{"product_id":"pushkin-press-classicsisbn-9781805330264","title":"Pushkin Press Classics","description":"\u003cb\u003eTHE FIRST ENGLISH TRANSLATION OF A POSTWAR MASTERPIECE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e'I work in an office. I take cards out of a file. Once I have taken them out, I put them back in again. That is it.'\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwenty-three-year-old Frits - office worker, daydreamer, teller of inappropriate jokes - finds life absurd and inexplicable. He lives with his parents, who drive him mad. He has terrible, disturbing dreams of death and destruction. Sometimes he talks to a toy rabbit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is the story of ten evenings in Frits's life at the end of December, as he drinks, smokes, sees friends, aimlessly wanders the gloomy city street and tries to make sense of the minutes, hours and days that stretch before him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDarkly funny and mesmerising, \u003ci\u003eThe Evenings\u003c\/i\u003e takes the tiny, quotidian triumphs and heartbreaks of our everyday lives and turns them into a work of brilliant wit and profound beauty.\u003cb\u003eIPPY Literary Fiction Award Bronze Medalist\u003cbr\u003eAn \u003ci\u003eObserver\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eFinancial Times\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eIrish Times\u003c\/i\u003e Book of the Year\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Exceptional... a crisp and readable translation by Sam Garrett.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— The Wall Street Journal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Fascinating, hilarious, and page-turning. The publication of this novel marks the exciting introduction of a wonderful writer to an Anglophone audience.\"\u003cb\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e— Publishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Reviewers have compared it favorably to J .D. Salinger’s \u003ci\u003eThe Catcher in the Rye\u003c\/i\u003e, Albert Camus’s \u003ci\u003eThe Stranger\u003c\/i\u003e and Karl Ove Knausgaard’s \u003ci\u003eMy Struggle\u003c\/i\u003e. In \u003ci\u003eThe Irish Times\u003c\/i\u003e, Eileen Battersby called it 'one of the finest studies of youthful malaise ever written,' and in \u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e, Tim Parks described it as 'not only a masterpiece but a cornerstone manqué of modern European literature.'  The Society of Dutch Literature ranked it as the country’s best 20th-century novel and its third-best of all time.\" \u003cb\u003e— \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Sam Garrett’s precise and convincing translations ... capture the consistently anxious, suggestive, and haunting tone that runs through \u003ci\u003eThe Evenings\u003c\/i\u003e like a live wire—one that, after seventy years, is still electrifying. The narrators of \u003ci\u003eThe Fall of the Boslowits Family\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eWerther Nieland\u003c\/i\u003e, too, are persuasively rendered in the matter-of-fact and dreamlike tones of the originals.\" \u003cb\u003e— Philip Huff, \u003ci\u003eNew York Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Diabolically funny... From the deep midnight of shattered Europe, Reve crafted not only an existential masterwork worthy to stand with Beckett or Albert Camus but an oblique historical testament.\" \u003cb\u003e— The Economist\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A novel as funny as it is painful . . . A little masterpiece — a provocative reminder that life goes on even in the bleakest of circumstances.\" \u003cb\u003e— \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Captivating.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— The Atlantic\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"In this first English translation of a Dutch classic . . . The author’s dry wit and ability to find humor and beauty in the banality of daily life are impressive.\"\u003cb\u003e— \u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not only a masterpiece but a cornerstone manque of modern European literature… what can I say, in a world of hype, that will put this book where it belongs, in readers’ hands and minds?... Reve’s sparkling collage of acute observation, droll internal monologue and pitch-perfect dialogue keeps the reader breathless right through to the grand finale...huge respect to Pushkin Press.”\u003cb\u003e — Tim Parks, \u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"One of the greatest post-war Dutch novels... [a] brilliant modern classic.\" \u003cb\u003e— Tom Chalmers, \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Consistently simple, straightforward, pitch-perfect prose (translated splendidly by Sam Garrett).\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— Weekly Standard\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Darkly funny and mesmerizing, The Evenings takes the tiny quotidian triumphs and heartbreaks of our everyday lives and turns them into a work of brilliant wit and profound beauty… an extraordinary and highly recommended addition to both community and academic library collections’.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— Midwest Book Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"a neurotic, darkly humorous and cynical treatise on youth in the Netherlands after World War II. . . the book is innovative in its use of language. Reve successfully evokes a strong sense of psychological unrest in the mind of reader.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— Out and About Nashville\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"drily amusing, suffused with angst and post-war malaise and -- at first blush -- very impressive.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— BookFilter\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It’s a testament to Reve’s writing and imagination that the question of Frits will haunt the reader long after they’re finished.\" \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e— Pop Matters\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A classic of dry, dark humour… it captures a very specific flavour of ennui.\" \u003cb\u003e— \u003ci\u003eHerald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I warmly recommend Gerard Reve’s hilariously gloomy \u003ci\u003eThe Evenings\u003c\/i\u003e… I see it as a Dutch version of Kafka’s \u003ci\u003eMetamorphosis.\"\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e — \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eObserver\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A Meursault-in-waiting, a blank Holden Caulfield, a precursor to the kid in Iain Bank’s \u003ci\u003eThe Wasp Factory\u003c\/i\u003e. Very good.\" — \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eEvening Standard\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"As a study of aimlessness in postwar Europe it is difficult, perhaps impossible to surpass.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— Irish Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This much lauded book, finally available in English, [is] the perfect January read.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— The Spectator\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The novel is dark, funny, unsettling and lingers vividly in the mind. Hats off to Pushkin Press and the outstanding translator, Sam Garrett, for making this odd, orphaned masterpiece available at last to an English-speaking readership.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— Times Literary Supplement\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eThe Evenings \u003c\/i\u003eis packed with the minutiae of life: luckily, the minutiae are fascinating…Reve isn't the kind of novelist to give you a straightforward answer but the journey is quite a ride.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— The Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Reve’s keen eye for absurdity manages to cast the mundane in a new, albeit macabre, light.” \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— Financial Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This 1947 Dutch novel, considered the Netherlands' greatest in the twentieth century and now published in English for the first time...is a savage novel, full of strange, cold laughter.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— The Daily Mail\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[A] dark masterpiece... a powerful story.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— The Observer\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I was also pleased to see Gerard Reve’s funny, poignant debut novel, \u003ci\u003eThe Evenings\u003c\/i\u003e, available in English … It’s like BS Johnson and Kafka wandering the crepuscular streets of of 1940s Amsterdam together – in a good way.\" \u003cb\u003e— Alex Preston, \u003ci\u003eThe Observer \u003c\/i\u003eBest Fiction of 2016 round up\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Batavophile bookworms can rejoice now that possibly \u003ci\u003ethe\u003c\/i\u003e greatest Amsterdam novel is now available in English… for a testament to ennui, it’s strangely gripping.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—A-Mag\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e (Amsterdam)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"With the first English translation of 1947 Dutch masterpiece \u003ci\u003eThe Evenings\u003c\/i\u003e, by the out-of-time, out-of-step gay Catholic convert Gerard Reve, [Pushin Press] makes perhaps its most crucial contribution yet to bringing quietened, radical non-English voices into the open. Reve’s debut doesn’t have the mainstream-baiting sensationalism of his later, sex and religion-focused, work. But it’s debatable whether he ever wrote anything better. \u003cbr\u003e Trying to sum up the rare quality of this novel in a few hundred words is akin to tossing off a pithy one-liner on Karl Ove Knausgård’s six-volume opus \u003ci\u003eMy Struggle. \u003c\/i\u003eComparisons to that chronicle of domestic minutiae are actually rather neat; much of \u003ci\u003eThe Evenings\u003c\/i\u003e’ enticing devilment is in its mesmerising detail.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— The Big Issue\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A masterwork of comic pathos...It should be acknowledged as one of the finest studies of youthful malaise ever written...In all fairness to Salinger, \u003ci\u003eThe Evenings\u003c\/i\u003e is so much better...For a narrative so funny, it is also profoundly moving.'\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eEileen Battersby,\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e The Irish Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An undisputed classic...it's a fantastic novel.\" \u003cb\u003e— Andre van Loon, \u003ci\u003eSunday Telegraph\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This deft translation by Sam Garrett offers English readers the exploits of the cynical and awkward 23-year-old Frits van Egters as he wends his way through the last 10 days of 1946 in Amsterdam. . .  In a strangely compelling way the gloom (and eventual hope) of this nearly plotless novel is its strongest quality. How does one find meaning in life when death permeates every dream? Seventy years later, the English-speaking world is gifted with a glimpse into that time. And we sigh. It is nearly as relevant now.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— Winnipeg Free Press\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An edgy, atmospheric and sardonically funny book which was way ahead of its time. Still possessing the power to shock but also to beguile, the novel’s bold stylistic tricks and its hero’s original thoughts and deeds mark it out as a classic in any language... it is now time for a wider audience to discover its weird textures and dark delights.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— The National \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e(UAE)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Gerard Reve's sardonic classic The Evenings is finally translated into English.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— Culturetrip\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An understated novel that’s funny, bizarre and yet emotionally renewing.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— Attitude\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If \u003ci\u003eThe Evenings \u003c\/i\u003ehad appeared in English in the 1950s, it would have become every bit as much a classic as \u003ci\u003eOn the Road\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Catcher in the Rye\u003c\/i\u003e.” \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eHerman Koch, the Dutch bestselling author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Dinner\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hilarious, disturbing and humane.\" - \u003cb\u003eJoe Dunthorne, author of \u003ci\u003eSubmarine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This book, an important classic in the Netherlands and long, long overdue in English, is as funny as it is peculiar. Reve really deserves more attention in the Anglophone world.” \u003cb\u003e - Lydia Davis\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Unlike John Williams, Gerard Reve’s work was critically acclaimed and sold exceptionally well during his lifetime. But, just like \u003ci\u003eStoner\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Evenings\u003c\/i\u003e is brilliantly written, and has a maximum impact on the reader’s soul.” \u003cb\u003e- Oscar van Gelderen, the Dutch publisher who rediscovered John Williams’ \u003ci\u003eStoner\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eGerard Reve (1923-2006) is considered one of the greatest post-war Dutch authors, and was also the first openly gay writer in the country's history. A complicated and controversial character, Reve is also hugely popular and critically acclaimed- his 1947 debut \u003ci\u003eThe Evenings\u003c\/i\u003e was chosen as one of the nation's 10 favourite books by the readers of a leading Dutch newspaper while the Society of Dutch Literature ranked it as the Netherlands' best novel of all time.I\u003cbr\u003e It was still dark , in the early morning hours of the\u003cbr\u003e twenty-second of December 1946, on the second floor of\u003cbr\u003e the house at Schilderskade 66 in our town, when the hero of\u003cbr\u003e this story, Frits van Egters, awoke. He looked at the luminous\u003cbr\u003e dial of his watch, hanging on its nail. “A quarter to six,” he\u003cbr\u003e mumbled, “it’s still night.” He rubbed his face. “What a horrible\u003cbr\u003e dream,” he thought. “What was it again?” Gradually it came\u003cbr\u003e back to him. He had dreamt that the living room was full of\u003cbr\u003e visitors. “It’s going to be a glorious weekend,” someone said.\u003cbr\u003e At that same moment a man in a bowler hat walked in. No\u003cbr\u003e one paid him any heed and no one greeted him, but Frits eyed\u003cbr\u003e him closely. Suddenly the visitor fell to the floor with a thud.\u003cbr\u003e “Was that it?” he thought. “What happened after that?\u003cbr\u003e Nothing, I believe.” He fell asleep again. The dream went on\u003cbr\u003e where it had stopped. His bowler pressed down over his face,\u003cbr\u003e the man was now lying in a black coffin that had been placed on\u003cbr\u003e a low table in one corner of the room. “I don’t recognize that\u003cbr\u003e table,” Frits thought. “Did we borrow it from someone?” Then,\u003cbr\u003e peering into the coffin, he said loudly: “We’ll be stuck with this\u003cbr\u003e till Monday, in any event.” “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,”\u003cbr\u003e said a bald, red-faced man with spectacles. “Would you care to\u003cbr\u003e wager that I can arrange the funeral for this afternoon at two?”\u003cbr\u003eFrits awoke once more. It was twenty minutes past six. “I’ve\u003cbr\u003e had enough sleep,” he said to himself, “that’s why I woke up so\u003cbr\u003e early. I still have more than an hour to go.”\u003cbr\u003e He dozed off eventually, and entered the living room for\u003cbr\u003e the third time. There was no one there. He walked over to the\u003cbr\u003e coffin, looked into it and thought: “He’s dead, and starting to\u003cbr\u003e rot.” Suddenly the cadaver was covered in all kinds of carpenter’s\u003cbr\u003e tools, piled to the coffin’s rim: hammers, drills, saws, spirit\u003cbr\u003e levels, planes, pliers and little bags of nails. All that stuck out\u003cbr\u003e was the dead man’s right hand.\u003cbr\u003e “There’s no one here,” he thought, “not a soul in the house;\u003cbr\u003e what am I going to do? Music, that always helps.” He leaned\u003cbr\u003e across the coffin to turn on the radio, but at that same moment\u003cbr\u003e saw the hand, bluish now and with long white nails, begin to stir.\u003cbr\u003e He recoiled in fear. “I mustn’t move,” he thought, “otherwise\u003cbr\u003e it will happen.” The hand sank back down.\u003cbr\u003e Later he awoke, feeling anxious. “Ten to seven,” he mumbled,\u003cbr\u003e peering at the watch. “I always have such horrible dreams.” He\u003cbr\u003e rolled over and fell asleep again.\u003cbr\u003e Parting a pair of thick green curtains, he entered the living\u003cbr\u003e room. The visitors had returned. The man with the red face\u003cbr\u003e came up to him, smiled and said: “It didn’t work out. It will\u003cbr\u003e have to be Monday morning, at ten. We can put the box in the\u003cbr\u003e study till then.” “Study?” Frits thought. “What study? Do we\u003cbr\u003e have a study? He means the side room, of course.” Six men\u003cbr\u003e lifted the coffin to their shoulders. He himself walked out in\u003cbr\u003e front, to open the door for them. “The key’s still in the lock,”\u003cbr\u003e he thought, “good thing, too.”\u003cbr\u003eThe coffin was extremely heavy; the bearers moved slowly,\u003cbr\u003e with measured strides. Suddenly he saw that the bottom of the\u003cbr\u003e box was beginning to sag and swell. “It’s going to burst,” he\u003cbr\u003e thought, “that’s hideous. The corpse is still intact on the outside,\u003cbr\u003e but inside it’s a thin, yellow mush. It will splatter all over the floor.”\u003cbr\u003e By the time they were halfway down the hall, the bottom\u003cbr\u003e was sagging so badly that it had begun to crack. Slowly, out of\u003cbr\u003e that crack, appeared the same hand from which he had recoiled.\u003cbr\u003e Gradually the whole arm followed. The fingers groped about,\u003cbr\u003e then crept towards the throat of one of the bearers. “If I scream,\u003cbr\u003e the whole thing will fall to the floor,” Frits thought. He watched\u003cbr\u003e as the bottom sagged further and further and the hand drew\u003cbr\u003e closer and closer to the bearer’s throat. “There’s nothing I can\u003cbr\u003e do,” he thought. “I can’t do a thing.”\u003cbr\u003e He awakened for the fourth time, and sat up in bed. It was\u003cbr\u003e seven thirty-five. The bedroom was cold. He sat there for five\u003cbr\u003e minutes, then stood up and, turning on the light, saw the windowpanes\u003cbr\u003e covered in flowers of frost. He shivered as he made\u003cbr\u003e his way to the toilet.\u003cbr\u003e “I should start going out for a little walk in the evening, before\u003cbr\u003e bed,” he thought while washing himself at the kitchen sink. “It\u003cbr\u003e would make me sleep more soundly.” The soap slipped through\u003cbr\u003e his fingers, and he spent quite some time feeling around for it in\u003cbr\u003e the shadowy space beneath the counter. “We’re off to a roaring\u003cbr\u003e start,” he mumbled.\u003cbr\u003e “But today’s Sunday,” he realized suddenly, “what a piece\u003cbr\u003e of luck.” Then he added to himself: “I’m up far too early, how\u003cbr\u003e stupid of me. But no, for once my day won’t be ruined by lying\u003cbr\u003earound till eleven.” While drying his face he started to hum,\u003cbr\u003e then went into his room, dressed, and combed his hair in the\u003cbr\u003e little mirror that hung beside the door, above one corner of the\u003cbr\u003e bed. “It’s ridiculously early,” he thought. “I can’t go in yet. The\u003cbr\u003e sliding doors are still open.”\u003cbr\u003e He sat down at his little desk, picked up a white marble rabbit\u003cbr\u003e about the size of a matchbox and tapped it softly against the\u003cbr\u003e arm of the chair. Then he put it on top of the pile of papers\u003cbr\u003e from whence it came. Standing up with a shiver, he returned to\u003cbr\u003e the kitchen, opened the bread bin and took out two soft white\u003cbr\u003e rolls, the first of which he stuffed into his mouth in a few bites.\u003cbr\u003e The second he held clenched in his teeth as he went into the\u003cbr\u003e hallway for his coat.\u003cbr\u003e “A brisk, invigorating walk in the morning air,” he murmured.\u003cbr\u003e As he crossed the landing and passed the downstairs neighbours’\u003cbr\u003e door, a dog yapped. He pulled the street door closed behind him\u003cbr\u003e quietly and followed the frozen canal to the river, which was\u003cbr\u003e covered along both banks with a dark layer of ice. There was\u003cbr\u003e not much wind. The sun had barely risen, but the street lights\u003cbr\u003e were already out. The gutters of the houses were lined with rows\u003cbr\u003e of gulls. After kneading the last of his roll into a little ball, he\u003cbr\u003e tossed it onto the ice and scores of birds descended. The first\u003cbr\u003e gull that picked at it missed. The piece of bread slid, fell into a\u003cbr\u003e little hole in the ice and sank before another bird could peck at it.\u003cbr\u003e Church bells rang once. “An early start, this will be a day\u003cbr\u003e well spent,” he thought, turning right along the riverbank. “It’s\u003cbr\u003e cold and early and no one’s out yet, but I am.”","brand":"Pushkin Press Classics","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303000002789,"sku":"NP9781805330264","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781805330264_7a4fdc03-c758-4de5-baf6-a0bb0af19f52.jpg?v=1730752699","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/pushkin-press-classicsisbn-9781805330264","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}