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Get in Trouble: Stories by Kelly Link
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Get in Trouble: Stories (edition 2015)

by Kelly Link

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1,1397517,396 (3.79)89
A collection of short stories features tales of a young girl who plays caretaker to mysterious guests at the cottage behind her house and a former teen idol who becomes involved in a bizarre reality show.
Member:prophetandmistress
Title:Get in Trouble: Stories
Authors:Kelly Link
Info:Random House (2015), Hardcover, 352 pages
Collections:Your library
Rating:
Tags:fiction, short stories, josh

Work Information

Get in Trouble: Stories by Kelly Link

  1. 10
    Stranger Things Happen: Stories by Kelly Link (libron)
    libron: STH is Link at her best; GIT is a bit uneven, unsatisfying by comparison
  2. 00
    Cat Pictures Please and Other Stories by Naomi Kritzer (LAKobow)
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Showing 1-5 of 77 (next | show all)
This is a short story collection by an author with a startling imagination - trouble is my tastes & her imagination run on different tracks. I'm not a fan of magic, and so these were never going to be right up my street. Of the collection, the ones I enjoyed the most were The Summer People and The Two Houses. The former has a house populated by some "other" people taken care of by a school girl while the two houses is set on a spaceship heading to another planet when the crew are woken up for a party and tell ghost stories. What happened to the other ship and which of the two houses was the original mean that you're always left of balance. That's the sensation a lot of these stories give, a sense that the characters are not really in control. There are any number of parallel universes and odd creatures in here, but, to do the author credit, her mini worlds do seem self consistent, she plays fair with the characters and the stories they tell. If your tolerance for magic is higher than mine, you may well find this right up your street. ( )
  Helenliz | Mar 24, 2024 |
Dazzling tales full of gothic discomfort and surreal scenarios
Stuart Kelly
The Guardian
25 Feb 2015

In terms of celebrity author endorsements, Kelly Link’s new collection of stories is really rather remarkable. The dust jacket and inside pages read like a roll call of contemporary writers: Jonathan Lethem, Neil Gaiman, Michael Chabon, Audrey Niffenegger, Alice Sebold, Téa Obreht and more. The expectations raised by the fact that all these writers could broadly be categorised as fabulists rather than naturalists are fulfilled in the stories themselves. There are children born with two shadows, a fad for contemporary sarcophagi and mausoleums in the Egyptian style, plagues of iguanas and narcolepsy, and statues of supervillains carved from butter. But they are never gratingly whimsical as some work in this form can be, nor do the necessary conceits and conventions of the supernatural stories overwhelm their emotional realism.

One distinctive aspect of Link’s stories is that although fantastical events do occur, they occur in a world like ours where people consume fantasy culture. Link’s previous collection in the UK, Pretty Monsters, began to explore this territory with “Magic for Beginners”, a story about a Buffyesque series and its fanatically loyal fans, and this interweaving of fictional horror and genuine eeriness is developed and deepened here. The second story, “I Can See Right Through You”, features a “demon lover”. In this case, he is an ageing actor most famous for playing a toothsome vampire in a film aimed at teenage girls, currently recovering from the leak of an embarrassing sex tape, who meets up with his former co‑star and lover, now the director of reality TV shows about hauntings. In “The New Boyfriend”, the current slough of “paranormal romance” is twitted again: a girl seethes with resentment that her spoiled friend gets a new “Ghost Boyfriend” for her birthday, when she already has a “Vampire Boyfriend” and a “Werewolf Boyfriend”. There is a running joke in “Secret Identity” that the hotel where an underage girl is meeting her older online lover for the first time is hosting a conference of dentists and superheroes: can you guess, she wonders, which is which? Link plays on anxieties about social media and digital disconnect, and often the protagonist is a girl who is physically maturing but emotionally vulnerable, usually on the verge of the age of consent.

There is a danger with a collection like this that the reader is primed for the weird: nothing is as easily expected as the unexpected. Link manages to avoid this in various ways: the first story, “Summer People”, features two young girls of different social classes, the poorer of whom acts not just as housekeeper to vacation visitors, but as the servant of a more eldritch kind of “summer personage”. These beings are sketched beautifully – whimsical, dangerous, inventive, obsessed with clockwork toys and decoration, similar to the “gnoles” depicted in stories by Lord Dunsany and Margaret St Clair, but with effectively jarring interruptions of modernity, like fluorescent modern makeup on a pre-Raphaelite painting. A story such as “The Lesson” keeps hinting that something uncanny will happen, but foregrounds the lives of a gay couple and the premature birth of their surrogate child while they attend a friend’s island wedding. The details of the dangers facing a child born at 24 weeks – “Sometimes a tracheotomy is required. Supplemental oxygen. Blood transfusions. There is a price to pay for all these interventions. There is a cost. Cerebral palsy is a risk. Brain bleeds. Scarring of the lungs. Loss of vision. Necrotising enterocolitis” – are infinitely more frightening than the stuffed “Bad Claw” beaver in the bedroom. Even within this mostly realist story, Link finds a twist on the ghost story, one of immense and plangent pity.

“Two Houses” may be set on an interstellar flight, but it plays with the traditional campfire ghost story. It centres on an ingenious experiment, worthy of MR James or Ramsey Campbell: an avant-garde artist ships an entire cabin from America to England, rebuilds it, then builds an exact copy next to it. There are bloodstains in both cabins. Will the perfect recreation create its own ghost? How this is folded back into the sci-fi setting is both precise and understated.

It is difficult to label Link’s work. She has the gothic discomfort of Shirley Jackson; many of these stories could be filed under “New Weird”; like Robert Shearman she conjures surreal circumstances then twists them in unexpected, excessive ways. Link’s prose and ideas dazzle; so much so that you don’t see the swift elbow to the emotional solar plexus coming until it’s far, far too late.
---------------------
Kelly Link’s ‘Get in Trouble’

Credit...Ryan Heshka

By Scarlett Thomas

Feb. 13, 2015

So come on then, what’s your superpower? You must have one — everyone does. And who is your nemesis? What’s your origin story? Have you managed to find a reliable sidekick? How many shadows do you have? Do you currently have a boyfriend, or would you prefer a Boyfriend? And have you been to the pocket universe that’s like Florida, only better?

If you don’t already know it, welcome to the fabulous mind of Kelly Link, in which (as her previous readers will know) it is entirely possible to preserve a lost world inside a handbag and throw popcorn in from time to time in case its inhabitants — hill people from over 200 years ago — get hungry.

It has taken Link 10 years to produce her new story collection, “Get in Trouble,” and it is just as brilliant as her last, “Magic for Beginners” (2005). The opening story, “The Summer People,” tells of Fran, a teenager in rural North Carolina whose father leaves her alone with flu to look after the “summer people” whose vacation homes need cleaning and restocking with milk, bread and cold cuts. Since the mysterious departure of her mother, Fran is also responsible for looking after the other “summer people,” a group of almost ­invisible fairy-type creatures who live in a cottage at the foot of a mountain with “two apple trees, crabbed and old, one laden with fruit and the other bare and silver black.” When Ophelia Merck, a schoolmate of Fran’s who used to be a (nonmagical) summer person but now lives locally, offers to help Fran, she ends up giving a bit more than she perhaps means to. Ophelia agrees to sleep in the enchanted house in order to see her heart’s desire, but it soon becomes clear that deals you make with fairies and their equally morally ambiguous caretakers are not always straightforward.

Link’s stories are never fully realist, but they are always beautifully written. “The Summer People” begins with the exquisite line “Fran’s daddy woke her up wielding a mister.” In this and many other ­places the experience of reading Link is a lot more like reading Raymond Carver than it should be, given that her characters do things like throw parties on spaceships and get off with literal toy boys. Then again, now that we are far enough into the 21st century that celebrities have their names down for space trips, and most people have a phone capable of reminding them to pick up their dry cleaning when they leave the house, maybe it’s just as normal for a Kelly Link story to contain a pocket universe or a tent that has a cottage on the inside as it was for Carver to describe a broken fridge or a cathedral.

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Like Carver, Link writes many of her stories about lower-middle-class Americans whose dreams don’t come to much. “Origin Story,” in which we follow the going-nowhere relationship of Bunnatine and her superhero boyfriend, Biscuit, shows the failure of an escapist world to fully conceal the reality of small-town life in which single mothers work as waitresses, using a superpower — the ability to float off the ground from time to time — only to reduce the possibility of varicose veins. None of Link’s superheroes do anything about saving the world. Many of them are too busy with the logistics of being a superhero: looking for sidekicks, nemeses or representation from an agent. “The Summer People” contains magical creatures who communicate with their human helpers telepathically. But the story itself is about basic, important things: enslavement and escape and the uncertain mathematics of servitude. “When you do for other people (Fran’s daddy said once upon a time when he was drunk, before he got religion) things that they could do for themselves, but they pay you to do it instead, you both will get used to it.”

The most formally satisfying story in this collection, “Valley of the Girls,” focuses more on the done-for than the doers. Here we meet kids who have been microchipped by their rich parents in case they get lost or kidnapped, or simply decide to run away. This is another story of enslavement and the complications of escape, but approached from quite a different angle. Here we have boys who spend time trying to find drugs to bypass their microchips and girls obsessed with ancient Egypt who spend time building pyramids for their future corpses or having parties where unicorns wreck the place and have to be shot. The structure of the story is daringly nonlinear, beginning somewhere in the middle and dipping in and out of the tragic story line almost at random. This is all the more daring given that major relationships remain almost unintelligible until more than halfway through, when the reader is finally given the key to unlock sentences like this one: “You try laughing when you’re down in the dark, in your sister’s secret burial chamber — not the decoy one where everybody hangs out and drinks, where once — oh, God, how sweet is that memory still — you and your sister’s Face did it on the memorial stone — under 300,000 limestone blocks, down at the bottom of a shaft behind a door in an antechamber that maybe somebody, in a couple of hundred years, will stumble into.” But the story is not just structurally thrilling; it also features basic human struggles and the tragedy created when one guy loves a girl who loves another guy.

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When fiction enters a nonrealistic, fantastic zone, but is clearly not quick-read fantasy, many readers will begin mining the work for satire. I struggled with Link’s stories when I tried to read them like this. Although there is some similarity in tone between Kelly Link and George Saunders, her stories do not respond to this kind of reading as his do. Saunders, operating in a more obviously Baudrillardian hyperreal, is always happy to exaggerate our media-frenzied, overfictionalized world, even throwing in the odd sentimental ending or deliberate duff note from time to time because he knows that we know how to read it. We enter Saunders’s worlds, exaggerated and grotesque, so that we can see ours better. Link seems less interested in all this. She also wants us to look back at ourselves, but she wants us to see people rather than institutions and structures. Like other writers in the tradition of the modern American short story, she wants us to look closely at the small stuff of life.

Reading the stories this way opened them up for me. It certainly helps explain why in so many of them, as in most modern short stories, “nothing happens” — or, as the book’s epigraph puts it, quoting a Basho haiku: “Year after year / On the monkey’s face / A monkey’s face.” In “Secret Identity,” Billie Faggart, a 15-year-old girl, goes to meet an older man she has fallen in love with online. None of the expected things happen; instead, Billie ends up trying to save frozen butter sculptures of (yes) supervillains from being destroyed by a rich guy with no other way of having fun. Afterward she confesses that she thought it was fun too, even as she tried to stop him. “Someday I’m going to buy a lot of butter and build something out of it, just so I can tear it all to pieces again.”

Link’s stories are etchings rather than political cartoons. The nonrealist details in her worlds — the ghosts and celebrities and unicorns — are not supposed to be exaggerations of our world, or criticisms of it. They are simply supposed to be the small stuff of these worlds, in which her characters struggle with love and conflict and, just like Carver’s characters, experience their small, genuine epiphanies.
---------------------------
April 3, 2023 Issue
A Shape-Shifting Short-Story Collection Defies Categorization
Kelly Link’s postmodern fairy tales make the case for enchantment.

By Kristen Roupenian
March 27, 2023
Woman Author surrounded by fairytales.
Link’s work has been classified as Y.A., weird fiction, steampunk, and fairy tale. But these are stories where nothing is ever quite what it seems.Illustration by R. Kikuo Johnson

Kelly Link is a writer whose work is easy to revere and difficult to explain. She began her career by publishing stories in sci-fi and fantasy magazines in the mid-nineteen-nineties, just when the boundary between genre fiction and the literary mainstream was beginning to erode, and, in the years since, her work has served to speed that erosion along. Thirty years into her career, she has received a formidable procession of prizes awarded to genre-fiction writers: the Nebula Award, the Hugo Award, and the Bram Stoker Award, to name just a few. More recently, she has begun to reap the accolades of the literary mainstream: in 2016, her collection “Get in Trouble” was a Pulitzer Prize finalist, and in 2018 she received a MacArthur, for “pushing the boundaries of literary fiction in works that combine the surreal and fantastical with the concerns and emotional realism of contemporary life.” Through it all, the essential qualities of her work have remained unchanged. To those familiar with her writing, “Linkian” is as distinct an adjective as “Lynchian,” signifying a stylistic blend of ingenuousness and sophistication, bright flashes of humor alongside dark currents of unease, and a deep engagement with genre tropes that comes off as both sincere and subversive.

Link’s stories have garnered a dizzying array of labels, from Y.A. to weird fiction, slipstream to steampunk, but the one that has clung most persistently is fairy tale. Although her new collection, “White Cat, Black Dog” (Random House), is the first of Link’s books to present itself as a collection of fairy tales, she has always drawn from the language, symbolism, and rhythm of the genre. The first line of her first published story reads, “Tell me which you could sooner do without, love or water,” boldly staking its claim to a position in a long lineage of folklore about impossible choices. Yet that same story also features a character who runs around a library shouting, “Stupid book, stupid, useless, stupid, know-nothing books. . . . I’m just tired of reading stupid books about books about books,” suggesting a certain ambivalence toward inherited literary forms.

To say that the stories in “White Cat, Black Dog” are influenced by fairy tales isn’t to say very much; they’re influenced by a vast pool of intertextual allusion that includes superhero movies and Icelandic legends, academic discourse, and the work of Shirley Jackson, Lucy Clifford, and William Shakespeare. Few stories in the new collection can truly be said to reinterpret existing tales. One that does is “The White Cat’s Divorce,” which transposes a French tale called “The White Cat” to Colorado, where weed is legal, and replaces a tyrannical king with a Jeff Bezos-esque billionaire, but otherwise stays in the vicinity of the original. Most of the stories, though, are more loosely wrapped around the tales that supposedly inspired them. Were it not for the label “(Hansel and Gretel)” beneath the title “The Game of Smash and Recovery,” few readers would connect that tale with Link’s story of spaceships, robots, and vampires. More than anything, the aim of producing “reinvented fairy tales,” in the publisher’s formulation, seems like such an obvious account of what the stories are doing that those familiar with the author’s work will be put on guard. To read Link is to place oneself in the hands of an expert illusionist, entering a world where nothing is ever quite what it seems.
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One thing that fairy tales teach us, of course, is that it’s wise not to examine such magic too closely—better to accept the gift gratefully than to inquire into its provenance. Still, at the risk of incurring the magician’s wrath, we might look more closely at one of these stories and see if we can figure out how it works. “Prince Hat Underground” is the second story in the new collection, and the only one that’s previously unpublished. It begins in a very un-fairy-tale-like fashion, in medias res: “And who, exactly, is Prince Hat?” This isn’t as familiar an opening as “Once upon a time,” but it does point down a well-trodden path in literary fiction—that is, toward a character portrait. “Gary, who has lived with Prince Hat for over three decades, still sometimes wonders,” Link continues. And so the plot becomes even more familiar: this is the story of a marriage, and, more particularly, a story of the secrets that persist even in long-term relationships. Already we have, in two lines, a thumbnail sketch of this relationship, between staid, reliable Gary and the boyish, fanciful Prince Hat.

But then the third line dodges and spins: “First of all, who has a name like that?” In other words, what kind of a story is this? A story in which it’s normal for people to have names like Prince Hat—that is, a fairy tale? A story in which “Prince Hat” can only be a nickname—that is, a realist one? Or is it a story in which some characters have ridiculous names like Prince Hat, but other characters, characters with names like Gary, are going to react the way an ordinary person would: What kind of a name is that? That space, in which readers ricochet between layers of reality, is the realm of Kelly Link.

There’s a whole subgenre of fiction, to be sure, in which characters from stories encounter “people” in the “real world.” (Think of the novel “The Eyre Affair” or the TV show “Once Upon a Time.”) This usually prompts little more than a laugh of surprise before the rules of the new reality coalesce. But the next line of “Prince Hat Underground” sets a different course: “ ‘Unfair,’ Prince Hat says. ‘I didn’t name myself.’ ” The story now bounces into metafiction. (Who names characters? The author, of course.) Then it somersaults back again, as Prince Hat continues to remonstrate: “And Gary is equally ridiculous. Gary’s not even a word. Well, ‘garish,’ I suppose.” Here, Prince Hat, as a character from a fairy tale, is doing his job of finding the magic (“garish”) in the mundane (Gary). This kind of teasing is also what the fanciful partners in long-term relationships, the Prince Hats, do for their Garys, so the story holds its own as a portrait of a marriage. And yet this kind of defamiliarization via close attention to language is also a habit associated with literary fiction. Gary/garish points to context and contrast, the ungarishness of the name Gary. It’s not the kind of joke you would find in a fairy tale. When Prince Hat makes it, though, he’s sending up what, only a sentence ago, the reader was tempted to believe was literally true: that at least one of these people comes from a world in which names have meaning. But wait, is that the world of literary fiction, or of fairy tales?

Over the course of fifty or so pages, we watch Gary chase Prince Hat across the globe and down into the underworld, completing tasks, answering riddles, and, at the same time, unspooling the practical history of this marriage—what their friends say about them, what restaurant they used to go to for brunch. We think we’re in familiar territory, and yet, in the periphery, the landscape grows shadowy and strange:

Incredible to think that, for eight full months, Prince Hat was a receptionist for a renowned analyst. Analysis slides off Prince Hat like water off a duck engendered from dark matter. Out of the wreckage of one life, Prince Hat climbed into Gary’s, and they have been together ever since, faithful more or less, happy more or less, a fairy tale of a romance more or less, their friends say.

That second sentence is purest Link: zero to a hundred in fourteen words, rocketing from the bourgeois activity of psychoanalysis to science-fictional absurdity through the portal of cliché, the jest serving to distract our attention from the gist of the sentence—that the quest at the heart of the story is a fool’s errand. Prince Hat is unknowable. It is not just psychoanalysis but literary analysis that slides off him, because he is fundamentally alien to this world. And it is eerie, that image of a blank figure climbing from one life into another. What the narrator gives with one hand (“faithful,” “happy,” “fairy tale,” “romance”) she takes away with the other (“more or less,” “more or less,” “more or less”). But the reader remains distracted and amused—by puns and metafictional flourishes and talking snakes and literary allusions that make us feel clever, and, most of all, by the snug security blanket of genre convention. We think we’re reading a fairy tale, so the seeker will find the object of his quest; we think we’re reading a character portrait, which means that the subject will, in the end, be known.

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We reach the last page still believing that the story will make good on its promises. Gary has descended into the underworld in pursuit of Prince Hat, found him, and brought him home again. We are given what we have been led to expect of a portrait of a marriage, too. The pair have reached a new level of understanding, after the revelation of a difficult secret, so familiar from literary short fiction that it verges on the parodic: Prince Hat is sick, with some kind of blood disorder, but he and Gary will still have a few good years. In fairy tales, marriages are threatened by enchantments; in realist short stories, they’re often threatened by diseases that teach the characters to be grateful for their remaining time. Prince Hat’s illness is sad, but not unbearably so; it fits within the frame. “The story is over, it’s almost over,” the narrator whispers. “The lovers are reunited. They fuck, they talk, they sleep. Soon they will wake. . . . The sun will come up and the dark will go away.” What else do we want but for stories to end here, where everything makes sense, where suffering is bearable because we know how to give it meaning according to the rules of the genre that we’re in?

In “The White Road,” which follows “Prince Hat Underground,” a troupe of Shakespearean actors travel through a post-apocalyptic wasteland, performing for the few survivors. Commenting on one actor’s preference for comedy over tragedy, the narrator says:

In the comedies, everything comes right and then there is a stopping place that is not a true ending. The box that gives the comic story its shape is made, on purpose, too small. It cannot contain the true ending.

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The question of where a story should begin and end is one that recurs throughout “White Cat, Black Dog,” and is part of what gives the stories a melancholy air of flux and fragility. “All stories about divorce must begin some other place” is how one story starts; in the opening of another, the narrator reflects, “I have never much cared for change, but of course, change is inevitable. And not all change is catastrophic—or rather, even in the middle of catastrophic change, small good things may go on.” Throughout the collection, Link suggests that all stories are too small boxes, and not just the ones that end with “happily ever after,” or begin (as the last tale in the collection does) with “Once upon a time.” But, as the narrator of “The White Road” is aware, there’s no real reason to believe that the ending of a tragedy is in any meaningful sense truer than that of a comedy, or that the opening of a realist story is truer than that of a fairy tale. Stay with a comedy long enough and it will decay into tragedy. Stay longer still and we’ll see the deaths of one set of characters serving as the mulch from which another set of characters—and comedies—will spring. Shakespeare, at the end of his career, abandoned both comedy and tragedy for romance, the genre of the continually renewing frame.

That’s why the story of Prince Hat finally isn’t a tragedy or a comedy; it’s not a fairy tale of death defied or a realist portrait of a marriage cut short. It slips the net of all those constraints, proceeding inexorably past love, past death, into a penumbral afterlife, a space that is terrible and unfamiliar:

The day will end, days must end, and the dark will come again. And eventually there will be only darkness and Gary will be alone in that darkness, paying off his debts, a bird flying with a candle in his beak. He will open up his beak and let the candle drop and cry, Oh, where is my Prince Hat? Where has Prince Hat gone?

The trapdoor opens; we plunge and tumble. What kind of story is this? Somehow, we were misled. Our attention was elsewhere. This is not the ending we expected. We are in the grip of a childlike grief. And then we turn the page and read, “All of this happened a very long time ago and so, I suppose, it has taken on the shape of a story, a made-up thing, rather than true things that happened to me and to those around me. Things I did and that others did. And so I will write it down that way. As a story.” Gary and Prince Hat have dissolved into nothingness, but a new set of characters has arrived to entertain us. The magician has begun her next trick, and we’re safe in the story again
  meadcl | Mar 31, 2023 |
Strange and well written but the stories don't grab me. ( )
  JudyGibson | Jan 26, 2023 |
I got really excited as I was listening to the first story of this collection. The Summer People reminded me of Neil Gaiman, and that was a first. No one reminds me of Neil Gaiman. And I enjoyed that story, although the ending seemed a little abrupt.
This was maybe foreshadowing of how the rest of the collection would go for me. Most of the stories left me hanging. They were all original, clearly the products of an exceptional imagination. But my interest kept being sparked and not satisfied. Each story raised all kinds of ideas but only touched on them instead of exploring them.
In one story, Two Houses (my least favorite on audio), the characters are telling each other stories, and one character says, "Wait. Go back. There must be something more," and another character says, "Not really." This exemplifies my experience listening to these stories, most of them, anyway.
Besides The Summer People, I really liked Secret Identity and The New Boyfriend. They still had something missing, but not to the extent of the others. The readers for those two were my favorites, especially the one for The New Boyfriend. Her voice was startling at first, but it turned out to be perfect for the story.
I was impressed by Kelly Link's imagination, and I will probably try Magic for Beginners at some point. But as far as this collection goes, it didn't really do it for me. ( )
  Harks | Dec 17, 2022 |
Interesting ideas and great writing. I liked the 'weird factor' or surrealism of most of the stories, especially the ones based a bit more in the paranormal.
I feel I'm not really a fan of short stories with original characters, though, because I felt almost all were either too short to really convey the idea Link was trying to or just didn't have a cohesive structure a story needs to be satisfying. I plan on reading Link's other collections but I'm not sure I'd as yet call myself a fan. ( )
  brittaniethekid | Jul 7, 2022 |
Showing 1-5 of 77 (next | show all)
[O]nly the marvelous contents of these books can demonstrate Link’s mastery and self-confidence as an author: She believes in her stories, no matter how off the wall they might seem, and she makes her readers believe in them, too.
added by lorax | editWashington Post, Michael Dirda (Feb 18, 2015)
 

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Year after year

On the monkey's face

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A collection of short stories features tales of a young girl who plays caretaker to mysterious guests at the cottage behind her house and a former teen idol who becomes involved in a bizarre reality show.

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