{"product_id":"making-history-isbn-9781616955250","title":"Making History","description":"\u003cb\u003eStephen Fry tackles alternate history, asking: \u003ci\u003eWhat if Hitler had never been born?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Michael Young is a graduate student at Cambridge who is completing his dissertation on the early life of Adolf Hitler. Leo Zuckerman is an aging German physicist and Holocaust survivor. Together they idealistically embark on an experiment to change the course of history. And with their success is launched a brave new world that is in some ways better than ours—but in most ways even worse. Fry’s sci-fi-tinged experiment in history makes for an ambitious and deeply affecting novel.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eMaking History\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A bright, engaging, learned novel . . . Terrific.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Washington Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Witty and eccentric . . . The ever astute actor\/author asks the question: Does man make history or does history create the man? And [he] answers with a jolt of surprising insight.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eElle\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eMaking History\u003c\/i\u003e tears along like a cinematic thriller, building suspense with each fresh scene.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Baltimore Sun\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Exuberant . . . brilliant and convincing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMinneapolis Star-Tribune\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Part academic send-up, part zany screenplay, and part invented history, the novel dives headfirst into the trashbin of history and roots around with alternating elan and solemnity . . . Imaginative.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Clever, throught-provoking and very funny.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Fry’s] best novel yet . . . An extravagant, deeply questioning work of science fiction.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eGQ \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eStephen Fry is an actor, producer, director, and writer who has appeared in numerous TV series and movies, including \u003ci\u003eJeeves and Wooster\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eWilde\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eGosford Park\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eV for Vendetta\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug\u003c\/i\u003e. He is the bestselling author of four novels, as well as several works of nonfiction, and divides his time between New York and the UK.\u003cb\u003eMAKING COFFEE\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eIt starts with a dream . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt starts with a dream. This story, which can start everywhere and nowhere like a circle, starts, for me—and it is, after all, my story and no one else’s, never could be anyone else’s but mine—it starts with a dream I dreamed one night in May.\u003cbr\u003e       The wildest kind of dream. Jane was in it, stiff and starchy as a hotel napkin. He was there too. I didn’t recognize him of course. I hardly knew him then. Just an old man to nod to in the street or smile through a politely held library door. The dream rejuvenated him, transformed him from boneless, liverspotted old beardy into Mack Sennett barman with drooping black mustache tacked to a face hangdog long and white with undernourishment.\u003cbr\u003e      His face, for all that. Not that I knew it then.\u003cbr\u003e      In this dream he was in the lab with Jane: Jane’s lab, of course—the dream was not prophetic enough to foretell the dimensions of his lab, which I only got to know later—that is if the dream was prophetic at all, which it may well not have been. If you get me.\u003cbr\u003e      This is going to be hard.\u003cbr\u003e      Anyway, she was peering into a microscope and he was feeling her up from behind. He stroked between her thighs inside the long white coat. She was taking no notice, but I was outraged, outraged when the soft \u003ci\u003eveef\u003c\/i\u003e of hands rubbing nylon stopped and I knew that his fingers had reached the uppermost part of her long legs, the place where stocking ended and soft hot private flesh—hot private flesh belonging to me—began.\u003cbr\u003e      “Leave her alone!” I called from some unseen director’s corner, behind, as it were, the dream’s camera.\u003cbr\u003e      He gazed up at me with sad eyes that held me, as they always do, in the bright beam of their blue. Or always subsequently did, because I had, in my real waking life at that point, never so much as exchanged a single word with him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      “Wachet auf,”\u003c\/i\u003e he says.\u003cbr\u003e      And I obey.\u003cbr\u003e      Strong light of a May morning whitening the dirty cream of cruddy curtains that we meant to change months ago.\u003cbr\u003e      “Morning, babe,” I murmur. “Double Gloucester . . . my mother always said cheese dreams.”\u003cbr\u003e      But she’s not there. Jane, that is, not my mother. My mother isn’t there either as a matter of fact. Certainly not. It absolutely isn’t that kind of story.\u003cbr\u003e      Jane’s half of the bed is cold. I strain my ears for the hissing of the shower or the crack of teacups banged clumsily on the draining board. Everything Jane does, outside of work, she does clumsily. She has this habit of turning her head away from her hands, like a squeamish student nurse picking up a raw appendix. The hand holding a cigarette end, for instance, might stretch leftwards to an ashtray, while she will look off to the right, grinding the butt into a saucer, a book, a tablecloth, a plate of food. I have always found uncoordinated women, nearsighted women, long, gawky, awkward women, powerfully attractive.\u003cbr\u003e      I have started to wake up now. The last granules of the dream fizz away and I am ready for the morning puzzle of self-reinvention. I stare at the ceiling and remember what there is to remember.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe will leave me lying there for the moment, reassembling myself. I am not entirely sure that I am telling this story the right way round. I have said that it is like a circle, approachable from any point. It is also, like a circle, unapproachable from any point.\u003cbr\u003e      History is my business.\u003cbr\u003e      What a way to start . . . history isn’t my \u003ci\u003ebusiness\u003c\/i\u003e at all. I managed, at least, to stop myself from describing history as my “trade,” for which I reckon I can award myself some points. History is my passion, my calling. Or, to be more painfully truthful, it is my field of least incompetence. It is what, for the time being, I do. Had I the patience and the discipline I should have chosen literature. But, while I can read \u003ci\u003eMiddlemarch\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Dunciad\u003c\/i\u003e or, I don’t know, Julian Barnes or Jay McInerney say, as happily as anyone, I have this little region missing in my brain, that extra lobe that literature students possess as a matter of course, the lobe that allows them the detachment and the nerve to talk about books (texts they will say) as others might talk about the composition of a treaty or the structure of a cell. I can remember at school how we would read together in class an ode by Keats, a Shakespeare sonnet or a chapter of \u003ci\u003eAnimal Farm\u003c\/i\u003e. I would tingle inside and want to sob, just at the words, at nothing more than the simple progression of sounds. But when it came to writing that thing called an essay, I flubbed and floundered. I could never discover where to \u003ci\u003estart\u003c\/i\u003e. How do you find the distance and the cool to write in an academically approved style about something that makes you spin, wobble and weep?\u003cbr\u003e      I remember that child in the Dickens novel, \u003ci\u003eHard Times\u003c\/i\u003e I think it is, the girl who had grown up with carnival people, spending her days with horses, tending them, feeding them, training them and loving them. There’s a scene where Gradgrind (it is \u003ci\u003eHard Times\u003c\/i\u003e, I’ve just looked it up) is showing off his school to a visitor and asks this girl to define “horse” and of course the poor scrap dries up completely, just stutters and fumbles and stares hopelessly in front of her like a moron.\u003cbr\u003e      “Girl number twenty unable to define a horse!” Gradgrind says and turns with a great sneer to the smart little weasel, Bitzer, a cocksure street kid who’s probably never dared so much as pat a horse in his life, gets a kick out of throwing stones at them I expect. This little runt stands up with a smirk and comes out pat with “Quadruped. Graminivorous. Forty teeth . . .” and so on, to wild applause and admiration.\u003cbr\u003e      “Now girl number twenty you know what a horse is,” says Gradgrind.\u003cbr\u003e      Well, each time I was asked to write an essay at school, with a title like “Wordsworth’s \u003ci\u003ePrelude\u003c\/i\u003e is the Egotism without the Sublime: Discuss,” I felt, when I got back my paper marked E or F or whatever, as if \u003ci\u003eI\u003c\/i\u003e were the stuttering horse lover and the rest of the class, with their As and Bs, were the smart-arsed parroting runts who had lost their souls. You could only write successfully about books and poems and plays if you didn’t care, really care, about them. Hysterical schoolboy wank, for sure, an attitude compounded of nothing but egotism, vanity and cowardice. But how deeply felt. I went through all my school days convinced of this, that “literary studies” were no more than a series of autopsies performed by heartless technicians. Worse than autopsies: \u003ci\u003ebiopsies\u003c\/i\u003e. Vivisection. Even movies, which I love more than anything, more than life itself, they even do it with movies these days. You can’t talk about movies now without a \u003ci\u003emethodology\u003c\/i\u003e. Once they start offering courses, you know the field is dead. History, I found, was safer ground for me: I didn’t\u003ci\u003e love\u003c\/i\u003e Rasputin or Talleyrand or Charles the Fifth or Kaiser Bill. Who could? A historian has the pleasant luxury of being able to point out, from the safety of his desk, where Napoleon ballsed up, how this revolution might have been avoided, that dictator toppled or those battles won. I found I could be most marvelously dispassionate with history, where everyone, by definition, is truly dead. Up to a point. Which brings us round to the telling of this tale.\u003cbr\u003e      As a historian I should be able to offer a good plain account of the events that took place on the . . . well, when \u003ci\u003edid \u003c\/i\u003ethey take place? It is all highly debatable. When you become more familiar with the story you will understand the huge problems that confront me. A historian, someone said—Burke, I think, if not Burke then Carlyle—is a prophet looking backward. I cannot approach my story in that fashion. The puzzle that besets me is best expressed by the following statements.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      a: None of what follows ever happened\u003cbr\u003e      b: All of what follows is entirely true\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      Get your head round that one. It means that it is my job to tell you the true story of what never happened. Perhaps that’s a definition of fiction.\u003cbr\u003e      I admit that this preamble must look rather tricksy: I get as snortingly impatient as the next man when authors draw attention to their writerly techniques, and this sentence itself disappears even more deeply than most into the filthy elastic of its own narrative rectum, but there’s nothing I can do about that.\u003cbr\u003e      I saw a play the other week (plays are nothing to films, nothing. Theater is dead but sometimes I like to go and watch the corpse decompose) in which one of the characters said something like this, she said that the truth about things was like a bowl of fishhooks: you try to examine one little truth and the whole lot comes out in a black and vicious bunch. I can’t allow that to happen here. I have to do some unfastening and untangling, so that if the hooks do all come out in one go, they might at least emerge neatly linked, like a chain of paper clips.\u003cbr\u003e      I feel then that I can confidently enough begin with this little series of connections: if it weren’t for a rotted clasp, an alphabetical adjacency and the predictably vile, thirst-making hangovers to which Alois was subject, then I would have nothing to tell you. So we may as well start at the point I have already claimed (and disclaimed) to be the beginning.\u003cbr\u003e      There I lie, wondering like Keats, Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music, do I wake or sleep? Wondering too, why the Christ Jane isn’t coiled warmly beside me.\u003cbr\u003e      The clock tells me why.\u003cbr\u003e      It’s a quarter to nine.\u003cbr\u003e      She’s never done this to me before. Never.\u003cbr\u003e      I rush to the bathroom and rush out again, toothpaste dribbling down the corners of my mouth.\u003cbr\u003e      “Jane!” I bubble. “Jane, what the pants is going on? It’s half-past nine!”\u003cbr\u003e      In the kitchen I snap on the kettle and frenzy around for coffee, sucking my peppermint fluoride lips in panic. An empty bag of Kenco and boxes and boxes and boxes of teas.\u003cbr\u003e      Raspberry Rendezvous for God’s sake. \u003ci\u003eRendezvous\u003c\/i\u003e? Orange Dazzler. Banana and Liquorice Dream. Nighttime Delight.\u003cbr\u003e      Jesus, what\u003ci\u003e is\u003c\/i\u003e it with her? Every tea but tea tea. And not a bean or bag of coffee to be had.\u003cbr\u003e      At the back of the cupboard . . . triumph, glory. Mwah! A big Aquafresh kiss for \u003ci\u003eyou\u003c\/i\u003e, my darling.\u003cbr\u003e      “Safeway Colombian Coffee, Fine Ground for Filters.”\u003cbr\u003e      All \u003ci\u003eright\u003c\/i\u003e!\u003cbr\u003e      Back to the bedroom, hopping into cutoff denim. No time for boxers, no time for socks. Bare feet jammed into boat shoes, laces later.\u003cbr\u003e      Into the kitchen again just as the kettle thumps itself off, bit of a hiss from so little water, but enough for a cup, easily enough for a cup.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      No!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      Oh damn it, no!\u003cbr\u003e      No, no, no, no, \u003ci\u003eno\u003c\/i\u003e!\u003cbr\u003e      Bitch. Sow. Cow. Angel. Double-bitch. Sweetness. Slag.\u003cbr\u003e      “Jane!”\u003cbr\u003e      “Safeway Colombian Coffee, Fine Ground for Filters: \u003ci\u003eNaturally Decaffeinated.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e      “Pants!”\u003cbr\u003e      Calm, Michael. Calm. \u003ci\u003eBleib ruhig, mein Sohn.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      I can keep it together. I’m a graduate. A soon-to-be-doctored graduate. I won’t be beaten by this. Not a little nonsense like this.\u003cbr\u003e      Ha! Gotcha! Lightbulb-over-the-head, finger-snapping eureka, who’s a clever boy? \u003ci\u003eYes . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      Those pills, those pep pills. Pro-Doz? No-Doz? Something like that.\u003cbr\u003e      Skidding into the bathroom, my brain half registers something. An important fact. Something amiss. Put it to one side. Time enough later.\u003cbr\u003e      Where they go? Where they \u003ci\u003ego\u003c\/i\u003e?\u003cbr\u003e      Here you are, you little buggers . . . yes, come to Mama . . .\u003cbr\u003e      “No-Doz. Stay alert. Ideal for exam revision, late nights, driving, etc. Each pill contains 50 mg caffeine.”\u003cbr\u003e      At the kitchen sideboard, like a London cokehead giggling in a nightclub toilet, I crush and grind and chop.\u003cbr\u003e      The chunks of white pop and wink in the coffee mud as I pour the boiling water on.\u003cbr\u003e      “Safeway Colombian Coffee, Fine Ground for Filters:\u003ci\u003e Unnaturally Recaffeinated\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e      Now that’s coffee. A tad bitter perhaps, but real coffee, not Strawberry Soother or Nettle ’n’ Chamomile tisane. And you say I have no gumption, Jane hun? Ha! Wait till I tell you about \u003ci\u003ethis \u003c\/i\u003etonight. I outdid Paul Newman in \u003ci\u003eHarper\u003c\/i\u003e. All he did was recycle an old filter paper, yeah?\u003cbr\u003e      A quarter to ten. Teaching at eleven. No panic. I stalk comfortably now, mug in hand into the spare room, quite in charge. Bloody showed her.\u003cbr\u003e      The Apple is cold. A nannying humming nag no more. Who knows when I may condescend to turn you on again, Maccie Thatcher? And there, on the desk, neatly squared, magnificently, obscenely thick, \u003ci\u003eDas Meisterwerk\u003c\/i\u003e itself.\u003cbr\u003e      I keep my distance, just craning forward; we cannot allow even the \u003ci\u003etiniest\u003c\/i\u003e drop of recaf to stain the glorious title page.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      FROM BRUNAU TO VIENNA:\u003cbr\u003e      THE ROOTS OF POWER\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      MICHAEL YOUNG, MA, M PHIL\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      Way-hey! Four years. Four years and two hundred thousand words. There’s that bastard keyboard, so plastically dumb, so comically vacuous.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      QWERTYUIOPASDFGHJKLZXCVBNM 1234567890\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      Nothing else to choose from. Just those ten numbers and twenty-six letters permuted into two hundred thousand words, a comma here and a semicolon there. Yet for a sixth of my life, a whole sixth of my life, by big beautiful Buddha, that keyboard clawed at me like cancer.\u003cbr\u003e      Fiff-ha-hoo! Bit of a stretch and there’s the morning workout.\u003cbr\u003e      I sigh with pleasure and drift back to the kitchen. The 150 mg of caffeine has hit the ground running and breasted the blood-brain barrier with arms upraised. I am now awake. Pumpingly A-wake.\u003cbr\u003e      Yes, I am now awake. Awake to everything.\u003cbr\u003e      Awake to What Was Wrong in the bathroom.\u003cbr\u003e      Awake to a piece of paper leaning up between the heel of last night’s cheese and the empty wine bottle in the center of the kitchen table.\u003cbr\u003e      Awake to the reason that at eight on the tit I was not, as I should have been, awake.\u003cbr\u003e      \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      Let’s face it, Pup. It’s not working. I’ll call back for the rest \u003cbr\u003e      of my things later today. We’ll sort out how much I owe you \u003cbr\u003e      for the car. Congratulations on your thesis. Think about it \u003cbr\u003e      for a while and you’ll know I’m right. J.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      Even as I feel myself go through the necessary shock, rage and howls, a part of me registers relief, does instantly register relief, or if not relief an awareness certainly that this elegant little note accesses a smaller and less significant proportion of my emotions than have done the earlier absence of coffee or the possibility that I might have been allowed to oversleep or most especially now, the casual, the arrogant assumption that my car shall go to her.\u003cbr\u003e      The explosion of fury, then, is mostly for form’s sake, a kind of compliment to Jane in fact. The hurling of the wine bottle—the wine bottle, the celebratory wine bottle, the wine bottle I had so carefully chosen at Oddbins the night before, the Chateauneuf du Pape that I had worked toward for a sixth part of my whole life—is a gesture therefore, a necessary theatrical acknowledgment that the ending of our three years together has earned at least some noise and some spectacle.\u003cbr\u003e      When she returns for her “things” she will spy the elegant curved streak of rusty sediment along the kitchen wall and her big feet will crunch on the glass and she will derive some satisfaction from believing that I “cared” and that will be that. Jane\u0026amp;Michael have ceased to be and now there is Jane and there is Michael and Michael is, at last, Somebody. Somebody, as Lennon would have it, in his own Write.\u003cbr\u003e      So.\u003cbr\u003e      In the study, picking up the \u003ci\u003eMeisterwerk\u003c\/i\u003e, weighing it in my hands, ready to push it delicately into my briefcase, I suddenly goggle, with Roger Rabbit starting eyes to the accompaniment of a loud klaxon, at a small speck on the title page: it has erupted from nowhere like an old surfie’s melanoma, just in the short time I was in the kitchen hurling wine bottles. It’s not a spot of coffee, I am sure of that, perhaps just a flaw in the paper that only the strong May sunlight can expose. No time to boot up the computer and reprint, so I snatch a bottle of Liquid Paper, touch the tip of the brush to this naughty little freckle and blow gently.\u003cbr\u003e      Holding the paper by the edges I go outside and hold it against the sun. It is enough. ’Twill serve.\u003cbr\u003e      There by the telegraph pole is the space where the Renault should be.\u003cbr\u003e      “You \u003ci\u003ebitch\u003c\/i\u003e!”\u003cbr\u003e      Oh dear. Bad move.\u003cbr\u003e      “Sorry!”\u003cbr\u003e      Little delivery girl veers and races away, thrust over the handlebars remembering every terrible story she ever glimpsed on the front of the newspapers she daily dumps onto the doormats. Telling mummy on you.\u003cbr\u003e      Oh dear. Better give her time or she’ll think I’m following and that won’t do. I don’t know why we have to have a newspaper delivery in the first place. Jane is a newspaper junkie, that’s the fact of the matter. We even get the \u003ci\u003eCambridge Evening News\u003c\/i\u003e delivered. Every afternoon. I mean, please.\u003cbr\u003e      I turn and wheel out the bicycle from the passageway. The ticking of the wheels pleases me. Hell, I am young. I am free. My teeth are clean. In my noble old school briefcase there nestles a future. Nestles the future. The sun shines. To hell with everything else.","brand":"Soho Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305327186149,"sku":"NP9781616955250","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616955250.jpg?v=1767732162","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/making-history-isbn-9781616955250","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}