For some, he was a four-legged animal while for others; he was a dog without a tail. For most people, he was a man who walked with the help of crutches. But for himself,he was a “Crutchman” whose extraordinary power was his “will power”. Welcome to the world of Akash – who, in spite of his disability, strives hard with the help of his two friends, Darsh and Nakul to create his own destiny. Darsh had fallen for a girl whom he had met on a blind date while Nakul’s eyes were set on a married woman. Although each one of them had their own issues to deal with, their viewpoint towards one thing was common: and that was finding a JOB – which they believed stood for ‘Joker of Boss’.Will their crazy business ideas help them conquer the world? Or will they succumb to the pressure of betrayal, corruption and hardship that comes their way while chasing their dreams?
When Gulf War veteran Jim Asher joins the Senate campaign of a California business magnate, his all-American dream world begins to collapse as he must face up to his excesses, his indiscretions, and the person he has unwillingly become.
POLO IS NOT JUST THE GAME OF KINGS. IT’S A BLOOD SPORT IN THE PERFECT 10. The final of the US Open is just days away, and Juancito Harrington, the world’s best polo player, is found dead in a posh Palm Beach hotel suite. The good news is that Palm Beach P.D. quickly identifies the trophy wife of Juancito’s team owner as the primary suspect. The bad news is that everyone in polo knows that Kelly Dick doesn’t murder her lovers. She recycles them. Only one man can crack the case: Rick Hunt, a West Point graduate currently assigned to the White House. Hunt is no detective, but he’s a lifelong polo player who needs no introduction to the world’s top pros. Or his ex-fiancée. Or her new boyfriend, an old teammate with a score to settle.
This volume includes entries on every Jewish member of Congress. Each entry identifies the member's political party and the years of service, provides a biographical sketch, often numbering several pages, and includes references for further study. This is the most comprehensive and extensive resource on the legacy of Jewish representation and influence in the United States Congress.
The moon hangs low and full, her silvery light reflecting in the facets of black choppy water. Blue and I sit in the cockpit of a sailboat. My eyes scan the open ocean while female Peshmerga fighters sleep all around me—below deck, across benches on the bow, and one curled up on the stern. I cup my pregnant belly, allowing myself room to grieve in this peaceful moment. Rida saved my life… and I got her killed. My old story starts to ride its rails: Everyone I love dies. Tears thicken my throat. My dog, Blue, sitting by my feet, leans more heavily against my leg. I sink my fingers into the thick ruff across his broad shoulders, finding some peace in the warmth there. Blue doesn't die. Rida did, though. Shot in the back. Killed in an instant. The faces of others I've lost crowd my mind's eye. My brother, James, grins at me like he knows all my secrets. Malina winks, her eyes sparkling with joy. I got them killed too… I spawned the lies Rida used to start a revolution. Right before she died, Rida told me my lies were truth, that she was a messenger from God, and so was I. Because we are all divine. Bunch of nonsense. But Rida's lies lent strength to women, offering them the opportunity to recognize their worth. Her words freed women who'd believed other lies about our gender. That we are dangerous and in danger. More nonsense. But women believed Rida's new story instead of the old ones…fascinating how much power belief lends reality. Rida claimed to be a prophet, to have heard the voice of God, and that He said women were equal, and should rise-up and claim their rightful positions next to men. But it wasn't God, it was a very brain damaged me. The lies took on a life of their own, as they so often do. Fueled by enough belief, a well told lie—fiction—can change the world. The boat rocks gently, the sail filled by a fresh gust of wind. We are in international waters off the coast of France, fleeing. This is how my life as Sydney Rye began. Blue and I in a boat, escaping New York City. But it’s no longer just us two. My son shifts inside me as if he can sense my thoughts of him…and maybe he can. The connection I feel to my son is not something I can articulate. Maybe because I’m afraid of what it sounds like. It sounds like a bunch of nonsense. I've always insisted that faith in a God, in a deity outside myself is dangerous. I always held myself responsible. Insisted that I choose to save lives, often by taking others. I made those choices. No God told me what to do, or absolved me of my actions. Those beliefs brought me here, to this boat, to this life growing inside of me. To a grief as deep as the sea beneath me. Is there a way forward without bloodshed? Can I break this curse and hold onto the ones I love without giving up and just letting the world spin on without me? It's all the trying that gets people killed. But every time I stop… they suck me back in. Lightning flashes in the distance and I look at Blue, he doesn't react to the storm I see hovering on the horizon. It lives in my damaged brain. A lie I'm telling myself. I smile, humor in the absurd thinning the blanket of grief cloaking me. Thunder rumbles and a voice whispers within it. Burn it all down. Images spring to life inside my mind's eye. A web of lies suspends humanity in a constant struggle, each of us flies buzzing against the spider's perfectly designed snare—the more we fight, the stronger the web holds. Each of us entangling ourselves further, twisting the silk tighter, holding us in our singular perspective. But even if we don't fight, the web still holds—it does not release when we surrender. There is no escape…except to destroy the web. To burn it down.
Why do Americans read contemporary fiction? This question seems simple, but is it? Do Americans read for the purpose of aesthetic appreciation? To satisfy their own insatiable intellectual curiosities? While other forms of media have come to monopolize consumers’ leisure time, in the past two decades book clubs have proliferated, Amazon has sponsored thriving online discussions, Oprah Winfrey has inspired millions of viewers to read both contemporary works and classics, and novels have retained their devoted following within middlebrow communities. In Reading as Therapy, Timothy Aubry argues that contemporary fiction serves primarily as a therapeutic tool for lonely, dissatisfied middle-class American readers, one that validates their own private dysfunctions while supporting elusive communities of strangers unified by shared feelings. Aubry persuasively makes the case that contemporary literature’s persistent appeal depends upon its capacity to perform a therapeutic function. Aubry traces the growth and proliferation of psychological concepts focused on the subjective interior within mainstream, middle-class society and the impact this has had on contemporary fiction. The prevailing tendency among academic critics has been to decry the personal emphasis of contemporary fiction as complicit with the rise of a narcissistic culture, the ascendency of liberal individualism, and the breakdown of public life. Reading as Therapy, by contrast, underscores the varied ideological effects that therapeutic culture can foster. To uncover the many unpredictable ways in which contemporary literature answers the psychological needs of its readers, Aubry considers several different venues of reader-response—including Oprah’s Book Club and Amazon customer reviews—the promotional strategies of publishing houses, and a variety of contemporary texts, ranging from Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner to Anita Shreve’s The Pilot’s Wife to David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest. He concludes that, in the face of an atomistic social landscape, contemporary fiction gives readers a therapeutic vocabulary that both reinforces the private sphere and creates surprising forms of sympathy and solidarity among strangers.
