My name is Jules Hooker. I have lived through a few crappy moments in my life—and with a name like Hooker, you can just imagine—but nothing, nothing, compares to the two intensely and world-shatteringly crappy things that happened to me this last June. Three, I guess, if you count Gilbert. After my boyfriend dumped me on the day I thought he was going to propose, I’d have to say two other really bad things happened last June. The first would have to be the dead body I discovered in the rental house in France where I went to get over being dumped. The second—and very possibly I should have led with this—was the dirty bomb that exploded over the Riviera throwing me and everyone else in France back to the 1950s. So now I’m stranded here—trying to make a living by solving murders the old fashioned way — without help from DNA, databases, CSI crime labs or the police. And I’m doing it in France. Where I do not speak the language. During the apocalypse. Sound like fun?
"My name is Jules Hooker. I have lived through a few crappy moments in my life-and with a name like Hooker, you can just imagine-but nothing, nothing, compares to the two intensely and world-shatteringly crappy things that happened to me this last June.Three, I guess, if you count Gilbert.After my ex-boyfriend dumped me on the day I thought he was going to propose, I'd have to say the other two really bad things that happened last June would have to be the dead body I discovered in the rental house in France where I went to get over being dumped, and lastly-and very possibly I should have led with this-the dirty bomb that exploded over the Mediterranean throwing me and everyone else in France back to the 1950s.Oh. And did I mention I'm more or less stuck here now?"
Murder is murder no matter how you pronounce itTrying to learn a foreign language can be murder-especially when your French tutor is strangled to death hours after your last lesson and your best friend is arrested for the crime.Normally that wouldn't be a problem for stranded super sleuth and intrepid expat Jules Hooker except she just got her ONE chance to go back to the US and sticking around to help a pal means she's back to being stranded in a foreign country with no lights, no language skills and no real future. Will she give up her chance to go home? Will she continue to step on the toes of the handsome village police chief in order to help free her friend? And finally, will Jules find out who the murderer is before the killer decides to permanently eliminate one very pesky very stubborn American sleuth?
One thing you can say about the apocalypse, the traffic problem seems to be solved But that’s about all, especially for one American ex-pat stranded in France and trying to make the best of it. When a fellow American at the nearby alien detention camp is accused of murdering her French lover it’s up to Jules to prove she didn’t do it. Jules will travel to Aix-en-Provence to see how her countrywoman was forced to live after the lights turned off, to uncover the people who betrayed her—and why—and finally to confront the ruthless female warden of the alien detention camp who is determined to make her American prisoner pay—not just for the murdered Frenchman, but for the apocalypse itself.
When Maggie’s old high school friend Lanie Morrison is murdered on the Côte d’Azur while auditioning for the hit TV travel show “Americans See Europe,” Maggie is forced to break away from village life and brand new motherhood to find her killer. She soon learns that before she can find out who murdered Lanie, Maggie will need to uncover the terrible secret that was literally the death of her friend. When she does, Maggie learns the hard way that some things were better left alone.
When her sister dies, Atlanta copywriter Maggie Newberry flies to the south of France to find the little niece that no one in the family even knew existed. Along the way, she finds handsome sexy Frenchman Laurent Dernier to help with the search. Meanwhile, her sister’s murderer sets his sights on the little girl—and Maggie.
First published in Germany in 1929, The End and the Beginning is a lively personal memoir of a vanished world and of a rebellious, high-spirited young woman's struggle to achieve independence. Born in 1883 into a distinguished and wealthy aristocratic family of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire, Hermynia Zur Muhlen spent much of her childhood travelling in Europe and North Africa with her diplomat father. After five years on her German husband's estate in czarist Russia she broke with both her family and her husband and set out on a precarious career as a professional writer committed to socialism. Besides translating many leading contemporary authors, notably Upton Sinclair, into German, she herself published an impressive number of politically engaged novels, detective stories, short stories, and children's fairy tales. Because of her outspoken opposition to National Socialism, she had to flee her native Austria in 1938 and seek refuge in England, where she died, virtually penniless, in 1951. This revised and corrected translation of Zur Muhlen's memoir - with extensive notes and an essay on the author by Lionel Gossman - will appeal especially to readers interested in women's history, the Central European aristocratic world that came to an end with the First World War, and the culture and politics of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
One evening some friends were gathered at the home of one of our most celebrated writers. Having dined sumptuously, they were discussing murder—apropos of what, I no longer remember probably apropos of nothing. Only men were present: moralists, poets, philosophers and doctors—thus everyone could speak freely, according to his whim, his hobby or his idiosyncrasies, without fear of suddenly seeing that expression of horror and fear which the least startling idea traces upon the horrified face of a notary. I—say notary, much as I might have said lawyer or porter, not disdainfully, of course, but in order to define the average French mind. With a calmness of spirit as perfect as though he were expressing an opinion upon the merits of the cigar he was smoking, a member of the Academy of Moral and Political Sciences said: “Really—I honestly believe that murder is the greatest human preoccupation, and that all our acts stem from it... “ We awaited the pronouncement of an involved theory, but he remained silent. “Absolutely!” said a Darwinian scientist, “and, my friend, you are voicing one of those eternal truths such as the legendary Monsieur de La Palisse discovered every day: since murder is the very bedrock of our social institutions, and consequently the most imperious necessity of civilized life. If it no longer existed, there would be no governments of any kind, by virtue of the admirable fact that crime in general and murder in particular are not only their excuse, but their only reason for being. We should then live in complete anarchy, which is inconceivable. So, instead of seeking to eliminate murder, it is imperative that it be cultivated with intelligence and perseverance. I know no better culture medium than law.” Someone protested. “Here, here!” asked the savant, “aren't we alone, and speaking frankly?” “Please!” said the host, “let us profit thoroughly by the only occasion when we are free to express our personal ideas, for both I, in my books, and you in your turn, may present only lies to the public.” The scientist settled himself once more among the cushions of his armchair, stretched his legs, which were numb from being crossed too long and, his head thrown back, his arms hanging and his stomach soothed by good digestion, puffed smoke−rings at the ceiling: “Besides,” he continued, “murder is largely self−propagating. Actually, it is not the result of this or that passion, nor is it a pathological form of degeneracy. It is a vital instinct which is in us all—which is in all organized beings and dominates them, just as the genetic instinct. And most of the time it is especially true that these two instincts fuse so well, and are so totally interchangeable, that in some way or other they form a single and identical instinct, so that we no longer may tell which of the two urges us to give life, and which to take it—which is murder, and which love. I have been the confidant of an honorable assassin who killed women, not to rob them, but to ravish them. His trick was to manage things so that his sexual climax coincided exactly with the death−spasm of the woman: 'At those moments,' he told me, 'I imagined I was a God, creating a world!”
Murder in Paris takes Maggie back to Paris for a very personal sojourn. This time it's all on the line for our intrepid ex-pat—with a murder that happens close to her—and for a reason that not even the deceased's nearest and dearest would ever suspect. For a woman who loves fashion, there is no place on earth more exciting than Paris where the clothes are to die for and everyone you meet is dressed to kill. Maggie’s visit to the City of Light in the midst of Paris Fashion Week turns into a nightmare when she witnesses a murder within her own family. Determined to find out who the killer is—before her husband’s patience and her marriage expires—Maggie steps into the glittering world of fashion as cutthroat and vicious as any drug cartel. It could be Maggie’s grandest hour–if she can survive it.
‘A true comic genius’ Ian Hislop ‘Ridiculously funny’ Joanna Lumley Bonjour toutes les personnes! Welcome to the wonderful world of Franglais. The trouble with French is that there are far too few English words in it. Miles Kington – the critic, columnist, and creator of Franglais – puts that right. His magnificent new language can be understood by almost anyone who failed GCSE French. If you passed GCSE French it could be tricky, but do try anyway. So achetez! Lisez! Et enjoy! Merci beaucoup. ‘What a truly gifted, consistently funny writer’ Maureen Lipman ‘Utterly charming and extremely funny’ Independent Miles Kington was one of Britain’s most renowned and best loved journalists. Born in County Down, he grew up in Wales and was educated in Scotland, which was all a big mistake as he was actually English. A presenter, playwright, polymath and wit, he wrote columns for The Times, the Independent, Punch and The Oldie. His other acclaimed titles include Someone Like Me, How Shall I Tell the Dog? and The Franglais Lieutenant’s Woman.
