{"product_id":"occupied-city-isbn-9780307276513","title":"Occupied City","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e“An extraordinary and highly original crime novel” (\u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e) that plunges us into post–World War II Occupied Japan in a Rashomon–like retelling of a mass poisoning (based on an actual event), its aftermath, and the hidden wartime atrocities that led to the crime. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hugely daring, utterly irresistible, deeply serious and unlike anything I have ever read.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn January 26, 1948, a man identifying himself as a public health official arrives at a bank in Tokyo. There has been an outbreak of dysentery in the neighborhood, he explains, and he has been assigned by Occupation authorities to treat everyone who might have been exposed to the disease. Soon after drinking the medicine he administers, twelve employees are dead, four are unconscious, and the “official” has fled....\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwelve voices tell the story of the murder from different perspectives. One of the victims speaks, for all the victims, from the grave. We read the increasingly mad notes of one of the case detectives, the desperate letters of an American occupier, the testimony of a traumatized survivor. We meet a journalist, a gangster-turned-businessman, an “occult detective,” a Soviet soldier, a well-known painter. Each voice enlarges and deepens the portrait of a city and a people making their way out of a war-induced hell. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eOccupied City\u003c\/i\u003e immerses us in an extreme time and place with a brilliantly idiosyncratic, expressionistic, mesmerizing narrative. It is a stunningly audacious work of fiction from a singular writer.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“An extraordinary and highly original crime novel ... A truly remarkable work. It is hugely daring, utterly irresistible, deeply serious and unlike anything I have ever read.” —Justin Cartwright, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Like the novels of Stieg Larsson, Peace’s books are fueled by political passion ... Genuinely hypnotic ... It’s no wonder that several critics have compared its mood to Eliot’s \u003ci\u003eThe Waste Land.\u003c\/i\u003e” —\u003ci\u003eHarper’s\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Hypnotic postmodern noir of almost unrivaled fury.... Expect to be enthralled and maybe amazed.... [\u003ci\u003eOccupied City\u003c\/i\u003e] takes no prisoners.” —\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A genre-busting mystery and meditation on the ambiguity of elusive reality ... Peace writes with boatloads of style.... This backdrop [of post-war Tokyo] shows how deliberate, bold, and deadly serious Peace is.” —\u003ci\u003eAustin American-Statesman\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eOccupied City \u003c\/i\u003equickly became my favorite Peace novel ... This is a true literary thriller, haunting psychological crime fiction exquisitely penned.” —Helen Thorpe, \u003ci\u003eLargehearted Boy \u003c\/i\u003e(blog)\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A heart-thumping experimental novel which bursts the bounds of the usual genre categories ... Exhilarating.” —\u003ci\u003eSeeing the World Through Books \u003c\/i\u003e(blog)\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“This is a savagely beautiful, richly startling novel ... The raw beauty of Peace’s language envelops you ... Peace writes brilliantly of shattered roads, shattered lives, a fragmenting self, fragmenting society ... He is an astonishing storyteller.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Times \u003c\/i\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Peace’s breathtaking skill renders all [the voices] vividly, forcefully alive ... His pulp-modernist style feels honed and refined to scalpel-sharp efficiency ... Peace is like a fearsome tornado turning the world on its head—and we should be grateful for him.” —\u003ci\u003eFinancial Times\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A marvellous book . . . You will occasionally feel glad as you read that nobody else writes like Peace, but you will put down the book amazed and delighted that at least one person does.” —\u003ci\u003eDaily Telegraph\u003c\/i\u003e (UK)\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Peace doesn’t simply examine wartime Japan’s dark heart. He punches through the rib cage to rip it out, vivisect it, and write page after hallucinatory page in its hot, black blood ... \u003ci\u003eOccupied City\u003c\/i\u003e is a gripping crime story, too ... My copy of \u003ci\u003eOccupied City\u003c\/i\u003e won’t be going anywhere near a second-hand bookshop.” —\u003ci\u003eIndependent \u003c\/i\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eTokyo Year Zero\u003c\/i\u003e was a gripping performance [but] \u003ci\u003eOccupied City\u003c\/i\u003e [is] a tighter read, with greater momentum, than its predecessor ... The novels Peace produces are uncommonly serious about the nature of the tissues that bind together history, rumour, politics, psychology, community and fiction. At their best, they develop a kind of literary forensics, exhuming histories of violence to probe the necrotised organs of the societies in which that violence erupts ... Peace wields the scalpel like no one else.” —\u003ci\u003eObserver\u003c\/i\u003e (UK)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eDavid Peace\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of The Red Riding Quartet\u003ci\u003e,\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eGB84, The Damned Utd, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Tokyo Year Zero. \u003c\/i\u003eHe was chosen as one of \u003ci\u003eGranta\u003c\/i\u003e’s 2003 Best Young British Novelists, and has received the James Tait Black Memorial Prize, the German Crime Fiction Award, and the French Grand Prix de Roman Noir for Best Foreign Novel. He lives in Yorkshire, England.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe First Candle– \u003cbr\u003eThe Testimony of the Victims Weeping \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause of you. The city is a coffin. In the snow. In the back of a truck. Parked outside the bank. In the sleet. Under the heavy damp tarpaulin. Driven through the streets. In the rain. To the hospital. To the morgue. In the sleet. To the mortuary. To the temple. In the snow. To the crematorium. To the earth and to the sky – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn our twelve cheap wooden coffins – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn these twelve cheap wooden coffins, we lie. But we do not lie still. In these twelve cheap wooden coffins, we are struggling. Not in the dark, not in the light; in the grey, we are struggling; for here is only grey, here we are only struggling – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn this grey place, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat is no place, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe are struggling all the time, always and already – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn this place, of no place, between two places. The places we once were, the places we will be – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe deathly living, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe living death – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBetween these two places, between these two cities: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBetween the Occupied City and the Dead City, here we dwell, between the Perplexed City and the Posthumous City – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere we dwell, in the earth, with the worms, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the sky, with the flies, we who are no longer in the houses of being. Beyond loss, flocks of birds fall from the sky and shower us with their bloody feathers and severed wings. \u003ci\u003eBut we still hear you.\u003c\/i\u003e We who are now in the houses of non-being. Beyond loss, schools of \u003cbr\u003efish leap from the sea and splatter us with their bloody guts and severed heads. \u003ci\u003eWe still see you.\u003c\/i\u003e We want to breathe again, but we can never breathe again. Beyond loss, herds of cattle run from the fields and trample us with their bloody carcasses and severed limbs. \u003ci\u003eWe listen to you. \u003c\/i\u003eWe want to return again, but we can never return again. Beyond loss. We watch you still. Through our veils– \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe veils which no longer hang before our eyes, these veils which now hang behind our eyes, their threads spun by our tears, their webs woven by our deaths, these veils which replaced our names, which replaced our lives – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThrough these veils, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estill we see – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eStill we watch, we watch you . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur mouths always open, our mouths already open. But we no longer talk, we can no longer talk, here we can only mouth, mouth: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDo we matter to you? Did we ever matter? \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur mouths always screams, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ealready screams, screams \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat mouth: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYour apathy is our disease; your apathy, a plague . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe dwell beyond sorrow. \u003ci\u003eYou close your mouths.\u003c\/i\u003e We dwell beyond pain. \u003ci\u003eYou close your eyes.\u003c\/i\u003e Beyond grief, beyond despair. \u003ci\u003eYou \u003cbr\u003eclose your ears, for you do not hear us, for you do not listen to us . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd we are tired, we are so tired, so very tired – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut still we dwell, between these two places – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeyond dereliction, we lie. \u003ci\u003eDrunk, you harangue us.\u003c\/i\u003e Beyond oblivion, we wait. \u003ci\u003eSober, you ignore us.\u003c\/i\u003e Forgotten and untended, \u003cbr\u003eburied or burnt, haunted and restless, under the earth and above the sky, without dreams and without sleep. \u003ci\u003eYou are blind to our suffering. \u003c\/i\u003eWe are so tired, so very tired. \u003ci\u003eYou are deaf to our supplications.\u003c\/i\u003e We weep without tears, we scream without sound, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyet still we wait, and still \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe watch – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBetween the Occupied City and the Dead City, between the Perplexed City and the Posthumous City we wait, we watch and we \u003cbr\u003estruggle. Here in this grey place, here where we are waiting, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewatching and struggling: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eCursed be you who cast us into this place! Cursed be you who keep us here! Fickle you are, so very fickle– \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFickle are you, fickle the living . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eForgotten are we, forgotten and denied – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLives forgotten and deaths denied – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eFor you deny us our deaths . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDeny us and trap us . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the Perplexed City, the Posthumous City, beyond the Occupied City, before the Dead City, here we are trapped, trapped in the greyness, trapped in this city. In this city that is no city, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethis place that is no place – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere we shuffle, we shuffle around, around in circles, with our boxes. \u003ci\u003eDid you hear our footsteps in your heart? \u003c\/i\u003eOur own ashes, \u003cbr\u003earound our necks, our own bones, in these boxes. \u003ci\u003eDid you feel our fingertips within your flesh? \u003c\/i\u003eWe raise our shoulders, we raise our \u003cbr\u003efaces, we raise our eyes. \u003ci\u003eHave you come to lead us back, back towards the light? \u003c\/i\u003eBack towards the light, we begin to shuffle. \u003ci\u003eBack \u003cbr\u003eto the Occupied City?\u003c\/i\u003e In the Occupied City, we shuffle around, around these twelve candles, we gather around, around and around – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBack in the Occupied City, here we are the victims again – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere, never the witnesses; always, already the victims – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo we are weeping. Always, already the weeping – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere, we who were once the living – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow weeping all the time, here – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere tonight, weeping – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the Occupied City, where the weeping seek the living. But the living are not here, not here tonight before these candles – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere tonight, there are only the weeping – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere tonight, only us: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd so again tonight we are Takeuchi Sutejiro, Watanabe Yoshiyasu, Nishimura Hidehiko, Shirai Shoichi, Akiyama Miyako, Uchida Hideko, Sawada Yoshio, Kato Teruko, Takizawa Tatsuo, Takizawa Ryu, Takizawa Takako and Takizawa Yoshihiro – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut we are still weeping. Always, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ealready the weeping, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ealways, already the weeping again in the Occupied City: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the Occupied City it is 26January 1948 again – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere it is always, already 26 January 1948 – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis date always, already our wound – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur wound which will never heal – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere, here where it is always, already that date, that time; always, already, the last time: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor the last time. In the morning, we wake in our beds. \u003ci\u003eIn our beds that are no longer our beds. \u003c\/i\u003eFor the last time. In our homes, we dress. \u003ci\u003eIn our homes that are no longer our homes, our clothes that are no longer our clothes. \u003c\/i\u003eFor the last time. We eat white rice. \u003ci\u003eNow we eat only the black rice, the black rice that empties our stomachs. \u003c\/i\u003eFor the last time. We drink clear water. \u003ci\u003eHere we drink only the dark water, the dark water that empties our mouths.\u003c\/i\u003e For the last time. In our\u003ci\u003e genkans\u003c\/i\u003e, we say goodbye to our mothers and our fathers, our sisters and our brothers, our wives and our sons, our husbands and our daughters. \u003ci\u003eOur mothers and our fathers, our sisters and our brothers, our wives and our sons, our husbands and our daughters who are no longer our mothers and our fathers, no longer our sisters and our brothers, no longer our wives and our sons, no longer our husbands and our daughters.\u003c\/i\u003e For the last time. In the snow, we leave for work. \u003ci\u003eFor our work that is no longer our work.\u003c\/i\u003e For the last time. Among the crowds, we catch our trains and our buses. \u003ci\u003eOur trains and our buses that are no longer our trains and our buses . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor the last time. Through the Occupied City, we shuffle – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the Shiinamachi Station, we shuffle. In the sleet. For the last time. Up the road, we shuffle. Through the mud. For the last time. To the Teikoku Bank. \u003ci\u003eThe Teikoku Bank that is no longer a bank . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor the last time. We slide open the door. \u003ci\u003eThe door that is no longer a door.\u003c\/i\u003e For the last time. We take off our shoes. \u003ci\u003eWhere are our shoes now?\u003c\/i\u003e For the last time. We put on our slippers. \u003ci\u003eWhere are our slippers?\u003c\/i\u003e For the last time. We sit at our desks. \u003ci\u003eOur desks that \u003cbr\u003eare no longer, no longer our desks . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor the last time – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAmong the papers and among the ledgers, we wait for the bank to open. For the last time, on this last day, 26 January 1948– \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe watch the hands of the clock reach half past nine. For the last time. The bank opens and the day begins. For the last time. We serve the customers. For the last time. We write in ledgers. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor the last time – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the glow of the lights, in the warmth of the heaters, we hear the snow turn to sleet, the sleet turn to rain, as it falls on the roof of the bank. And we wonder if today the bank will close early. We wonder if today we will be able to leave early, to go back to our homes, back to our families. Because of the weather, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebecause of the snow – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the snow has turned to sleet, the sleet has turned to rain, and so the bank will not close early today and so we will not be able to leave early today, we will not be able to go back to our homes, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eback to our families – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo we sit at our desks in the bank, in the glow of the lights, in the warmth of the heaters, and we watch the hands of the clock and we glance at the face of our manager, our manager sat at his desk at the back; we know Mr Ushiyama, our manager, is not so well. We can see it in his face. We can hear it in his voice. We know he has severe stomach pains. We know he has had these pains for almost a week. We all know what this could be; we know it could be dysentery, we know it could be typhoid. In the Occupied City, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe all know what this could mean – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the Occupied City, we know \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethis could mean death, death – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBut he will survive this, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehe will live through \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethis . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor the last time. We watch the hands of the clock reach two o’clock and we see Mr Ushiyama rise from his desk at the back, his face is white and he holds his stomach. For the last time. We watch Mr Ushiyama bow and we listen to Mr Ushiyama apologize to us all. For the last time. We watch as Mr Ushiyama leaves early – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd we all know what this could mean – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe know this could mean death – \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut he will survive, he will live. Back in his home that is still his home, back with his family that is still his family . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eBut we do not leave early today. We do not go back to our homes, back to our families. We sit at our desks, in the glow of the lights, in the warmth of the heaters, and we go back to our customers and back to our ledgers. And we listen to the sound of the rain – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd we watch the hands of the clock – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe watch the hands of the clock reach three o’clock and we watch as the bank closes its doors for the day. Among the stacks of receipts, we collate the day’s transactions. For the last time. Among the piles of cash, we tally the day’s money. For the last time. And then we hear the tap-tap upon the side door. For the last time – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe look up at the hands of the clock – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor the last time: \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is now twenty past three on Monday, 26 January 1948 – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwenty past three, in the Occupied City – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe knock now upon the side door – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwenty past three and he is here – \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOur killer is here.A novel","brand":"Vintage Crime\/Black Lizard","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304549372133,"sku":"NP9780307276513","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307276513.jpg?v=1767733988","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/occupied-city-isbn-9780307276513","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}