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    Original Essays | July 14, 2015

    Joshua Mohr: IMG Your Imagination, Your Fingerprint

    When I was in grad school, a teacher told our workshop that if a published novel is 300 pages, the writer had to generate 1,200 along the way. I... Continue »
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      All This Life

      Joshua Mohr 9781593766030

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Remainder (Vintage Originals)


Remainder (Vintage Originals) Cover

ISBN13: 9780307278357
ISBN10: 0307278352
Condition: Standard
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about the accident itself I can say very little. Almost nothing. It involved something falling from the sky. Technology. Parts, bits. Thats it, really: all I can divulge. Not much, I know.

Its not that Im being shy. Its just that—well, for one, I dont even remember the event. Its a blank: a white slate, a black hole. I have vague images, half-impressions: of being, or having been—or, more precisely, being about to be—hit; blue light; railings; lights of other colours; being held above some kind of tray or bed. But whos to say that these are genuine memories? Whos to say my traumatized mind didnt just make them up, or pull them out from somewhere else, some other slot, and stick them there to plug the gap—the crater—that the accident had blown? Minds are versatile and wily things. Real chancers.

And then theres the Requirement. The Clause. The terms of the Settlement drawn up between my lawyer and the parties, institutions, organizations—lets call them the bodies—responsible for what happened to me prohibit me from discussing, in any public or recordable format (I know this bit by heart), the nature and/or details of the incident, on pain of forfeiting all financial reparations made to me, plus any surplus these might have accrued (a good word that, “accrued”) while in my custody—and forfeiting quite possibly, my lawyer told me in a solemn voice, a whole lot more besides. Closing the loop, so to speak.

The Settlement. That word: Settlement. Set-l-ment. As I lay abject, supine, tractioned and trussed up, all sorts of tubes and wires pumping one thing into my body and sucking another out, electronic metronomes and bellows making this speed up and that slow down, their beeping and rasping playing me, running through my useless flesh and organs like sea water through a sponge—during the months I spent in hospital, this word planted itself in me and grew. Settlement. It wormed its way into my coma: Greg must have talked about it to me when he came round to gawk at what the accident had left. As the no-space of complete oblivion stretched and contracted itself into gritty shapes and scenes in my unconscious head—sports stadiums mainly, running tracks and cricket pitches—over which a commentators voice was playing, inviting me to commentate along with him, the word entered the commentary: wed discuss the Settlement, though neither of us knew what it entailed. Weeks later, after Id emerged from coma, come off the drip-feed and been put onto mushy solids, Id think of the words middle bit, the -l-, each time I tried to swallow. The Settlement made me gag before it gagged me: thats for sure.

Later still, during the weeks I sat in bed able to think and talk but not yet to remember anything about myself, the Settlement was held up to me as a future strong enough to counterbalance my no-past, a moment that would make me better, whole, complete. When most of my past had eventually returned, in instalments, like back episodes of some mundane soap opera, but I still couldnt walk, the nurses said the Settlement would put me back on my feet. Marc Daubenay would visit and brief me about our progress towards Settlement while I sat in plaster waiting for my bones to set. After hed left Id sit and think of sets—six games in tennis or how- ever many matching cups and plates, the scenery in theatres, patterns. Id think of remote settlements in ancient times, village outposts crouching beneath hostile skies. Id think of people—dancers, maybe, or soldiers—crouching, set, waiting for some event to start.

Later, much later, the Settlement came through. Id been out of hospital for four months, out of physiotherapy for one. I was living on my own on the edge of Brixton, in a one-bedroom flat. I wasnt working. The company Id been with up until the accident, a market-research outfit, had said theyd give me paid sick leave until May. It was April. I didnt feel like going back to work. I didnt feel like doing anything. I wasnt doing anything. I passed my days in the most routine of activities: getting up and washing, walking to the shops and back again, reading the papers, sitting in my flat. Sometimes I watched TV, but not much; even that seemed too proactive. Occasionally Id take the tube up to Angel, to Marc Daubenays office. Mostly I just sat in my flat, doing nothing. I was thirty years old.

On the day the Settlement came through, I did have something to do: I had to go and meet a friend at Heathrow Airport. An old friend. She was flying in from Africa. I was just about to leave my flat when the phone rang. It was Daubenays secretary. I picked the phone up and her voice said:

“Olanger and Daubenay. Marc Daubenays office. Putting you through.”

“Sorry?” I said.

“Putting you through,” she said again.

I remember feeling dizzy. Things I dont understand make me feel dizzy. Ive learnt to do things slowly since the accident, understanding every move, each part of what Im doing. I didnt choose to do things like this: its the only way I can do them. If I dont understand words, I have one of my staff look them up. That day back in April when Daubenays secretary phoned, I didnt have staff, and anyway they wouldnt have helped in that instance. I didnt know who the you was she was putting through—Daubenay or me. A trivial distinction, you might say, but the uncertainty still made me dizzy. I placed my hand against my living-room wall.

Daubenays voice came on the line after a few seconds:

“Hello?” it said.

“Hello,” I said back.

“Its come through,” said Daubenay.

“Yes, its me,” I answered. “That was just your secretary putting us through. Now its me.”

“Listen,” said Daubenay. His voice was excited; he hadnt taken in what Id just said. “Listen: theyve capitulated.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Who? Them! The other side. Theyve caved in.”

“Oh,” I said. I stood there with my hand against the wall. The wall was yellow, I remember.

“Theyve approached us,” Daubenay continued, “with a deal whose terms are very strong each way.”

“What are the terms?” I asked.

“For your part,” he told me, “you cant discuss the accident in any public arena or in any recordable format. To all intents and purposes, you must forget it ever happened.”

“Ive already forgotten,” I said. “I never had any memory of it in the first place.”

This was true, as I mentioned earlier. The last clear memory I have is of being buffeted by wind twenty or so minutes before I was hit.

“They dont care about that,” Daubenay said. “Thats not what they mean. What they mean is that you must accept that, in law, it ceases to be actionable.”

I thought about that for a while until I understood it. Then I asked him:

“How much are they paying me?”

“Eight and a half million,” Daubenay said.

“Pounds?” I asked.

“Pounds,” Daubenay repeated. “Eight and a half million pounds.”

It took another second or so for me to take in just how much money that was. When I had, I took my hand off the wall and turned suddenly around, towards the window. The movement was so forceful that it pulled the phone wire with it, yanked it right out of the wall. The whole connection came out: the wire, the flat-headed bit that you plug in and the casing of the hole that that plugs into too. It even brought some of the internal wiring that runs through the wall out with it, all dotted and flecked with crumbly, fleshy bits of plaster.

“Hello?” I said.

It was no good: the connection had been cut. I stood there for some time, I dont know how long, holding the dead receiver in my hand and looking down at what the wall had spilt. It looked kind of disgusting, like something thats come out of something.

The horn of a passing car made me snap to. I left my flat and hurried down to a phone box to call Marc Daubenay back. The nearest one was just round the corner, on Coldharbour Lane. As I crossed my road and walked down the one lying perpendicular to it, I thought about the sum: eight and a half million. I pictured it in my mind, its shape. The eight was perfect, neat: a curved figure infinitely turning back into itself. But then the half. Why had they added the half? It seemed to me so messy, this half: a leftover fragment, a shard of detritus. When my knee-cap had set after being shattered in the accident, one tiny splinter had stayed loose. The doctors hadnt managed to fish it out, so it just floated around beside the ball, redundant, surplus to requirements; sometimes it got jammed between the ball and its socket and messed up the whole joint, locking it, inflaming nerves and muscles. I remember picturing the sums leftover fraction, the half, as I walked down the street that day, picturing it as the splinter in my knee, and frowning, thinking: Eight alone would have been better.

Other than that, I felt neutral. Id been told the Settlement would put me back together, kick-start my new life, but I didnt feel any different, fundamentally, from when before Marc Daubenays secretary had phoned. I looked around me at the sky: it was neutral too—a neutral spring day, sunny but not bright, neither cold nor warm. I passed my Fiesta, which was parked halfway down the street, and looked at its dented left rear side. Someone had crashed into me in Peckham and then driven off, a month or so before the accident. Id meant to get it fixed, but since coming out of hospital it had seemed irrelevant, like most other things, so the bodywork behind its left rear wheel had stayed dented and crinkled.

At the end of the road perpendicular to mine I turned right, crossing the street. Beside me was a house that, ten or so months previously, two months before the accident, the police had swooped on with a firearms team. Theyd been looking for someone and had got a tip-off, I suppose. Theyd laid siege to this house, cordoning off the road on either side while marksmen stood in bullet-proof vests behind vans and lampposts, pointing rifles at the windows. It was as I passed across the stretch of road theyd made into a no mans land for that short while that I realized that I didnt have Marc Daubenays number on me.

I stopped right in the middle of the road. There was no traffic. Before heading back towards my flat to get the number I paused for a while, I dont know how long, and stood in what had been the marksmens sightlines. I turned the palms of my hands outwards, closed my eyes and thought about that memory of just before the accident, being buffeted by wind. Remembering it sent a tingling from the top of my legs to my shoulders and right up into my neck. It lasted for just a moment—but while it did I felt not-neutral. I felt different, intense: both intense and serene at the same time. I remember feeling this way very well: standing there, passive, with my palms turned outwards, feeling intense and serene.

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suziehanra, January 22, 2012 (view all comments by suziehanra)
This book is unlike anything I have ever read. If you are tired of picking up contemporary fiction and finding that you've read the same story a million times before, then try Remainder. Ironically, Remainder, a true original, is a book about recreation, reenactment, and copying. A man overcoming amnesia copies into real life a memory of a forgotten place and forgotten people. He hires actors, buys an apartment building, and will go to any cost to recreate the life he believes he may have once had. But soon this is not enough for him. Soon he needs to recreate not just memory but real life, the things he sees or hears about happening around him--taking out the trash, then an accident, then a robbery--and thats not all. This book escalates like no other, as the recreations--and the protagonist's NEED to recreate--become more and more urgent, so does the reader's urge to find out how he will resolve this impossible desire. The ending is a shock and does not disappoint, but you don't have to wait till the end to be thrilled by what's written on every page.

Though this is one of the strangest and, content-wise, most daring books I've ever read, there's nothing so-called "experimental" in its language or structure to put off even the most mainstream reader. You don't need a dictionary to read this book, and you don't need a month to get through it. It's a quick, easy read, while also being one of the most puzzling and complex stories you will have ever encountered. McCarthy's handling of the escalation in the character and the story is pretty amazing, and his first-person narrator follows a perfectly-balanced sense of awareness, contemplation, and emotional reaction. It never gets sentimental, it never feels forced, it never feels gimmicky or too-clever, nor is this almost-unbelievable story ever unbelievable.

HIGHLY recommended, I got my brother to read this book and he has not picked up a work of fiction for 10 years!
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vanityclear, September 20, 2011 (view all comments by vanityclear)
Loved this book. McCarthy took a standard premise for a book (amnesia) and spun out a brilliant tale that reads like a dream. Really, I felt like I hallucinated it, the text so closely mirrored my thoughts. Read it. Read it now. Read it all in one sitting. Just go.
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Michael B Padrick, January 26, 2011 (view all comments by Michael B Padrick)
One of the strangest - and one of the best - books I've read in years. Hands down: if you like your fiction thoughtful, this book is certainly for you. Excellent.
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Product Details

McCarthy, Tom
Vintage Books USA
Wiles, Will
Accident victims
Literature-A to Z
fiction;novel;memory;england;amnesia;debut;literature;london;21st century;2000s;literary fiction;british;surrealism
Edition Description:
Vintage Originals
Publication Date:
Grade Level:
8.02x5.24x.69 in. .65 lbs.

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Remainder (Vintage Originals) Used Trade Paper
0 stars - 0 reviews
$9.50 In Stock
Product details 304 pages Vintage Books USA - English 9780307278357 Reviews:
"Staff Pick" by ,

Would you trade memories for money? What if you didn't have a choice? If you didn't remember what caused your memory loss, how would you spend the settlement that resulted? In Tom McCarthy's Remainder, the unnamed man chooses to recapture imagined visions in an actual setting. He uses his settlement to recreate these images (a place, people, events) with the aid of hired help.

"Publishers Weekly Review" by , "McCarthy's debut novel, set in London, takes a clever conceit and pumps it up with vibrant prose to such great effect that the narrative's pointlessness is nearly a non-issue. The unnamed narrator, who suffers memory loss as the result of an accident that 'involved something falling from the sky,' receives an £8.5 million settlement and uses the money to re-enact, with the help of a 'facilitator' he hires, things remembered or imagined. He buys an apartment building to replicate one that has come to him in a vision and then populates it with people hired to re-enact, over and over again, the mundane activities he has seen his imaginary neighbors performing. He stages both ordinary acts (the fixing of a punctured tire) and violent ones (shootings and more), each time repeating the events many times and becoming increasingly detached from reality and fascinated by the scenarios his newfound wealth has allowed him to create even though he professes he doesn't 'want to understand them.' McCarthy's evocation of the narrator's absorption in his fantasy world as it cascades out of control is brilliant all the way through the abrupt climax." Publishers Weekly (Copyright Reed Business Information, Inc.)
"Review" by , "Tom McCarthy's first novel offers a vivid, subtle portrait of creeping madness."
"Review" by , "Londoner McCarthy delivers crisp, precise prose, though his offbeat tale might have been rendered in far fewer words."
"Review" by , "A stunningly strange book about the rarest of fictional subjects, happiness."
"Review" by , "Remainder is a beautifully strange and chilly book. Bloody, cold, and more tasty than you'd probably like to admit. It's a very smart yet completely unpretentious novel, and unlike anything else you're likely to read for quite some time."
"Review" by , "Remainder [is] more than an entertaining brain-teaser: it's a work of novelistic philosophy, as disturbing as it is funny."
"Review" by , " a book to be read and then reread, rich as it is with its insights, daring as it is with its contradictions."
"Review" by , "As in the best amnesiac stories...writer Tom McCarthy holds a wry, deadpan tone cleanly throughout. He helps things along by picking out just the right amount to detail."
"Synopsis" by , For fans of Nicholson Baker and Tom McCarthy, this British debut novel is brilliant, comically surreal entertainment about a housesitting gig gone terribly, hilariously wrong. Like Edgar Allen Poe scripting The Odd Couple, or if Kafkas The Trial had to do with home repair. Waterstones calls it "a black comedy about death, destruction, and interior decoration."
"Synopsis" by , A witty debut novel about a housesitting gig gone terribly, hilariously wrong.


A British copywriter stays for a week at his composer friend Oskars elegant, ultramodern apartment in a glum Eastern European city. The instructions are simple: feed the cats, dont touch the piano, and make sure nothing harms the priceless wooden floors. Content for the first time in ages, he accidentally spills some wine. Over the course of a week, both the apartment and the narrators sanity fall apart in this original and “weirdly addictive” (Daily Mail) novel.


As the situation in and out of the sleek apartment spirals out of control, more of Oskars notes appear, taking on an insistent—even sinister—tone. Care of Wooden Floors is a must-read for anyone whos ever bungled a housesitting gig, or felt inferior to a perfectionist friend—that is to say, all of us.

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