Elect Mr. Robinson for a Better World: A Novel

Elect Mr. Robinson for a Better World: A Novel

Donald Antrim

Language: English

Pages: 192

ISBN: 0670851396

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Announcing a bold new American voice laced with pitch black humor and as taut as a victim on a rack, this spectacularly provocative debut novel is graceful, electric, a wickedly funny tale of a world made riotous by life's mysterious and sometimes violent accidents. A Harper'sserial.

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Indelible lines. They speak a perfectly rendered American argot. They go about their lives doing all the things comfortably domesticized Americans do. They attend potluck suppers, ogle one another’s spouses, chauffeur children to appointments, borrow plumber’s snakes, all in pursuit of happiness in a place where happiness can no longer exist. “The Clam Castle was crowded with taxpayers,” Pete says in typical fashion. “Jerry, Bill, Abe, Tom, Robert, Betsy, Dick, and many other business.

And Loan I crossed an unfortified yard—a few still remained—coming out between two birdbaths onto Water Street. Three blocks away sat the Southshore branch of the public library, opposite which I paused to enter the tall bushes and, checking to make sure no one could see, urinated quickly, before zipping up and coming out to study the library bulletin board advertising poetry clubs, garden societies, yard sales, bake sales (including one to raise money for the failing library system), babysitting.

I’ll come back to that Saturday morning with Meredith and Bob in the living room. However, now I need a breather, and work, I’ve found, is the only true way to forget pain and sorrow. The minutes here on my desk offer a challenge. Not only are they hastily handwritten, they’re also smeared—the ink is smeared in blurry, psychedelic patterns. Some fool must’ve accidentally placed a water or beer glass on the paper. I may have to fudge the illegible passages. Also, many pages are torn, which is in.

Corner, behind a chair, where I’d tossed it the week before. I drank some tap water and went downstairs to the basement to look it over as a homeroom location. Yes, the basement was the place. With its fluorescent-lit, windowless walls, its low, cracked ceiling and unpainted concrete floor featuring sunk-in rusted iron drain gratings, the basement had a certain institutional feel, unlike the rest of the house, which was distractingly domestic in appearance and mood, as well as being full of.

It. Maybe we could coat them. What’s that Amazonian tree frog? Arrow-poison frog? Hunters soak their blow darts in neurotoxins secreted from its skin.” “I think we want this to serve mainly as a deterrent, not an actual death trap.” “You’re so serious. I was kidding.” Deeper ground hardened. Roots blockaded the shovel’s point. Most of the roots severed under impact, but one ran thick, oak-hard; the blade clanged against it. Yet no ancient hardwood graced this yard or any of the others.

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