rather. I chose Philip. Philip Chase, whey-faced, nerdy Philip Chase,  with his straggly ginger beard and his horn-rimmed specs, who came to  stay with me for a week and somehow got me into bed on the second day  and ended up changing the whole course of my life, not permanently, I  suppose, but radically . . . fundamentally . . . I don't know. I  can't think of the word. One word is as good as another, sometimes.  Was it just because we were too young, I wonder? No, that's not fair  on him. Of all the boys I'd known up until that point, he was the  most straightforward, the most sympathetic, the least arrogant (Doug  and Benjamin were so up themselves, in their different ways!). There  is a tremendous decency in Phil, as well: he is absolutely reliable  and trustworthy. He made the divorce so untraumatic, I remember--a  back-handed compliment, I know, but if you ever want to get divorced  from someone . . . Philip's your man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs for Patrick, well . . . I want to see as much of Pat as I can,  while I'm here, obviously. He is so grown up now. Of course, we have  been writing and emailing each other constantly, and last year he  came out to Lucca for a few days, but still--it surprises me every  time. I can't tell you what a peculiar feeling it is, to look at this  man--he may be only fifteen, but that's what he seems like, now--this  tall (rather skinny, rather pale, rather sad-looking) man and know  that once he was . . . inside me, not to put too fine a point on it.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300980379877,"sku":"NP9780375713958","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780375713958.jpg?v=1767738714","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-closed-circle-isbn-9780375713958","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}