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By George

By George

5.0 2
by Wesley Stace

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In the illustrious history of the theatrical Fishers, there are two Georges. One is a peculiar but endearing 11-year-old, raised in the seedy world of '70s boarding houses and backstages, now packed off to school for the first time; the other, a garrulous ventriloquist's dummy who belonged to George's grandfather, a favorite traveling act of the British troops in


In the illustrious history of the theatrical Fishers, there are two Georges. One is a peculiar but endearing 11-year-old, raised in the seedy world of '70s boarding houses and backstages, now packed off to school for the first time; the other, a garrulous ventriloquist's dummy who belonged to George's grandfather, a favorite traveling act of the British troops in World War II. The two Georges know nothing of each other--until events conspire to unite them in a search to uncover the family's deepest secrets.

Weaving the boy's tale and the puppet's "memoirs," BY GEORGE unveils the fascinating Fisher family--its weak men, its dominant women, its disgruntled boys, and its shocking and dramatic secrets. At once bitingly funny and exquisitely tender, Stace's novel is the unforgettable journey of two young boys separated by years but driven by the same desires: to find a voice, and to be loved.

"By George is one of those rare works of fiction with an essential triple helix -- it's funny, it's clever and it's perfectly woven together with story. If writing is how we imagine not being lonely, as Wesley Stace suggests, then his conjuring trick as a writer is that he brings a large crowd along with him. This is a wonderful follow-up to his debut novel, Misfortune." -- Colum McCann, author of Zoli and Dancer

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

Singer-songwriter John Wesley Harding, writing under his given name Wesley Stace (Misfortune), crafts a British performing family's saga filled with wit, warmth and imagination. George Fisher is 11 years old in 1973 when his mother, Frankie, enjoying a successful run as Peter Pan, delivers him to Upside Boarding School. George misses his family, particularly his 93-year-old great-grandmother Evangeline, who for many years performed as a ventriloquist-as did her son, Joe. Under the watchful eye of the headmaster, George learns to escape student responsibilities by cheating, throwing his voice and befriending the groundskeeper, who gives him ventriloquism how-to books. George's school-days narrative alternates with another memoiristic voice from 1930, that of Joe's dummy, also called George. While George the schoolboy leaves Upside, eventually finding work in the family business, George the dummy accompanies Joe on the road to entertain troops during WWII. In different eras, boy and dummy each finds his own voice, plus some understanding of a world full of trickery and illusion. Family secrets revealed are not much of a surprise, but Stace amasses enough gently ironic humor (including sly references to Harry Potterand David Copperfield), emotion and insight to carry his voices beautifully. (Aug.)

Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
Kirkus Reviews
In this second novel about different generations of British entertainers, family secrets loom large, as they did in Stace's debut Misfortune (2005); Stace is the pseudonym of singer/songwriter John Wesley Harding. First, in the early 20th century, there was Evie Fisher, the premier ventriloquist of her time. Her son Joe, another ventriloquist, became famous when he entertained the troops during World War II. Joe's daughter Frankie is a stage actress, and her teenage son George also seems destined for show business. That's simple enough, but Joe's dummy is also called George; the two Georges get alternate chapters, and when you throw in Joe's wife Queenie, her second husband Reg (Joe was killed in WWII) and Frankie's sister Sylvia (sshh, she's only her half-sister), confusion sets in. When you add the mystery of George's father (a married man, died in a car accident, never mentioned), confusion reigns. Something went badly wrong in Stace's conception, to the extent that we never know whether he's taking a lighthearted look at an obscure corner of vaudeville or doing a serious study of the toll secrets take on a family. Nor is it clear why so much attention is given to George's unhappy years in the 1970s at a boarding school (whose arcane details will create more confusion for American readers), though his friendship with a depressed handyman there will become important in retrospect. George the human makes a big discovery when he unscrews the legs of George the dummy and finds some letters from his grandfather Joe to his one true love Bobbie, a ventriloquist and drag artist; Joe was a closeted homosexual forced into marriage by the scheming Evie. The discovery sends George into his owndepression. This all seems pretty serious, but when at the end George confronts Frankie with an even more shattering discovery (his father's true identity), his mother murmurs apologies, the moment passes lightly and attention shifts to Joe's and Bobbie's dummies united, whimsically, in a museum. An unconvincing mishmash.

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Little, Brown and Company
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Read an Excerpt

by George

By Wesley Stace Little, Brown and Company Copyright © 2007 Wesley Stace
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-316-83032-4

Chapter One I Am Built

I shall now do a little ventriloquism of my own.

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was built (as I have been informed and believe) at Romando Theatrical Properties of Henley on Friday, the fifth of September, 1930.

That, at least, is the date tattooed on the inside of my chest in the specific form V/IX/30. I was made over a period of time: what was so special about the fifth of September? Was it when I was ordered, when the great artiste first conceived me, or when his minions started to mix my papier-mâche? Was it perhaps the moment I was taken from the mould, or even the date of the final stroke of his paintbrush on my flushed cheek? I don't precisely know.

One thing is certain: there was always something special about me. Whereas many of my Romando brothers were bought off the peg (for example, from Henridge's Magic Emporium on the Strand), I was different: I was bespoke. Ever since negotiations had commenced, I had been marked out, for I was commissioned by a star as great as my father was an artiste: the most famous ventriloquiste of the Golden Age - your own, your very own, Echo Endor.

Echo Endor and Narcissus - names to conjure with! Echo, whose famous scena "The Ocean Deep - A Vaudeville Fantasy" played all over the Continent, and Narcissus, Naughty Narcissus, the boy who captured the hearts of all: "Do you love me? You know you do!" No one had seen a boy partnered by a woman: only men had dared say such cheeky things.

Yet when Echo first swept into Romando Theatrical Properties, there was no Narcissus to place her. In person, she looked somewhat smaller and older than her public might have imagined. She never made any reference to her age, nor had since her thirty-ninth birthday, but she was fifty-one and had never been busier. If well prepared, she could pass, through opera glasses (which is how she was often seen), for twenty-five. (She readily gave Narcissus's age as thirteen, although he was thirty if he was a day, and shabby to prove it.)

Despite dramatic eyes, always emphasized by garish makeup, she was in many respects an average-looking woman: her voice alone announced the presence of a true star. She spoke with astonishing vigour and clarity of tone, a lip-reader's dream, sidling up to C's, attacking T's, caressing S's, rolling R's, and exploding P's. The clear voice was a family trait. Her father, Vox Knight, the beloved polyphonist, had employed the same ringing tone: the louder and more clearly you spoke, the more your voice was differentiated from the other voice, the voice that came from elsewhere, from up on the roof, from your boy's mouth. The greater the distinction, the better the illusion.

"I have come ...," she proclaimed, "for a Romando boy." She set about his name with an aggressive purr, a cat toying with a defeated mouse.

Even from the depths of his workshop, the great artiste recognized her voice immediately. Drying his hands on a towel, he untied his apron and, to the great surprise of his business manager (and lady wife), Nellie, popped his head into the reception room. Nothing ever distracted him from his work, but here he was, drawn by that siren sound.

"Miss Endor," he said. She was pleased to be recognized, but hardly surprised. "Romando, Joseph, at your service."

I was the boy she had come for - better call me boy than doll (a little girlish), figure (too formal), or dummy (for obvious reasons); mannequin, though preferable for its manliness, is archaic - so you can understand why perhaps I do not flatter myself in the assumption that especial care was taken in my creation. Deposit down - Nellie hardly thought one necessary, but Echo insisted - I was built.

The prime architect, the great artiste, was my father, the legendary Joseph Romando. There were great craftsmen before and many will follow, but to be a Romando boy is something special. Compare the dull and emotionless faces of my predecessors, Narcissus and his acned ilk, with mine, my fine soft skin tones, my stylish side parting, not to mention the flexible chamois leather that I call lips - tell me I wasn't sired by a kinder, cleverer man. My father made superior sons in every way. He sent his boys to the best schools - witness the splendid crests and mottoes on our forest green blazers - and gave us the most magnificent mops of hair, often worn beneath impishly tipped school caps. His brushes were more delicate, his sculpture more sensitive, and his mechanisms more innovative. But greater than any of this: he gave us each a personality. It was as though we had character before we met our partners: in some cases, sadly, more.

An account of my manufacture, however interesting, would unfortunately prove rather too technical: my genesis in paper regressed to its primordial state of pulp and ooze, my moulding and drying, my subsequent attachment to my spine (or "control stick"), and so forth. Much of this labour was entrusted to subordinates, but it was the maestro himself who, with his improbably skeletal and impossibly expressive fingers, pressed the papier-mâché mix (his own recipe) into the plaster mould, persuading it patiently into every nook and cranny, and then (fortified by one of Nellie's enormous breakfasts) prepared me in makeup. Given his painstaking methods, I wasn't able to leave the chair for the entire working day. Or the next day. But on the third, I was ready for my close-up.

Brandished by my spine, I was scrutinized in natural and institutional light. My kindly maker knew when to leave well enough alone, and as I sat drying in what I can only describe as a flowerpot, he gazed at me with an unearthly love. His eyes seemed to say: you are my perfect creation.

The day of my delivery was upon us.

I was placed on the ottoman that the great artiste regularly used to display his boys on first presentation. Only rarely did a customer feel the need to make any changes to the natural design. "His socks don't match," someone once said, pointing out what he considered an oversight. "No," replied the great artiste. "He has another pair just like it at home."

So there I sat, with my clashing socks and my beautiful mouth, lifeless yet brimming with potential. My father wrung his cap like a sponge; mine perched proudly atop my newly combed hair.

Nellie walked in behind Echo, who, barely a moment later, proclaimed: "Yes. Yes. Yes! I knew it." There was silence. "I knew it. The great Romando! A miracle child!" She loomed over me. "May I?"

"Miss Endor, of course," said my father. "Consider him yours now."

She picked me up, letting her finger fall across my lips, slipping her hand quickly into my back, feeling her way in the darkness.

I was about to speak for the very first time.

And now ...

And now ...

But nothing.

She laid me back on the ottoman without particular care. "The very boy I was looking for! Mr. Romando, to you I say," and she rather intoned, "many, many thanks." My father picked me up again, patting the back of my head. He was saying good-bye.

All three went back to the office, me in the arms of my maker, to sighs of mutual appreciation and nervous coughs that presaged the exchange of money.

"A delight!" said Echo. "Can you ... ?" She waved her hands about.

"Of course, madam," said Nellie. "Romando prides itself on the best presentation box at no extra cost to the customer."

From behind the counter, my father lifted a plain but durable black box, with simple metal handle and engraved brass plate, an extra granted only to ventriloquial royalty. Upon it was written, For Echo Endor. And beneath this in the most florid of all scripts, Romando Theatrical Properties of Henley.

"I see," sang Echo. "How thoughtful."

"We can put the name you intend for him, but we weren't sure ...," said Nellie.

"No, quite, quite." Echo drummed her fingers next to the banknotes she had unfolded on the glass counter. "I'm afraid it's not for me at all...."

"Not for you?" Disappointment sighed over Nellie's question. She had pictured an official endorsement on their new print advertisements: Makers for Echo Endor, the ventriloquial equivalent of By Royal Appointment. "We thought ..."

Echo regarded her blankly. "For me? But I have Narcissus. You surely didn't think ..." She laughed politely, more at the thought itself than at any presumption of Nellie's. "Our public wouldn't stand for it. For Echo Endor, there can be only one boy, for all time."

My father looked down at me, full of pride, as he massaged his beard. I was my own reward. He busied himself with the box, which didn't look big enough. He undid the two catches and lifted the hinged lid back, revealing the abyss within. Don't put me in the box, I thought, not for the last time.

"No, no," Echo continued. "This is a birthday present. For my son."

My father scooped my legs up beneath me and, bending me double, put them level with my ears, one foot on each shoulder. Then, taking me by the middle, he placed me carefully in the opulently lined case, so that my hips were on the bottom of the box and the soles of my black leather shoes faced up. He swiveled my head to the left to avoid any damage to my nose and closed the lid. A key turned in the lock. Their voices were muffled.

"Your son?" said my father. "Does he dream of following in the magnificent footsteps of his grandfather and mother?"

"He will," said the ventriloquiste, "if I say so."

"Well, this boy has a name," said my father, handing her the key. "We name all our creations."

"Oh," said Echo without curiosity.

"Yes, they're all very much part of the family. This one we call ..." I heard him quite clearly as he turned around to christen me. "George."

George. What a name! How manly! How noble! How royal!

How easy to say without moving one's lips!

"Oh, no no no no, I think not," said Echo, to whom disagreement came easily. "We'll need something cheekier, something more suited to little children. I rather like ..."

Whatever she said remained a mystery, for she spoke as my presentation box, hoisted by the handle, lurched upwards with a seasickening heave. Presently, I began to swing to and fro more agreeably. A small bright light shone in on me, illuminating a precise green keyhole on my blazer.

I was outside Romando's Theatrical Properties for the first time.

My journey had begun.


Excerpted from by George by Wesley Stace Copyright © 2007 by Wesley Stace. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Educated at Cambridge, Wesley Stace (also known as John Wesley Harding) cut short his Ph.D. studies to pursue a music career. He has released 8 solo albums and toured as the opening act for The Mighty Lemon Drops, Michelle Shocked, and Bruce Springsteen. His novel, Misfortune, was published by Little, Brown in 2004. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife and daughter.

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By George 5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 2 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I love the layout of books like this one one chapter is written in the voice of an eleven-year-old boy, and the next is written in the voice of a ventriloquist's made-to-order dummy (who warns that he should be called 'boy' rather than 'dummy.') The chapters are separated by forty-three years, so the back and forth can get a bit confusing however, I enjoyed being forced to pay attention. No reader will quickly scan this book--nor would one want to! The characters are all a bit quirky--much like real people. Nonetheless, I found myself looking forward to reading the 'boy's' chapters. I learned a great deal about ventriloquism, along with bits about magic tricks and show business from the 1930s through 1980s, which made this an interesting read. The story is a complex family tale. I loved it! There is some profanity.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago