The main protagonist is a memorable and likeable character, sister Thomas Josephine formally of St. Louis, Missouri, she finds herself on a road withThe main protagonist is a memorable and likeable character, sister Thomas Josephine formally of St. Louis, Missouri, she finds herself on a road with a deserter, Abraham C Muir, they are both put through perils of the wild west, with promises made, lives to save and loose, they are on a journey that ultimately will partake many unholy things. The prose style nicely keeps you reading on and brings the scene to life, you feel the environment and the moment, good dialogue, and the sentences the right economy. A story that may take you back to tales like True Grit by Charles Portis. This is a First person narrative of one Sister Josephine, she takes you through her journey and she holds close to her heart a matter that she tries till the end of the tale to uphold, in her own words: ‘No man’s soul is beyond salvation, and I intend to fight the devil for yours.’
“Muir cursed and dropped back down beside me. We had made good time the previous day. Muir gauged that we might be able to make it into the mountains and across the state line to California before dark, if we hurried.The season was turning against us, each morning colder than the last; we had to cross the passes before the first snows, or be stranded until spring. Scrambling to my feet, I peered over the rock to see what had caused Abe’s alarm. We were perched on a ledge, overlooking a wooded valley. One end was dominated by the solid rock wall of the Sierras, jutting toward the sky in ever-higher peaks, our gateway to the west. At the other end, sheltered behind a mound of scree, was a camp. There was great activity across the valley floor.The earth had been torn up into a wide ditch twenty paces wide, men swarming in lines along its length. Now they were cutting into the mountainside with hand and haft, iron and fist. From above, it appeared as though some colossal worm was eating a course of destruction through the rock.”
“The horse’s hooves beat rhythmically against the ground, muscles bunching and releasing as we cantered headlong into the desert. Pale dust rose and flew about us.The sun was already high and burned my eyes, yet I persevered; I kept my head low over the horse’s mane, the scent of inhuman earth and living animal filling my senses. The horse ran itself out and began to slow. I believe the beast felt the same release I did, fleeing into the landscape, away from walls and the noise of humans. Small puffs of dirt sprang underfoot as we shifted and stopped. I turned back: a smudge on the horizon was all that suggested a village lay behind us.The desert was silent, blessedly silent.The horse went to nose hopefully at some withered scrub. I dismounted and sat down upon the baked earth and rock. Above me the sky spread out, blue in the heat. Tiny flecks of black wheeled: buzzards, on their daily scout for flesh. In the saddlebag was an end of bread, wrapped in cloth, and the bible. I chewed dutifully on the food for as long as seemed necessary and took up the book. It had seen much use, its leather cover wrinkled and faded by the sun, the thin paper of its pages edged by the grease of many fingers. It was written in Spanish, and would have been of little use, had I not known Latin. As it was, I struggled by.”
James Ellroy you master craftsman, you devil with details. Dennis Lehane in his review said “Ellroy’s prose style had transformed into a staccato bebopJames Ellroy you master craftsman, you devil with details. Dennis Lehane in his review said “Ellroy’s prose style had transformed into a staccato bebop” and i agree. He can give it to you in rat a tat formation with short, sharp, shock, prose, and then he gives it to you elegant, with the narrative of one female protagonist in chapters that are from her journal on all that devil in the details. Characters at odds with each other, race troubles, pearl harbour in the backdrop, its all happening in this Los Angeles tale. His writing of L.A comes from something deep he mentioned in Wall Street Journal “The unsolved murder of my mother in 1958 probably led to my obsession with Los Angeles in the 1940s.” He does his research, he works harder than any other writer, some may not be able to keep up with his way of teling a tale, but those can will be fully immersed in the world, the way Ellroy tells L.A. Two memorable and likeable characters, first and foremost the only man of Japanese nationality employed by the Los Angeles Police Department, Hideo Ashida, and secondly, a prairie girl from Sioux Falls, South Dakota, Kay Lake. This one Kay Lake was told in this narrative: “Your job is entrapment. You are to be a stool pigeon, a snitch, a rat and a fink. If those appellations offend you, chest la guerre. You are an informant. You will collect incriminating information and report it to me. You are a wayward young woman with a traumatically checkered criminal past. I am betting that the Red Queen will find you irresistible.”
Sample his short sharp prose here: “Blanchard made the Churchill V sign. Meeks primped in the window reflection. Ashida walked into the drugstore. He imprinted the floor plan. He memorised the witnesses’ faces. He gauged distances geometrically. He moved his eyes, details accrued, he smelled body doors imbued with adrenaline. Two white-coat pharmacists. A suite-and-tie manager. Two old-lady customers. The fat pharmacist had a boil on his neck. The thin pharmacist had the shakes. One old lady was obese. Her vein pattern indicated arterial sclerosis.”
“Opium. The world was his channel. His pallet was a lifeboat. The pipe was his guide. He flicked across lovely postcards. He welcomed fellow traveler. Bette Davis joined him. They’re lovers in London. They’re starphangers in the tube. Opium. The pallet, the pipe. Ace Kwan’s basement. He’s here one moment, gone the next.”...more
Ron Rash a fine writer, wrote: “Intensely moving but never sentimental, Academy Street is a profound meditation on what Faulkner called ‘the human heaRon Rash a fine writer, wrote: “Intensely moving but never sentimental, Academy Street is a profound meditation on what Faulkner called ‘the human heart in conflict with itself.’ In Tess Lohan, Mary Costello has created one of the most fully realized characters in contemporary fiction. What a marvel of a book.” And yes he couldn't be more right, also a human heart at conflict with the trials of the world and Like that one "portrait of an artist" by James Joyce, I feel this is a portrait of a great woman of resilience and forbearance. A portrait from childhood to motherhood, through trials that are heavy for any heart. This tale told with precision and clarity, immersed into a world of the main protagonist Tess, one that would have otherwise been surpassed in silence for not of that great blessing of narrative prose. This was an emotional experience evoking sensation with words to the reader a passage of time coming alive on the page. Some readers may come away haunted by the character of this page and some may look in the darkness in this tale and wonder from where exactly the silver lining lay and others may relate to other Tess's and Academy streets in the world and that the world was that less lonely for a time. Despite it all, despite all that her heart bares, she is calm, a forbearing memorable character, one that would make James Joyce and William Faulkner happy to find being recreated in modern fiction. This has just the right words, the right sentences, the right clarity, the right descriptions, the right characters, the right number of pages that will have you read right through it in one continuous motion. One that might get the right recognition it needs, I hope.
She tried to make good what was terrible. She tried in her mind to tenderise it, beautify it.
Tess has not given much thought to her mother in recent times. Her face is fading from memory. She tries to picture her mother in these rooms, touching and dusting things, curtains, cushions, softly closing doors. She glances around the room. A feeling sometimes rises in her: the sense of things being alive. When she walks into the coach-house or the cow-house she has the feeling of having just interrupted something. Lately the thought that all the things around her, the things that matter, and move her—the trees and fields and animals—have their own lives, their own thoughts, has planted itself in her. If a thing has a life, she thinks, then it has a memory. Memories and traces of her mother must linger all over the house—in rooms and halls and landings. The dent of her feet on a rug. On a cup, the mark of her hand. She wonders if on certain warm nights, when the whole house is sleeping, her mother’s soothing self returns, or memories of her return, bringing comfort to things, and promise for their patient waiting. Outside too, the small yard, the fowl-house—do they miss her? Does the laurel tree remember sheltering her? Tess looks down at her hands. Even as she has these thoughts she knows they are not something she will ever put into words.
In the city she felt the stir of anxiety on the streets, and day by day it entered her. On the TV, missiles, warheads, ships steaming towards Cuba. The end of the world. Fritz sat quiet and sombre. In the mornings she felt the foreboding, the impending doom, gigantic explosions and firestorms flashing across her mind. She thought of home, her father, Evelyn in a houseful of kids, danger floating close. No one was safe. One day she saw a rich woman emerge from a building, usher children into a taxi. Everywhere an exodus, people holding their breaths, looking at one another. As if we are all brothers and sisters, Tess thought. One night the president addressed the nation. She was mesmerised by his beauty, his pain, as if the words themselves afflicted him. Thank you and good night. Month by month in that first year Tess discovered a rhythm to her life in the city. The early-morning rise, the subway ride downtown, the day spent among patients and colleagues on the ward. On Sundays when she was off duty she went to Mass with her aunt Molly at the chapel of St Elizabeth’s Hospital. On other days she went to the library on West 179th Street and browsed the bookshelves and sat at a table reading. She came to understand that she could live almost anywhere, so long as there was someone of hers—her own kin—there. She looked out of windows. She drifted, distant and composed, through each working day, the routes and rhythms of trains and subways, streets and corridors, already set into her neural grid. Days off she spent in the library, vaguely dreaming, vaguely sick, or in the park, staring at men walking home from work. In the apartment the fan whirred and she looked out and examined the day.
Nothing was more fully or finely felt, ever again, as the days and nights of that first summer with the child. Her eyes were permanently trained on his and his were locked on hers, a flow of wondrous love streaming between them. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. She took him into her bed at night, wanted to put him back inside her. In the morning she shaded his face from the sun slanting through the blinds. She put soft seamless clothes on him, so that no harshness would touch his skin. She did not ever want to leave the apartment or break the spell. She wanted no interruption, no sight or sound or dissonance from the world to dull his radiance or endanger him.
That night in her kitchen, she said it again, love child. Born against the odds, more hard-won, more precious, than all others. She had not elected to be a mother. In the next room the child whimpered. She listened, waited for him to return to sleep. She would have liked to have the father there beside her, for him to hear that whimper too. The memory of his face returned. The memory of his beauty hurt her mind. On the radio Billie Holiday began to sing. More than you know. She thought of the city beyond the apartment, lights twinkling in high-rise buildings all around her. Inside, nests of families. He could not give what he had not got. She began to weep. She knew that a great part of love was mercy. What she wished for then, what she wanted more than anything else, was for all ultimate good to come to him.
Over the years, over long winter nights and summer afternoons, Tess found a new life in books. As if possessed of a homing instinct she would often leave her hand on a title on a library shelf or in a book bin outside a bookstore that somehow magically fitted her at that moment. The mere sighting of a book on her hall table or night stand as she walked by, the author’s name or title on the spine, the remembrance of the character—his trials, his adversity—took her out of ordinary time and induced in her an intensity of feeling, a sense of union with that writer. Another vocation, then, reading, akin, even, to falling in love, she thought, stirring, as it did, the kind of strong emotions and extreme feelings she desired, feelings of innocence and longing that returned her to those vaguely perfect states she had experienced as a child. She was of the mind now that this evocation, this kind of dream-living was sufficient, and perhaps, in its perfection, preferable to the feeble hopes embedded in reality.
It was not that she found in novels answers or consolations but a degree of fellow-feeling that she had not encountered elsewhere, one which left her feeling less alone. Or more strongly alone, as if something of herself—her solitary self—was at hand, waiting to be incarnated. The thought that once, someone—a stranger writing at a desk—had known what she knew, and had felt what she felt in her living heart, affirmed and fortified her. He is like me, she thought. He shares my sensations.
This authorwill take you into past days, you will find fiction and true charactersof history appear in this narrative, ones of the Gestapo, others ofThis author will take you into past days, you will find fiction and true characters of history appear in this narrative, ones of the Gestapo, others of a narrator in search of his father, search of friend, search of identity, in search of memory and things that haunt, the author has narrator show with flashbacks with considerable capability with greats accumulative sentences that just give that extra more, a sense of dreamy disquieting, more than just straight telling and talking. This days of old, especially days during the nazi occupation of Paris, visited before and before you again this time round you will be in the company of great craftsmanship, an author that revisits with a keen eye and good prose, one that has in own truth life somehow pervade the mind that writes these novellas one whose own parents vanished from his past, a young brother die, three novellas same narrator different questions and searches in the recesses and the smithy of ones soul. He has you in the sense of place and time you feel the air of the times, you feel Paris of the days gone, walking and learning of the narrator becoming an artist, a writer deciphering the chaos and trying also to find answers questions that the narrator and reader as one may not find resolved, possibly this author purposely has you in that place, back to the beginning of the circle for something to masterly lurk in thee mind.
Now in 2014 a Noble prize winner and you may see why in this tale before you. An author i never heard of before now translated into english, without loosing its brilliance, it may awaken curiosity on this world gone by, on the terrors gone by and the the complication of the the way the world brought before came with, but a word of caution “Just as another Nobel Prize winner, William Faulkner, was more than a novelist of America’s post-bellum South, Modiano is much more than a chronicler of France’s dark years. Both writers remind us that the past is not dead—in fact, it’s not even past—and do so in a way that most professional historians, wedded to documentary evidence and often indifferent to moral imagination, cannot.” (Patrick Modiano’s world of shadows by By Robert Zaretsky http://www.bostonglobe.com)
“He'd asked what i was planning to do with my future, and i’d answered,”Write.” That activity struck him as “squaring the circle”-the exact phrase he’d used. Indeed, writing is done with words, whereas he was after silence. A photograph can express silence. But words? That he would have found interesting: managing to create silence with words. He had burst out laughing.”
"Danube. When daylight lasts until 10 p.m. because of the time change, and the traffic noise has died down, I have the illusion that all I’d need do is return to those faraway neighborhoods to find the people I’ve lost, who had never left: Hameau du Danube, the Poterne des Peupliers, or Rue du Bois-des-Caures. Colette is leaning against the front door of a private townhouse, hands in the pockets of her raincoat. Every time I look at that picture, it hurts. It’s like in the morning when you try to recall your dream from the night before, but all that’s left are scraps that dissolve before you can put them together. I knew that woman in another life and I’m doing my best to remember. Maybe someday I’ll manage to break through that layer of silence and amnesia."
"And once again, mountain slopes of an eternal whiteness beneath the sun, the narrow streets and deserted squares of the South of France, several photos all with the same caption: Paris in July—my birth month, when the city seemed abandoned. But Jansen, in order to fight against the impression of emptiness and neglect, had tried to capture an entirely rural aspect of Paris: curtains of trees, canal, cobblestones in the shade of plane trees, the clock tower of SaintGermain de Charonne, the steps on Rue des Cascades . . . He was seeking a lost innocence and settings made for enjoyment and ease, but where one could never be happy again. He thought a photographer was nothing, that he should blend into the surroundings and become invisible, the better to work and capture—as he said—natural light. One shouldn’t even hear the click of the Rolleiflex. He would have liked to conceal his camera. The death of his friend Robert Capa could in fact be explained, as he saw it, by this desire, the giddiness of blending into the surroundings once and for all."
"That evening, we had walked by his hotel and continued on toward the Carrefour Montparnasse. He no longer knew which man he was. He told me that after a certain number of years, we accept a truth that we’ve intuited but kept hidden from ourselves, out of carelessness or cowardice: a brother, a double died in our stead on an unknown date and in an unknown place, and his shadow ends up merging with us."
"Andrée K. had been part of a gang, like us, but on a different street. That woman who so intimidated my brother and me, with her bangs, her freckles, her green eyes, her cigarettes and mysterious phone calls, now suddenly seemed more like us. Roger Vincent and Little Hélène also seemed to be very familiar with that “Rue Lauriston gang.” Subsequently, I again overheard the name in their conversation and I became used to the sound of it. A few years later, I heard it in the mouth of my father, but I didn’t know that “the Rue Lauriston gang” would haunt me for such a long time."
"Yes, someone got my father out of the “hole,” to use the expression he’d employed one evening when I was fifteen, when I was alone with him and he’d strayed very close to confiding a few things. I felt, that evening, that he would have liked to hand me down his experience of the murky and painful episodes in his life, but that he couldn’t find the words. Was it Pagnon or someone else? I needed answers to my questions. What possible connection could there have been between that man and my father? A chance encounter before the war? In the period when I lived in Square de Graisivaudan, I tried to elucidate the mystery by attempting to track down Pagnon. I had gotten authorization to consult the old archives. He was born in Paris, in the tenth arrondissement, between République and the Canal SaintMartin. My father had also spent his childhood in the tenth arrondissement, but a bit farther over, near the Cité d’Hauteville. Had they met in school? In 1932, Pagnon had received a light sentence from the court of Mont-de-Marsan for “operating a gambling parlor.” Between 1937 and 1939, he had worked in a garage in the seventeenth arrondissement. He had known a certain Henri, a sales representative for Simca automobiles, who lived near the Porte des Lilas, and someone named Edmond Delehaye, a foreman at the Savary auto repair in Aubervilliers. The three men got together often; all three worked with cars. The war came, and the Occupation. Henri started a black market operation. Edmond Delehaye acted as his secretary, and Pagnon as driver. They set up shop in a private hotel on Rue Lauriston, near Place de l’Etoile, with a few other unsavory individuals. Those hoods—to use my father’s expression—slowly got sucked into the system: from black marketeering, they’d moved into doing the police’s dirty work for the Germans."
"A little past the Quai d’Austerlitz, near the Pont de Bercy, do the warehouses known as the Magasins Généraux still exist? In the winter of ’43, my father had been interned in that annex of the Drancy transit camp. One evening, someone came and had him released: was it Eddy Pagnon, who was then part of what they later called the Rue Lauriston gang? Too many coincidences make me think so: Sylviane, Fat Lucien . . . I tried to find the garage where Pagnon worked before the war and, among the new scraps of information that I’ve managed to gather on him, there is this: arrested by the Germans in November 1941 for having double-crossed them in a black market affair involving raincoats. Detained at La Santé. Freed by Chamberlin, alias “Henri.” Goes to work for him on Rue Lauriston. Leaves the Rue Lauriston gang three months before the Liberation. Retires to Barbizon with his mistress, the marquise d’A. He owned a racehorse and an automobile. Gets himself a job as driver of a truck transporting wines from Bordeaux to Paris.” Notice the photo of the true character “Chamberlin, alias “Henri” mentioned he was a member of the Rue Lauriston gang that existed on Rue Luariston
"The snow that turns into mud on the sidewalks, the railings around the Cluny thermal baths where unlicensed street hawkers had their stalls, the bare trees, all those tones of gray and black that I still recall put me in mind of Violette Nozière. She used to meet her dates in a hotel on Rue Victor-Cousin, near the Sorbonne, and at the Palais du Café on Boulevard Saint-Michel. Violette was a pale-skinned brunette whom the tabloids of the time compared to a venomous flower and whom they nicknamed the “poison girl.” She struck up acquaintances at the Palais du Café with ersatz students wearing jackets that were too tight at the waist and tortoiseshell glasses. She convinced them she was expecting a large inheritance and promised them the moon: exotic trips, a Bugatti . . . She had probably crossed paths on the boulevard with the T. couple, who had just moved into their small apartment on Rue des FossésSaint-Jacques.” This Viollete Nozière is a true character from past, a movie was made about her life.
"I sat at a sidewalk table of one of the cafés facing the Charléty stadium. I constructed all the hypotheses concerning Philippe de Pacheco, whose face I didn’t even know. I took notes. Without fully realizing it, I began writing my first book. It was neither a vocation nor a particular gift that pushed me to write, but quite simply the enigma posed by a man I had no chance of finding again, and by all those questions that would never have an answer. Behind me, the jukebox was playing an Italian song. The stench of burned tires floated in the air. A girl was walking under the leaves of the trees along Boulevard Jourdan. Her blond bangs, cheekbones, and green dress were the only note of freshness on that early August afternoon. Why bother chasing ghosts and trying to solve insoluble mysteries, when life was there, in all its simplicity, beneath the sun?"
Father and son estranged. Death literally comes knocking on Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast's door. Sins of fathers and Ancestors take you into a vortFather and son estranged. Death literally comes knocking on Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast's door. Sins of fathers and Ancestors take you into a vortex of intrigue, mystery, and adventure. Pendergast has two sons, twins, opposite of each other in behaviour, one in particular has great importance in this tale. This is another chapter in the adventures and thrills that ruminate around Pendergast brought to you by two capable authors Douglas Preston and Lincoln child. A thriller than one can read without any prior knowledge of the world that has evolved around the main protagonist since his debut in The Relic.
Pendergast finds himself lured to godforsaken places in search of answers. This tale now has me wanting to read his first time walking into the readers home in The Relic, one that had been waiting on the shelf for some time, waiting for a needed push to be read soon.
This has everything you want from a thriller of this kind, laden with memorable characters and good writing. The tale will have you in, fully in the quest for truth and answers, with vengeance revenge and discoveries running their course, you are in for a treat in this compelling read.
"His record of arrests made and convictions obtained. Impressive. Very impressive indeed." "The statistic that I found most interesting was the number of his perps who died in the process of being apprehended." Angler searched for this statistic, found it, raised his eyebrows in surprise. Then he continued his perusal. "I see that Pendergast has almost as many official censures as he has commendations." "My friends in the Bureau say he's controversial. A lone wolf. He's independently wealthy, takes a salary of one dollar a year just to keep things official. In recent years the upper echelons of the FBI have tended to take a hands-off approach, given his success rate, so long as he doesn't do anything too egregious. He appears to have at least one powerful, invisible friend high up in the Bureau- maybe more." "Hmmm." More turning of index cards. "A stint in the special forces. What'd he do?" "Classified. All I learned was that he earned several medals for bravery under fire and completing certain high-value covert actions."
“The man locked away for a third of Drake’s life, Sheriff Patrick Drake, a legend in his time with no other family left in Silver Lake except his son
“The man locked away for a third of Drake’s life, Sheriff Patrick Drake, a legend in his time with no other family left in Silver Lake except his son and daughter-in-law."
“It was almost twelve years to the day since his father had been sentenced. In the years past Drake had searched for some sign of his father in his own face, looking at himself in the mirror of his cruiser, or under the bright changing-room lights of the department. The genes there that all who met him said were evident in his face. A fine line dividing the two of them, a reason Drake had tried so desperately in the last twelve years to distance himself from the father everyone could see within him.”
Father and sons, sins of fathers, appear in fiction again and once again under the careful mastery of yet another capable author unflinching in pace and unflinching with the want to read more of in this thriller. I have loved every novel of this authors since is debut with Terror of Living and this one continues on from that tale. Follow ons, sometimes are a hard act for any author to continue successfully, for Urban Waite its a walk in the park, but also with wolves, money and truths. He has you in his grasp with everything unfolding at hand and wastes no pages, clear and hits straight home with changing narratives and changing paces you are really not allowed to step back, i am sorry to say but have to run it right through to the end of the tale. The author has done something key and important, something that really oozes success and that is sentences with the right words and economy keeping you at the edge of the cliff at times, a thriller in a sense and also a very human event unfolding with very serious matters in the balance.
He is a haunted soul the main character, son of Patrick Drake, Bobby, when he was seven his mother died. Plenty of things needed settling, between father and son, the lack of for one of presence, that empty place in his heart, the hurt his father left behind. The father was wanting to make good of the wrong all his life, when the time came, just being released from prison, time the very precious element of life, is vanishing faster than the wolves can return within their perimeter.
Procedurals are hard enough to follow but without immediate scenes and heavily laden with data and specifics dragged on, not the Connelly tale I usedProcedurals are hard enough to follow but without immediate scenes and heavily laden with data and specifics dragged on, not the Connelly tale I used to love....more
She failed bar exam three times, nothing monumental and great would ever happen to her, or would it? Penny will be transformed in Cinderella like fashiShe failed bar exam three times, nothing monumental and great would ever happen to her, or would it? Penny will be transformed in Cinderella like fashion but she may be metamorphosing into a zombie like state of thirst for lust. Cinderella may go to the ball and meet a kind of Prince Charming, a woman's fate may change for the better in this tale.
The genesis possibly of this tale could in some ways come about in this manner: One writer reads Henry Miller and Anais Nin, becomes transfigured in the subject matter, puts himself through a fight club, on the way back home stumbles across Walter White some of that great blue stuff, watches walking dead for some inspiration, before him a horde of zombies thirsty for meat, his minds eye thinks in vein of a horde of women hungry for something and then watches next InnerSpace, that little guy running around inside doing things, goes back to thee fight club and Walter White one more time, return and writes a tale incorporating all.
This author displays great mastery in keeping you in the scene unfolding. His word usage, his choice of showing and feeling the scene, be them rather extreme things unfolding, he most defiantly will hook you in the narrative and have you gasping and cringing for what the hell will happen next, at the end of each sentence. In a kind of way this could be seen as a bizarre take on consumerism and that great quest for the ultimate ecstasy, thrill and limitless joy, a tale on the unending boundaries of a corporate future, that may be something that one day be possible and then what. I can't fault his writing skill leaving aside for a moment, if possible, the subject matter dealing with the bizarre and extremes of joys of the flesh.
The product Beautiful You is in this tale, an aide in ways, hopefully never to come to a store near you, just in the fiction sense, for now that is, in this book. A stark tale on arousal addiction gone in overdrive, haywire. The chaos is in an authors order and conjuring with craft of writing, a capable writer that has no limits, never falling to shock you.
"He pioneered the most extraordinary collection of erotic tools in the history of the world. He knew they worked. In fact, some worked too well. The pleasure they generated might kill an average Jane Doe. This final round of trials was intended to blunt the power of the most dangerous toys. Now the Beautiful You collection could enter the world without fear of lawsuits."