{"product_id":"here-goes-nothingisbn-9781612199719","title":"Here Goes Nothing","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eTimes\u003c\/i\u003e (of London) Best Fiction Book of 2022\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eA wildly inventive, savagely funny and topical novel about love, mortality and the afterlife, by the Booker-shortlisted author of \u003ci\u003eA Fraction of the Whole\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAngus is a reformed ne'er-do-well looking forward to the birth of his first child when he's murdered by a man who is in love with his pregnant wife Gracie. Having never believed in God, heaven or hell, Angus finds himself in the afterlife - a place that provides more questions than answers. As a worldwide pandemic finally reaches the shores of Australia, the afterlife starts to get very crowded and Angus finds a way to reconnect with his wife Gracie and maybe even seek revenge on his murderer...\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eHere Goes Nothing\u003c\/i\u003e is a novel of exhilarating originality and scope about birth, death and everything in between and after by ‘a writer of prodigious talent’ (Peter Carey) that contains a vision of the afterlife that rivals Dante’s \u003ci\u003eDivine Comedy\u003c\/i\u003e and George Saunders' \u003ci\u003eLincoln in the Bardo, \u003c\/i\u003eand the emmy-nominated \u003ci\u003eThe Good Place\u003c\/i\u003e.\"...Clever lines drop down on these pages like flowers thrown on a casket...[a] zany, increasingly dark comedy...\" \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e-- The Washington Post \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Toltz... is smart, imaginative and funny, unafraid to lob a  literary grenade into hard-held beliefs of humankind. He uses \u003ci\u003eHere Goes Nothing\u003c\/i\u003e as a jumping-off point to parody the perversity and  stubbornness of human nature and to highlight our uneasy relationship  with mortality. Think of it as a comic, modern-day \u003ci\u003eDivine Comedy\u003c\/i\u003e with  more intercourse and fewer opportunities to reach Paradise.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e-- The Star Tribune\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Enjoyable as social commentary, a philosophical exploration of life’s  meaning, an inventive, pop-culture-referencing mystery-of-sorts or  simply a good yarn, “Here Goes Nothing” makes for rich, reflective,  involving reading.\"\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e --The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \"Surreal, sharply funny and as dark as the grave. Fans of noir fiction and quirky thrillers ... will dig right in.\"\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e -- Shelf Awareness \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"With a stygian sense of humour, Toltz persuasively argues that humanity,  for all the progress made, has achieved little of substance other than  finding new ways of distracting itself as the world burns... \u003ci\u003eHere Goes Noth­ing \u003c\/i\u003eworks because we care about Angus,  Grace, and Owen. It would have been easy for Toltz to depict them as  caricatures; instead, they are three wonder­fully flawed but sympathetic  individuals.\"\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e -- Locus Magazine \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \"Toltz’s wit and black humor transform a morbid premise into a rollicking  ride. The result is an audaciously creative imagining of what awaits  after death.\" \u003cb\u003e-- \u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Toltz (\u003ci\u003eQuicksand\u003c\/i\u003e,  2015) revels in the irony of an afterlife skeptic forced into a ghastly  second act. Angus’ narration is thick with zingy one-liners pointing up  the absurdity of it all... an exploration of big feels, among them the  slow-spreading dread of societal cataclysm, the grief of watching one’s  beloved embrace a new partner, and the fear that now may be as good as  it gets.\" \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e-- Booklist \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You may  laugh or weep and be shocked or outraged, but you won’t be bored. You  may even develop a greater understanding of human nature — even as it  plays out in the hereafter.\"\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e - The Washington Independent Review of Books \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Outlandishly satisfying and timely...this is highly intelligent reading of the tallest order with much to unpack.\" -- \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eBookreporter \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \"Here Goes Nothing \u003c\/i\u003eis a  thought-provoking work that’s perfect for anyone whose dim view of our  planetary existence is tempered by hope in something better than a  doctrinaire ending.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e-- Criminal Element \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eSteve Toltz was born in Sydney, Australia. \u003ci\u003eA Fraction of the Whole\u003c\/i\u003e, his first novel, was released in 2008 to widespread critical acclaim. It was shortlisted for the 2008 Man Booker Prize and the 2008 \u003ci\u003eGuardian \u003c\/i\u003eFirst Book Award. His equally acclaimed second novel \u003ci\u003eQuicksand \u003c\/i\u003ewas published in 2015. He currently lives in Los Angeles and writes screenplays.\u003ci\u003eNobody was ever thinking about me. \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNow that I’m dead, I dwell on this kind of thing a lot: how I often made life choices to avoid the disapproval of those who hadn’t even noticed me standing there; how I longed to be liked by the very people I disliked in case finding me objectionable was contagious and would spread throughout the general population; how—and here’s the sad truth—if all my reversals of fortune had been private, I’d have been mostly fine with them. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s not all I lament; why hadn’t I see more of our world? Why did I never skydive or sexually experiment? Why exactly was I so uninterested in touching a dick? So what if I was heterosexual? Don’t most vegetarians eat fish? And why was I so convinced that every supernatural belief was just an embarrassing throwback to the pre-scientific age? I had my irrational fears, of course: of mannequins and steep slopes and being stared at, but never of the dark, of the dead, or any kind of afterlife. To me, Heaven was a childish dream, Purgatory an obvious metaphor, Hell credible only on earth, and the very notion of an immortal soul was only a way to avoid facing our immanent trip to Nowhere. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It’s humiliating how wrong you can be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e1\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe beginning of the end— \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHuge iron-grey cloud banks lay motionless above our little house, the dawn skies fading. The finger of a short nervous stranger in a flannel shirt lingered on the doorbell. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis was arguably the most significant moment of my life. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wasn’t there. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy side of the bed was cold and empty. Gracie woke afraid and irritated because I hadn’t come home again. Staggering off the bed, she threw on her robe and clomped down the stairs. She flung open the front door: the short, balding man on the stoop was in his late sixties, owlish with thick eyebrows, his forehead shiny where the hairline receded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Sorry to bother you, miss,’ he said, ‘My name is Owen Fogel, and you don’t know me.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I \u003ci\u003eknow\u003c\/i\u003e I don’t know you,’ Gracie said, annoyed. ‘You don’t think I know who I don’t know?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I don’t know.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘What do you want, my money or my time?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I grew up in this house. Forty years ago.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘My time, then.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Mind if I come in?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Did you leave something here?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe couldn’t tell if she was joking. ‘I’m just wondering if I could come in and look around, you know, for old time’s sake.’ \u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eOld time’s sake? \u003c\/i\u003eGracie couldn’t see how that expression related to a stranger demanding access to her private home. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Haven’t you ever gone somewhere,’ he said, ‘just to get a sense of where you came from?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Nope.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘You never went back to an old school or an old job or the place where you lost your virginity?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I lost my virginity in the back of a bus.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I retract my example.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGracie gazed across the quiet street, then back to the blushing stranger now smiling with his tight mouth. ‘Visiting the past because you’re nostalgic is like drinking sea water when you’re dying of thirst. It’ll only make you thirstier. And it’s gross. Why would you do it in front of a complete stranger?’ she asked. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘It’s a long story and I’d rather not tell it on the front steps.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Oh well. Next time you’ll remember to cut it short.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGracie heaved the door shut. Fuck that guy. What an odious intrusion. She eyed the couch, lusting for sleep. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe doorbell rang again. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThrough the peephole, the man’s desolate figure was sulking in the patchy sunlight, his finger jabbing the doorbell insistently. Gracie grew frightened. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I’m calling the police!’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I’m dying.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘What?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘You heard me.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow he crept forward a little. ‘I’m sorry to be intruding,’ he said through the door. ‘And I’m sorry that pretty soon I won’t be bothering anybody ever again. Most of all I’m sorry that my \u003ci\u003edying wish\u003c\/i\u003e is to come and look around this stupid house and remember my mother and father.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGracie opened the door and steadily regarded the visitor; his body may have fallen on hard times, but he looked robust enough to survive the morning. ‘I don’t like you looking at me like you’ve come to collect a debt,’ she said, pressing her lips together, ‘but you can come in.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Should I take off my shoes?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Don’t bother. You won’t be staying long.’ \u003cbr\u003e        \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e2\u003c\/b\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe dying visitor stood in the middle of the living room, as if unable to choose a direction to walk in. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Go on, then. Have a look-see.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe crossed the creaky floorboards from the TV to the potted cactus under the corner window. He made a cursory inspection of the floating shelves, the wallpaper map of the world, the cracked leather couch, the dentist chairs, the enormous industrial fan. He stared at the odd religious paraphernalia—a Star of David that hung over a faded painting of Ganesh next to a wooden pentagram—and then fondled the fibre-optic Christmas tree with palpable sadness. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘If it isn’t taken down by July,’ she said, ‘it makes sense to keep it there until December.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe didn’t nod his head so much as waggle it. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘What did you say your name was?’ asked Gracie. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Owen. Owen Fogel,’ he said and then muttered, almost to himself, ‘So much happened here.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘For instance?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Puberty. I did a lot of violence to my body in those years.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Terrific.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe spoke in a strange, faraway voice: ‘Life is a funny thing.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘How banal.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe eyed her, transfixed, as if he’d had a sad insight and was resisting a powerful urge to share it. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘What?’ she asked, suspiciously. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Was I staring?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Like you’re a lip reader waiting for me to say something.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe laughed. ‘Sorry. It’s just sometimes, when you’re not prepared, a beautiful face can be startling.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGracie froze, suddenly self-conscious to be wearing only a robe, terrified by the possibility of what she had ushered into her house. Owen had sinewy arms that could easily overpower her. She heard a low-level ting and realised it was coming from a beige hearing aid in Owen’s ear.\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eSo what? That didn’t mean he wasn’t a monster. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘My husband will be home any moment.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘It’s so early. He didn’t come home last night?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe dug her fingernails into her palms. ‘No, I mean . . .’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Has he done that before? I’m sure he just fell asleep on a friend’s couch. Isn’t that what they always say? “I must have passed out.” Or, wait, “I was too drunk to drive and it was too late to call.”\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eClassic.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe swallowed a \u003ci\u003efuck you\u003c\/i\u003e. ‘Are you even dying?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I am. Truly.’ He caught the panicked glint in her eyes. ‘Wait. Am I making you anxious?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Yes.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘\u003ci\u003ePlease\u003c\/i\u003e don’t be.’ There was only sorrow in his voice. Maybe the worst that would happen is that she’d be forced to endure his story or attend to a seizure. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Just keep three feet away from me.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I only know the metric system.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Are you kidding me right now?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘May I continue the tour?’ he asked in a placating voice. Gracie nodded warily. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe moved skittishly around the room, sighing at the cracked walls, the peeling wallpaper, the blistered paint. He fingered the dust that covered the broken jukebox and even squatted in the corner, as if to get a child’s point of view. That he only seemed dimly mindful of Gracie’s presence somewhat alleviated her fears. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Is it okay if I go that way?’ he asked, gesturing to the kitchen. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I guess.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the kitchen, Owen brushed his hands along the cabinets and the countertop while sneering at the apparent smoke damage from stove-top fires.\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eHe moved into the damp laundry and tromped down the steps to the pitch-dark basement. Gracie fished a corkscrew out of an ice bucket and slipped it into the pocket of her robe. Owen emerged from the basement and walked to the sunlit studio at the end of the house before circling back to the living room. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘May I look in the bedrooms?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Wow. Rude.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Is that a no?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Oh, whatever. Help yourself.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOwen smiled politely then disappeared down the stained-carpeted hallway. Gracie made a coffee and smoked two cigarettes while imagining Owen masturbating on her bed. She thought: He’ll come on my pillow soon and leave. Or he’ll fall over and sue us. Something absurd will come of this. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow she could hear clatter in the bathroom and the sound of phlegm hawked into the sink. She made a mental note to incinerate the handtowels. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe returned to the living room combing what little hair he had with his wet fingers. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘How long have you lived here?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Two years.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe moved around the room at the speed of someone trying to walk up a down escalator. Gracie fondled the corkscrew in her pocket and said, ‘I can’t remember if we were supposed to get the best house on the worst street or the worst house on the best street.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I don’t think this one’s either.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGracie was still uneasy. The only sound was the \u003ci\u003echit-chit-chit \u003c\/i\u003eof Mrs Henderson’s sprinklers, which were turned on in defiance of the water restrictions. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Well, thanks for stopping by,’ she said. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘What do you do for work?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I’m a marriage celebrant.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Interesting!’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt occurred to Gracie that Owen’s grin seemed bogus, an instant red flag; when you’ve just met someone, you shouldn’t be able to tell their fake smile from their genuine one. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Newlyweds are refugees fleeing single life,’ she said. ‘Most people totally misrepresent themselves and enter into legally binding, life-long marital agreements dragging a trail of half-truths. They’ll do anything to grow old with someone overnight.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Huh?’ An astonished look crossed his face, but it seemed routine, as if it was his tendency to be surprised. ‘How did you get into this profession?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer nervousness prevented her from escaping this conversation, which had now run away from her. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘It’s kind of a funny story.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Is it?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘About ten years ago, my best friend Tara asked me to officiate her wedding. I had to do a one-month course at TAFE. Now that I’m saying it out loud, it’s not really that funny a story at all, is it?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Not really, no. You get clients?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Every weekend. Mooney videos the weddings. We’re a one-stop wedding shop.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘What’s a Mooney?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Angus Mooney. My husband.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘The missing husband.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘He’s \u003ci\u003enot\u003c\/i\u003e missing.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe made a ‘poor baby’ pout of his lips.\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e‘Do you enjoy marrying people?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I’m usually terrified I’m going to ruin their special day, but I love it.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Do you?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘It’s my calling,’ she said, earnestly.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She fished the corkscrew out of her pocket and fingered it openly, looking Owen directly in the eye. It was time for this lonesome, death-haunted man to get out of the house. ‘Anyway, as I said, thanks for stopping by.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘You’re welcome.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Where’s the next stop on your nostalgia tour?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Nowhere. This is it.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Have you seen everything you want to see?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn abrupt smile appeared on Owen’s face, as if he had just suffered an unwanted spasm of good cheer. He sat on the cracked leather armchair and eased back into it. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ‘Not quite,’ he said.","brand":"Melville House","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303934480613,"sku":"NP9781612199719","price":27.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781612199719.jpg?v=1730755825","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/here-goes-nothingisbn-9781612199719","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}