Gift of the Golden Mountain
Autor Shirley Streshinskyen Limba Engleză Hardback – 5 aug 2013
California in the 1960s and 70s forms the background to a saga of one family's passions, past and present, played out against the explosive era of the Vietnam War. It follows the young part-Chinese heiress, May Reade, as she searches through her illustrious heritage for the roots of her own identity and her struggle to reconcile her Asian self with the American. Her journey of self-discovery takes her from the anti-war barricades of Berkeley to a remote village in China where she at last meets the mother who had deserted her at birth. There, in the country of her ancestors, she will not only begin to understand her confusion, but will find her future happiness and, in the final, savage climax of the fall of Saigon, decide her own destiny.
Gift of the Golden Mountain continues the story of the pioneering Reade family, first encountered in the author's earlier novel Hers the Kingdom. Seen through the eyes of faith, lifelong family friends and archivist, it describes with telling effect the pain one generation inflicts on the next, and the healing power of love and compassion, forgiveness and commitment.
Gift of the Golden Mountain continues the story of the pioneering Reade family, first encountered in the author's earlier novel Hers the Kingdom. Seen through the eyes of faith, lifelong family friends and archivist, it describes with telling effect the pain one generation inflicts on the next, and the healing power of love and compassion, forgiveness and commitment.
| Toate formatele și edițiile | Preț | Express |
|---|---|---|
| Paperback (1) | 122.06 lei 3-5 săpt. | |
| Turner – 5 aug 2013 | 122.06 lei 3-5 săpt. | |
| Hardback (1) | 264.36 lei 3-5 săpt. | |
| Turner – 5 aug 2013 | 264.36 lei 3-5 săpt. |
Preț: 264.36 lei
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9781630263478
ISBN-10: 1630263478
Pagini: 564
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 35 mm
Greutate: 0.86 kg
Editura: Turner
ISBN-10: 1630263478
Pagini: 564
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 35 mm
Greutate: 0.86 kg
Editura: Turner
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Notă biografică
Recenzii
“Shirley Streshinsky’s fiction shows us who we are and how we got this way. It is the best historical fiction being written in America today, and her new novel, Gift of the Golden Mountain . . . is her best work.” —John Jay Osborn, Jr., bestselling author of Paper Chase
“Streshinsky writes with sincerity and intelligence about the tragedy of war, friendships among women, the precarious emotional balance between parents and children and the search for cultural, racial and geographical roots.” —San Francisco Chronicle
“A brilliant effort, deeply textured.” —Robert Elegant, author of From a Far Land
“This book adds a substantial amount of understanding to the Asian America literature . . . being created in America. . . . this book, with its fresh, youthful innocence, will appeal to many readers.” —Han Suyin, author of A Many-Splendored Thing
From Publishers Weekly
Meticulous research, nonstop adventure and a sparkling evocation of place combine to make this sequel to Hers the Kingdom a compellingly readable account of the lives of the multi-ethnic, wealthy Reade family. Although it centers on May Reade (aka Wing Mei-jin), whose disappearance in the vastness of mainland China provides the book with a bang-up start, her aunt and guardian, Kit McCord, is a formidable runner-up for attention. Twin of Porter Reade, May's father (now dead but long under indictment for leftwing activity), Kit has mothered May from birth, her own mother, Ch'ing Ling, having determined to return alone to China. Now, however, believing that Kit was responsible for Ch'ing Ling's decision, May repudiates her once-beloved aunt and sets out to find the woman, haunter of her dreams, who gave her infant daughter into another's care. But many action-packed journeys precede this one, as May, a geologist obsessed with volcanoes, travels to Hawaii and then to Southeast Asia to study and observe. She is always in danger, often imprisoned and tortured, dogged by the persistent hatred and resentment of a former friend as well as by her father's reputation and the political activism of her Chinese family. This is a rousing tale, a bit weak on characterization, but propelled by Streshinsky's sure sense of narrative drive.
Copyright 1988 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.
“Streshinsky writes with sincerity and intelligence about the tragedy of war, friendships among women, the precarious emotional balance between parents and children and the search for cultural, racial and geographical roots.” —San Francisco Chronicle
“A brilliant effort, deeply textured.” —Robert Elegant, author of From a Far Land
“This book adds a substantial amount of understanding to the Asian America literature . . . being created in America. . . . this book, with its fresh, youthful innocence, will appeal to many readers.” —Han Suyin, author of A Many-Splendored Thing
From Publishers Weekly
Meticulous research, nonstop adventure and a sparkling evocation of place combine to make this sequel to Hers the Kingdom a compellingly readable account of the lives of the multi-ethnic, wealthy Reade family. Although it centers on May Reade (aka Wing Mei-jin), whose disappearance in the vastness of mainland China provides the book with a bang-up start, her aunt and guardian, Kit McCord, is a formidable runner-up for attention. Twin of Porter Reade, May's father (now dead but long under indictment for leftwing activity), Kit has mothered May from birth, her own mother, Ch'ing Ling, having determined to return alone to China. Now, however, believing that Kit was responsible for Ch'ing Ling's decision, May repudiates her once-beloved aunt and sets out to find the woman, haunter of her dreams, who gave her infant daughter into another's care. But many action-packed journeys precede this one, as May, a geologist obsessed with volcanoes, travels to Hawaii and then to Southeast Asia to study and observe. She is always in danger, often imprisoned and tortured, dogged by the persistent hatred and resentment of a former friend as well as by her father's reputation and the political activism of her Chinese family. This is a rousing tale, a bit weak on characterization, but propelled by Streshinsky's sure sense of narrative drive.
Copyright 1988 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.
Extras
San Francisco
April 29, 1975
May is missing. She is somewhere in Southeast Asia, possibly she made it into Saigon on one of the last flights, we can't be sure.
Strange, how I put off turning on the lights. Sometimes I let the dusk gather so that I can scarcely make out the comer of mother's old cherrywood sideboard, and go banging into it with my wheelchair. I have been holding on to the fading light, trying to deny the darkness. I know it is a futile thing to do. At my age, I know.
All day long I've been listening to the radio reports from Saigon. I switched to the television for the five o'clock news. The first films were being shown, flickering images of crowds pressing against the gates of the American Embassy, of helicopters landing on the roof of the building, creating dust swirls lit by arc lights, lifting the last Americans out.
I am transfixed by the scene, the exodus: the fall of Saigon, the true and vainglorious end of the war in Vietnam, as confused and chaotic and humiliating as everything else we have done in that poor, sad country. It is dark now; only the television lights my parlor, sending flickers and flashes and shards of color into the dark comers. I don't think I could bear to see it in full light.
May is missing. That was the message. We think she got into Saigon, we can't be sure.
And I think I saw her, in one of the news films. It was only for an instant, she was in the surging crowd outside the American Embassy, her arms were raised, she seemed to be reaching for one of the marine guards. I only had a glimpse but I think it was May. Now I am watching every program, hoping to see her again. After the eleven o'clock news there is going to be a special on the events of the past days in Saigon, and if they show the film, maybe I can tell for sure.
Two men came to my door late this afternoon. One flapped an official-looking identification card from the U.S. State Department at me and said they wanted to ask a few questions about May. A routine background check, "nothing ominous," he added, with a condescending smile that was supposed to reassure me. They would appreciate my help, he said.
I have had some experience with these men with their empty eyes and practiced silences, enough to know that it is best to volunteer as little as possible. I was not in a mood to tell them about May, I wanted to stay close to the coverage of this last, big story out of Vietnam. But I knew, too, that they would not easily be turned away, so I motioned them into my parlor but made no move to turn off the television.
"We would like to ask you a few questions," the older of the two repeated politely.
"Shoot," I came back, feigning a feistiness that I did not feel, my eyes on the television.
"I believe you are a sort of historian to the Reade family . . ."
"Not sort of, " I corrected him, "I am the archivist for the Sara Hunt Trust, with responsibility for all of the documents and personal papers of the Hunt and Reade families, two old California clans."
He cleared his throat, trying, I suppose, to decide how best to approach an old woman who shows signs of not cooperating. He was about to say something when I held up my hand for, silence. The commercial had ended and the television had returned to Saigon; lights flared, you could hear the dull sounds of artillery in the background, the reporter was breathless. The ambassador will be leaving soon . . . The compound is filled with Vietnamese, desperate to get out. . . The American fleet is offshore, waiting . . . The Viet Cong are at the gates of Saigon, closing in . . .
"Are you associated with the California Historical Society?" the man asked.
"No," I answered absently, stung by the panic in the Vietnamese faces caught pressed against the bars of the Embassy, "I am employed by the Hunt Trust, though we do cooperate with the Society. Sara Hunt was one of its benefactors."
"I see," he said, though plainly he didn't. As CBS turned its attention to some other part of the world, I turned mine to the men sitting in my parlor. The older of the two was, perhaps, thirty-five and beginning to bald. His face was curiously nondescript; it might have been handsome, had it any animation. He was wearing a suit and a drip-dry shirt which had not been pressed. I could imagine him solemnly washing it in a basin and hanging it to dry over the bathtub. The other was younger, not more than twenty-five, I think, and his hair was shorter than any of the young men I knew. Even the residents out at the Medical Center wear ponytails and dress in jeans. I wondered if he knew how clearly his appearance marked him.
"Why exactly are you investigating May?" I asked, to see how they would evade the question.
"We thought you would be the best person to give us a rundown on her family history—her grandparents, that sort of thing," the older one countered.
"I suppose I might be," I answered, and left it at that, knowing he expected me to play the garrulous old woman and give him what he wanted for the asking.
Instead I turned back to the television. Walter Cronkite was intoning the benediction for CBS: "This is a night that history will long remember . . . the last American Marine has left Saigon." And then they showed it again: A woman, tall with long dark hair, her arms raised. May, it could be May.
"Will you tell us?" the younger of the two, grown impatient, finally asked, causing the older man to frown.
"Tell you?" I repeated, for a minute thinking they had read my mind, thinking they knew it was May I was straining to see.
"About the Reade family tree," he said.
The older man cut in, "Perhaps you could begin by telling us why she uses the professional name of Dr. Wing Mei-jin."
I laughed out loud, I couldn't help it. They looked at me peculiarly, as if laughter was the last thing they expected. "She calls herself that because it's her name," I told them. "If you don't believe me, check her birth certificate—though you won't find the 'doctor/ of course."
He scarcely took time to smile at my small joke. "Then why did she go by the name 'May Reade' for so many years?"
"I don't really know," I lied, then added a grain of truth: "Maybe she just wanted to sound more American."
"But she is American," the younger man said. Suddenly I was weary of the banter; best to give them the information that was on the record and be rid of them.
April 29, 1975
May is missing. She is somewhere in Southeast Asia, possibly she made it into Saigon on one of the last flights, we can't be sure.
Strange, how I put off turning on the lights. Sometimes I let the dusk gather so that I can scarcely make out the comer of mother's old cherrywood sideboard, and go banging into it with my wheelchair. I have been holding on to the fading light, trying to deny the darkness. I know it is a futile thing to do. At my age, I know.
All day long I've been listening to the radio reports from Saigon. I switched to the television for the five o'clock news. The first films were being shown, flickering images of crowds pressing against the gates of the American Embassy, of helicopters landing on the roof of the building, creating dust swirls lit by arc lights, lifting the last Americans out.
I am transfixed by the scene, the exodus: the fall of Saigon, the true and vainglorious end of the war in Vietnam, as confused and chaotic and humiliating as everything else we have done in that poor, sad country. It is dark now; only the television lights my parlor, sending flickers and flashes and shards of color into the dark comers. I don't think I could bear to see it in full light.
May is missing. That was the message. We think she got into Saigon, we can't be sure.
And I think I saw her, in one of the news films. It was only for an instant, she was in the surging crowd outside the American Embassy, her arms were raised, she seemed to be reaching for one of the marine guards. I only had a glimpse but I think it was May. Now I am watching every program, hoping to see her again. After the eleven o'clock news there is going to be a special on the events of the past days in Saigon, and if they show the film, maybe I can tell for sure.
Two men came to my door late this afternoon. One flapped an official-looking identification card from the U.S. State Department at me and said they wanted to ask a few questions about May. A routine background check, "nothing ominous," he added, with a condescending smile that was supposed to reassure me. They would appreciate my help, he said.
I have had some experience with these men with their empty eyes and practiced silences, enough to know that it is best to volunteer as little as possible. I was not in a mood to tell them about May, I wanted to stay close to the coverage of this last, big story out of Vietnam. But I knew, too, that they would not easily be turned away, so I motioned them into my parlor but made no move to turn off the television.
"We would like to ask you a few questions," the older of the two repeated politely.
"Shoot," I came back, feigning a feistiness that I did not feel, my eyes on the television.
"I believe you are a sort of historian to the Reade family . . ."
"Not sort of, " I corrected him, "I am the archivist for the Sara Hunt Trust, with responsibility for all of the documents and personal papers of the Hunt and Reade families, two old California clans."
He cleared his throat, trying, I suppose, to decide how best to approach an old woman who shows signs of not cooperating. He was about to say something when I held up my hand for, silence. The commercial had ended and the television had returned to Saigon; lights flared, you could hear the dull sounds of artillery in the background, the reporter was breathless. The ambassador will be leaving soon . . . The compound is filled with Vietnamese, desperate to get out. . . The American fleet is offshore, waiting . . . The Viet Cong are at the gates of Saigon, closing in . . .
"Are you associated with the California Historical Society?" the man asked.
"No," I answered absently, stung by the panic in the Vietnamese faces caught pressed against the bars of the Embassy, "I am employed by the Hunt Trust, though we do cooperate with the Society. Sara Hunt was one of its benefactors."
"I see," he said, though plainly he didn't. As CBS turned its attention to some other part of the world, I turned mine to the men sitting in my parlor. The older of the two was, perhaps, thirty-five and beginning to bald. His face was curiously nondescript; it might have been handsome, had it any animation. He was wearing a suit and a drip-dry shirt which had not been pressed. I could imagine him solemnly washing it in a basin and hanging it to dry over the bathtub. The other was younger, not more than twenty-five, I think, and his hair was shorter than any of the young men I knew. Even the residents out at the Medical Center wear ponytails and dress in jeans. I wondered if he knew how clearly his appearance marked him.
"Why exactly are you investigating May?" I asked, to see how they would evade the question.
"We thought you would be the best person to give us a rundown on her family history—her grandparents, that sort of thing," the older one countered.
"I suppose I might be," I answered, and left it at that, knowing he expected me to play the garrulous old woman and give him what he wanted for the asking.
Instead I turned back to the television. Walter Cronkite was intoning the benediction for CBS: "This is a night that history will long remember . . . the last American Marine has left Saigon." And then they showed it again: A woman, tall with long dark hair, her arms raised. May, it could be May.
"Will you tell us?" the younger of the two, grown impatient, finally asked, causing the older man to frown.
"Tell you?" I repeated, for a minute thinking they had read my mind, thinking they knew it was May I was straining to see.
"About the Reade family tree," he said.
The older man cut in, "Perhaps you could begin by telling us why she uses the professional name of Dr. Wing Mei-jin."
I laughed out loud, I couldn't help it. They looked at me peculiarly, as if laughter was the last thing they expected. "She calls herself that because it's her name," I told them. "If you don't believe me, check her birth certificate—though you won't find the 'doctor/ of course."
He scarcely took time to smile at my small joke. "Then why did she go by the name 'May Reade' for so many years?"
"I don't really know," I lied, then added a grain of truth: "Maybe she just wanted to sound more American."
"But she is American," the younger man said. Suddenly I was weary of the banter; best to give them the information that was on the record and be rid of them.
Descriere
Descriere de la o altă ediție sau format:
California in the 1960s and 70s forms the background to a saga of one family’s passions, past and present, played out against the explosive era of the Vietnam War. It follows the young part-Chinese heiress, May Reade, as she searches through her illustrious heritage for the roots of her own identity and her struggle to reconcile her Asian self with the American. Her journey of self-discovery takes her from the anti-war barricades of Berkeley to a remote village in China where she at last meets the mother who had deserted her at birth. There, in the country of her ancestors, she will not only begin to understand her confusion, but will find her future happiness and, in the final, savage climax of the fall of Saigon, decide her own destiny.
Gift of the Golden Mountain continues the story of the pioneering Reade family, first encountered in the author’s earlier novel Hers the Kingdom. Seen through the eyes of faith, lifelong family friends and archivist, it describes with telling effect the pain one generation inflicts on the next, and the healing power of love and compassion, forgiveness and commitment.
Gift of the Golden Mountain continues the story of the pioneering Reade family, first encountered in the author’s earlier novel Hers the Kingdom. Seen through the eyes of faith, lifelong family friends and archivist, it describes with telling effect the pain one generation inflicts on the next, and the healing power of love and compassion, forgiveness and commitment.