{"product_id":"thirteen-moons-isbn-9780812967586","title":"Thirteen Moons","description":"\u003cb\u003eThis magnificent novel by one of America’s finest writers is the epic of one man’s remarkable journey, set in nineteenth-century America against the background of  a vanishing people and a rich way of life.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At the age of twelve, under the Wind  moon, Will is given a horse, a key, and a map, and sent alone into the Indian Nation  to run a trading post as a bound boy. It is during this time that he grows into a  man, learning, as he does, of the raw power it takes to create a life, to find a  home. In a card game with a white Indian named Featherstone, Will wins—for a brief  moment—a mysterious girl named Claire, and his passion and desire for her spans  this novel. As Will’s destiny intertwines with the fate of the Cherokee Indians—including a Cherokee Chief named Bear—he learns how to fight and survive in the  face of both nature and men, and eventually, under the Corn Tassel Moon, Will begins  the fight against Washington City to preserve the Cherokee’s homeland and culture.  And he will come to know the truth behind his belief that “only desire trumps time.”  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Brilliantly imagined, written with great power and beauty by a master of American  fiction, \u003ci\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eis a stunning novel about a man’s passion for a woman, and  how loss, longing and love can shape a man’s destiny over the many moons of a life.\"Gorgeous…\u003cb\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/b\u003e calls \u003cb\u003eCold Mountain\u003c\/b\u003e to mind in its wonder at the natural world; its pacificist undercurrents; its dismay at the dismantling of what matters, and its convication that one love, no matter how tortured and inexplicable, can be life-defining…fascinating…vivid and alive.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Newsweek\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/b\u003e brings this vanished world thrillingly to life… One of the great Native American, and American stories, and a great gift to all of us, from one of our very best writers.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Kirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"There are things so masterful words can’t do them justice. Frazier’s writing falls in that category…With \u003cb\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/b\u003e, he’s doing important work filling in the gaps, helping restore the roots, of our knowledge of our own history.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Asheville Citizen-Times\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Fascinating…Reading \u003cb\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/b\u003e is an intoxicating experience…This is 21st-century literary fiction at its very best.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–BookPage\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/b\u003e is rare in many ways and occupies a literary plane of such height that reviewing it is not really salient….\u003cb\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/b\u003e has the power to inspire great performances from succeeding generations of writers….For those who simply value the literary experience, \u003cb\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/b\u003e will provide the immense satisfaction of taking a literary journey of magnitude. Whether on a plane, in an office or curled in a window seat, readers who absorb Will's story will find their own lives enriched….\u003cb\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/b\u003e belongs to the ages.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Los Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Magical…the history lesson in \u003cb\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/b\u003e is fascinating and moving…You will find much to admire and savor in \u003cb\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/b\u003e.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–USA Today\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Verdict: A powerhouse second act….a brilliant success…Frazier's second act should convince everyone that he's here to stay. It is a powerful, dramatic, often surprising and memorable novel.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Atlanta Journal Constitution\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/b\u003e is a boisterous, confident novel that draws from the epic tradition... Frazier is a natural storyteller, and throughout his picaresque tale are grand themes and eulogies\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Boston Globe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Warm hearted…Frazier is a remarkably meticulous and tasteful writer…\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/b\u003e is a worthy successor to the first novel and a highly readable book.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Seattle Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"To Charles Frazier, words are playthings. Like very few other contemporary American novelists, he puts them together in such a way that they can transform an otherwise mundane moment, scene or conversation into one that is transcendent….No sophomore jinx here. Reading a Frazier novel is like listening to a fine symphony. He's a maestro whose pen is his baton, beckoning the best that each sentence has to offer. And just as you wouldn't rush a conductor, you should take the time to savor Frazier’s work, to take in each thought, to relish the turn of phrase or the imagery of a craftsman.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Denver Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Two for two…Here is a book brimming with vivid, adventurous incident…Charles Frazier set himself a daunting challenge with this book. He set out to write a historical novel that was retrospective and meditative, yet still vibrant and immediate with life. \u003cb\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/b\u003e succeeds in classy fashion.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Raleigh News \u0026amp; Observer\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"If current fiction is anything to go by, it’s hard for a novelist to make Santayana's puzzle pieces - lyricism, comedy, tragedy - fit together, as they do in real life and real history. Frazier has done it…\u003cb\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/b\u003e makes you feel that change that happened so long before our own time, and makes you mourn it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Newsday\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/b\u003e is a fitting successor to \u003cb\u003eCold Mountain\u003c\/b\u003e…fans of Frazier's debut will be cheered to discover that the new book is another compulsively readable work of historical fiction.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–St. Louis Post-Dispatch\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"If there is any doubt that Frazier is an incredibly gifted storyteller - and not just a lucky name or a one-hit wonder - it will be put to rest with the publication of \u003cb\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/b\u003e. Within 10 pages, this long-awaited new novel bears the reader swiftly out of the waking world into its own imagined universe like nothing else published this year.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Minneapolis Star Tribune\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Forget the sophomore jinx. Frazier demonstrates that \u003cb\u003eCold Mountain\u003c\/b\u003e was no one-hit wonder with this fully realized historical novel again set in the South….Again, Frazier shows himself a master of landscape and language, both often fresh and surprising in his telling.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Seattle Post-Intelligencer\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eThirteen Moons\u003c\/b\u003e contains achingly beautiful passages of snowfalls, fog-wrapped rivers and moonlit forests. There are ribald and hilarious events, too, including a description of the Cherokee Booger Dance that is a masterpiece of satire. The love affair between Cooper and Claire threads its way through this pseudo-historic epic like a brilliant, scarlet ribbon. There is also a melancholy refrain that celebrates a wondrous time and place that is gone and will never return.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Smoky Mountain News\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Fiction of the highest order…Another indelible character. Charles Frazier has a knack for them.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Charlotte Observer\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"What a story!... Frazier's creation, Will Cooper, is utterly charismatic….Frazier's genius lies in his ability to convey emotions that feel pure and genuine…It was worth the wait.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Dayton Daily News\u003c\/i\u003eCharles Frazier grew up in the mountains of North Carolina. \u003cb\u003eCold Mountain\u003c\/b\u003e, his highly acclaimed first novel, was an international bestseller, and won the National Book Award in 1997.Chapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e bone moon\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There is no scatheless rapture. love and  time put me in this condition. I am leaving soon for the Nightland, where all the  ghosts of men and animals yearn to travel. We’re called to it. I feel it pulling  at me, same as everyone else. It is the last unmapped country, and a dark way getting  there. A sorrowful path. And maybe not exactly Paradise at the end. The belief I’ ve acquired over a generous and nevertheless inadequate time on earth is that we  arrive in the afterlife as broken as when we departed from the world. But, on the  other hand, I’ve always enjoyed a journey.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Cloudy days, I sit by the fire and talk  nothing but Cherokee. Or else I sit silent with pen and paper, rendering the language  into Sequoyah’s syllabary, the characters forming under my hand like hen- scratch  hieroglyphs. On sunny days, I usually rock on the porch wrapped in a blanket and  read and admire the vista. Many decades ago, when I built my farm out of raw land,  I oriented the front of the house to aim west toward the highest range of mountains.  It is a grand long view. The river and valley, and then the coves and blue ridges  heaved up and ragged to the limits of eyesight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Bear and I once owned all the landscape  visible from my porch and a great deal more. People claimed that in Old Europe our  holdings would have been enough land to make a minor country. Now I have just the  one little cove opening onto the river. The hideous new railroad, of which I own  quite a few shares, runs through my front yard. The black trains come smoking along  twice a day, and in the summer when the house windows are open, the help wipes the  soot off the horizontal faces of furniture at least three times a week. On the other  side of the river is a road that has been there as some form of passway since the  time of elk and buffalo, both long since extinguished. Now, mules drawing wagons  flare sideways in the traces when automobiles pass. I saw a pretty one go by the  other day. Yellow as a canary and trimmed with polished brass. It had a windshield  like an oversized monocle, and it went ripping by at a speed that must have been  close to a mile a minute. The end of the driver’s red scarf flagged straight out  behind him, three feet long. I hated the racket and the dust that hung in the air  long after the automobile was gone. But if I was twenty, I’d probably be trying to  find out where you buy one of those fast bastards.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the night has become electrified.  Midevening, May comes to my room. The turn of doorknob, click of bolt in hasp. The  opening door casts a wedge of yellow hall light against the wall. Her slender dark  hand twists the switch and closes the door. Not a word spoken. The brutal light is  message enough. A clear glass bulb hangs in the center of the room from a cord of  brown woven cloth. New wires run down the wall in an ugly metal conduit. The bare  bulb’s little blazing filament burns an angry cloverleaf shape onto my eyeballs that  will last until dawn. It’s either get up and shut off the electricity and light a  candle to read by, or else be blinded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I get up and turn off the light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e May is  foolish enough to trust me with matches. I set fire to two tapers and prop a polished  tin pie plate to reflect yellow light. The same way I lit book pages and notebook  pages at a thousand campfires in the last century.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I’m reading The Knight of the  Cart, a story I’ve known since youth. Lancelot is waiting where I left him the last  time. Still every bit as anguished and torn about whether to protect his precious  honor or to climb onto the shameful cart with the malefic dwarf driver, and perhaps  by doing so to save Guinevere, perhaps have Guinevere for his own true love. Choosing  incorrectly means losing all. I turn the pages and read on, hoping Lancelot will  choose better if given one more chance. I want him to claim love over everything,  but so far he has failed. How many more chances will I be able to give him?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The  gist of the story is that even when all else is lost and gone forever, there is yearning.  One of the few welcome lessons age teaches is that only desire trumps time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A bedtime  drink would be helpful. At some point in life, everybody needs medication to get  by. A little something to ease the pain, smooth the path forward. But my doctor prohibits  liquor, and so my own home has become as strict as if it were run by hard-shell Baptists.  Memory is about the only intoxicant left.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I read on into the night until the house  falls quiet. Lancelot is hopeless. I am dream-stricken to think he will ever choose  better.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At some point, I put the book down and hold my right palm to the light.  The silver scar running diagonal across all the deep lines seems to itch, but scratching  does not help.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Late in the night, the door opens again. Scalding metallic light  pours in from the hallway. May enters and walks to my bed. Her skin is the color  of tanned deerhide, a mixture of several bloods—white and red and black—complex enough  to confound those legislators who insist on naming every shade down to the thirty-second  fraction. Whatever the precise formula is for May, it worked out beautifully. She’ s too pretty to be real.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I knew her grandfather back in slavery days. Knew him and  also owned him, if I’m to tell the truth. I still wonder why he didn’t cut my throat  some night while I was asleep. I’d have had it coming. All us big men would have.  But through some unaccountable generosity, May is as kind and protective as her grandfather  was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e May takes the book as from a sleepy child, flaps it face down on the nightstand,  blows out the candle with a moist breath, full lips pursed and shaped like a bow.  I hear a hint of rattle in the lungs as the breath expires. I worry for her, though  my doctor says she is fine. Consumption, though, is a long way to die. I’ve seen  it happen more than once. May steps back to the door and is a black spirit shape  against the light, like a messenger in a significant dream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e —Sleep, Colonel. You’ ve read late.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Funny thing is, I actually try. I lie flat on my back in the dark  with my arms on my chest. But I can’t sleep. It is a bitter-cold night and the fire  has burnt down to hissing coals. I don’t ever sleep well anymore. I lie in bed in  the dark and let the past sweep over me like stinging sheets of windblown rain. My  future is behind me. I let gravity take me into the bed and before long I’m barely  breathing. Practicing for the Nightland.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e survive long enough and you get to a far  point in life where nothing else of particular interest is going to happen. After  that, if you don’t watch out, you can spend all your time tallying your losses and  gains in endless narrative. All you love has fled or been taken away. Everything  fallen from you except the possibility of jolting and unforewarned memory springing  out of the dark, rushing over you with the velocity of heartbreak. May walking down  the hall humming an old song—“The Girl I Left Behind Me”—or the mere fragrance of  clove in spiced tea can set you weeping and howling when all you’ve been for weeks  on end is numb.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At least that last one is explainable. Back in green youth, Claire  became an advocate for flavored kisses. She would break off new spring growth at  the end of a birch twig, peel the dark bark to the wet green pulp, and fray the fibers  with her thumbnail—then put the twig in her mouth and hold it there like a cheroot.  After a minute she’d toss it away and say, Now kiss me. And her mouth had the sweet  sharp taste of birch. In summer, she did the same with the clear drop of liquid at  the tip of honeysuckle blossoms, and in the fall with the white pulp of honey-locust  pods. And in winter with a dried clove and a broken stick of cinnamon. Now kiss me.Winner of the National Book Award; Author of Cold Mountain; New York Times bestseller","brand":"Random House Trade Paperbacks","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303964987621,"sku":"NP9780812967586","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780812967586.jpg?v=1767742460","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/thirteen-moons-isbn-9780812967586","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}