{"product_id":"tellall-isbn-9780307389824","title":"Tell-All","description":"\u003cp\u003eFor decades Hazie Coogan has tended to the outsized needs of Katherine \"Miss Kathie\"  Kenton, veteran of multiple marriages, career comebacks, and cosmetic surgeries. But danger arrives with gentleman caller Webster Carlton Westward III, who worms his way into Miss Kathie’s heart—and boudoir. Soon, Hazie discovers that this bounder has already written a celebrity memoir foretelling Miss Kathie’s death in an upcoming musical extravaganza. As the body count mounts, Hazie must execute a plan to save Katherine Kenton for her fans and for posterity.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Subtle as a straight right to the jaw, and just as bracing.” —\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dreamlike, insane, Burroughs-esque.” —\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Over the top in Palahniuk’s patented style, made even richer by some athletic wordplay.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Oregonian \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Chuck Palahniuk is one of modern American fiction’s most interesting stylists, and he’s at it again. . . . A masterful feat.” —\u003ci\u003eAssociated Press  \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“With his love of contemporary fairy tales that are gritty and dirty rather than pretty, Palahniuk is the likeliest inheritor of Vonnegut’s place in American writing.” —\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Among sick puppies, Palahniuk is top dog.” —\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Reading a Palahniuk novel is like getting zipped inside a boxer’s heavy bag while the author goes to work on you, pounding you until there is nothing left but a big bag of bones and blood and pain.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Miami Herald \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Palahniuk doesn’t write for tourists. He writes for hard-core devotees drawn to the wild, angry imagination on display and the taboo-busting humor.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“So funny. . . . There are a lot of laughs to be had, notably from some outlandish Broadway productions of the playwright Lillian Hellman, and the excruciating extracts we read of Westward’s juicy and self-aggrandizing memoir, gloriously entitled \u003ci\u003eLove Slave\u003c\/i\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Independent \u003c\/i\u003e(London) \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“[Palahniuk] knows how to spin whacked-out stories particular to our times.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Seattle Times \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Chuck Palahniuk is William S. Burroughs and David Foster Wallace rolled into one.” —\u003ci\u003eSan Diego Union-Tribune \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Few contemporary writers mix the outrageous and the hilarious with greater zest. . . . Chuck Palahniuk’s splenetic, anarchic glee makes him a worthy heir to Ken Kesey.” —\u003ci\u003eNewsday \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An author who continues to challenge and intrigue readers.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Palahniuk] has a singular knack for coming up with inventive new ways to shock and degrade.” —\u003ci\u003eNew York Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Place this bet in your time capsule: Chuck Palahniuk’s novels will be required reading in American literature classes 100 years from now.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Fort Myers News-Press \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of the most intriguing writers of our time.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Tucson Citizen\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChuck Palahniuk’s ten previous novels are the bestselling \u003ci\u003eFight Club\u003c\/i\u003e, which was made into a film by David Fincher; \u003ci\u003eSurvivor\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eInvisible Monsters\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eChoke\u003c\/i\u003e, which was made into a film by director Clark Gregg; \u003ci\u003eLullaby\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eDiary\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eHaunted\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eRant\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eSnuff\u003c\/i\u003e; and \u003ci\u003ePygmy\u003c\/i\u003e. He is also the author of \u003ci\u003eFugitives and Refugees\u003c\/i\u003e, a nonfiction profile of Portland, Oregon, published as part of the Crown Journeys series, and the nonfiction collection \u003ci\u003eStranger Than Fiction. \u003c\/i\u003eHe lives in the Pacific Northwest.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003eACT I, SCENE ONE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003eAct one, scene one opens with \u003cb\u003eLillian Hellman\u003c\/b\u003e clawing her way, stumbling and scrambling, through the thorny nighttime underbrush of some German \u003ci\u003eschwarzwald\u003c\/i\u003e, a Jewish baby clamped to each of her tits, another brood of infants clinging to her back. Lilly clambers her way, struggling against the brambles that snag the gold embroidery of her \u003cb\u003eBalenciaga\u003c\/b\u003e lounging pajamas, the black velvet clutched by hordes of doomed cherubs she’s racing to deliver from the ovens of some Nazi death camp. More innocent toddlers, lashed to each of Lillian’s muscular thighs. Helpless Jewish, Gypsy and homosexual babies. Nazi gestapo bullets spit past her in the darkness, shredding the forest foliage, the smell of gunpowder and pine needles. The heady aroma of her \u003cb\u003eChanel No. 5\u003c\/b\u003e. Bullets and hand grenades just whiz past Miss Hellman’s perfectly coiffed \u003cb\u003eHattie Carnegie\u003c\/b\u003e chignon, so close the ammunition shatters her \u003cb\u003eCartier\u003c\/b\u003e chandelier earrings into rainbow explosions of priceless diamonds. Ruby and emerald shrapnel blasts into the flawless skin of her perfect, pale cheeks. . . . From this action sequence, we dissolve to:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReveal: the interior of a stately \u003cb\u003eSutton Place\u003c\/b\u003e mansion. It’s some \u003cb\u003eBillie Burke\u003c\/b\u003e place decorated by \u003cb\u003eBilly Haines\u003c\/b\u003e, where formally dressed guests line a long table within a candlelit, wood-paneled dining room. Liveried footmen stand along the walls. Miss Hellman is seated near the head of this very large dinner party, actually describing the frantic escape scene we’ve just witnessed. In a slow panning shot, the engraved place cards denoting each guest read like a veritable \u003cb\u003eWho’s Who\u003c\/b\u003e. Easily half of twentieth-century history sits at this table: \u003cb\u003ePrince Nicholas of Romania\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003cb\u003ePablo Picasso\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003cb\u003eCordell Hull\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003eJosef von Sternberg\u003c\/b\u003e. The attendant celebrities seem to stretch from \u003cb\u003eSamuel Beckett\u003c\/b\u003e to \u003cb\u003eGene Autry\u003c\/b\u003e to\u003cb\u003e Marjorie Main\u003c\/b\u003e to the faraway horizon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLillian stops speaking long enough to draw one long drag on her cigarette. Then to blow the smoke over \u003cb\u003ePola Negri\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003eAdolph Zukor\u003c\/b\u003e before she says, “It’s at that heart-stopping moment I wished I’d just told \u003cb\u003eFranklin Delano Roosevelt\u003c\/b\u003e, ‘No, thank you.’ ” Lilly taps cigarette ash onto her bread plate, shaking her head, saying, “No secret missions for this girl.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhile the footmen pour wine and clear the sorbet dishes, Lillian’s hands swim through the air, her cigarette trailing smoke, her fingernails clawing at invisible forest vines, climbing sheer rock cliff faces, her high heels blazing a muddy trail toward freedom, her strength never yielding under the burden of those tiny Jewish and homosexual urchins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvery eye, fixed, from the head of the table to the foot, stares at Lilly. Every hand crosses two fingers beneath the damask napkin laid in every lap, while every guest mouths a silent prayer that Miss Hellman will swallow her \u003cb\u003eChicken Prince Anatole Demidoff\u003c\/b\u003e without chewing, then suffocate, writhing and choking on the dining room carpet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlmost every eye. The exceptions being one pair of violet eyes . . . one pair of brown eyes . . . and of course my own weary eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe possibility of dying before \u003cb\u003eLillian Hellman\u003c\/b\u003e has become the tangible fear of this entire generation. Dying and becoming merely fodder for Lilly’s mouth. A person’s entire life and reputation reduced to some \u003cb\u003egolem\u003c\/b\u003e, a \u003cb\u003eFrankenstein\u003c\/b\u003e’s monster Miss Hellman can reanimate and manipulate to do her bidding.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeyond her first few words, Lillian’s talk becomes one of those jungle sound tracks one hears looping in the background of every \u003cb\u003eTarzan\u003c\/b\u003e film, just tropical birds and \u003cb\u003eJohnny Weissmuller\u003c\/b\u003e and howler monkeys repeating. \u003ci\u003eBark, bark, screech . . .\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cb\u003eEmerald Cunard\u003c\/b\u003e. \u003ci\u003eBark, growl, screech\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003e. . .\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cb\u003eCecil Beaton\u003c\/b\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLilly’s drivel possibly constitutes some bizarre form of name-dropping \u003cb\u003eTourette’s syndrome\u003c\/b\u003e. Or perhaps the outcome of an orphaned press agent raised by wolves and taught to read aloud from \u003cb\u003eWalter Winchell\u003c\/b\u003e’s column.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer compulsive prattle, a true pathology.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eCluck, oink, bark . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eJean Negulesco\u003c\/b\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThus, Lilly spins the twenty-four-carat gold of people’s actual lives into her own brassy straw.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePlease promise you did \u003ci\u003eNOT\u003c\/i\u003e hear this from me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeated within range of those flying heroic elbows, my Miss Kathie stares out from the bank of cigarette smoke. An actress of \u003cb\u003eKatherine Kenton\u003c\/b\u003e’s stature. Her violet eyes, trained throughout her adult life to never make contact with anything except the lens of a motion picture camera. To never meet the eyes of a stranger, instead to always focus on someone’s earlobe or lips. Despite such training, my Miss Kathie peers down the length of the table, her lashes fluttering. The slender fingers of one famous white hand toy with the auburn tresses of her wig. The jeweled fingers of Miss Kathie’s opposite hand touch the six strands of pearls which contain the loose folds of her sagging neck skin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the next instant, while the footmen pass the finger bowls, Lillian twists in her chair, shouldering an invisible sniper’s  rifle and squeezing off rounds until the clip is empty. Still just dripping with Hebrew and Communist babies. Lugging her cargo of Semitic orphans. When the rifle is too searing hot to hold, Miss Hellman howls a wild war whoop and hurtles the steaming weapon at the pursuing storm troopers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSnarl, bark, screech . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003ePeter Lorre\u003c\/b\u003e. \u003ci\u003eOink, bark, squeal . . .\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cb\u003eAverell Harriman\u003c\/b\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s a fate worse than death to spend eternity in harness, serving as Lilly Hellman’s zombie, brought back to life at dinner parties. On radio talk programs. At this point, Miss Hellman is heaving yet another batch of invisible babies, rescued Gypsy babes, high, toward the chandelier, as if catapulting them over the snowcapped peak of the \u003cb\u003eMatterhorn\u003c\/b\u003e to the safety of \u003cb\u003eSwitzerland\u003c\/b\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGrunt, howl, squeal . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eSarah Bernhardt\u003c\/b\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy now, Lillian Hellman wraps two fists around the invisible throat of \u003cb\u003eAdolf Hitler\u003c\/b\u003e, reenacting how she sneaked into his subterranean \u003cb\u003eBerlin\u003c\/b\u003e bunker, dressed as \u003cb\u003eLeni Riefenstahl\u003c\/b\u003e, her arms laden with black-market cartons of\u003cb\u003e Lucky Strike\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003eParliament\u003c\/b\u003e cigarettes, and then throttled the sleeping dictator in his bed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBray, bark, whinny . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eBasil Rathbone.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLilly throws the terrified, make-believe Hitler into the center of tonight’s dinner table, her teeth biting, her manicured fingernails scratching at his Nazi eyes. Lillian’s fists clamped around the invisible windpipe, she begins pounding the invisible Führer’s skull against the tablecloth, making the silverware and wineglasses jump and rattle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eScreech, meow, tweet . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eWallis Simpson\u003c\/b\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHowl, bray, squeak . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eDiana Vreeland\u003c\/b\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA moment before Hitler’s assassination, \u003cb\u003eGeorge Cukor \u003c\/b\u003elooks up, his fingertips still dripping chilled water into his finger bowl, that smell of fresh-sliced lemons, and George says, “Please, Lillian.” Poor George says, “Would you please \u003ci\u003estuff\u003c\/i\u003e it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeated well below the salt, below the various professional hangers-on, the walking men, the drug dealers, the mesmerists, the exiled White Russians and poor \u003cb\u003eLorenz Hart\u003c\/b\u003e, really at the very horizon of tonight’s dinner table, a young man looks back. Seated on the farthest frontier of placement. His eyes the bright brown of July Fourth sunlight through a tall mug of root beer. Quite the American specimen. A classic face of such symmetrical proportions, the exactly balanced type of face one dreams of looking down to find smiling and eager between one’s inner thighs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStill, that’s the trouble with only a single glance at any star on the horizon. As \u003cb\u003eElsa Maxwell\u003c\/b\u003e would say, “One can never tell for certain if that dazzling, shiny object is rising or setting.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLillian inhales the silence through her burning cigarette. Taps the gray ash onto her bread plate. In a blast of smoke, she says, “Did you hear?” She says, “It’s a fact, but \u003cb\u003eEleanor Roosevelt\u003c\/b\u003e chewed every hair off my bush. . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThrough all of this—the cigarette smoke and lies and the \u003cb\u003eSecond World War\u003c\/b\u003e—the specimen’s bright brown eyes, they’re looking straight down the table, up the social ladder, gazing back, deep, into the famous, fluttering violet eyes of my employer.","brand":"Anchor","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300238217445,"sku":"NP9780307389824","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307389824.jpg?v=1767737872","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/tellall-isbn-9780307389824","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}