{"product_id":"o-sinners-isbn-9780593597460","title":"O Sinners!","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn this “engrossing” (\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e) novel that sweeps from present-day California to the Vietnam War and back, a grieving young man is drawn into the orbit of a charismatic cult leader who forces him to reconsider why people give up control—and what it takes, ultimately, to find one’s place in the world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFINALIST FOR THE WESTPOINT PRIZE FOR LITERATURE • A \u003ci\u003eTIME\u003c\/i\u003e BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR • ONE OF THE SEASON’S MOST ANTICIPATED BOOKS: \u003ci\u003eTime, Rolling Stone, Vulture, Men’s Health, \u003c\/i\u003eWNYC, \u003ci\u003eElectric Lit, Feminist Book Club, Lit Hub\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A gorgeously written literary excavation of belonging and belief.”—Emma Donoghue, \u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter the death of his father, a young journalist named Faruq Zaidi takes the opportunity to embed himself in a mysterious cult based in the California redwoods and known as “the nameless,” whose strikingly attractive members adhere to the 18 Utterances, including teachings such as “all suffering is distortion” and “see only beauty.” Shepherding them is Odo, an enigmatic Vietnam War veteran who received “the sight”—the movement’s foundational principles—during his time as an infantryman. Through flashbacks that recount the cult’s wartime origins, we see four soldiers contend with the existential struggles of combat and with their responsibilities to each other, and by the end of the novel we learn which one becomes Odo. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFaruq, skeptical but committed to unraveling the mystery of both “the nameless” and Odo\u003cb\u003e,\u003c\/b\u003e extends his stay by months, and as he gets deeper into the cult’s inner workings and alluring teachings, he begins to lose his grip on reality. Faruq is forced to come to terms with the memories he has been running from while trying to resist Odo’s spell. Ultimately this immersive and unsettling novel asks: What does it take to find one’s place in the world? And what exactly do we seek from one another?“When Faruq Zaidi, a grieving Muslim journalist, seizes the chance to embed himself in a California cult, his determination to get a story pushes him into the world of its mystical leader. But by trying to escape from his bad memories, Faruq’s story brings him closer to potential ruin.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eRolling Stone\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eO Sinners!\u003c\/i\u003e is driven by three alternating narratives: Faruq’s present day work trip, Odo’s tour of duty in Vietnam, and the screenplay of a documentary about a legal battle between the cult and a fundamentalist church in Texas. In weaving together these stories, Cuffy explores the varying shapes that grief, belief, and belonging can take.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eTIME\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A young journalist sets out to embed himself a cult called ‘the nameless’ for a story. But as he delves deeper into its teachings, he realizes he must confront the memories of loss he has been running from.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—EBONY\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A journalist reeling from the death of his father decides to venture into California’s redwoods and investigate a strange cult run by a Vietnam War Veteran. But his intentions become marred by his increasingly close relationship with the cult’s leader, and a growing urge to join the group rather than just be an observer.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMen’s Health\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s the line between a religion and a cult? . . . One of the most engrossing elements of Nicole Cuffy’s second novel . . . is how it dwells comfortably in the fuzziness, making for both a clever literary mystery novel and a meditation on the nature of faith.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A gorgeously written literary excavation of belonging and belief.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“While there have been quite a few novels approaching the subject of cult indoctrination lately, Nicole Cuffy’s literary marvel stands head and shoulders above the rest.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLiterary Hub\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A fresh, multifaceted perspective . . . a well-guided journey along the boundary between faith and doubt.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nicole Cuffy has opened a door into a world where mares and wolves live alongside grief and love and memory, each its own creature, each equally dreamlike and real.”\u003cb\u003e—Megha Majumdar, author of \u003ci\u003eA Burning\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“\u003ci\u003eDances\u003c\/i\u003e, Cuffy’s first novel, explored the physical and psychological toll felt by a Black ballerina in a classical company. Cuffy brings that same clear-eyed honesty and fearlessness to \u003ci\u003eO Sinners!\u003c\/i\u003e, but on a whole new level, exploring the ways rage and racism can shape a life, and how doubt can lead us to new paths of belief.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—BookPage\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eNicole Cuffy\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of \u003ci\u003eDances,\u003c\/i\u003e longlisted for the Carol Shields Prize for Fiction and the PEN\/Hemingway Award for Debut Novel. Cuffy has an MFA from The New School and is a lecturer at the University of Maryland and Georgetown University. Her work can be found in the\u003ci\u003e New England Review; The Masters Review, \u003c\/i\u003eVolume VI (curated by Roxane Gay); \u003ci\u003eChautauqua;\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eBlue Mesa Review.\u003c\/i\u003e Her chapbook, \u003ci\u003eAtlas of the Body,\u003c\/i\u003e won the Chautauqua Janus Prize and was a finalist for the Black River Chapbook Competition. She lives in Washington, D.C.\u003cb\u003eThe frigid air burned Faruq’s nose; \u003c\/b\u003ewhen he blew it later, he would find that the city’s dirt had made its way inside him with the cold. Cars passed him sleepily, their headlights murky streaks in the early morning gloom. He wore only a thermal shirt, gloves, and running tights. His muscles were warm, though. His body moved exactly as it needed to. Beneath him, the East River, still semi-­frozen, chugged icily. Gray slush slapped up from the bridge onto his ankles, some of it hooking into the thin strip of bare flesh between his running tights and his socks, one of which had slipped down a little. He was still on an incline and the deeper his breath, the lighter he felt—­less weight to carry uphill before the glorious downward slope off the bridge, where he’d fly with no effort, letting gravity carry him down onto Centre Street, through the crowded heel of Manhattan. He took another deep breath. \u003ci\u003eDon’t you stop,\u003c\/i\u003e he told himself. \u003ci\u003eJust keep going.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen his father was still here, the morning ritual was different, less quiet. His father would expect Faruq to do morning prayers with him, and then he’d sit at the table with his newspaper, commenting disapprovingly on what he read there. Now, Faruq had a quick, post-­run granola bar at the kitchen counter, the news blaring distantly from the television in the living room. Muezza yawned as Faruq scratched behind his ears. The cat liked to act like he was unaffected by Faruq’s comings and goings, but whenever Faruq returned home after being gone long, Muezza followed him around the brownstone like a new kitten. This—­Faruq’s scratching, Muezza’s indifference, the morning news—­was their morning ritual now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMuezza stalked off, tail held high, as Faruq went into the living room to turn off the television. He ran his fingers over a groove in the wall between the living room and the dining room—­a thin black mark like a dead vine from when his mother used to push the heavy coffee table up against the wall so they could dance. \u003ci\u003eDance with me, puttar,\u003c\/i\u003e she would say, holding out her arms, bouncing rhythmically from one foot to the other. And he would laugh because she always danced like a Bollywood starlet, whether they were listening to Nazia Hassan or Rick James. Her smile would be so wide he could see the yellowish glint of her back teeth. She never smiled that wide in front of his father. They never danced in front of his father, either. This mark on the wall in this dim room was their little secret. Faruq’s father either never noticed it, or he pretended not to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe switched off the television just as the weatherman made his appearance on-­screen. \u003ci\u003eIt’s gonna be a cold one, folks . . .\u003c\/i\u003e In the new silence, Faruq could hear his own breathing over the sound of his footsteps as he headed upstairs to take a shower. But even the silence here was crowded, like static; echoes of his parents, himself. Sometimes he’d wake up and feel a weight, as though someone were sitting on his chest. He didn’t believe in ghosts, not literally, but the place was as haunted as he believed a place could be—­stale energy, what the dead leave behind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe water came out cold and stayed that way for a good minute, so Faruq gritted his teeth until, finally, warm water poured through the old pipes. He kept his shower quick, economical. Better to not get too comfortable right before heading out into the cold. When he stepped out of the shower, he froze. The house was so quiet these days that even the slightest out-­of-­place noise rang through like a foghorn. Someone was in the house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWrapping his towel around his waist, he grabbed the nearest thing to a weapon—­the plunger—­and stalked out into the hall. The noise was coming from downstairs. Footsteps, crinkling, the snap of something, a door opening. Faruq crept down the stairs, trying to remember where he’d left his cell phone. Shit. The kitchen. And that’s where the noise was coming from. The best he could do was rely on the element of surprise and hope the burglar didn’t have a gun. On the third step before the landing lay his father’s abandoned AirPods. They had lain there for the better part of a year now. He avoided brushing them with his foot as he passed, as he always did. When he reached the landing, he froze. Before he could fully flesh out his plan of attack, the intruder suddenly came into the hall. Faruq jumped up, brandishing the plunger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Holy shit,” he panted, relief undoing the tension in his muscles once he saw who it was. “Auntie, I thought you were a robber.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAuntie Naila raised an eyebrow and put a hand on her sharp hip. “Oh? And what were you going to do with that?” she asked, nodding toward the plunger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow that the adrenaline was dissipating, irritation flooded into its place. “Auntie, I was taking a shower. I was \u003ci\u003enaked\u003c\/i\u003e.” He tried to keep his tone gentle, though this was the third time this month she’d let herself into the house with no notice. It was infantilizing. Still, he knew she was only doing what she thought was best for him. Even if he hated it. Even if it was stifling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe shrugged. “I’ve raised three boys. I used to give all of you baths together when you were children.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Still,” said Faruq, getting more annoyed—­she was missing the point. “Remember, I asked you to call first? And knock?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is my brother’s house,” she said firmly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFaruq ran his free hand over his forehead. She’d never done this when his father was still alive. “Auntie, it’s my house now.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis auntie pursed her lips in disapproval. “I was just coming to check on you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s not even eight in the morning.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And I’m glad I did,” she continued, tsking. “It’s a mess. No food in the refrigerator, stuff all over the floor.” She pointed to the AirPods.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stepped over to block them from her view. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe raised an eyebrow but made no further comment. “I was just going through some old clothes to donate, and look what I found.” She held out a turquoise silk scarf. “It was your mother’s. She lent it to me I don’t even know how long ago. I never got to return it.” She didn’t quite meet his eye as she said this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFaruq was slightly hesitant to touch the scarf. He reached out but his hands didn’t quite meet the material. Auntie Naila noticed. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Bismillah,” she said, quietly. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thanks, Auntie,” he said, taking the scarf. “It’s not like it’s cursed.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe scoffed. “Of course not. Maybe it will give you luck.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t know if I believe in luck, Auntie.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Well, what do you kids say? It will surround your bases.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eCover\u003c\/i\u003e your bases.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe waved a hand in the air. “Whatever. You have always been very logical, Faruq. There is a place for logic. But remember that not everything in the world is logic.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s the rest of it, then? Magic?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Rude boy. The rest of it is Allah, subhanahu wa ta’ala.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFaruq suppressed any further argument. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Alhamdulillah, I didn’t accidentally donate that scarf. Keep it near you, Faruq.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe ran a thumb over the silky fabric. “I was just getting ready to leave for work, Auntie.” Which she knew. She knew enough of his daily routine by now that he had to figure her timing wasn’t an accident. He suspected she’d intended to come in after he’d already left, because he was running late.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe crossed her arms. “You’re kicking me out?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Look, I’ll visit this weekend or something.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe huffed. “Don’t bother. Rude boy. What would your father say?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFaruq closed his eyes briefly, and Auntie Naila swept back toward the kitchen. She cursed him in Urdu before slamming the back door shut on her way out. He sighed. He knew she didn’t mean it. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, either, but the house was beginning to feel like it was made of greenhouse glass—­hot, stinking, offering no real protection from the outside. When his father was alive, he’d always felt scrutinized here, his father watching, and Faruq ever careful not to slip up and let his lack of faith show. Now his father was gone, but the scrutiny wasn’t. \u003ci\u003eRude boy\u003c\/i\u003e. He couldn’t escape.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA few months after his father died, Faruq had the locks changed. Too many people had had access to the house. He wasn’t even sure who had a key anymore, and he couldn’t stand the surprise visitors. But it wasn’t long before Auntie Naila found his spare and had copies made for all the other aunties before he’d even noticed it was missing.From the author of Dances","brand":"One World","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233443918053,"sku":"NP9780593597460","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593597460.jpg?v=1767733977","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/o-sinners-isbn-9780593597460","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}