{"product_id":"grace-isbn-9781400078028","title":"Grace","description":"\u003cb\u003eMorally intricate and full of sly humor, \u003ci\u003eGrace\u003c\/i\u003e is a touching and unexpectedly dramatic exploration of the territory between life and death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"Consistently absorbing . . . An elegant stylist with an original voice (and a top-notch translator, Barbara Haveland), Ullmann is especially good at capturing moments of poignancy, often with a trace of gallows humor.”–\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Johan was a boy, he bargained with Death, and in good time Death obligingly took his father. And when Johan was miserably married, Death kindly took his equine first wife, leaving him a tidy sum. But now, with the Reaper coming for \u003ci\u003ehim\u003c\/i\u003e, Johan cries out for certainties, for control, for dignity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe enlists his adoring second wife, the grace of his otherwise mean existence, to be, “when he couldn’t fight any longer,” his reluctant angel of death. But as he drifts away into melancholic, hallucinatory recollection, the bonds of their mutual devotion gradually dissolve and the living and the dying begin their inevitable divergence. And as Johan, his wife beside him, slips under the solitary shadow he fears most, we are made to witness the muted tragedy of the Scandinavian way–now more and more our own way–of dying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLinn Ullmann has written a haunting meditation on mortality that nonetheless pulses with the aching beauty of life.“Slim but by no means slight . . . A delicate, haunting portrait . . . Consistently absorbing . . . An elegant stylist with an original voice (and a top-notch translator, Barbara Haveland), Ullmann is especially good at capturing moments of poignancy, often with a trace of gallows humor.” –Bruce Bawer, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e“A  powerful affirmation of the haunting beauty of ordinary human life and death.” –\u003ci\u003eWashington Post Book World\u003c\/i\u003e“Provocative . . . immensely compelling. Ullmann has an extraordinary talent for exploring relationships between people in love.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Baltimore Sun\u003c\/i\u003e“A work of stunning emotional magnitude . . . Ullmann writes with a wondrously light, deft touch . . . Her pared-down portraits result in real characters who carry all the true-life weight of self-doubt and inner purpose . . . Very moving.”–\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e“Wonderful and chilling . . . Wrenching in its straight-ahead simplicity, lucid in its smooth, elegant translation, Ullmann’s novel resonates with a reader’s inner, subliminal fears of deterioration in the face of death.”–\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e“Ullmann’s novel is brief, and her style sparse, but the tale is weighty and compelling.”–\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003eLinn Ullmann is a graduate of New York University, where she studied English literature and began work on a Ph.D. She returned to her native Oslo in 1990 to pursue a career in journalism. A prominent literary critic, she also writes a column for Norway’s leading morning newspaper. She lives in Oslo with her husband and their children.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLinn Ullmann’s \u003ci\u003eStella Descending\u003c\/i\u003e is available in Anchor paperback.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTranslated from the Norwegian by Barbara Haveland.When, after an awkward pause, the young doctor  delivered the latest diagnosis and began somewhat  perfunctorily to describe the various treatment  options, never really attempting to hide his  certainty that this miserable thing would  ultimately kill my friend Johan Sletten, Johan  closed his eyes and thought of Mai's hair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe doctor was a fair-haired young man and could  scarcely help it if his violet eyes would have  looked better on a woman. He never spoke the word  death. The word he used was alarming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Johan!\" the doctor said, trying to get Johan's attention. \"Are you listening?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJohan resented being addressed so familiarly. Not  to mention the doctor's shrill voice--you would  think it had never finished breaking, or perhaps  he'd been castrated by parents hopeful of some  future for him as a eunuch. Johan had a good mind  to make a point about first names and surnames,  especially in light of the difference in their  ages. The doctor was younger than Johan's son, to  whom he hadn't spoken for eight years. But it  wasn't just a question of etiquette. It wasn't  just that young people should refrain from  addressing their elders familiarly as a matter of  course. Johan had always been mindful of proper  distances. Any intimacy between virtual  strangers--like the dreadful custom of exchanging  little kisses, not so much kisses as grazings of  cheeks--struck him as embarrassing, even  downright disrespectful.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo tell the truth, he preferred anyone to whom he  was not married to address him as Mr. Sletten. He  ached to tell the doctor so but didn't dare; it  seemed unwise to create ill will between them at  this point. The conversation might take a  different tack, and the doctor might start saying  unmentionable things about Johan's illness simply  in retaliation for having been lectured on  matters of etiquette.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"These aren't the results I was hoping for,\" the doctor went on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hm,\" Johan said, mustering a smile. \"But I'm feeling a lot better.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sometimes the body deceives us,\" the doctor  whispered, wondering as he did whether the idea  of a \"deceitful\" body might not be a bit much.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hm,\" Johan said again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes, well . . . ,\" the doctor said, turning to  his computer screen, \"as I said, Johan, there is  some cause for alarm.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe doctor delivered a brief monologue explaining  the test results and their consequences: Johan  would have to undergo a new course of treatment,  possibly even another operation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen he managed to get the occasional word in,  Johan endeavored to persuade the doctor that he  actually was feeling much better and that surely  they could agree that this was at least a good  sign, whatever deceit the body might have in  mind. But when, in conclusion, the doctor  remarked, almost as an afterthought, that this  thing was spreading, Johan gave up trying.  Spreading was a word he had been waiting all his  adult life to hear--waiting, fearing, and  foreseeing. There is no reason, even now that he  is dead, to hide the fact that Johan Sletten was  an incurable hypochondriac and a catastrophist,  and that this scene--a classic of  hypochondria--between the doctor and himself had  played itself out in his head again and again  ever since he was a young man. But unlike the  imagination's rehearsals, thoughtfully staged and  incessantly reworked, the real scene, the one  that actually took place, was hardly dramatic at  all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Spreading?\" Johan said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It doesn't mean, of course . . . ,\" the doctor said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Spreading,\" Johan repeated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe doctor was quick to point out that this  didn't necessarily mean what it meant in the vast  majority of cases. That was what he said, more or  less. He wanted to give his patient time to  digest the diagnosis: he was sealing a man's fate  here, after all, and had probably taken courses  in empathy, Johan mused.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"How much time have I got?\" Johan asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No way of knowing,\" the doctor answered.  \"Everyone's different, and, as I said, we have so  many options these days--\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But generally speaking\"--Johan pressed--\"how  long could someone like me live? From a purely  statistical point of view?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I don't think--\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJohan broke in again. \"Okay . . . but what if it  wasn't me sitting here? Let's suppose that I am  not me and you aren't you. Suppose we are any two  people off the street and you, who would of  course not be you, are asked to give an opinion,  just in the most general terms. What would you  say then?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"As I said, I'd rather not--\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJohan banged the desktop with his fist. \"Time!  Give me an honest answer; give me something I can  relate to. How much time have I got? Don't you  see?\" Johan thrust his watch under the doctor's  nose. \"I need to know how much time I've got.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe doctor didn't flinch. He capitulated, looking  Johan in the eye. \"Six months, maybe more, maybe  less,\" he said. And then, after a pause: \"But as  I mentioned earlier . . .\" He left the sentence  unfinished.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was silence. Johan looked at the floor,  plucking gently at his right eyebrow, a childhood  habit that lent him a rather wry aspect, a bushy  eyebrow on the left and a bald one on the right.  He tried to gauge exactly what he was feeling.  The doctor's words could not be retracted, but  they were just words, not blows or caresses, and  words take longer to make themselves felt. He  had, as he'd declared, been just fine for a week  now, surprisingly vigorous in fact. There was  nothing to stop him from getting up and leaving  the doctor's office. He could take a walk  downtown and step into a bookshop or a music  store, maybe treat himself to something special,  or just have a look around. No one had overheard  his conversation with the doctor. It could be  their secret, and everything would be as before.  A walk downtown would cheer him up and refresh  him; the doctor's office was hot and stuffy, and  the doctor smelled of sweat, which Johan had  detected the minute he walked in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stood up and said, \"I can't think straight. I  have to go. Let's talk about this later.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe doctor nodded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJohan said, \"My wife will help me with this.\" And  again he thought of Mai's hair, which (and this  was the strange thing) lit up a dark room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMai was Johan's wife, his wife number two. Wife  number one had been Alice. In stressful  situations such as this, Johan thought both of  his first wife and of his second.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe tried to hold on to the thought of Mai, but  something inside him forced him to think of Alice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, Alice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe itch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e.  .  .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJohan and Alice were married in 1957. Johan was  twenty-five and Alice twenty-six. Two years  later, their son, Andreas, was born.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was an unhappy marriage. Many people complain  about their unhappy marriages; many write about  their unhappy marriages. Frequently a marriage is  said to be unhappy because a deathly hush has  fallen between man and wife. That, however, had  not been the case with Johan and Alice. Their  marriage was a noisy affair, without hush,  deathly or otherwise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJohan often thought that if Alice had not, after  twenty years of marriage, been run over and  silenced at last by a black station wagon in  downtown Oslo, he would have had to run her over  himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce, a long time earlier, Alice had hovered,  teetering, on the edge of a dock. She couldn't  swim, never having dared to try to learn as a  child after two little girls, the same age as  herself, had pushed her into a pool of water--of  no great depth, just melted snow in a ditch--and  held her head under until, with sudden and  desperate strength, she broke free and ran away.  And now here she was, a grown woman, Johan's wife  number one, standing on the edge of that dock and  basking in the sun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe could never really explain what made him do  it, but all at once he put his hand on her back  and pushed--not a gentle nudge but a hefty shove  that had the expected effect. Alice fell into the  water with a shriek, more surprised than scared,  really, as he noted with some interest.  Straightaway he jumped in after her and hauled  her back onto dry land, unhurt but screaming  bloody murder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What did you do that for? Are you crazy?\" she  shouted, water dripping off her face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe wept, she screamed, she lashed out, her dress  plastered to her body, water streaming from her  hair, her cheeks, her eyes. Her right shoe was  gone, kicked off in the water. She hobbled around  the dock, bewildered and forlorn, looking--as he  thought with some relish--a bit like a headless  chicken.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe planted herself in front of him, made a fist, and punched him in the eye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Why did you push me in the water, Johan?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I . . . don't know. I'm sorry. I don't know what  came over me.\" He put a hand to his eye. Later it  would turn blue, purple, yellow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe wasn't about to back down. \"Why, Johan?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I don't know, Alice.\" He tried to think clearly,  tried to come up with an explanation as to why he  had pushed his wife over the edge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFinally he said, \"I think . . . I think I did it because I love you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey stood there, perfectly still, looking at  each other, he with just the one eye. Then she  bent down and slipped off her left shoe and threw  that, too, into the water. Barefoot, she walked  away from the dock. Johan stayed where he was,  gazing after her. When she turned and called to  him, she smiled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e.  .  .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe used to call her the Horse. When she plopped  herself down, for instance, ranting and raving,  all that weight landing next to him on the sofa,  where he liked to sit quietly minding his own  business--it was a little like dozing on a  peaceful beach and suddenly being surprised by  one of those huge waves that sweep away entire  villages. Or when she laughed, baring her front  teeth. The sight of those front teeth made Johan  feel he'd married a horse. On those rare  occasions when he came across a real horse, he  would beg its forgiveness. Horses were beautiful  creatures, Johan thought, undeserving of  comparison to his wife number one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut when she turned and called his name, all  barefoot and dripping, Alice hadn't reminded him  of a horse. It wasn't just her smile; it was the  laughter in her eyes and the way that laughter  purled its way deep into his heart. The thought  came to him, unfamiliar and unbidden, that she  was still the prettiest woman in the world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was always this business about money,  though. They had hardly any at all, but she had a  bit more than he did. When they were broke her  father gave her cash--not a lot, just enough to  pay the odd bill and buy food. Once, after they  had cooked and eaten an expensive dinner with  some good wine and a delicious dessert, all  courtesy of her father, she turned abruptly to  Johan and said, \"I've bought you. You're bought  and paid for. You do know that, don't you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe never forgot it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Alice's father died and left her 150,000  kroner, Johan suggested that they get a divorce.  Their son was almost grown anyway. He said, \"You  and Andreas can manage without me now.\" But she  went all sweet and soft on him, saying, \"Who  cares about money, Johan! Forget the money.  Forget all of that. From now on we're going to  live like kings. You can have whatever you want.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then, as luck would have it, she got run over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMany people mourned Alice's passing. Johan was  surprised to discover that she was adored. She  had been pretty, of course, not to mention young,  too young to die, people said. That's what they  always say about anyone who dies before a certain  age. Everyone under seventy-five, it seems, is  too young to die; when it's someone under  forty-five, it's called a tragedy, a terrible and  senseless tragedy. Alice was well under  seventy-five and not much over forty-five. A  parade of people clasped Johan's hand, whispering  that Alice's death was a terrible and senseless  tragedy. Every single time he had to suppress the  urge to shout, No, it wasn't! You have no idea!  She tormented me!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTheir son, Andreas, no doubt suffered the most.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the days following the funeral, Johan tried to  get through to this heartbroken, still pimply  stranger who called him Pappa. He made several  visits to his son's tiny apartment, occasionally  taking him out to dinner. Once they even went  skiing on a Sunday afternoon. Then one day, over  steak and french fries at Theatercaf’Ä¢en, the  boy looked up at his father and said, \"Pappa!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJohan nodded. There it was again: a slightly  contemptuous smile. The word Pappa, or Daddy, or  Father, or Pa, couldn't be said without at least  one of them cracking this smile, but Johan  couldn't say for sure where the contempt had  first shown itself, in his son's smile or his own.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Pappa,\" Andreas said again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What's on your mind, son?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJohan laid his knife and fork on his plate,  giving Andreas his attention. Always the same  thing. Conversations that went nowhere. The boy  was incapable of finishing a thought.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I don't know,\" Andreas answered. \"I'm sure there  is--there is something I want to say. I just  can't seem to get it out.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs a child, Andreas was as spindly as his father.  There was something transparent and brittle about  the boy's frame.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlice once said that their son reminded her of an  amoeba. Maybe it was Andreas's amoebic appearance  that made other children want to hit him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJohan believed himself generally unlucky with  people--at least until he met his wife number  two, Mai. It was like that song, she reminded him  of that song . . . although maybe one shouldn't  mix songs and love. Most of the time it's hard to  tell which is which. I sometimes wonder whether  this thought crossed Johan's mind during the last  days of his life. Had he in fact mistaken his  romance for a song?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, who comes rowing in on the foam?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA maiden, Herr Flinck, in a boat all alone!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe wind, the nor'wester, gives tongue!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho is this maid, like a man rowing there?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e'Tis Maj from Malo, so slender and fair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut hark to my wonderful song.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMai and Johan were married in the spring of 1979,  two years after Alice's death. Mai was thirty  years old, and Johan was forty-seven. It would  never have occurred to Johan to compare Mai to a  horse--or, for that matter, to any other creature.","brand":"Anchor","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304244924645,"sku":"NP9781400078028","price":15.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400078028.jpg?v=1767728402","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/grace-isbn-9781400078028","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}