Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
With Lookout Cartridge, Joseph McElroy established a reputation as one of contemporary fiction's foremost innovators and deft observers into the fissures of modern society. It is a novel of dazzling intricacy, absorbing suspense, and the highest ambition: to redeem the great claim of paranoia on the American psyche.
In trying to figure out just who is so threatened by an innocent piece of cinema verité filmed in collaboration with a friend, Cartwright finds himself at the heart of a mystery stretching from New York and London to Corsica and Stonehenge. With each new fact he gathers, both the intricacy of the syndicate arrayed against him and what his search will cost him become alarmingly clear.
you’ll see like linear pressures the secret smokes from unupgraded incinerators of colorful old residence hotels or textile firms where, say, in a cutting room on one high floor past six windows one long unrolled bolt flashes its pigment) I kept catching myself assuming the red-haired woman was Jan Aut. At nine forty-five the next morning I descended the subway steps. It was turning cold. Again, I had not dreamt of the lookout, though for a moment in the night I’d seen Lorna smudged by black
know you—in the boldest adult way—just as Jenny noticed under Dudley’s raincoat, which Jane had undone the top button of to get a ballpoint, a V-neck sweater just like the one Jenny with her own hands had packed in our filmed suitcase. Jane said, Don’t I know you? Reid said, Not unless you’re from Ridgefield, Connecticut (which, said Jenny, was nonsense because Reid in fact had masses of friends in London). But Jane said, In the park once and once in Regent Street—and she changed the subject to
a German pure and simple at a time like that, says Tessa’s father. To find a real countryside set in the middle of the greatest city in Europe—real country with hills and lakes and none of these child molesters standing in the trees—the city invisible all around you. Hills, streams, thickets. Gemütlichkeit, says Dudley. Why the hell not, Lorna retorts. Shtip, my dear friend, says Dr. Zeidel, starting a slow cycle of finger-shakes, means first of all a push—a shtip in di tzen, a push in the
I could be holed up in another part of London for a fortnight and not even be in America. Bringing a present from the PX in Ruislip on the outskirts of London or the Navy place near the Embassy was like bringing a present from the States. But Jenny wanted something else. I cut back through the camera shop, I would meet Claire as arranged. The man was outside the other door looking up the block, but behind the counter now was evidently the proprietor, a white-haired broad swarthy man in very dark
like Dagger’s; the half-frame means on a thirty-six-exposure roll you get seventy-two shots, said Dag, and it was one of my bad days and I said to him, What if they’re lousy? At the avenue door through which I’d first entered, I was weighed back by a thing in my eyes and chest like the damned sickness in my wrist when I fell off a ladder in Highgate and Lorna couldn’t stop laughing and Jenny ran to me and cried. (My Maine grandfather died not in his boat casting for lake bass but in a hotel.) A