Eddie Signwriter

Overview

A stunning debut novel—its power and prose evocative of such diverse writers as Faulkner, Ondaatje, Nabokov, and Coetzee–about a young African’s international odyssey of self-discovery.

Kwasi Edward Michael Dankwa—Eddie Signwriter to his clients—is a twenty-year-old painter of murals and billboards in the city of Accra, Ghana, who is buffeted by forces beyond his control and understanding as he is swept up by the passions and machinations of others. Struggling with a forbidden ...

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Eddie Signwriter

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Overview

A stunning debut novel—its power and prose evocative of such diverse writers as Faulkner, Ondaatje, Nabokov, and Coetzee–about a young African’s international odyssey of self-discovery.

Kwasi Edward Michael Dankwa—Eddie Signwriter to his clients—is a twenty-year-old painter of murals and billboards in the city of Accra, Ghana, who is buffeted by forces beyond his control and understanding as he is swept up by the passions and machinations of others. Struggling with a forbidden relationship, banished from school, held responsible for the death of a notable woman in the community, Eddie flees overland to Senegal and then, illegally, to France, determined to find a new life for himself among the immigrant communities of Paris.
 
Following him across magnificently rendered African lands into the precincts of Paris, Eddie Signwriter gives us a spellbinding tale of rootlessness and desire, of disgrace and redemption, of politics both personal and global, of art and love. Empathic, wise, deeply humane, and luminously written, it heralds Adam Schwartzman as a writer of great promise.

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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
Kwasi Edward Michael Dankoh was the only one of his Ghanaian parent's children delivered in a hospital, a breech birth. Named Edward after the doctor who saved his mother's life, Michael after the patron saint of the sickly, and Kwasi to mark the Sunday on which he was born, Eddie had large shoes to fill even as an infant. Sent first to live with his father in Botswana, later he is dispatched to boarding school back in Ghana, where a series of events chart a new course for this remarkable young man.

Involved in an illicit relationship and blamed for a mysterious death, Eddie flees to the capital city of Accra and reinvents himself as Eddie Signwriter, billboard and mural painter extraordinaire. Thus begins the long journey that will take him even farther from his family and their village.

Eddie's secrecy drives him first to Dakar and from there to France, where he's determined to start a new life among the illegal immigrant communities in Paris. But back in Ghana, Eddie's family and neighbors suspect that he's up to no good.

In his debut novel, Schwartzman tells an evocative story that moves from the sweep of the African landscape to the chaos of the Parisian arrondissement that becomes Eddie's new home. Eddie Signwriter is a marvelous, fast-moving tale at once intimate and international; a story that recognizes the necessity of loss as it embraces the possibility of hope and redemption.

Rob Nixon
…while Schwartzman, who has three volumes of poetry to his credit, doesn't yet seem entirely comfortable with the novel's longer form, Eddie Signwriter has ample compensations. Not least are its startling finale and its innumerable lyrical flourishes…Schwartzman writes superbly about the fatal misunderstandings that can occur between the generations: between rule-bound, scheming elders, envious of possibilities no longer open to them, and the young, who act impulsively in ways that may haunt them later. How far must we travel to escape that haunting? And who will follow us, in the loyal belief that we are better than we appeared to those whose all-powerful condemnation was both manipulative and unforgiving?
—The New York Times
Publishers Weekly
Schwartzman’s debut novel bears testament to his background as a poet, as lush description and bright, playful prose chronicle the travails of Kwasi Edward Michael Dankoh, aka Eddie Signwriter. Born in independent Ghana and raised by his father in Botswana, Kwasi grows up an introspective young man often perceived to be an outsider. His solitude is broken when he meets Celeste, and their adolescent romance blossoms until it runs into a scandal—the death of Celeste’s aunt—that sends Kwasi packing. He ends up as an apprentice signwriter and eventually starts a successful business of his own that meets a ruinous end after Celeste briefly reappears. In a surprisingly upbeat treatment of human trafficking and illegal immigration, Kwasi arrives in Paris and joins a community of African immigrants who congregate at a secret club located in a cellar beneath a flower shop. As Kwasi strives to redefine himself through his new life and a new love, aspects of his past remain less than hidden. This wide-ranging and gorgeously written novel has huge heart, and Kwasi’s quest for identity is as sad as it is uplifting. (Mar.)
Library Journal
This powerful bildungsroman, rendered with exquisite lyricism from multiple viewpoints, lightly circles about protagonist Kwasi Edward Michael Dankoh, aka Eddie Signwriter, before focusing on his experiences. Living in Ghana, teenage Eddie is in love with Celeste, but a scandal forces him to flee first to Senegal and then, illegally, to Paris. Full of tantalizing questions that are answered in due course, this novel succeeds on many levels. Superficially, it is a love story, but it is also a story of the abuse of innocence and the attendant consequences for young lives. On another level it is a mystery, solved after dark secrets are revealed. It's also a story about the perils of undocumented African workers in France. At the root, however, this work ingeniously illustrates the purpose of art, showing its function and value beyond mere decoration. As Eddie Signwriter paints, he incorporates the struggles of his life into his work. Engaging characters and evocative descriptions make this novel truly unforgettable. VERDICT Subtle, captivating, and beautiful, this outstanding novel is recommended for fans of multifaceted writing, as well as those interested in African life. It's Stuart O'Nan's Last Night at the Lobster meets Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Half of a Yellow Sun.—Henry Bankhead, Los Gatos P.L., CA
Kirkus Reviews
Young lovers fall victim to the machinations of the middle-aged in this limp first novel from South African poet Schwartzman. On a Monday morning in 1993, the hilly Ghanaian tourist resort of Aburi is in an uproar. One of the town's most prominent citizens, upscale restaurant owner Nana Aforiwaa, has drowned in the river; her close friend John, headmaster of the local boarding school, is raving and in shock. Nana had been searching for her 16-year-old niece Celeste, gone missing with boyfriend Kwasi, a protege of John. Nana, who raised Celeste, had with John's approval encouraged the friendship between their young charges, turning a blind eye to the teenagers' carrying-on in public. Was Nana a benevolent free spirit, or a lonely meddler with an unhealthy obsession? That's one of many questions that goes unanswered here. Kwasi becomes the target for the townspeople's indignation. He moves to Accra to live with his kindly uncle Festus, and puts his painting talents to good use as a signwriter. Celeste joins him. Their love is still intense, but shadowed by guilt over Nana's death. Shy and awkward, Kwasi can only express himself through his painting. Eventually he bolts, joining the West African diaspora in Paris. Nana's drowning was no accident, we learn; for the sake of Kwasi and Celeste, John had pushed her under. This does not ring true, and the revelation is handled clumsily. John comes clean to the town doctor, who passes the news on to Festus, who relays the confession to Kwasi in Paris at the very end. So Nana's murder, which wrecked three lives, is sidelined for much of the narrative. The only flickers of excitement are provided by Schwartzman's account of "the flesh machine," theseries of handlers who move Kwasi from Accra through Senegal to Paris. A thoroughly confused tale whose inarticulate protagonist is the biggest, but by no means the only, source of frustration. Author appearances in New York and Washington, D.C.
From the Publisher
“The South African poet, Adam Schwartzman’s first novel, Eddie Signwriter, can be read as a creative response to . . . anonymous African desperation, especially in its rich evocation of the lives of . . . West and North Africans who have to France as apart of illegal immigration’s ‘flesh machine.’ . . . Schwartzman’s grand theme is the tyranny of chance:  the way a small act can unleash much larger consequences . . .  Schwartzman writes superbly.”  —The New York Times Book Review
  
“Each twist in this ambitious, accomplished novel plays with the trickery of resolution: the evanescent often resurfaces, while the seemingly permanent vanishes without warning.  Eddie Signwriter is a book of fleeting hours. Nostalgic scenes of blossoming love between Eddie and Celeste hearken to the brief, sun-spangled summers of Nabokov’s Ada, where another forbidden affair took root; they also recall Hawthorne’s dim forest in The Scarlet Letter, whose clandestine companions linger for ‘another, and another, and, after all, another moment.’”  —Los Angeles Times

Eddie Signwriter is about a boy out of Africa, and out of luck. It’s a novel so telling and, finally, so moving, it’s a wonder how Adam Schwartzman pulled it off. But he has, and then some.”  —Christopher Hope, author of White Boy Running

“This powerful bildungsroman, rendered with exquisite lyricism from multiple viewpoints, lightly circles about protagonist Kwasi Edward Michael Dankoh, aka Eddie Signwriter, before focusing on his experiences. Living in Ghana, teenage Eddie is in love with Celeste, but a scandal forces him to flee first to Senegal and then, illegally, to Paris. Full of tantalizing questions that are answered in due course, this novel succeeds on many levels. Superficially, it is a love story, but it is also a story of the abuse of innocence and the attendant consequences for young lives. On another level it is a mystery, solved after dark secrets are revealed. It's also a story about the perils of undocumented African workers in France. At the root, however, this work ingeniously illustrates the purpose of art, showing its function and value beyond mere decoration. As Eddie Signwriter paints, he incorporates the struggles of his life into his work. Engaging characters and evocative descriptions make this novel truly unforgettable.
     “VERDICT Subtle, captivating, and beautiful, this outstanding novel is recommended for fans of multifaceted writing, as well as those interested in African life. It's Stuart O'Nan's Last Night at the Lobster meets Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Half of a Yellow Sun.”   —Library Journal (starred review)

"Schwartzman’s debut novel bears testament to his background as a poet, as lush description and bright, playful prose chronicles the travails of Kwasi Edward Michael Dankwa, aka Eddie Signwriter. . . . This wide-ranging and gorgeously written novel has a huge heart, and Kwasi’s quest for identity is as sad as it is uplifting."  —Publishers Weekly

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781441726735
  • Publisher: Blackstone Audio, Inc.
  • Publication date: 3/23/2010
  • Format: CD
  • Edition description: Unabridged
  • Pages: 9
  • Product dimensions: 6.26 (w) x 6.60 (h) x 1.17 (d)

Meet the Author

Adam Schwartzman was born in Johannesburg in 1973. After completing degrees in English literature and development studies at Oxford University, he held positions in the South African National Treasury, the World Bank, and the International Finance Corporation. He is the author of three books of poetry—The Good Life, The Dirty Life, and Other Stories; Merrie Afrika!; and Book of Stones—as well as the anthology Ten South African Poets. Eddie Signwriter is his first novel. He lives in Istanbul, Turkey, with his wife and daughter.

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Read an Excerpt

Eddie Signwriter

A Novel
By Adam Schwartzman

Pantheon

Copyright © 2010 Adam Schwartzman
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780307378736

HOW NANA OFORIWAA DIED

Within half an hour of their laying out Nana Oforiwaa on the long table in the entrance hall of her rest house, people began to gather, the prominent in the hallway itself, the ordinary people on the verandah, where they crowded around the door and flowed back onto the lawn, many still damp from the evening’s downpour.

Slowly word passed out to the search parties that at two o’clock in the morning were still scouring the valleys and ridges for the lost children. Wherever two or three people met confused words were exchanged: “Found? Who? Dead? Is it not her niece we are looking for?” So that later in the morning, after the sun had come up and the body had been taken away, when the children actually appeared on the main road, walking towards Aburi, nobody approached them; nobody said a word even as they arrived at the steps of the rest house.

All through the early hours of that Monday morning people had continued to gather: men who had been involved in the search parties, those woken from sleep, others who had seen lights on the road at that strange hour—whole families, the youngest holding on to their parents’ legs, eyes open but still sleeping. At one point the police corporal came from Nsawam, then left. A blanket wasplaced across the body, but still it lay there, in plain sight, for three hours, not because the thought of moving it didn’t occur to them, but because nobody dared.

At a little after five on Monday morning the schoolteacher arrived. Light had begun to gather beneath the horizon, and the sounds of the earth waking could be heard through the half-darkness, and through the restlessness which was growing among those gathered there. Irritated by the crowd, the teacher pushed his way through the steps up to the verandah and they realized then that he did not know (perhaps the message that reached him was confused), or that he did not want to know. “What the hell are you people doing here?” he was saying, but his words had an opposite effect to their intention because the people pushed in around him as soon as he passed, slowing his movement to the table that stood in the hallway. As he came towards it, those who were standing closest turned their heads to see who was coming through, but did not move, so that the force of the teacher’s pushing propelled him through and he stumbled a few steps forward into the circle that stood around the body.

For more than half a minute he stood there. The room had gone still. The first birds had begun to wake. It was cool and quiet, and the air was gray with half-light.

Then the teacher spun about, his mouth working soundlessly. “Get out, all of you, get out!” he was shouting, until he realized he was making no sound at all, only a hard sucking noise as his tongue worked in the back of his throat. The people moved back, but they did not get out, as he stood before them, his face bunched, choking with anger, his limbs twitching in uncertain, incomplete movements.

And then it stopped. Understanding seemed to drain from his face, leaving an expression of exhaustion, but also of satisfaction because in his mind he had achieved his wish: he was alone. He had banished them all from the room and now there was only himself and Nana Oforiwaa.

Her lips were slightly parted, as if a fruit were about to be brought to her mouth, as if there were thoughts in her, and words waiting to take flight. Nobody stopped the schoolteacher, though later they wished they had, but nobody could have guessed what he was going to do, so that when he began to move, already it was too late. He stood by her head and bowed, and touched his ear to her parted lips—still they were a person’s lips, solid, not yet sand, but cold. It lasted only seconds. Then there was a hand on his shoulder, softly pulling him away. But in those seconds his ear closed on her mouth and made a seal, so that nothing separated them. Everyone saw from the teacher’s face that he was listening. Though listening for what, nobody could say—with Nana Oforiwaa’s life already gone.

Then the seal was broken, and the air rushed between them. On her cheek there were drops of water—water from the stream where they found her, or from the rain when they carried her in. On her forehead there was grass like green stitches. Her eyelids were closed. Someone moved towards them, and there was a hand upon his shoulder, and voices talking, saying to come away. Then there were people between him and Nana Oforiwaa. Turning, the teacher looked at her for the last time.

A little while later, the Deputy Commissioner himself arrived from Nsawam with three uniformed men in the back of his car. The people stood back to let him pass, and though a few stayed to watch, the room was almost empty as the body was wrapped in a gray blanket and suspended, a man at each corner, and taken out through the back door.

Many of the onlookers left now, some to go back to their search for the children, who still were missing, but most stayed in the precincts of the rest house, not as before in a state of confusion, but aware now that the events of the night must have started somewhere. And that they would lead to other places still. That now there was something to be done: a story to be pieced together—of what happened that night—that not one of them could have told singly, though already it had begun to form, and was living, among them.

There were ten days more to run before the first parts of the story were heard out loud. They had to wait until the funeral was past and the newspapers had finished their work, but all the while, wherever people met the story was sifted and mulled and woven and connected, and always some old fact was remembered in a new way, and another was linked to a further still, and opinion was spun backwards and forwards between the twenty or so things that could be said definitively, until it made a platform so complete and strong as to constitute knowledge. Then one person was chosen to tell the story: Kwaku Wilkins-Adofo, town doctor and former unit head at Tetteh Quarshie Memorial in Mampong, now retired. A month after Nana Oforiwaa was discovered, a meeting was held of townspeople, which he was called on to address, not because he’d been witness to any of the events leading up to the death but because in the days that followed he was the only person who had had access to the teacher, and so, everyone believed although in fact it was not so, access to the last hours of Nana Oforiwaa’s life.

The assembled people listened quietly as Kwaku Wilkins-Adofo stood up to speak that Wednesday evening in the largest of the town’s church halls, although not even it could accommodate all the peo- ple who wanted to attend and chairs had to be set out behind the podium, and the doors opened onto the quadrangle between the hall and the church so that those outside could also hear.

The doctor stood at the front of the hall, seated behind him a row of dignitaries and other senior people. Next to him was a bare table on which he placed his hat and spectacle case. Though he spoke clearly and slowly the people outside had to strain to hear him, as his voice was soft. At first only those in the front heard his opening words, “Agoo,” I would like to talk, so that the response rippled slowly back to him through the crowd like a wave, “Amee,” we are listening.

He was methodical in his testimony, embellished nothing and missed nothing. “It is true that Nana Oforiwaa died alone” (a sound of indignation rose through his listeners that such a death should befall a woman of her stature—cold, drowned, covered in mud under a bridge), “but we are all alone at the moment of death. That is how death takes a person.” It was quiet enough after that for them to hear the hollow thonk of glass on wood as he put down his cup. “It is true,” he said, “but also, nothing happens invisibly among people.”

And then he said how in being seen there is a kind of company. And how therefore, to his mind, while Nana Oforiwaa was alone, still she was in their company, right until the last moment. And he said how everything he was going to relate that evening had been seen or heard by one person or another. That these things were signs of the company they, Nana Oforiwaa’s neighbors, had kept with her until the end, and that they had nothing to feel shameful for.

Here, for a little more than a moment, he paused, so that some thought he had lost his nerve, though those closer to the front saw the concentration in his face, as when a doctor listens to the pulse in a child’s wrist, or the breathing of a chest.

And then he began.

“Everyone remembers the heat and then the rain.”

Already, he said, the air had begun to condense on the skin by the time Nana Oforiwaa arrived at the school on the day that would be the last of her life. The gardener saw her car entering at the school gate. Almost half of the fifth form saw it pass on its way down the hill. A handful of children on detention, who were weeding the grass along the road, saw her car come to a halt outside the teacher’s quarters, saw her open the back door before the driver could come round to open it for her, saw her step out onto the sand of the road and smooth her dress over her knees with sharp swipes of her hands and squint into the sun.

As it was Sunday, classes were out. The young boy sent to summon the teacher found him up a ladder in the school hall inspecting some recent repairs to the ceiling.

Returning directly to his quarters, the teacher met Nana Oforiwaa pacing up and down in front of the steps.

A group of children playing in the shade of a tree nearby heard some of their brief exchange, catching only Nana Oforiwaa’s last words, “So, we go inside then.”

Further up the road Nana Oforiwaa’s driver was leaning over the open front door of the car. He too saw Nana Oforiwaa and the teacher enter the house.

Two hours later the sound of a bell brought the children from the upper fields. The light had deepened and a light breeze began to stir the leaves in the shadows as the children passed the parked car on their way to the dormitories. The drowsy undertow of insects and bird calls disappeared under the noise of voices and falling feet. It was six o’clock in the afternoon. Nana Oforiwaa’s niece had now been missing over four hours. So had the boy.

Some time after that the teacher emerged from his house and spoke to the driver.

Nana Oforiwaa would stay where she was, he told the driver, until her niece and the boy were found.

But she did not stay where she was, because during the night she left the schoolteacher’s house and went out into the rain.

“She wasn’t hungry,” said the old woman, who had served her evening meal and was the last person to see her alive.

“She didn’t look like a person about to die” (though what such a person should look like she couldn’t say), “only a little occupied with thinking.” And she shuddered to recall how all that night she had gone about her business below in the kitchen as usual, while Nana Oforiwaa was pacing about above her, turning over in her head whatever it was that led her to that bridge in the night in the middle of a torrential downpour. But the old woman heard nothing, she said, not even when Nana Oforiwaa let herself out, which she must have done on account of the fact that the back door was swinging open on the breeze when the old woman came in the next morning.

She had told all this to the police, and later to the doctor, who now repeated it to the gathered people, so bringing to a close his account of the last hours of Nana Oforiwaa’s life. He looked to the people seated behind him for a sign of whether they should stop for a rest, or whether he should continue with his story. They nodded to him to continue, since he had only begun and there was a long way to go. Somebody went to refill the doctor’s water jug, and when that person returned the doctor began again, setting out the rest of the story, from the moment the children’s absence was first noticed to the moment of their return, and further back still, to the events that preceded their disappearance.

All the while as he talked his eyes were fixed above the heads that listened, gazing out through the door, where the black outlines of the trees stood against the speckled sky. His soft, even voice moved fluidly, like water, and soon it was as if the words had a natural life of their own. They were not coming from him, it seemed, but rose around him, as if conjured, until the sound of the words saturated everything and nothing was possible outside of them. And when it was over the people assembled there knew that what they had heard was true, though they did not quite remember how it had become so.

 
 
The doctor told of how earlier that Sunday Nana Oforiwaa had taken her niece to the Botanical Gardens after church. The boy had been with them too, and Nana Oforiwaa had gone into one of the glasshouses, leaving the children outside. When she returned both children had gone.
 
She had summoned the groundsmen, who searched the gardens for them, but that took over an hour on account of the size of the gardens, and all through that time Nana Oforiwaa had stayed, alone, at a table under the trees in the café. There were plenty who would have sat with her, but none dared. She sat, her arms folded heavily across her breasts, her mouth tight as a hairpin, and her eyes full of righteous hostility.
 
Later, they discovered from the park guards that the children had not gone out through any of the gates. But that meant nothing. There were many places in the fence where they could have slipped through. That was when Nana Oforiwaa decided that the children had purposefully disappeared. “Look now what has happened,” she said, voice raised, and the groundsmen stood quietly, heads lowered, as if they were responsible. But Nana Oforiwaa was more than angry: she had begun to panic, and the people said (her driver, the customers under the trees, the waitresses) that she feared now for her niece, she feared for what the boy had done with her, a girl she’d brought up as her own.
 
Everybody knew about Nana Oforiwaa’s niece and the boy, the half-foreigner. It was a matter of silent outrage, their shameless public intimacy, touching each other like the whites did on the streets of Accra. It was spoken of by everyone (and not in lowered tones either). At weekends, people would see him waiting for her at the back of the Methodist hall, as the solemn hymns came rolling slowly down the hill, waiting to take her away, to couple like monkeys in the shade of the banana trees. Afterwards they’d come out into the church square, where people attending funerals congregated in their red and black robes, and walk together openly, her books crossed in his arms against his chest. Many times they were seen taking the shortcut back to the school, up the steep paths from the other side of the main road, down through the alleyways between the collapsing bungalows whose old steps were covered with moss, down the rocky paths on which washing was laid out to dry. And if they felt it was safe enough, and that they were not followed, they would do it again, stripping off their clothes in the tall grass, surrounded by the noise of women talking in their compounds, of carpentry and of sick children.
 
Now, in Nana Oforiwaa’s anger, in her indignation and impotence, many felt their own anger and indignation and impotence, which they had endured for many weeks; and it swept them up in a rush of sympathy. Nana Oforiwaa had not seen it all clearly before, they said, but now she had, now she understood. And such was the strength of the resentment unleashed against the boy that he might just as well have murdered Nana Oforiwaa with his own hands, while the girl remained immune from their anger, on account of the fact that she was Nana Oforiwaa’s niece, even if both she and the boy had run off that Sunday together.
 
And so, when on Monday morning the two of them had come walking up Aburi Main Road, passing Peduase Lodge, brazen as the day and ignorant still of what they had caused, two different receptions awaited them. As they reached the rest house they heard from inside the sound of a prayer meeting in full swing. They had not yet climbed the stairs when there emerged from the door a phalanx of churchwomen, bustling with the determination of martyrs, that pushed the boy aside (not violently, but as if they had not seen him) and swept up the girl into the bosom of holiness and propriety.
 
As for what had passed between Nana Oforiwaa and the teacher before the first search party set out to find the missing children, the doctor could add little. What he could tell them he had learned from remarks the teacher had made to his companions during the night’s search: that Nana Oforiwaa had come directly from the Botanical Gardens to the school; that she was upset and anxious; that she’d wanted to search for the children herself, and immediately, but that the teacher had persuaded her to wait a little longer, arguing that the children might return on their own.
 
When later the doctor had tried to talk to the teacher himself, he told the crowd, he had met with no success. The teacher was, by this time, beyond rationality.
 
“He says things over and over again. Nonsense, unintelligible things . . .” the doctor said. “Otherwise he lies completely silent for hours, his whole body clenched . . .”
 
Then the doctor stopped talking. There was silence for a long time. Silence that was full of pity for the teacher. Though not only pity, but gratitude too for his carrying such grief. And as the doctor stood there, looking out over the quiet people, it occurred to him for the first time how much the grateful will forget.
 
And how much they will forgive.

Continues...

Excerpted from Eddie Signwriter by Adam Schwartzman Copyright © 2010 by Adam Schwartzman. 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.

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Reading Group Guide

1. Adam Schwartzman is a poet. Do you feel his poetry background informs his use of language? Does his style suit the narrative well? Does his work remind you of other writers and, if so, which ones and which books?

2. Eddie's full name is Kwasi Edward Michael Dankwa. Discuss the importance of his name. Why do you think he chooses certain names at different points in his life: Kwasi, Edward, Eddie? Consider your relationship to your own name. Has it changed throughout your life? What does it mean to be named, by your family, and what does it mean to choose what you are called?

3. Consider the importance placed on culture in the novel. What does Eddie's father mean when he says he wanted his son to learn to become a Ghanaian? Eddie's family is often split across countries. How do you imagine this affects their sense of culture? How is culture defined by the group of immigrants in France, since they come from different countries?

4. Why do you think Celeste comes to Eddie? Is the relationship they have based on love, or on something else—both in the beginning and the second time they are together? Do you think it is possible to survive the kind of history their relationship has? What does Eddie mean when he realizes that "The past was gone. Their stories had fled"?

5. Discuss the main characters and their motivations in the novel. In particular: the teacher, Nana, Celeste, Eddie, and Festus Ankrah. What does each want from the world and from each other? Eddie's experiences are greatly affected by the older people in his life—the teacher, Nana, Big Henry, his uncle. Are these characters good for Eddie, or destructive, or are all their relationships more complicated than good/bad? What influences have you felt in your life from teachers, family members, or friends?

6. It is under Big Henry's tutelage that Eddie becomes a signwriter. What does he learn from Big Henry? How does his role in Eddie's life compare/contrast with the role of the teacher? Did you see signwriting as an art before reading this novel? What do you think Eddie is able to accomplish in his work, and is there anything that he cannot put into his paintings?

7. What do you think is at the heart of Eddie's breakdown in both the middle and at the end of the novel? In one case, he makes the decision to leave Africa; in the other, he is able to return to the community in Paris. What affected both these choices?

8. The journey to find Eddie is long and difficult. Why do you think Festus undertakes this search? And what do you think both men take away from their meeting in the end? What does Festus mean when he says that his purpose is "to let you go"?

9. What is your understanding of the scene in which Eddie sleeps with a prostitute, Janet? Why do you think he makes this choice? What does it say about where he is emotionally in his life?

10. Schwartzman creates a vivid portrait of an immigrant community in France. Discuss these characters and how they each handle their lives and the risks they must take every day.

11. There are many different statements about love in the novel, including these two: "even with the woman you love most in the world . . . you are still alone" and "Love can make amends for anything." Eddie often finds himself thinking "Love. Emptiness. Emptiness. Love." What do you think the novel suggests about the possibilities of love? What do you think the characters believe about love? Does Eddie's view change due to his experiences, or does his perspective remain the same? What is your own belief about the power or failure inherent in loving another person?

12. Along with love, there is the question of choice. What does the teacher say about choice, the idea of destiny and/or free will? What do you think Eddie believes?

13. Who do you believe is to blame for Nana's death? Why do you think she died? Discuss further the role of blame and forgiveness among the characters. What does the novel say about who can blame and who can forgive? At the end, is it acceptable that Festus forgives his nephew?

14. Consider the character of Bernadette. How is her relationship with Eddie different from Celeste's? Is it similar in any ways? How does Eddie view each woman and the ideas he holds about what relationships can and should accomplish in the world? What do you think are the possibilities for Bernadette and Eddie's long-term happiness?

15. Do you find that the male or female characters are stronger in the novel? In which ways? Do men and women seem to have different motives for their actions, or is it dependent completely upon the individual person?

16. This is a novel set in Africa, and Eddie is a black protagonist. Adam Schwartzman is a white man born in Johannesburg who has lived in many places across the world. How do you feel about the relationship of author to his characters? Do you hold any assumptions about authors writing across race, and/or across gender?

17. What stays with you after finishing the novel, which specific scenes or emotional response to the narrative and the characters?

(For a complete list of available reading group guides, and to sign up for the Reading Group Center enewsletter, visit www.readinggroupcenter.com)

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