{"product_id":"the-book-of-joe-isbn-9780385338103","title":"The Book of Joe","description":"\u003cb\u003eA man must return to the hometown he disowned in this “sweet, deft, and sentimental coming-of-age-at-34 story” (\u003ci\u003eNew York Daily News\u003c\/i\u003e) from the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThis Is Where I Leave You\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“An elegiac, wickedly observant look at a small town and its secrets.”—Tom Perrotta, author of \u003ci\u003eMrs. Fletcher \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFifteen years after leaving Sleepy Bush Falls, Connecticut, Joe Goffman wrote a savage bestselling novel about his hometown. The book went on to become a hit movie, making Joe a pariah in the Falls, which was fine with him, since he never planned on going back. But when a family tragedy strikes, Joe is left with no choice. His return ignites a maelstrom of hostility among the town’s still enraged residents. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs Joe walks the familiar streets of his childhood, he revisits the terrible events of his senior year in high school, and the heartbreak and catastrophe from which he’s never fully recovered. After almost two decades of hiding it, Joe will finally have to face his troubled past and start mending fences with family, onetime schoolmates, and a former love. And with the help of some old friends, Joe might actually learn something—if he manages to live through the homecoming.“\u003ci\u003eThe Book of Joe\u003c\/i\u003e is an elegiac, wickedly observant look at a small town and its secrets. In Jonathan Tropper’s highly readable novel, the problem isn’t that you can’t go home again, it’s that eventually you have to, whether you like it or not.”\u003cb\u003e—Tom Perrotta, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eMrs. Fletcher\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A beautifully crafted book of enormous heart, humility, wit, honesty, and vulnerability. You want to call your friends at 3 a.m. and read whole passages out loud. You want to press it into the hands of strangers. You cannot stop thinking about it because it has rearranged your very molecules. You know that kind of book? This is that kind of book. The Book of Joe is utterly magnificent. I wish I’d written it myself.”\u003cb\u003e—Augusten Burroughs, author of \u003ci\u003eRunning with Scissors\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Book of Joe \u003c\/i\u003ewill make you laugh and cry. Tropper has a very readable style, and Joe is a character you can connect with, warts and all.”\u003cb\u003e—Associated Press\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Moving, funny and compulsively readable . . . Tropper leads Joe through a quest for a better self that is wise, honest, and often downright hilarious. He erects a story of emotional truth that leaves you with a lump in your throat and a smile on your face.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBookPage \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Book of Joe\u003c\/i\u003e is a sweet, deft and sentimental coming-ofage-at-thirty-four story. . . . [Tropper’s] humor keeps his tale buoyant as Joe stumbles into maturity.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Daily News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Witty, tender and beautifully written. You really fall in love with Joe. By the end I wanted to have his babies!”\u003cb\u003e—Sue Margolis, author of \u003ci\u003eLosing Me\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There is so much to praise in this winner of a book about a loser of a man that I won’t waste my words. Read \u003ci\u003eThe Book of Joe \u003c\/i\u003eand you too will laugh and cry (and cringe) as you watch Joe Goffman return to his hometown to make things right, only to make more and more of a mess for his family and friends—and more of a loveable jerk of himself. Like Richard Russo or Michael Chabon at their best.”\u003cb\u003e—Rita Ciresi, author of \u003ci\u003ePink Slip\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eRemind Me Again Why I Married You\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The novel skillfully illustrates the tenderness and difficulties of first love and friendship. . . . Fans of Tom Perrotta’s sarcastic humor will appreciate Tropper’s evocation of both the allure and hypocrisy of small-town American life.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Highly recommended . . . In the marvelously funny and self-deprecating voice of Joe, Tropper fully realizes his characters and tells their stories with poignancy, wit, and charm. This coming-of-age story is a keeper; fans of Tom Perrotta and Nick Hornby will enjoy.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jonathan Tropper’s hilarious and heartbreaking novel \u003ci\u003eThe Book of Joe \u003c\/i\u003e. . . [is] eloquent and meaningful . . . a worthwhile offering from an author who has the talent and market insight to pen a bestseller.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBook Reporter\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eJonathan Tropper\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of numerous novels, including\u003ci\u003e Everything Changes\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e This Is Where I Leave You\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eOne Last Thing Before I Go\u003c\/i\u003e. His books have been translated into more than twenty languages. Tropper is the cocreator and executive producer of the television drama \u003ci\u003eBanshee\u003c\/i\u003e, as well a\u003ci\u003es\u003c\/i\u003e a screenwriter who adapted \u003ci\u003eThis Is Where I Leave You\u003c\/i\u003e into a major motion picture.\u003ci\u003eChapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Just a few scant months after my mother's suicide, I walked into the  garage, looking for my baseball glove, and discovered Cindy Posner on her knees,  animatedly performing fellatio on my older brother, Brad. He was leaned up against  our father's tool rack, the hammers and wrenches jingling musically on their hooks  like Christmas bells as he rocked gently back and forth, staring up at the ceiling  with a curiously bored expression. His jeans and boxers were bunched up around his  knees, his hand resting absently on her bobbing head as she went about her surprisingly  noisy oral ministrations. I stood there transfixed until Brad, sensing my arrival,  looked down from the ceiling and our eyes met. There was no alarm in his eyes, no  embarrassment at having been caught in so compromising a position, but only the same  look of tired resignation he always seemed to have where I was concerned. That's  right. I'm getting a blow job in the garage. It's a safe bet you never will. Cindy,  whose back was to me,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e noticed me a few seconds later and became instantly hysterical,  cursing and shrieking at me as I beat a hasty, if somewhat belated retreat. I was  thirteen years old at the time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It's entirely possible that Cindy would have handled  herself with a bit more aplomb had she known that seventeen years later the incident  would be immortalized in the first chapter of the best-selling autobiographical novel  that I would write and, as with most successful books, in the inevitable movie that  would follow shortly thereafter. By then she was no longer Cindy Posner, but Cindy  Goffman, having married Brad in their senior year of college, and I think it's fair  to say that this inclusion in my book did nothing to improve our already tenuous  relationship. The book is titled Bush Falls, after the small Connecticut town where  I grew up, a term I use loosely, since the jury's still out on whether I've actually  ever grown up at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e By now you've certainly heard of Bush Falls, or no doubt seen  the movie, which starred Leonardo DiCaprio and Kirsten Dunst, and did some pretty  decent box office. Or maybe you read about the major controversy it caused back in  my hometown, where they even went so far as to put together a class action libel  suit against me that never went anywhere. Either way, the book was a runaway best-seller  about two and a half years ago, and for a little while there, I became a minor celebrity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Any schmuck can be unhappy when things aren't going well, but it takes a truly unique  variety of schmuck, a real innovator in the schmuck field, to be unhappy when things  are going as great as they are for me. At thirty-four, I'm rich, successful, have  sex on a fairly regular basis, and live in a three-bedroom luxury apartment on Manhattan's  Upper West Side. This should be ample reason to feel that I have the world by its  proverbial short hairs, yet I've recently developed the sneaking suspicion that underneath  it all I am one sad, lonely son of a bitch, and have been for some time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e While there  is no paucity of women in my life these days, it nevertheless seems that every relationship  I've had in the two and a half years since the publication of Bush Falls has lasted  almost exactly eight weeks, following the same essential flight pattern. In the first  week I pull out all the stops—fancy restaurants, concerts, Broadway shows, and trendy  nightclubs—modestly avoiding any high-minded banter concerning the literary world  in favor of current events, movies, and celebrity gossip, which are of course the  real currency in the New York dating scene, even if no one will admit it. Not that  being a celebrated author isn't worth something, but stories about Miramax parties  or how you hung out on the set with Leo and Kirsten will get you laid much faster  and by a better caliber of woman. Weeks two and three are generally the best, the  time you'd like to bottle and store, primarily due to the endorphin rush of fresh  sex. At some point in the fourth week, I fall in love, briefly considering the possibility  that this could be The One, and then everything pretty much goes to shit in slow  motion. I waffle, I vacillate, I get insecure, I come on too strong. I conduct little  psychological experiments on myself or the woman involved. You get the picture. This  goes on for a couple of painfully awkward weeks, and then we both spend week seven  in the fervent hope that the relationship will magically dissolve on its own, through  an act of god or spontaneous combustion—anything to avoid having to actually navigate  the tediously perilous terrain of a full-blown breakup. The last week is spent \"taking  some time,\" which ends with a final, perfunctory phone call finalizing the arrangement  and resolving any outstanding logistics. I'll drop the bag and Donna Karan sweater  you left in my apartment with the doorman, you can keep the books I lent you, thanks  for the memories, no hard feelings, let's stay friends, et cetera, ad nauseam.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I  know it bespeaks poor character to blame others for your problems, but I'm fairly  certain this is all Carly's fault. Carly Diamond was my high school girlfriend, the  first—and, to date, only—woman I've ever loved. We were together for our entire senior  year, and loved each other with the fierce, timeless conviction of teenagers. That  was the same year that all the terrible events described in my novel occurred, and  my relationship with her was the lone bright spot in my dismally expanding universe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If you want to get technical about it, we never actually broke up. We graduated  high school and went to different colleges, Carly up to Harvard and me down to NYU.  We tried to do the long-distance thing, but my adamant refusal to return to the Falls  for our mutual vacations made it difficult, and over time we simply grew apart, but  we never formally dissolved our relationship. After college, Carly came to New York  to study journalism, at which point we embarked on one of those long, messy postgraduate  friendships where you have just enough sex to thoroughly confuse the hell out of  each other and ultimately, through a sequence of poor timing and third-party complications,  fuck the life out of what was once the purest thing you'd ever known.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We still loved  each other then, that much was obvious, but while Carly seemed ready to reclaim our  relationship, I kept finding reasons to remain uncommitted. No matter how much I  loved her—and I did—I was constantly comparing the timbre of our relationship with  the raw beauty, the sense of discovery, that had attended our every moment when we  were seventeen. By the time I finally understood the colossal nature of my mistake,  it was too late and Carly was gone. Losing her once was sad but understandable. Carelessly  discarding the second chance afforded me by the fates required such a potent mixture  of arrogance and stupidity that it had to have been cultivated, because I'm fairly  certain I wasn't always such a complete asshole.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I've never forgiven myself for  the head games I played with her during her years in New York, wooing her whenever  I felt her slipping away and then pulling back the minute I felt secure again. I  allowed her unwavering belief in us to sustain me even at times when I didn't share  it, leading her along with promises, both spoken and implied but never fulfilled.  By the time I finally began to understand how badly I'd been using her, I had used  her up completely. She left New York heartbroken and disgusted, returning to the  Falls to accept a position as managing editor of The Minuteman, the town's local  paper. Every time I think I've gotten over her, I find myself waking in the middle  of the night, pining for her with such desperation that you would think it was only  yesterday and not ten years ago that she left.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Since then not a day goes by that  I am not haunted by a vague but powerful sense of regret, every woman I date serving  as a reminder of what I allowed myself to lose. So in a way, it's because of Carly  that I'm alone in bed in the middle of the night when the phone rings, its electronic  wail piercing the insulated silence of my apartment like a siren. Generally speaking,  when people call you at two in the morning, it won't be good news. My first thought,  as I swim up through the dense wormwood haze of alcohol-induced sleep, is that it  has to be Natalie, my borderline psychotic ex-girlfriend, calling to scream at me.  I don't know what damage I could have possibly done to her apparently fragile psyche  in eight weeks, but her latest therapist has convinced her that she still has significant  unresolved issues with me and that it behooves her, from a mental wellness perspective,  to call me, day or night, whenever it occurs to her to remind me what an insensitive  jerk I was. The calls started about four months ago and now come fairly regularly,  both at home and on my cell phone, thirty-second installments of furious invective  with abundant smatterings of vulgarity, requiring absolutely no participation from  me. If it happens that I'm unavailable, Nat is perfectly content to leave her colorful  harangues on my voice mail. She's always been drawn to radical therapy, much as lately  I seem to be drawn to women who require it.Author of This Is Where I Leave You","brand":"Bantam","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304742310117,"sku":"NP9780385338103","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780385338103.jpg?v=1767738469","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-book-of-joe-isbn-9780385338103","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}