{"product_id":"vigil-isbn-9780525509622","title":"Vigil","description":"\u003cb\u003e#1 \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER • “After his spectacular \u003ci\u003eLincoln in the Bardo, \u003c\/i\u003eSaunders returns . . . with a new novel even more spectacular than the last.”—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eA “daring” (\u003ci\u003eTime\u003c\/i\u003e) novel from the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling, Booker Prize–winning author of \u003ci\u003eA Swim in a Pond in the Rain \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eTenth of December,\u003c\/i\u003e taking place at the bedside of an oil company CEO in the twilight hours of his life as he is ferried from this world into the next\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Vibrant, fiendishly clever . . . \u003ci\u003eVigil \u003c\/i\u003eis pure Saunders: the death of empathy, he insists, is greatly exaggerated.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot for the first time, Jill “Doll” Blaine finds herself hurtling toward earth, reconstituting as she falls, right down to her favorite black pumps. She plummets towards her newest charge, yet another soul she must usher into the afterlife, and lands headfirst in the circular drive of his ornate mansion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe has performed this sacred duty 343 times since her own death. Her charges, as a rule, have been greatly comforted in their final moments. But this charge, she soon discovers, isn’t like the others. The powerful K. J. Boone will not be consoled, because he has nothing to regret. He lived a big, bold, epic life, and the world is better for it. Isn’t it?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eVigil \u003c\/i\u003etransports us, careening, through the wild final evening of a complicated man. Visitors begin to arrive (worldly and otherworldly, alive and dead), clamoring for a reckoning. Birds swarm the dying man’s room; a black calf grazes on the love seat; a man from a distant, drought-ravaged village materializes; two oil-business cronies from decades past show up with chilling plans for Boone’s postdeath future.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith the wisdom, playfulness, and explosive imagination we’ve come to expect, George Saunders takes on the gravest issues of our time—the menace of corporate greed, the toll of capitalism, the environmental perils of progress—and, in the process, spins a tale that encompasses life and death, good and evil, and the thorny question of absolution.“Anyone who loves George Saunders’s writing can tell you about his wicked imagination: luminous, dark, wholly original, and quite frequently supernatural . . . The twin currents that run through these and all of his works, including his newest novel, \u003ci\u003eVigil\u003c\/i\u003e, about a spirit tending to a dying oil executive, is large-heartedness paired with unsparing wit. Saunders is funny. Hilarious even.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Vibrant, fiendishly clever . . . \u003ci\u003eVigil\u003c\/i\u003e is leaner than “Lincoln in the Bardo,” but no less revelatory in its grasp of history and humanity, how and why our lives are shaped by politics that whorl around us . . . Saunders varies pointillist technique with staccato dialogue, slapstick humor, even touches of horror. It’s all thrilling on the page . . . \u003ci\u003eVigil\u003c\/i\u003e is pure Saunders: the death of empathy, he insists, is greatly exaggerated. He pushes back, a burst of surprises and sudden grace.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“As the winner of the Booker Prize, Saunders sets a high bar, and his latest easily clears it. Vigil explores the act of dying: what you regret, who you apologize to, and what you are proudest of. Saunders also imagines dying in an evocative, active way while also making time to explore capitalism, greed, and everything else you might regret in your last hours.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eHarper’s Bazaar\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Saunders tucks stories within stories, his prose rich with daring experimentation and his trademark compassion.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eTIME\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It seems unfair that, after his spectacular \u003ci\u003eLincoln in the Bardo\u003c\/i\u003e, Saunders returns with not just another novel featuring a ghost, but with a new novel even more spectacular than the last. ‘Who else could you have been but exactly who you are?’ says the newly incarnated Jill ‘Doll’ Blaine, sent to comfort nefarious oil tycoon K. J. Boone in his last hours alive a statement that in no way diminishes the political urgency of this spare, lovely book.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Los Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Saunders doing capitalism, climate, and the afterlife in one swing? Sold.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eOprah Daily\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The bard of the afterlife returns with \u003ci\u003eVigil\u003c\/i\u003e, a slim yet existentially complex novel about a woman guiding an oil company CEO to death in his waning hours. George Saunders has long been one of the writers best equipped to explore despicable people with clear-eyed compassion, and in his latest he takes aim at his toughest task yet . . . tender yet unsparing.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eChicago Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In this cartoony, ping-ponging mix of pratfalls, philosophy, psychological nuance, and environmental laments, Saunders once again imagines the afterlife as he did in his Booker Prizewinning \u003ci\u003eLincoln in the Bardo\u003c\/i\u003e. In this purposeful, funny, and lacerating variation on Dickens’ \u003ci\u003eA Christmas Carol\u003c\/i\u003e, Saunders ponders suffering and repentance in a wily indictment of greed, greenwashing, and planetary devastation.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A magnificent expansion of consciousness . . . Saunders has crafted a novel that feels deeply resonant, especially in these fractious times.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Staggering . . . Saunders has outdone himself with this endlessly irreverent work of art.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e, starred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eGeorge Saunders\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of thirteen books, including the novel \u003ci\u003eLincoln in the Bardo,\u003c\/i\u003e which won the Booker Prize, and five collections of stories, including \u003ci\u003eTenth of December,\u003c\/i\u003e which was a finalist for the National Book Award, and the recent collection \u003ci\u003eLiberation Day \u003c\/i\u003e(selected by former President Obama as one of his ten favorite books of 2022). Three of Saunders’s books—\u003ci\u003ePastoralia, Tenth of December,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eLincoln in the Bardo\u003c\/i\u003e—were chosen for \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e’s list of the 100 Best Books of the 21st Century. Saunders hosts the popular Story Club on Substack, which grew out of his book on the Russian short story, \u003ci\u003eA Swim in a Pond in the Rain\u003c\/i\u003e. In 2013, he was named one of the world’s 100 Most Influential People by \u003ci\u003eTime\u003c\/i\u003e. He teaches in the creative writing program at Syracuse University.What a lovely home I found myself plummeting toward, acquiring, as I fell, arms, hands, legs, feet, all of which, as usual, became more substantial with each passing second.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBelow: a fountain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the center of the fountain: a gold-­plated statue.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf a dog. (Someone must have really loved that dog.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the mouth of the golden dog: a golden duck. The duck’s beak was hanging open in death and a pocked area in its flank seemed meant to represent the entry-­field of the shot-­cluster.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI observed all of this as I plummeted past and then my head and torso pierced the asphalt crust of a semicircular drive and lodged in the dirt below.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy rear was in the air, my fresh new legs bicycling energetically. I found myself alternately clothed and unclothed. That is to say: one instant naked and the next clothed. Or to be more precise: partly clothed. (Over time, that is, the elements of my outfit grew more reliably visible.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy beige skirt soon became a near constant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeanwhile, here was a burrowing worm to consider and a brown bottle-­shard and the rich smell of the loam now completely encasing my (inverted) upper half.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce in Tennessee, having landed in the more conventional upright posture, I spent six hours in a paddock, my head protruding above the surface of the earth, being trotted through again and again by three black horses and one roan, who never, during those hours, ceased being panicked by my presence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd yet I had a fine success on that occasion. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy charge being greatly comforted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTonight, blessedly, the thaw proceeded quickly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I found myself able, by sheer force of will, to bolt up out of the ground gymnastically and stand upright, both fully and consistently clothed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeige skirt, pale pink blouse, black pumps.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe golden dog shone in the glare of an ornate carriage lamp.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI made for the front door and, not yet walking competently, collapsed to the earth like a just-unstrung puppet, then leapt to my feet and moved on relentlessly to my work.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe door (immense, heavy, dead-­bolted) presented no meaningful impediment. Passing through, I emerged into a magnificent entryway, then ascended a spacious stairwell lined with image after image of my charge:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLeaning confidently against a podium, speaking to a tremendous crowd. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSquatting with a kaffiyeh-­wearing fellow before the Great Pyramid of Giza.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKnee-­deep in the shallows of some high mountain lake, beside a young woman I took to be his daughter. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDriving (pretending to drive) a piece of heavy machinery, wearing a hard hat and a three-­piece suit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePosing before an oil rig.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd another.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd another.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStanding with his wife on the Great Wall of China, both beaming as if this represented a singular moment in their union.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArm in arm with her in what looked to be the Rose Garden of the White House. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith her again, before what I understood to be a second home, in Colorado.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd a third, in Hawaii.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA fourth, in Key West.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOften, on his face, the same look: more grimace than smile, albeit shot through with a measure of forced goodwill.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReaching the second floor, I moved along a hallway hung with numerous paintings in gilt frames, each marked by a plaque mentioning some experience our charge and his wife associated with its acquisition:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lovely cliffside dinner, Positano.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Catacomb tour, Paris, Mr. Pavarotti sang beautifully for us after dinner.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Guest of Senator Jepps and Maria in their fabulous desert home.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the end of the hall hung a double door of sturdy oak.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA familiar tan purse now appearing over my shoulder, I patted it (once, twice) as I would in the bygone days when about to embark on a challenging task, then passed through, knowing that my charge must be found on the other side.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd here he was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA tiny, crimped fellow in an immense mahogany bed. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was not too late.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNeither was I too early.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis wife, exhausted by care, slept fully dressed on a love seat near the bed. Her slippers lay on the floor, turned in toward each other as if being worn by some invisible pigeon-­toed individual.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut she was not my concern.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy charge’s sleeping clothes were of silk, his initials monogrammed above the heart. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMoving closer, I entered the orb of his thoughts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWithin him abided a formidable stubbornness. A steady flow of satisfaction, even triumph, coursed through him, regarding all he had managed to do, see, cause, and create, especially given his humble origins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI scanned for doubts regarding things he had done or left undone; things he might have said but had not; mistakes to which he had not yet fully admitted, any of which might keep him from attaining that state of total peace so to be desired at this juncture.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd found nothing, or nearly nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was as sure of himself as ever a charge of mine had been. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven now, as the terrible illness overtook him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI felt again the old, familiar, generalized fondness:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore me lay a person who had not willed himself into this world and was now being taken out of it by force, the many subsystems within him that had always given him so much satisfaction shutting down agonizingly. Soon \u003ci\u003eit\u003c\/i\u003e would come, accompanied by disbelief and panic, and he would find himself on the wrong side of a rapidly closing door, everything he had ever known and loved out of reach, over \u003ci\u003ethere,\u003c\/i\u003e beyond it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt such moments, I especially cherished my task. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI could comfort.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI could.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI moved to the window to energize and activate that part of myself from which I comforted, by glimpsing out indulgently at the glory of all-­that-­is.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo my surprise, down below, near the statue of the golden dog, stood one of our ilk, looking up. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe must be one of us, for he seemed able to see me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd began beseeching me, by way of a complicated series of gestures, to indulge him, by exiting the home and floating down for a quick word, if I would be so kind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI passed out through the wall, the stale quiet of the death room giving way to the smell of the humid air without and the lovely nighttime sound of cicadas, all my clothes now properly affixed and permanent, a happy development, since I must now greet this new acquaintance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe fellow appeared exhausted, as if he had traveled a great distance to be here. Wearing the rough garb of a mechanic or railway engineer, he struggled under the weight of a tremendous stack of papers, the top of which was invisible among the low-­hanging midsummer clouds. Its great height causing the stack to exist in a continual state of sway, he must, to Pprevent it from toppling, continuously be adjusting his posture.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was indeed one of us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor I could see, through his body, the trunk of an oak across the street.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe implored me, in fluent but accented English: Might I allow him up into that room, briefly, as a courtesy? \u003ci\u003eEst-­il possible?\u003c\/i\u003e He understood that this might represent an inconvenient interruption of my work. Which, perhaps, had not yet begun in earnest? He possessed certain information he felt would prove beneficial. To my charge. Also, if he was being entirely transparent—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou are, I said. Entirely.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe shared a laugh.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf I am being entirely \u003ci\u003efrank,\u003c\/i\u003e he restated, it would benefit me as well. I would be most grateful. I assure you I will do no harm: \u003ci\u003eJe vous promets.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis forlorn appearance engaged my compassion. His clothing was in tatters, he was filthy with the dust of the road, his shoes mere flaps of leather, his feet blistered and bloody.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd, if possible, he said, I would prefer to go up alone. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlone, I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eS’il vous plaît,\u003c\/i\u003e he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was an immense task we of our ilk were engaged upon. We constituted a guild of sorts, that depended for its work upon such mutual gestures of courtesy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI indicated with a slight inclination of my head that I would allow it. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKindly be quick, I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUp the Frenchman leapt, showing a surprising agility for one so burdened, his immense stack of papers seeming to inhibit him not a bit.Booker Prize-winning author of Lincoln in the Bardo","brand":"Random House","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233821372645,"sku":"NP9780525509622","price":28.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780525509622.jpg?v=1767743449","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/vigil-isbn-9780525509622","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}