Telegraph Avenue: A Novel
Michael Chabon
Language: English
Pages: 496
ISBN: 006149335X
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
“An immensely gifted writer and magical prose stylist.”
—Michiko Kakutani, New York Times
New York Times bestselling, Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist Michael Chabon has transported readers to wonderful places: to New York City during the Golden Age of comic books (The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay); to an imaginary Jewish homeland in Sitka, Alaska (The Yiddish Policemen’s Union); to discover The Mysteries of Pittsburgh. Now he takes us to Telegraph Avenue in a big-hearted and exhilarating novel that explores the profoundly intertwined lives of two Oakland, California families, one black and one white. In Telegraph Avenue, Chabon lovingly creates a world grounded in pop culture—Kung Fu, ’70s Blaxploitation films, vinyl LPs, jazz and soul music—and delivers a bravura epic of friendship, race, and secret histories.
items on the shelf behind the register in its paper sleeve. Archy slid it out, held it up to the window, watching the daylight flow like water across the shimmer of the grooves. A Very Fine example of a scarce release, believed to be among the smallest runs of all CTI pressings. He laid the record on the turntable’s platter and cued the first track, a cover of “I Don’t Know How to Love Him” from Jesus Christ Superstar. Cochise Jones always liked to play against your expectations of a song, to
running a hotel, either, or a halfway house, or a B&B. Titus made a wild experiment. “Grampa,” he tried. The word sounded exotic on his lips, unlikely, as though it referred to something mythical or long extinct. “One step at a time,” Luther said. “If that,” said Archy, and Valletta said, “That’s right.” “Go on,” Luther said. “We’ll see you again.” In one final, loose-limbed access of emotion, Titus went slack as a child and groaned. Then he stood up straight and rolled, walking like
his bicycle behind your Dumpster, in the, uh, honeysuckle bush? He has to hide it there because, okay, when he was living in Mrs. Wiggins’s house? Around the corner on Forty-second? Stuff kept happening to his bike. I guess there’s a lot of people living there?” “Miss Wiggins.” He could tell that she knew which house he meant. “Okay.” “Like one time somebody took it and, like, rode it. And they broke it. And another time somebody sold it to buy drugs, and Titus had to steal it back. So he
Schulz, New York magazine “Chabon not only knows how [his characters] feel, but how they talk. His dialogue is a thing to behold, the plot unrelenting. And I can’t imagine any writer, male or female, ever delivering a more breathtaking description of a woman giving birth. Some midwife, this Chabon.” —Dan Cryer, Newsday Credits COVER DESIGN BY WILL STAEHLE Copyright Telegraph Avenue Copyright © 2012 by Michael Chabon. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American
She stood up and paced the room, stopped, hugged herself, notching her arms into the groove over the swell of her abdomen. She sat down, stood up, blew her nose again, and paced the room some more. She knew perfectly well there was nothing anyone could have done, but somehow that only made it feel more imperative to blame herself. It implied no kind of self-exoneration if she felt compelled to blame some other people, too. “I can’t believe they aren’t letting us in there!” “Take it easy,” Aviva