{"product_id":"pitch-dark-isbn-9781590176146","title":"Pitch Dark","description":"\u003cb\u003eA strange, thrilling novel about desperate love, paranoia, and heartbreak by one of America's most singular writers. \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s new. What else. What next. What’s happened here.”\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePitch Dark\u003c\/i\u003e is a book about love. Kate Ennis is poised at a critical moment in an affair with a married man. The complications and contradictions pursue her from a house in rural Connecticut to a brownstone apartment in New York City, to a small island off the coast of Washington, to a pitch black night in backcountry Ireland. \u003cbr\u003e       \u003cbr\u003eComposed in the style of Renata Adler’s celebrated novel \u003ci\u003eSpeedboat\u003c\/i\u003e and displaying her keen journalist’s eye and mastery of language, both simple and sublime, \u003ci\u003ePitch Dark\u003c\/i\u003e is a bold and astonishing work of art.“Two things hold \u003ci\u003ePitch Dark\u003c\/i\u003e together and give it speed and magic. The first is Miss Adler’s gift for language and observation . . . and the second is her willingness to write candidly, even rawly, about emotions.” —Michiko Kakutani, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“These novels are records of a penetrating intelligence, a skeptical  intelligence (but, thank God, not a reflexively skeptical intelligence).  They are novels that persuade you of their claims to truth, and ones in  which any literate young person in publishing in New York can see a bit  of her or himself […] It’s great to have these novels back in print, at  long last.” —Meghan O’Rourke, \u003ci\u003eThe  New Yorker’s Page-Turner Blog\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Adler's  novels concede the necessity of making fiction quicker, more terse,  descriptively less elaborate than the traditional thing called a novel,  not so much in deference to shrunken attention spans, but as the most  plausible way of rendering the distracted, fragmentary quality of  contemporary consciousness [...] They describe what it's like to be  living now, during this span of time, in our particular country and our  particular world. This is what the best novels have always done, and  with any luck will continue to do.\" —Gary Indiana, \u003ci\u003eBookforum\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003ePitch Dark\u003c\/i\u003e, like \u003ci\u003eSpeedboat\u003c\/i\u003e,  exudes a certain openness, a vulnerability, even. Adler dispenses with  the defined paths of traditional narrative, along with expectations of  order and sequence, and instead pieces together a collage of  consciousness.\" —Jennifer Szalai, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Renata Adler is brilliant, and her character Kate Ennis is lovable in her complete disinterest for making herself lovable. It’s perfect and prescient, a tremendously influential book.” —Chris Kraus, for \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eSlate\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Imaginative, intelligent, and original.” —Elizabeth Hardwick\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If you simply allow [Adler’s fragments] to settle in their own patterns, flashing light where they will, you’ll find \u003ci\u003ePitch Dark\u003c\/i\u003e a bright kaleidoscope of a book.” —Anne TylerRenata Adler was born in Milan and raised in Connecticut. She received a B.A. from Bryn Mawr, an M.A. from Harvard, a D.d’E.S. from the Sorbonne, a J.D. from Yale Law School, and an LL.D. (honorary) from Georgetown. Adler became a staff writer at \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e in 1962 and, except for a year as the chief film critic of \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e, remained at \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e for the next four decades. Her books include \u003ci\u003eA Year in the Dark\u003c\/i\u003e (1969); \u003ci\u003eToward a Radical Middle \u003c\/i\u003e(1970); \u003ci\u003eReckless Disregard: Westmoreland v. CBS et al., Sharon v. Time\u003c\/i\u003e (1986); \u003ci\u003eCanaries in the Mineshaft \u003c\/i\u003e(2001); \u003ci\u003eGone: The Last Days of \u003c\/i\u003eThe New Yorker (1999); \u003ci\u003eIrreparable Harm: The U.S. Supreme Court and The Decision That Made George W. Bush President\u003c\/i\u003e (2004); and the novels \u003ci\u003eSpeedboat \u003c\/i\u003e(1976; winner of the Ernest Hemingway Award for Best First Novel) and \u003ci\u003ePitch Dark\u003c\/i\u003e (1983).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMuriel Spark (1918–2006) was a Scottish novelist and poet. Among the best known of her twenty-two novels are\u003ci\u003e The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Girls of Slender Means\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eMemento Mori\u003c\/i\u003e, and\u003ci\u003e Loitering with Intent\u003c\/i\u003e. In 1993 she was made Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire.                                    I. ORCAS ISLAND\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWe were running flat out. The opening was dazzling. The\u003cbr\u003emiddle was dazzling. The ending was dazzling. It was like a steeplechase\u003cbr\u003ecomposed entirely of hurdles.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBut that would not be a steeplechase at all. It would be more\u003cbr\u003elike a steep, steep climb.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThey were shouting, Tell it, big momma, tell it. I mean, the\u003cbr\u003echild is only six years old.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eDo I need to stylize it, then, or can I tell it as it was?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHe knew that she had left him when she began to smoke again.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLook here, you know, I loved you.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eI wonder whether he will ever ask himself, say to himself, Well,\u003cbr\u003eshe wasn't asking all the earth, why did I let her go?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eMy \u003ci\u003eback\u003c\/i\u003e went up, Viola Teagarden used to say, with a little\u003cbr\u003ethrill of self-importance, pride and pleasure, head raised, nostrils\u003cbr\u003eHaring, back straightening slightly, as though she had received a\u003cbr\u003esmall electric charge right through her chair. My \u003ci\u003eback\u003c\/i\u003e went up.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eShe also spoke with a kind of awe of what she called \"my anger,\" as\u003cbr\u003ethough it were a living, prized possession, a thoroughbred bull, for\u003cbr\u003einstance, to be used at stud, or as a man who has married a beautiful,\u003cbr\u003eunpredictably unpleasant woman, far richer and younger than\u003cbr\u003ehimself, might say \"my wife.\" Leander Dworkin, too, though he\u003cbr\u003ehardly knew Viola and in fact despised her, had what he called \"my\u003cbr\u003erage.\" It resembled, sometimes a hothouse of imaginary grievances\u003cbr\u003eunder lavish cultivation, sometimes a pulse which he measured\u003cbr\u003econstantly to see whether, with whom, and to what degree he must\u003cbr\u003ebe angry, sometimes a source of astonishment and pleasure, sometimes\u003cbr\u003ejust a horse to be taken for a canter or a gallop on the moors.\u003cbr\u003eIn times of rage, he wanted nothing to distract or mollify him. Even\u003cbr\u003eflattery, for which his appetite was otherwise undiscriminating and\u003cbr\u003eenormous, would infuriate him on his way to an apotheosis. A few\u003cbr\u003epeople humored him in this. They were his friends. Inevitably,\u003cbr\u003eit was with one or more of these few friends that he was angry—a\u003cbr\u003esource, at first, always of distress, since he broke off with words as\u003cbr\u003eharsh as they were capricious, and then, for the long quiet interval\u003cbr\u003ethat followed, of relief.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eTo begin with, I almost went, alone, to Graham Island.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHe thought of himself, even spoke of himself, as extraordinarily\u003cbr\u003ehandsome. His hair, which grew to collar length, was reddish. His\u003cbr\u003ehairline was receding; his eyes, which blinked constantly over his\u003cbr\u003econtact lenses, were the palest blue. Though he was by no means a\u003cbr\u003estrikingly ugly man, the source of his belief in his physical beauty\u003cbr\u003eseemed to lie in this: that he was tall. Leander Dworkin was the\u003cbr\u003eamplifying poet. ·Willie Stokes was the poet of compression. Both\u003cbr\u003etaught poetry, and wrote novels, when we were in graduate school.\u003cbr\u003eWe met in two improbable seminars, taught by great men. Notions\u003cbr\u003eof Paradise, and Sound in Literature. The first was literary utopias,\u003cbr\u003eessentially; the second, onomatopoeia. Both were so crowded at the\u003cbr\u003estart that students had to be selected on the basis of some claim of\u003cbr\u003especial knowledge. In Paradise, that year, we had one grandson of\u003cbr\u003eOneida, one nun, one believer in the Skinner box, some students\u003cbr\u003eof Rousseau, the Constitution, Faust and Plato, and one participant\u003cbr\u003ein experiments with a new drug, psylocybin, under the guidance\u003cbr\u003eof Leary and Alpert, two young instructors in psychology. In Sound,\u003cbr\u003eI remember just one specialist, a pale, dark-haired Latin scholar,\u003cbr\u003ewho rocked continuously in his chair whenever he read us onomatopoetic\u003cbr\u003ephrases he had found among the classics. The murmuring of\u003cbr\u003einnumerable bees in immemorial elms; l'insecte nette gratte la\u003cbr\u003esecheresse. Fairly late in the semester, when we were asked what\u003cbr\u003eour papers were going to be about, this young man said he wanted\u003cbr\u003eto write about the sound of corpses floating through literature. Oh,\u003cbr\u003ethe professor said, with some enthusiasm, after just a moment's hesitation,\u003cbr\u003eyou mean Ophelia. No, the young man replied, I want the\u003cbr\u003esound of the sea.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eTo begin with, I almost went, instead, to Graham Island.\u003cbr\u003eFor a woman, it is always, don't you see, Scheherazade.\u003cbr\u003eIn nineteen sixty-four, the dean announced to the trustees that,\u003cbr\u003efor all intents and purposes-meetings, sleep, meals, electricity, demands\u003cbr\u003eupon her time and one another's—the students had abolished\u003cbr\u003enight.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"Brahms,\" he said, in explaining to a colleague why he did not\u003cbr\u003eattend that autumn's campus concert series. \"All of it was Brahms.\u003cbr\u003eAll, every. Eight. Things. Of Brahms.\"\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThough he was my friend, I did not see Leander Dworkin often.\u003cbr\u003eWe found that our friendship was safer on the telephone. Sometimes\u003cbr\u003ewe spoke daily. Sometimes we did not speak for a year or\u003cbr\u003emore. But the bond between us, I think, was less stormy, and in\u003cbr\u003esome ways more intense, than Leander's relations with people he\u003cbr\u003eactually saw. Once every few years, we would have dinner together,\u003cbr\u003eor a drink, or just a visit. Sometimes alone, more rarely with someone\u003cbr\u003ewith whom he was living and whom he wanted me to meet.\u003cbr\u003eOne night, when we had gone, I think, off campus for hamburgers,\u003cbr\u003e. I noticed, on Leander's wrist, several thin, brown, frayed and\u003cbr\u003eseparating strands, like a tattered cuff of rope. Leander said it was\u003cbr\u003ean elephant-hair bracelet, and that Simon, his lover, had given it\u003cbr\u003eto him. It was frayed because he always forgot to remove it, as he\u003cbr\u003eought to, before taking showers. Elephant hairs, it seems, are\u003cbr\u003etalismanic. It was going to bring him luck. Elephant-hair bracelets\u003cbr\u003eare expensive; they are paid for by the strand. In the following year,\u003cbr\u003eLeander wrote many poems, and at last received his tenure. When\u003cbr\u003ewe met again, months later, the frayed strands were gone. In their\u003cbr\u003eplace was a thin, round, sturdy band of gold, which encased,\u003cbr\u003eLeander said, a single elephant hair. When I asked what had happened\u003cbr\u003eto the old bracelet, he said, \"I lost it, I think. Or I threw it\u003cbr\u003eout.\" For some time, Leander had spoken, on the phone, of a\u003cbr\u003ewoman, a painter, whom he had met, one afternoon, outside the\u003cbr\u003egym, and whom he was trying to introduce, along with Simon, into\u003cbr\u003ehis apartment and his life. The woman was in love with him, he\u003cbr\u003esaid. She was married to a real-estate tycoon. Her name was\u003cbr\u003eLeonore. He was anxious for me to meet her. I knew that, in addition\u003cbr\u003eto his appetite for quarrels, Leander likes triads, complications,\u003cbr\u003eany variant of being paid for. But I looked at the bracelet, and I\u003cbr\u003ethought of Simon, and I thought, Leonore plays rough.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt was as boring, you know, as droning, and repetitive as a waltz,\u003cbr\u003eas a country-and-western lament in waltz time. It was as truly awful\u003cbr\u003eas a vin rosé.                  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWell, what did you pull out ahead of me on the road for, from\u003cbr\u003ea side street, when there were no other cars in sight behind me, if\u003cbr\u003eyou were going to drive more slowly than I did?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt was early evening, in the city. The TV was on. We watched\u003cbr\u003eThe Newlywed Game. The moderator had just asked the contestant,\u003cbr\u003ea young wife from Virginia, What is your husband's least\u003cbr\u003efavorite rodent? \"His least favorite rodent,\" she replied, drawling\u003cbr\u003eserenely and without hesitation. \"Oh, I think that would have to\u003cbr\u003ebe the saxophone.\"\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHe knew that she had left him when she began to smoke again.\u003cbr\u003eIs that where it begins?\u003cbr\u003eI don't know. I don't know where it begins. It is where I am.\u003cbr\u003eI know where you are. You are here. She had left him, then?\u003cbr\u003eYears ago, he had smoked, but not when they met. So she\u003cbr\u003estopped, as people do when they are in love. Take up cigarettes, or\u003cbr\u003egive them up, or change brands. As people do to be at one at least\u003cbr\u003ein this. Long after that, she began to smoke again.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSo he knew she had left him?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNot knew, not left. Not right away, or just at first.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhy don't you begin then with at first?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLook, you can begin with at first, or it seems, or once upon a\u003cbr\u003etime.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOr in the city of P.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOr in the city of P. In the rain. But I can't. It is not what I\u003cbr\u003eknow how to do.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWell, you must get these things straight, you know, resolve\u003cbr\u003ethem in your mind before you write them down.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFrom the moment she knew that she was going to leave him,\u003cbr\u003eshe started to look old. There was about her a sudden dimming, as\u003cbr\u003ein a bereavement or an illness, which in a way it was. He. They.\u003cbr\u003eLook, I would start short, if I could, with something shorter. The\u003cbr\u003estory of the boy, for instance, who did not cry wolf. Except that, of\u003cbr\u003enecessity, we can have no notion of that story, since the boy of\u003cbr\u003ecourse is dead.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSo is the one who did cry wolf.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eTrue, but he lasted longer.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eProbably. I suppose that's right. He knew that she was going\u003cbr\u003eto leave him when she began to smoke again.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eYou can rely too much, my love, on the unspoken things. And\u003cbr\u003ethe wry smile. I have that smile myself, and I've learned the\u003cbr\u003esilence, too, over the years. Along with your expressions, like No\u003cbr\u003enotion and Of necessity. What happens, though, when it is all\u003cbr\u003eunsaid, is that you wake up one morning, no, it's more like late one\u003cbr\u003eafternoon, and it's not just unsaid, it's gone. That's all. Just gone.\u003cbr\u003eI remember this word, that look, that small inflection, after all this\u003cbr\u003etime. I used to hold them, trust them, read them like a rune. Like\u003cbr\u003ea sign that there was a house, a billet, a civilization where we were.\u003cbr\u003eI look back and I think I was just there all alone. Collecting wisps\u003cbr\u003eand signs. Like a spinster who did know a young man once and\u003cbr\u003ewho imagines ever since that she lost a fiancé in the war. Or an old\u003cbr\u003efellow who, having spent months long ago in uniform at some\u003cbr\u003edreary outpost nowhere near any country where there was a front,\u003cbr\u003eremembers buddies he never had, dying beside him in battles he\u003cbr\u003ewas never in.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHey, wait.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAll right. There was, of course, a public world as well.\u003cbr\u003eI was there, in Montgomery, Alabama, on a summer's day in\u003cbr\u003ethe late seventies, when the Attorney General of the United States,\u003cbr\u003ea Southerner himself, spoke at the ceremony in which a local judge,\u003cbr\u003ewho had worked for more than twenty years, with courage and\u003cbr\u003ehumanity and in virtual isolation, on the federal district court, was\u003cbr\u003epromoted to the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals. That court, like\u003cbr\u003ethe district court under the local judge, had been a great court,\u003cbr\u003edecent, honorable, articulate and brave. The Attorney General himself\u003cbr\u003ehad, for some years, been a member of it—quite often, as it\u003cbr\u003ehappened, in dissent. Here he was, though, in the late seventies,\u003cbr\u003ethe Attorney General, Old Mushmouth, as the wife of one of the\u003cbr\u003ecourt's more distinguished judges had always, somewhat injudiciously\u003cbr\u003eand in his absence, called him, here he was, the Attorney\u003cbr\u003eGeneral of the United States, speaking at the inauguration of a\u003cbr\u003egreat federal district judge into a great federal appellate court. He\u003cbr\u003ementioned the Ku Klux Klan. He alluded to it several times, the\u003cbr\u003eKlan. And each time, he referred to its membership, the members\u003cbr\u003eof the Klan, he called them. Clamsmen. No question about it, that's\u003cbr\u003ehow he pronounced it. Clamsmen. It was no reflection on the\u003cbr\u003eAttorney ·General. True, the judge's wife had never thought much\u003cbr\u003eof his diction. True, in the court's most important decisions, he had\u003cbr\u003ebeen so often in dissent. But years had passed. He had come to\u003cbr\u003espeak well and to do honor. And this business of the Clamsmen,\u003cbr\u003ewell, it may have had to do with molluscs, bivalves. Even crustaceans.\u003cbr\u003eI remember a young radical, in the sixties, denouncing her\u003cbr\u003eroommates as prawns of imperialism.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAlone. What an odd gloss we have here on Alone at last. Since\u003cbr\u003ealone at last, for every hero in a gothic, every villain in a melodrama,\u003cbr\u003etraditionally assumes a cast of two.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eYou know I hate wisecracks.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSo do I.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOne morning, in the early nineteen-eighties, Viola Teagarden\u003cbr\u003efiled a suit in a New York State court against Claudia Denneny\u003cbr\u003efor libel. Also named as defendants were a public television station\u003cbr\u003eand a talk-show host. Viola Teagarden's lawyer, Ezra Paris, had\u003cbr\u003ebeen, all his life, a civil libertarian; in every prior suit, he had been\u003cbr\u003eon the side of the right to speak, to print, to publish. He was em-\u003cbr\u003ebarrassed by \u003ci\u003eTeagarden v. Denneny\u003c\/i\u003e et al., which, as he knew, had\u003cbr\u003eno legal merit. He justified it to himself on grounds, of which Viola\u003cbr\u003ehad persuaded him, that she was sad, hurt, pitiable, distraught. He\u003cbr\u003ealso thought, in friendship, that he owed her something. Her current\u003cbr\u003ebook was dedicated to him. But his province had always been\u003cbr\u003ethe First Amendment, and he preferred not to think about who was\u003cbr\u003epaying his rather considerable legal fees, Martin Pix, a young, immensely\u003cbr\u003erich, vaguely leftish media executive, who had recently\u003cbr\u003ecome, yacht and fortune, into Viola's special circle. That circle, as\u003cbr\u003eI gradually came to understand, was one of the most important\u003cbr\u003ecultural manifestations of its time.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eLook here, you know, look here. All the things she had too\u003cbr\u003emuch class to mention were the things he never knew.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWell, but that's the point. I mean, it hardly takes much class\u003cbr\u003enot to mention things if he already knows them anyway.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt was as though he had been born in the presence of the doubt,\u003cbr\u003ethe censor, the laugher at serious things, the unlaughing member\u003cbr\u003ein the audience of a comedian, the voluble warner against places\u003cbr\u003ewhere there is no danger, the reticent giver of directions toward a\u003cbr\u003eplace through which no one has safely passed. The check was forever\u003cbr\u003eless than half a step behind the impulse. Clamped to the hoof\u003cbr\u003eof the Arabian horse of thought, report, or feeling, there were\u003cbr\u003ealways the teeth of the question: is this altogether true? The least\u003cbr\u003eof the harm in it was the waste of energy and attention, in having\u003cbr\u003ealways to be doubly sure, in letting pass the moments of high possibility,\u003cbr\u003ein seldom taking action, in having always just a bit to understate\u003cbr\u003eand overprove.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWait, wait, wait, wait. Can you not avoid, on the one hand,\u003cbr\u003ethe Rorid, overly elaborate, on the other hand, the arid exploration\u003cbr\u003eof that after all limitless desert rock of desolation called Square One?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhat are you, some sort of anti-claque?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eSometimes he loved her, sometimes he was just amused and\u003cbr\u003etouched by the degree to which she loved him. Sometimes he was\u003cbr\u003ebored by her love and felt it as a burden. Sometimes his sense of\u003cbr\u003ehimself was enhanced, sometimes diminished by it. But he had\u003cbr\u003ecome to take the extent of her love as given, and, as such, he lost\u003cbr\u003einterest in it. She may have given him this certainty too early, and\u003cbr\u003enot just out of genuine attachment. One falls out of gradations of\u003cbr\u003elove and despair, after all, every few days, or months, or minutes.\u003cbr\u003eWith courtesy, then, and also for the sake, for the sake of the long\u003cbr\u003erhythms, she kept the facade in place and steady, unaffected by\u003cbr\u003eevery nuance of caring and not caring. He distrusted her sometimes,\u003cbr\u003ebut on the wrong grounds. He thought of her as light with the\u003cbr\u003etruth, and lawless. And she, who was not in other ways dishonest,\u003cbr\u003ewho was in fact honorable in his ways and in others, was perhaps\u003cbr\u003edishonest in this: that not to risk losing him, or for whatever other\u003cbr\u003ereason, she concealed, no, she did not insist that he see, certain\u003cbr\u003eimportant facets of her nature. She pretended, though with her\u003cbr\u003eparticular form of nervous energy she was not always able to pretend\u003cbr\u003ethis, that she was more content than she was, that her love for\u003cbr\u003ehim was more constant than, within the limits that he set, it\u003cbr\u003ecould be.","brand":"NYRB Classics","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301376020709,"sku":"NP9781590176146","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781590176146.jpg?v=1767734814","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/pitch-dark-isbn-9781590176146","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}