{"product_id":"goddess-complex-isbn-9780593489796","title":"Goddess Complex","description":"\u003cb\u003eA\u003ci\u003e New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Book Review Editors' Choice \u003ci\u003e• \u003c\/i\u003eNamed a Best Book of the Year by \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal \u003c\/i\u003e•\u003ci\u003e Jezebel\u003c\/i\u003e’s May Book Club Pick \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Inventive . . . astute . . . sharp and unexpected . . . Haunting and hilarious, \u003ci\u003eGoddess Complex\u003c\/i\u003e is at once a satire, a Gothic tale, a novel of ideas, a character study. Like any individual life, the book bristles with possibilities.” —R.O. Kwon, The \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the author of \u003ci\u003eGold Diggers\u003c\/i\u003e, a biting examination of millennial adulthood, the often fraught conversations around fertility and reproduction, and the painful quest to forge an identity\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSanjana Satyananda is trying to recover her life. It’s been a year since she walked out on her husband, a struggling actor named Killian, at a commune in India, after a disagreement about whether to have children. Now, Sanjana is struggling to resurrect her busted anthropology dissertation and crashing at her annoyingly perfect sister’s while her well-adjusted peers obsess over marriages, mortgages, and motherhood. Sanjana needs to move forward—and finalize her divorce, ASAP.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s just one problem: Killian is missing. As Sanjana tries to track him down, she’s bombarded with unnerving calls from women seeking her advice on pregnancy and fertility. Soon, Sanjana comes face to face with what her life might have been if she’d chosen parenthood. And the road not taken turns out to be wilder, stranger, and more tempting than she imagined.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA darkly funny, vertiginous novel about the dilemmas of procreation, pregnancy, and parenting, \u003ci\u003eGoddess Complex \u003c\/i\u003eis a twist-filled psychological thriller and a feminist satire of our age of GirlBosses turned self-care influencers, optimization cults, internet mommy gurus, egg freezing, and much more.“A pithy writer who leans into her protagonist’s flaws but doesn’t excuse them . . . Sathian’s treatment of discomfort with the idea of motherhood feels different and new, because her protagonist does not spend the whole book batting the idea around in her head . . . refreshing . . . a shockingly fun read for what is basically a story about a woman having an existential crisis.” \u003cb\u003e—Nora Biette-Timmons, \u003ci\u003eJezebel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Biting . . . a twisted examination of motherhood and the arbitrary expectations of adulthood.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Very funny at times . . . prompts reflection about varying paths toward (or away from) motherhood, about different versions of the self, and about the choices we all make as we mature. \u003ci\u003eGoddess Complex \u003c\/i\u003e is a memorable trip.” —\u003cb\u003eNorah Piehl, \u003ci\u003eBook Reporter\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Inventive . . . \u003ci\u003eGoddess Complex \u003c\/i\u003eis astute about the repetitiveness of misery, and how pain can accrete like an enclosing wall, rising to block out the rest of the world . . . [The book] takes a sharp, unexpected turn as Sanjana flies to India, where she intends to finalize her divorce but ends up at a remote resort run by her doppelgänger, Sanjena, instead. It is here that Sanjana’s focus on her alternate lives turns literal, the novel swerving into a more frenzied chronicle involving elaborate deceptions, a cultish pregnancy influencer and a lot of blood . . . Haunting and hilarious, \u003ci\u003eGoddess Complex\u003c\/i\u003e is at once a satire, a Gothic tale, a novel of ideas, a character study. Like any individual life, the book bristles with possibilities.”\u003cb\u003e —R.O. Kwon, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Wildly new, surreal . . . I live for this shit.” \u003cb\u003e—Maris Kreizman,\u003ci\u003e The Maris Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sathian (\u003ci\u003eGold Diggers\u003c\/i\u003e) wraps a whip-smart satire of Millennial womanhood around an arresting story of mistaken identity . . . a dazzling \u003ci\u003eOperation Shylock\u003c\/i\u003e–esque hall of mirrors . . . Sathian’s social commentary is riotous . . . and she finds intriguing new angles on the doppelgänger theme . . . This is incandescent.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With its piercing exploration of the unrelenting pressure on women to have children, Sathian's witty and wise novel will resonate with readers on either side of the debate and everyone in between.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Suspenseful to the very end . . . this well-crafted, mysterious novel with some dystopian twists is a worthwhile read. Fans of Margaret Atwood’s \u003ci\u003eThe Handmaid’s Tale\u003c\/i\u003e will devour it.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sathian unspools a wide-ranging, at times hallucinatory yarn that encompasses her protagonist’s frustrations with rigid rules about femininity, motherhood, Indian American social norms, and more . . . Not for nothing does the novel feature an epigraph from the Gothic classic \u003ci\u003eRebecca\u003c\/i\u003e; the novel is rife with doppelgängers, gaslighting, hidden histories, and more, all to the purpose of questioning the behavioral expectations placed on women like Sanjana . . . It’s a noble goal, with fine set pieces that are both funny and melancholy.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Buckle up, readers: \u003ci\u003eGoddess Complex\u003c\/i\u003e, an heir to the best of Kafka or Roth in both its savage comic brilliance and its depth of meaning, is the wildest of rides. I can’t remember the last time I read a book that was simultaneously so serious in its ambition—this is a novel, ultimately, about female power and agency—and such a perfectly plotted page-turner. I could not put it down.” \u003cb\u003e—Vauhini Vara, author of the Pulitzer Prize finalist \u003ci\u003eThe Immortal King Rao\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThis is Salvaged\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“\u003ci\u003eGoddess Complex \u003c\/i\u003eis hilarious, astute, and thoroughly enjoyable.” \u003cb\u003e—Ayşegül Savaş, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Anthropologists\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eGoddess Complex\u003c\/i\u003e is the most interesting, illuminating, and bold contemporary novel of ideas I’ve read in years. Sanjena Sathian has given us a world that’s split—between India and America, between acid and ache, between the longing to reproduce and the longing to remain inviolate, between comedy and horror—in a way that affords us that rarest of opportunities: a space to truly think.” \u003cb\u003e—Sarah Thankam Mathews, author of the National Book Award finalist\u003ci\u003e All This Could Be Different \u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sanjena Sathian has written a novel of great wit and daring, a phantasmagoric journey that dazzles at every turn. It’s surreal, it’s funny, it’s raw, and it glimmers, sentence upon sentence, with brilliance.” \u003cb\u003e—Elizabeth McKenzie, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Dog of the North\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sanjena Sathian’s \u003ci\u003eGoddess Complex\u003c\/i\u003e is brilliant, audacious, and funny as hell. In a voice reminiscent of Phoebe Waller-Bridge and Miranda July, Sathian writes about young adulthood with wit, heart, and aching precision. This isn’t a novel about a character stuck between two worlds, but a woman stuck between the world and herself. And that’s why I loved it.” \u003cb\u003e—Neel Patel, author of \u003ci\u003eTell Me How to Be\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eGoddess Complex \u003c\/i\u003ehas the rare quality of being both raucously funny and deeply affecting. Sanjena Sathian explores many topics in her second novel, from the surreal world of the pregnancy industrial complex to big questions of identity and self-creation. But it never loses sight of a simple, human concern: how to preserve our individuality in a world that seeks to degrade it. In one beautiful sentence after another, she shows us the absurd expectations of our modern moment, and the result is nothing less than spellbinding.” \u003cb\u003e—Lee Cole, author of \u003ci\u003eGroundskeeping\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sanjena Sathian has written a whip-smart millennial mystery that charts a satirical course through the absurd cultural landscape of female identity. Funny, searching, and delectably rebellious.” \u003cb\u003e—Lexi Freiman, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Book of Ayn\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sanjena Sathian’s remarkable new novel is as clever as it is unsettling, at once horrifying and hilarious—\u003ci\u003eRosemary’s Baby\u003c\/i\u003e, if Rosemary could freeze her eggs. An utterly contemporary psychological thriller about motherhood, identity, and doubles, \u003ci\u003eGoddess Complex\u003c\/i\u003e establishes Sathian as an indispensable writer of our generation.” \u003cb\u003e—Andrew Ridker, author of \u003ci\u003eHope\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Altruists\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eSanjena Sathian \u003c\/b\u003eis the author of the critically acclaimed novel \u003ci\u003eGold Diggers\u003c\/i\u003e, which was named a Top 10 Best Book of 2021 by \u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e and longlisted for the Center for Fiction’s First Novel Prize. It won the Townsend Prize for Fiction. Her short fiction appears in \u003ci\u003eThe Best American Short Stories\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eConjunctions\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eOne Story\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBoulevard\u003c\/i\u003e, and more. She’s written nonfiction for \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew York \u003c\/i\u003emagazine, \u003ci\u003eThe Drift\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Yale Review\u003c\/i\u003e, and NewYorker.com, among other outlets. She’s an alumna of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and has taught at Emory University, the University of Iowa, and Victoria University of Wellington in New Zealand. In spring 2025, she will serve as the Ferrol A. Sams Jr. Distinguished Chair of English at Mercer University.\u003cb\u003e1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eExpectations\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt began innocuously enough, with a text message from an unknown number that arrived while I was soaping my armpits in the ladies' room of the New Haven train station.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo you and K are back in town\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI presumed that the sender had seen me lugging a forlorn expression around campus recently, where I was, in fact, \u003ci\u003eback \u003c\/i\u003eafter a long spell away. Possibly we had even brushed past each other on the train platform moments earlier. I glanced over my shoulder, quickly, as if some figure might materialize from one of the Pepto Bismol-pink toilet stalls. Then I stood, very still, for perhaps half a minute. All was silent. I became suddenly aware of the foolishness of my posture, the way I was leaning toward the mirror, lit by the sickly fluorescence, my true eyes fixed on my reflected eyes, like a cat tensing up at its likeness in a windowpane. I shook off the chill that had run down my neck at the sight of the initial, \u003ci\u003eK.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere had been nasty, disjointed flashes like this all year, as acquaintances whose names I could not remember, whose faces I failed to place, crossed streets or cafés to say hello and, inevitably, ask about Killian. He was, after all, still legally my husband. I usually just said, \"Oh, he's out of town,\" because I could not bring myself to explain the limbo of our situation. I had ghosted him last summer, and we had not spoken in nearly a year. I was something between a wife and an ex-wife, between who I had been and who I would be next.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI pocketed my phone and returned to the task at hand: dabbing my smelly underarms with a damp paper towel. I had stopped shaving (out of laziness rather than self-empowerment) and the more forested my pits grew, the more they seemed to become their own ecological zones. On top of that, I had lost my deodorant, and I could not bathe, as I could not go home: it was commencement weekend on campus, and in order to escape the celebratory crowds of smug families and promising graduates who would emphasize, by contrast, my own pomp-less circumstances, I'd Airbnb'd my place to some undergrad's parents and fled to my friend Lia's, in Brooklyn. My stay had begun pleasantly, until, after I'd poured the four-dollar wine I'd brought as my keep, Lia coyly pushed her glass aside and announced that she was \u003ci\u003eexpecting.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Expecting what?\" I asked, absently, thinking of a piece of mail, or another guest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eExpecting\u003c\/i\u003e expecting.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer beam matched the sheen of her stainless-steel appliances. Lia and her husband Gor had recently bought a two-bedroom condo in a new-construction high rise in Dumbo. All the appliances seemed straight out of plastic wrap. I felt like a mannequin in a showroom. In college, Lia had passed one barefoot, braless summer volunteering on a dairy farm, sleeping on alpaca rugs, extolling Diva Cups. More recently, she and Gor, both attorneys at white-shoe law firms, had been featured in a \u003ci\u003eNew York\u003c\/i\u003e magazine piece about millennials' home-buying \"journeys.\" I was still unaccustomed to this new Lia, who had found serenity in her renunciation of renunciation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy throat clogged, and instead of congratulating her on having become successfully inseminated, I said, \"Who the fuck says \u003ci\u003eexpecting\u003c\/i\u003e instead of pregnant?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer doll-like features immediately contorted into an expression of utmost sympathy. I grasped that she thought I was jealous.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was true that my life was increasingly becoming the warped inverse of hers. I'd left Killian the month she and Gor celebrated their two-year wedding anniversary; signed a lease on a dank studio weeks before they closed on the condo. And there was something else, too: unbeknownst to Lia, I had terminated a pregnancy last August. The pregnancy had transformed what had once been my ambivalence about childbearing into a certainty. I could only think: I do not want it in me; I cannot be split.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor weeks after the procedure, I cramped and bled. The doctor said the bleeding went on too long; my womb, she deadpanned, had \"relaxed too much.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo, no, I did not envy Lia's forthcoming rascal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf I coveted anything about her life, it was the glow of comprehensibility that surrounded her. Once, I, too, had made sense, but of late, I was becoming less defined. I seemed to have abdicated my birthright citizenship to the nation of marriage and mortgage and motherhood, and beyond its borders lay uncharted terrain. I did mourn \u003ci\u003esomething\u003c\/i\u003e after the procedure-not a specifically rendered unborn child, some slo-mo picture of a dark-haired creature soaring higher and higher on a bright red swing. (I had not contracted Killian's childhood Catholicism.) Rather, I grieved the loss of a version of me who was more fathomable to the world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHad I told Lia about the abortion, she would no doubt have glanced, pro forma, at the pink i'm with her mug on her trinket shelf, assuring me (assuring \u003ci\u003eherself)\u003c\/i\u003e that she bore no judgment. But I feared that everyone I knew had suddenly inherited a capacity for love that I lacked, and I was certain they believed that I was missing out on the Fundamental Mystery of Humankind. So, I kept my\u003ci\u003e choice\u003c\/i\u003e to myself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI tried again: \"Wow!\" I said. \"Your baby will be so cute.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLia bit her lip.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI asked whether she and Gor planned to hyphenate Wojciechowski-Grigoryan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer palm flattened against the gleaming black countertop like she was massacring a large bug. \"I guess I never told you. I took his name.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe stood abruptly and went to dump her wine in the sink. With her back to me, she began to loop a lock of her blond hair around her index finger, turning the knuckle paper-white, cutting off circulation. She was nervous.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No. Or, yes,\" I agreed. \"You never told me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I knew what you would say.\" Her vast blue eyes narrowed warningly, puddles shrinking in the sun. \"And before you say it, there are a lot of reasons people change their names.\" Lia enumerated them: being closer, forming a clear family unit. Anyway, what was feminist about being forced to choose between her shitty father's unpronounceable surname and her very nice husband's?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI pointed out that my name is Sanjana \u003ci\u003eSatyananda\u003c\/i\u003e and Killian's is Killian \u003ci\u003eBane\u003c\/i\u003e, but I had not become Sanjana \u003ci\u003eBane\u003c\/i\u003e in order to assimilate into an easier identity. Plus, I added, she was blond. She asked what that had to do with anything, and I said it meant she didn't get to complain about her ethnic last name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThings escalated from there, and in the end, discovering that my dearest, oldest friend had remade her legal identity without informing me led me to snark something half-baked about the ethics of reproducing in the face of climate change. Lia burst into tears, which, while not unheard of in our eighteen years of friendship, made me seem especially cruel now that she was crying for two. Gor soon appeared in the doorway and suggested I leave.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am an anthropologist, so I know: spinsters make good demons. We infiltrate the bodies and minds of the happily married, sowing discord. We steal babies, kill babies, eat babies. You have to banish us. Out in the field, I knew a female healer who specialized in exorcisms for infertile women. Her instrument of choice was the broomstick, with which she beat barren wives. The wives themselves sought this treatment. Often, they came to the healer knowing exactly what, or who, was to blame for their empty wombs, and they'd tell the healer: my sister, my neighbor, my enemy, she died unfulfilled (which could only mean sonless) and cursed me with this brutal bequest. Then the healer would lift her broom and get to work delivering the blessing of progeny.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHaving finished armpit dabbing, I exited the bathroom into the vestibule of the train station. Its high vaulted ceiling, a miniature of Grand Central, reminded me of the ersatz quality of life around this campus. Like the imitation Oxbridge architecture, the station was a snow globe synecdoche of a vaster, more authentic reality. Filmmakers sometimes shot scenes here to pass off as Manhattan at rush hour-students, a blur of navy and black suits, playing the bankers and consultants commuting from suburbia whom they would, in time, become.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI sat on a bench to text Max the Harm Reducer, the twenty-four-year-old altruist with JV soccer good looks I'd been seeing. Perhaps he could lend shelter after my expulsion from Lia's. Just as I'd sent Max my SOS, though, a second message arrived from my unknown correspondent. Below the oddly hollow declaration-So you and K are back in town-it read:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eI hear some big things are happening\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI typed:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ewhos this\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy thumb hovered over the \u003ci\u003esend\u003c\/i\u003e button.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen, Max's name flashed up and my phone began to buzz.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe apologized in his sweet, nasal voice: he was busy tonight. He sounded like he was in a restaurant. Glasses clinked and voices swelled behind him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Are you on a date?\" I asked. I meant it to come out flirty, but it sounded accusatory, clingy. I had no right to those feelings, as I was the one who'd insisted on our being nonexclusive so fervently that I'd cast myself as nearly ethically nonmonogamous, even a little turned on by the prospect of belonging to a harem. In actuality I desire neither; I was merely trying to move more weightlessly through the world. \"Why would you call me if you're on a date?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I, uh. Thought it was an emergency.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI tried what my ex-therapist, Dharma Matheson, LMFT, MSW, had once suggested would \u003ci\u003eroot me to the present in times of agitation\u003c\/i\u003e. I closed my eyes and did a Kegel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI opened my eyes. A South Asian woman about my mother's age was scrutinizing me across the antechamber from behind the counter of a Dunkin' Donuts. I smiled. She did not smile back. When I encountered my own kind in the wild, it could go either way. Sometimes they mistook me for one of them. Nice Daughter, Sweet Sister. Other times I failed to pass, and they intuited the real me: a thirty-two-year-old soon-to-be divorcée currently on medical leave from her graduate studies, who had twice overdrawn her bank account in the past year to pay rent. When my mother was my age, she was in a successfully arranged marriage, with two children, an MD, and an expectation that the next generation would out-earn her. Dunkin' Auntie seemed to know all this, sorting me into the category of Bad Brown Girl, like she\u003ci\u003e knew\u003c\/i\u003e I was a married woman currently begging a man to take me in, and that I would have delivered an enthusiastic extramarital blow job in gratitude.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI assured Max that it was not an emergency.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI went outside, Auntie-ji's eyes boring into my back, and waited in the balmy May air for the campus shuttle to pull around. I weighed my options. In better times, I'd have crashed with someone from the anthropology department, but all my friends had either graduated without me-i.e., on time-or defected from the academy for noncontingent jobs with employer-backed health care. My campus ID wasn't working, due to the medical leave, so I couldn't slip into a library to pass out on a couch. I had one choice left. It was not ideal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI settled into the largely empty bus and glanced back at the blue bubbles on my phone screen. The area code was 408-Northern California. That could be anyone in my world of coastal elites. My whos this lingered, unsent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI glowered at that second note-I hear some big things are happening-and the stupid throbbing pink heart emoji. Pity, that's what that heart signified. My texter knew my marriage had failed. They did not want to offer me comfort; they wanted to gawk at my fuck-ups.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's okay to keep others out for a while, Dharma had said. You're waiting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(For what?)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo encounter your next\u003ci\u003e incarnation\u003c\/i\u003e, she'd said, as though it were obvious. You just haven't met her yet.","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233198059749,"sku":"NP9780593489796","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593489796.jpg?v=1767728253","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/goddess-complex-isbn-9780593489796","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}