{"product_id":"the-guernsey-literary-and-potato-peel-pie-society-isbn-9780385341004","title":"The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society","description":"\u003cb\u003e \u003cb\u003e#1 \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER • NOW A NETFLIX FILM • A remarkable tale of the island of Guernsey during the German Occupation, and of a society as extraordinary as its name.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e“Treat yourself to this book, please—I can’t recommend it highly enough.”—Elizabeth Gilbert, author of \u003ci\u003eEat, Pray, Love\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e“I wonder how the book got to Guernsey? Perhaps there is some sort of secret homing instinct in books that brings them to their perfect readers.” \u003c\/i\u003eJanuary 1946: London is emerging from the shadow of the Second World War, and writer Juliet Ashton is looking for her next book subject. Who could imagine that she would find it in a letter from a man she’s never met, a native of the island of Guernsey, who has come across her name written inside a book by Charles Lamb. . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As Juliet and her new correspondent exchange letters, Juliet is drawn into the world of this man and his friends—and what a wonderfully eccentric world it is. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society—born as a spur-of-the-moment alibi when its members were discovered breaking curfew by the Germans occupying their island—boasts a charming, funny, deeply human cast of characters, from pig farmers to phrenologists, literature lovers all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Juliet begins a remarkable correspondence with the society’s members, learning about their island, their taste in books, and the impact the recent German occupation has had on their lives. Captivated by their stories, she sets sail for Guernsey, and what she finds will change her forever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Written with warmth and humor as a series of letters, this novel is a celebration of the written word in all its guises and of finding connection in the most surprising ways.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A jewel . . . Poignant and keenly observed, \u003ci\u003eGuernsey\u003c\/i\u003e is a small masterpiece about love, war, and the immeasurable sustenance to be found in good books and good friends.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A book-lover’s delight, an implicit and sometimes explicit paean to all things literary.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eChicago Sun-Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A sparkling epistolary novel radiating wit, lightly worn erudition and written with great assurance and aplomb.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Sunday Times\u003c\/i\u003e (London)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Cooked perfectly à point: subtle and elegant in flavour, yet emotionally satisfying to the finish.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Times\u003c\/i\u003e (London)\u003c\/b\u003e“I can’t remember the last time I discovered a novel as smart and delightful as this one, a world so vivid that I kept forgetting this was a work of fiction populated with characters so utterly wonderful that I kept forgetting they weren’t my actual friends and neighbors. Treat yourself to this book please—I can’t recommend it highly enough.”\u003cb\u003e—Elizabeth Gilbert, author of \u003ci\u003eEat, Pray, Love\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Traditional without seeming stale, and romantic without being naive . . . It’s tempting to throw around terms like ‘gem’ when reading a book like this. But \u003ci\u003eGuernsey\u003c\/i\u003e is not precious. . . . This is a book for firesides or long train rides. It’s as charming and timeless as the novels for which its characters profess their love.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[The] characters step from the past radiant with eccentricity and kindly humour. [The] writing, with its delicately offbeat, self-deprecating stylishness, is exquisitely turned.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e(U.K.)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ve never wanted to join a club so desperately as I did while reading \u003ci\u003eGuernsey\u003c\/i\u003e. . . . [The novel] is a labor of love and it shows on almost every page.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Christian Science Monitor\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I could not put the book down. I have recommended it to all my friends.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eNewsday\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A jewel . . . Poignant and keenly observed, \u003ci\u003eGuernsey\u003c\/i\u003e is a small masterpiece about love, war, and the immeasurable sustenance to be found in good books and good friends.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A book-lover's delight, an implicit and sometimes explicit paean to all things literary.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eChicago Sun-Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A sparkling epistolary novel radiating wit, lightly worn erudition and written with great assurance and aplomb.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Sunday Times\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e(London)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Cooked perfectly à point: subtle and elegant in flavour, yet emotionally satisfying to the finish.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Times \u003c\/i\u003e(London)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A sweet, sentimental paean to books and those who love them. . . . It affirms the power of books to nourish people enduring hard times.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post Book World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] marvelous debut . . . This is a warm, funny, tender, and thoroughly entertaining celebration of the power of the written word.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A poignant, funny novel that celebrates the resilience of the human spirit. . . . A treat.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A sure winner.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Delightful . . . One of those joyful books that celebrates how reading brings people together.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew Orleans Times-Picayune\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows have written a wondrous, delightful, poignant book— part Jane Austen, part history lesson. The letters aren't addressed to you, but they are meant for you. It's a book everyone should read. An absolute treasure.”\u003cb\u003e—Sarah Addison Allen, author of \u003ci\u003eGarden Spells\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eMary Ann Shaffer who passed away in February 2008, worked as an editor, librarian, and in bookshops.\u003cb\u003e The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society\u003c\/b\u003e was her first novel.\u003ci\u003ePart One\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e8th January, 1946\u003cbr\u003eMr. Sidney Stark, Publisher\u003cbr\u003eStephens \u0026amp; Stark Ltd.\u003cbr\u003e21 St. James's Place\u003cbr\u003eLondon S.W.1\u003cbr\u003eEngland\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDear Sidney,\u003cbr\u003eSusan Scott is a wonder. We sold over forty copies of the book, which was very pleasant, but much more thrilling from my standpoint was the food. Susan managed to procure ration coupons for icing sugar and real eggs for the meringue. If all her literary luncheons are going to achieve these heights, I won't mind touring about the country. Do you suppose that a lavish bonus could spur her on to butter? Let's try it—you may deduct the money from my royalties.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow for my grim news. You asked me how work on my new book is progressing. Sidney, it isn't.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEnglish Foibles seemed so promising at first. After all, one should be able to write reams about the Society to Protest the Glorification of the English Bunny. I unearthed a photograph of the Vermin Exterminators' Trade Union, marching down an Oxford street with placards screaming \"Down with Beatrix Potter!\" But what is there to write about after a caption? Nothing, that's what.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI no longer want to write this book—my head and my heart just aren't in it. Dear as Izzy Bickerstaff is—and was—to me, I don't want to write anything else under that name. I don't want to be considered a light-hearted journalist anymore. I do acknowledge that making readers laugh—or at least chuckle—during the war was no mean feat, but I don't want to do it anymore. I can't seem to dredge up any sense of proportion or balance these days, and God knows one cannot write humor without them.\u003cbr\u003eIn the meantime, I am very happy Stephens \u0026amp; Stark is making money on Izzy Bickerstaff Goes to War. It relieves my conscience over the debacle of my Anne Bront biography.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy thanks for everything and love,\u003cbr\u003eJuliet\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eP.S. I am reading the collected correspondence of Mrs. Montagu. Do you know what that dismal woman wrote to Jane Carlyle? \"My dear little Jane, everybody is born with a vocation, and yours is to write charming little notes.\" I hope Jane spat on her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom Sidney to Juliet\u003cbr\u003e10th January, 1946\u003cbr\u003eMiss Juliet Ashton\u003cbr\u003e23 Glebe Place\u003cbr\u003eChelsea\u003cbr\u003eLondon S.W. 3\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDear Juliet:\u003cbr\u003eCongratulations! Susan Scott said you took to the audience at the luncheon like a drunkard to rum—and they to you—so please stop worrying about your tour next week. I haven't a doubt of your success. Having witnessed your electrifying performance of \"The Shepherd Boy Sings in the Valley of Humiliation\" eighteen years ago, I know you will have every listener coiled around your little finger within moments. A hint: perhaps in this case, you should refrain from throwing the book at the audience when you finish. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSusan is looking forward to ushering you through bookshops from Bath to Yorkshire. And of course, Sophie is agitating for an extension of the tour into Scotland. I've told her in my most infuriating older-brother manner that It Remains To Be Seen. She misses you terribly, I know, but Stephens \u0026amp; Stark must be impervious to such considerations.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI've just received Izzy's sales figures from London and the Home Counties—they are excellent. Again, congratulations! \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDon't fret about English Foibles; better that your enthusiasm died now than after six months spent writing about bunnies. The crass commercial possibilities of the idea were attractive, but I agree that the topic would soon grow horribly fey. Another subject—one you'll like—will occur to you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDinner one evening before you go? Say when.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLove,\u003cbr\u003eSidney\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eP.S. You write charming little notes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom Juliet to Sidney\u003cbr\u003e11th January, 1946\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDear Sidney,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, lovely—can it be somewhere on the river? I want oysters and champagne and roast beef, if obtainable; if not, a chicken will do. I am very happy that Izzy's sales are good. Are they good enough that I don't have to pack a bag and leave London?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSince you and S\u0026amp;S have turned me into a moderately successful author, dinner must be my treat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLove,\u003cbr\u003eJuliet\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eP.S. I did not throw \"The Shepherd Boy Sings in the Valley of Humiliation\" at the audience. I threw it at the elocution mistress. I meant to cast it at her feet, but I missed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom Juliet to Sophie Strachan\u003cbr\u003e12th January, 1946\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Alexander Strachan\u003cbr\u003eFeochan Farm\u003cbr\u003eby Oban Argyll\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDear Sophie,\u003cbr\u003eOf course I'd adore to see you, but I am a soul-less, will-less automaton. I have been ordered by Sidney to Bath, Colchester, Leeds, and several other garden spots I can't recall at the moment, and I can't just slither off to Scotland instead. Sidney's brow would lower—his eyes would narrow—he would stalk. You know how nerve-racking it is when Sidney stalks. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wish I could sneak away to your farm and have you coddle me. You'd let me put my feet on the sofa, wouldn't you? And then you'd tuck blankets around me and bring me tea? Would Alexander mind a permanent resident on his sofa? You've told me he is a patient man, but perhaps he would find it annoying. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy am I so melancholy? I should be delighted at the prospect of reading Izzy to an entranced audience. You know how I love talking about books, and you know how I adore receiving compliments. I should be thrilled. But the truth is that I'm gloomy—gloomier than I ever was during the war. Everything is so broken, Sophie: the roads, the buildings, the people. Especially the people. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is probably the aftereffect of a horrid dinner party I went to last night. The food was ghastly, but that was to be expected. It was the guests who unnerved me—they were the most demoralizing collection of individuals I've ever encountered. The talk was of bombs and starvation. Do you remember Sarah Morecroft? She was there, all bones and gooseflesh and bloody lipstick. Didn't she use to be pretty? Wasn't she mad for that horse-riding fellow who went up to Cambridge? He was nowhere in evidence; she's married to a doctor with grey skin who clicks his tongue before he speaks. And he was a figure of wild romance compared to my dinner partner, who just happened to be a single man, presumably the last one on earth—oh Lord, how miserably mean-spirited I sound!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI swear, Sophie, I think there's something wrong with me. Every man I meet is intolerable. Perhaps I should set my sights lower—not so low as the grey doctor who clicks, but a bit lower. I can't even blame it on the war—I was never very good at men, was I? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDo you suppose the St. Swithin's furnace-man was my one true love? Since I never spoke to him, it seems unlikely, but at least it was a passion unscathed by disappointment. And he had that beautiful black hair. After that, you remember, came the Year of Poets. Sidney's quite snarky about those poets, though I don't see why, since he introduced me to them. Then poor Adrian. Oh, there's no need to recite the dread rolls to you, but Sophie—what is the matter with me? Am I too particular? I don't want to be married just to be married. I can't think of anything lonelier than spending the rest of my life with someone I can't talk to, or worse, someone I can't be silent with.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat a dreadful, complaining letter. You see? I've succeeded in making you feel relieved that I won't be stopping in Scotland. But then again, I may—my fate rests with Sidney. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKiss Dominic for me and tell him I saw a rat the size of a terrier the other day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLove to Alexander and even more to you,\u003cbr\u003eJuliet\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom Dawsey Adams, Guernsey, Channel Islands, to Juliet\u003cbr\u003e12th January, 1946\u003cbr\u003eMiss Juliet Ashton\u003cbr\u003e81 Oakley Street\u003cbr\u003eChelsea\u003cbr\u003eLondon S.W. 3\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDear Miss Ashton,\u003cbr\u003eMy name is Dawsey Adams, and I live on my farm in St. Martin's Parish on Guernsey. I know of you because I have an old book that once belonged to you—the Selected Essays of Elia, by an author whose name in real life was Charles Lamb. Your name and address were written inside the front cover.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI will speak plain—I love Charles Lamb. My own book says Selected, so I wondered if that meant he had written other things to choose from? These are the pieces I want to read, and though the Germans are gone now, there aren't any bookshops left on Guernsey. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI want to ask a kindness of you. Could you send me the name and address of a bookshop in London? I would like to order more of Charles Lamb's writings by post. I would also like to ask if anyone has ever written his life story, and if they have, could a copy be found for me? For all his bright and turning mind, I think Mr. Lamb must have had a great sadness in his life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharles Lamb made me laugh during the German Occupation, especially when he wrote about the roast pig. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society came into being because of a roast pig we had to keep secret from the German soldiers, so I feel a kinship to Mr. Lamb.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am sorry to bother you, but I would be sorrier still not to know about him, as his writings have made me his friend.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHoping not to trouble you,\u003cbr\u003eDawsey Adams\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eP.S. My friend Mrs. Maugery bought a pamphlet that once belonged to you, too. It is called Was There a Burning Bush? A Defense of Moses and the Ten Commandments. She liked your margin note, \"Word of God or crowd control???\" Did you ever decide which?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom Juliet to Dawsey\u003cbr\u003e15th January, 1946\u003cbr\u003eMr. Dawsey Adams\u003cbr\u003eLes Vauxlarens\u003cbr\u003eLa Bouree\u003cbr\u003eSt. Martin's, Guernsey\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDear Mr. Adams,\u003cbr\u003eI no longer live on Oakley Street, but I'm so glad that your letter found me and that my book found you. It was a sad wrench to part with the Selected Essays of Elia. I had two copies and a dire need of shelf-room, but I felt like a traitor selling it. You have soothed my conscience. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wonder how the book got to Guernsey? Perhaps there is some secret sort of homing instinct in books that brings them to their perfect readers. How delightful if that were true.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause there is nothing I would rather do than rummage through bookshops, I went at once to Hastings \u0026amp; Sons upon receiving your letter. I have gone to them for years, always finding the one book I wanted—and then three more I hadn't known I wanted. I told Mr. Hastings you would like a good, clean copy (and not a rare edition) of More Essays of Elia. He will send it to you by separate post (invoice enclosed) and was delighted to know you are also a lover of Charles Lamb. He said the best biography of Lamb was by E. V. Lucas, and he would hunt out a copy for you, though it may take a while. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the meantime, will you accept this small gift from me? It is his Selected Letters. I think it will tell you more about him than any biography ever could. E. V. Lucas sounds too stately to include my favorite passage from Lamb: \"Buz, buz, buz, bum, bum, bum, wheeze, wheeze, wheeze, fen, fen, fen, tinky, tinky, tinky, cr'annch! I shall certainly come to be condemned at last. I have been drinking too much for two days running. I find my moral sense in the last stage of a consumption and my religion getting faint.\" You'll find that in the Letters (it's on page 244). They were the first Lamb I ever read, and I'm ashamed to say I only bought the book because I'd read elsewhere that a man named Lamb had visited his friend Leigh Hunt, in prison for libeling the Prince of Wales. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhile there, Lamb helped Hunt paint the ceiling of his cell sky blue with white clouds. Next they painted a rose trellis up one wall. Then, I further discovered, Lamb offered money to help Hunt's family outside the prison—though he himself was as poor as a man could be. Lamb also taught Hunt's youngest daughter to say the Lord's Prayer backward. You naturally want to learn everything you can about a man like that. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat's what I love about reading: one tiny thing will interest you in a book, and that tiny thing will lead you onto another book, and another bit there will lead you onto a third book. It's geometrically progressive—all with no end in sight, and for no other reason than sheer enjoyment. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe red stain on the cover that looks like blood—is blood. I got careless with my paper knife. The enclosed postcard is a reproduction of a painting of Lamb by his friend William Hazlitt. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf you have time to correspond with me, could you answer several questions? Three, in fact. Why did a roast pig dinner have to be kept a secret? How could a pig cause you to begin a literary society? And, most pressing of all, what is a potato peel pie—and why is it included in your society's name?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI have sub-let a flat at 23 Glebe Place, Chelsea, London S.W.3. My Oakley Street flat was bombed in 1945 and I still miss it. Oakley Street was wonderful—I could see the Thames out of three of my windows. I know that I am fortunate to have any place at all to live in London, but I much prefer whining to counting my blessings. I am glad you thought of me to do your Elia hunting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYours sincerely,\u003cbr\u003eJuliet Ashton\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eP.S. I never could make up my mind about Moses—it still bothers me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom Juliet to Sidney\u003cbr\u003e18th January, 1946\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDear Sidney,\u003cbr\u003eThis isn't a letter: it's an apology. Please forgive my moaning about the teas and luncheons you set up for Izzy. Did I call you a tyrant? I take it all back—I love Stephens \u0026amp; Stark for sending me out of London. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBath is a glorious town: lovely crescents of white, upstanding houses instead of London's black, gloomy buildings or—worse still—piles of rubble that were once buildings. It is bliss to breathe in clean, fresh air with no coal smoke and no dust. The weather is cold, but it isn't London's dank chill. Even the people on the street look different—upstanding, like their houses, not grey and hunched like Londoners. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSusan said the guests at Abbot's book tea enjoyed themselves immensely—and I know I did. I was able to un-stick my tongue from the roof of my mouth after the first two minutes and began to have quite a good time. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSusan and I are off tomorrow for bookshops in Colchester, Norwich, King's Lynn, Bradford, and Leeds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLove and thanks,\u003cbr\u003eJuliet\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom Juliet to Sidney\u003cbr\u003e21st January, 1946\u003cbr\u003eDear Sidney,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNight-time train travel is wonderful again! No standing in the corridors for hours, no being shunted off for a troop train to pass, and above all, no black-out curtains. All the windows we passed were lighted, and I could snoop once more. I missed it so terribly during the war. I felt as if we had all turned into moles scuttling along in our separate tunnels. I don't consider myself a real peeper—they go in for bedrooms, but it's families in sitting rooms or kitchens that thrill me. I can imagine their entire lives from a glimpse of bookshelves, or desks, or lit candles, or bright sofa cushions.#1 New York Times bestseller; A Netflix film coming soon","brand":"Dial Press Trade Paperback","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305025491173,"sku":"NP9780385341004","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780385341004.jpg?v=1767739684","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-guernsey-literary-and-potato-peel-pie-society-isbn-9780385341004","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}