The Short History of a Prince (4 Cassettes)

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Set in Jane Hamilton's signature Midwest, The Short History of a Prince is the story of Walter McCloud and his ambition to become a great ballet dancer. With compassion and humor, and alternating between Walter's adolescent and adult voices, the novel tells of Walter's heartbreak as he realizes that his passion cannot make up for the innate talent that he lacks. Introduced as a child to the genius of Balanchine and the lyricism of Tchaikovsky by his stern but cultured aunt Sue Rawson, Walter has dreamed of ...
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The Short History of a Prince

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Overview

Set in Jane Hamilton's signature Midwest, The Short History of a Prince is the story of Walter McCloud and his ambition to become a great ballet dancer. With compassion and humor, and alternating between Walter's adolescent and adult voices, the novel tells of Walter's heartbreak as he realizes that his passion cannot make up for the innate talent that he lacks. Introduced as a child to the genius of Balanchine and the lyricism of Tchaikovsky by his stern but cultured aunt Sue Rawson, Walter has dreamed of growing up to shine in the role of the Prince in The Nutcracker. But as Walter struggles with the limits of his own talent and faces the knowledge that Mitch and Susan, his more gifted friends, have already surpassed him, Daniel, his older brother, awakens one morning with a strange lump on his neck that leads to fearful consequences - and to Walter's realization that a happy family, and a son's place in it, can tragically change overnight. The year that follows will in fact transform the lives not only of the McClouds but also of Susan, who becomes deeply involved with the sick Daniel, and Mitch, the handsome and supremely talented dancer with whom Walter is desperately in love. Into this absorbing narrative Hamilton weaves a place of almost mythical healing, the family's summer home at Lake Margaret, Wisconsin, where for generations the clan has gathered on both happy and unhappy occasions.
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Editorial Reviews

Library Journal
Adolescence always presents difficulties, but for a boy struggling with his sexual identity along with a fierce desire to be a ballet dancer, the pain can be intense. Written by Hamilton, best known for PEN/Ernest Hemingway Foundation Award winner The Book of Ruth (Audio Reviews, LJ 5/1/97) and for A Map of the World, this novel tells of Walter McCloud's growing up in the Midwest. Influenced by his artistic aunt who introduces him to classical music and the ballet, Walter discovers after a few years of study that he has little talent for the ballet. This realization brings severe disappointment since his talented best friends, Mitch and Susan, earn roles he covets. Amid all this turmoil Walter learns that his older brother Daniel is suffering from cancer. A skilled writer, Hamilton manages to convey the pain and loss in Walter's life, as well as the potential for hope and redemption through the love and support of friends and family. Robert Sean Leonard reads with sensitivity and conviction. The sound quality is excellent. Recommended for general collections.-Nancy R. Ives, SUNY at Geneseo
Christine Cassidy
"...Hamilton has a deft touch when it comes to expression passion; she never oversttes her case, making the reader feel as entwined in the outcome of these events as the characters....The Short History of a Prince is ultimately about our responsibility as gay people to make amends, heal old hurts, and not reject our past lives no matter how humiliating. We can go home again. There are people waiting for us." -- Lambda Book Report
Pastan
I've always looked forward to new novels from Jane Hamilton, but I was particularly interested in The Short History of a Prince. I'd heard it was about a young aspirant to the rigorous, baffling, self-contained world of ballet, a promising setup.

The "prince" of the novel, however, turns out to be Walter McCloud, 38 as the book opens and with his dancing years long behind him. Returning to Wisconsin after an aimless decade or so in New York City, he intends to teach English to the freshmen of Otten High, not far from his family's place at Lake Margaret. The story alternates between the present, in which Walter must figure out what the hell he wants to do with the rest of his life, and 1972-73, the year he gave up dancing and his older brother Daniel died of cancer.

Walter is an appealing character: smart, energetic and determined. Gay and single, a generous snob, he is prone to fits of despair but is more or less at peace with himself. Perhaps, in fact, he's too good to be true -- as though the author, writing so closely from the point of view of someone from a minority group of which she is not a member, felt compelled to give him too much benefit of the doubt. Yet at least he is reasonably complicated, as many of the other characters in this book (the dying brother, the witchy aunt with the heart of gold, the cruel and beautiful first love) are not.

There is some ballet in the novel, but Hamilton's emphasis is on the more familiar topics of love and loss and coming to terms with the past. The novel treats these subjects intelligently, but there's more meditation here than drama. The questions of whether Walter's family will lose Lake Margaret, whether Walter will have enough courage to pursue a liaison with a handsome poet, whether or not he'll win over his seventh-period English class, are not pressing enough to pull you through. The family place is often the setting, and while the rambling house and sparkling water sustain Walter, Lake Margaret is not conveyed sufficiently evocatively to do the same for us.

What does sustain us is Walter's considerable energy, and his appealing sensibility. Each page is interesting insofar as his thoughts and perceptions are interesting -- sometimes less, often more. The most memorable parts are when he dances, particularly his tragicomic stint as the Prince in the Rockford Ballet's amateurish production of the Nutcracker. It is in moments like these, when Walter's life is at its most unfamiliar, that the book comes most compellingly to life. -- Salon March 31, 1998

Kirkus Reviews
A meditative, slow-moving, and thoroughly absorbing family drama—about loving, losing, and holding on to all we can—from the author of (the Oprah-chosen) The Book of Ruth (1988) and A Map of the World (1994). The story's protagonist and primary viewpoint character is Walter McCloud, whom we observe (in alternating chapters) as a sensitive, bookish, and—he's quite sure—homosexual teenager growing up in an Illinois suburb in the early '70s among a trio of close friends and fellow ballet students, including beautiful Susan Claridge and her equally beautiful boyfriend (and Walter's sometime sexual partner), Mitch Anderson; and also 25 years later, when Walter, who has long since given up ballet, returns "home" to teach high-school English in Otten, Wisconsin, not far from the gorgeous lakeside summer place owned by his mother's family. It's a richly varied narrative, whose emotional high point is the lingering death from Hodgkin's disease (in 1973) of Walter's older brother Daniel (with whom Susan forms a surprisingly emotional intimate relationship, painfully reshuffling the trio's already complicated feelings for one another). Other losses, both threatened and endured, figure prominently: the likelihood that the frosty maiden aunt who had awakened Walter's aesthetic sense will force the sale of the family's beloved summer house; and Walter's burden of guilt over "his shameful relations with Mitch, his hateful feelings toward Susan, his indifference to his brother." Hamilton writes beautiful summary and descriptive sentences; unfortunately, though, Walter (who is, to be sure, presented as unusually intelligent and articulate) speaks in almost preciselythe same manner. This tendency toward formality creates a distance from the reader that is, however, vitiated by our genuine empathy with the novel's many vividly drawn characters (the inquisitive and querulous Mrs. Gamble is an especially memorable figure). Hamilton ends it with a beautiful coda that may remind readers of both Michael Cunningham's Flesh and Blood and James Agee's A Death in the Family. Like them, this is a lyrical, bighearted novel that won't easily be forgotten.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780375401916
  • Publisher: Random House Audio Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 3/24/1998
  • Format: Cassette
  • Edition description: Abridged, 4 Cassettes
  • Product dimensions: 4.13 (w) x 7.14 (h) x 1.15 (d)

Meet the Author

Jane Hamilton
Jane Hamilton lives, works, and writes in an orchard farmhouse in Wisconsin. Her short stories have appeared in Harper's magazine. Her first novel, The Book of Ruth, won the PEN/Ernest Hemingway Foundation Award for best first novel and was a selection of the Oprah Book Club. Her second novel,  A Map of the World, was an international bestseller.

About the Reader

Robert Sean Leonard has appeared in such films as Mr. and Mrs. Bridge and The Manhattan Project and was critically acclaimed for his performance in Dead Poets Society.

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Read an Excerpt

AUGUST
1972


Why Walter woke up earlier than usual on August 10, Saturday, he couldn't at first explain. The collies next door were barking at the air, as always, no space for brains in the tiny knob between their pedigreed ears. It had rained in the night and the summer sun was already drawing steam from the moist ground. Walter would later say that he felt her, that it wasn't the light cutting through the misty heat or the rumpus of the Gamble dogs that made him sit up. He had gone to the window and looked out. It was like the dawn of the world down below, so green and vapory and lush with fronds, and when the lilac tree shook in her yard he admitted that his foolish heart came up his throat. He was still half asleep, and for an instant'just that long--he expected to see a reptile reeling in breakfast on its sticky tongue or a dragonfly, all veiny wings, the size of a model airplane. Thank God! It was instead Mrs. Gamble snapping at the dying wood of the tree with her red-handled loppers.

Woman, what have I to do with you? Walter thought, words he'd heard somewhere, in a play or from a book. It was five-thirty in the morning, the day of his Aunt Jeannie's and, also somewhat incidentally, his Uncle Ted's anniversary party. He needed his sleep, in preparation for the event. That he was awake and watching Mrs. Gamble must mean something. He was often assigning meaning to moments, saying, Here, and here, and
here is a beginning, the opening sequence of my real life. He was fifteen and he was ready for drama even if he had to construct it himself. Ideally he'd take the part of the unlikely hero, or the witty and cunning rescuer, or the artist who is at firstmisunderstood. And in the conflict, he guessed, he might enjoy being hurt just enough to make an appealing victim, but not so much that he'd actually suffer. How convenient it would be, too, if change was heralded, if an epoch was launched with a clarion call or unusual weather patterns, if Mrs. Gamble could get her dogs to tweet, the birds to bark when there was going to be upheaval.

He remembered how Mrs. Gamble used to sit on her toilet in the downstairs bathroom in the old days when he was over playing with Trishie Gamble, how she smoked her cigarettes and read from her book of astrological charts. The book lay open on her lap, on her apron, her pants in folds around her ankles. Her short dingy hair, as usual, was
coiled into pin curls and secured with bobby pins. She had apparently long since given up the habit of shutting the bathroom door in her own house, so what if Trishie and her son, Greg, the neighbors, the dogs, drifted by while she cast their horoscopes. Walter was Virgo, the virgin: "Exact," she told him, "methodical. Industrious. Chaste." She
said the word with relish. "Ch-haste." He didn't know what it meant, precisely, and he couldn't tell if it was something he could look forward to being. " 'The Virgoan heart,' " she recited, " 'is not quickly melted, but when once it finds itself in love's furnace it glows
with a pure white heat and takes ages to cool.' "

He conceded, to himself, that he was still afraid of her, a little, it was true, afraid to look her right in the eye. Down in the yard she was wrestling with the lilac branch, having trouble making her cut. It was one of the first signals, he would tell his friend Susan months later.
Mrs. Gamble, the augur, with her loppers, trying to clip away the canker. When she squinted up at his bedroom that Saturday morning he ducked. He went down on all fours and crawled to his bed. She had felt his gaze--he shivered at the thought of it. He should shut his eyes and dream about a carefree Walter McCloud, a slouch, the life of the party,
a boy with a new star, a new planet, a new astrological house. The Gamble collies had already barked at the neighbor, Mr. Kloper, on his way to work, and so there was no real reason he couldn't turn over and go back to sleep.

Two hours later when Walter went down to the kitchen he found his mother standing by the sink with her nose under his brother's chin, inspecting his Adam's apple. Joyce was wearing her purple-and-blue apron that went up over her shoulders and crossed in the back with an additional sash around the waist, tied in a bow. Walter had been to the ballet the night before with his aunt, and it struck him that his mother was wearing something like a costume. He wondered if a choreographer as sensitive and penetrating as Mr. George Balanchine could translate Joyce's life into dance. What would the genius ballet master do, he wondered, to get at the essence of Joyce? He sat down to his cornflakes trying to imagine what trick Mr. B. used to bring the spirit of his dancers to the fore. In a feeble beginning, he knew, he pictured Joyce rising up and skimming
across the floor on the tips of her toes doing bourrées, to pour him orange juice and set out the napkins.

"Does it hurt when I touch there?" Joyce was saying, pushing the pad of her thumb into what she thought was her older son's lymph node. "Sort of." Daniel had thrown his head back, to the limit, and the strain made his voice sound higher than usual. "She means, is it pressure, which is not necessarily a bad thing, or is it pain?" Walter said, turning the cereal box over to read the ingredients. He'd pulled a muscle in ballet class in July and his teacher had spoken to him in a similar vein, trying to pinpoint the hurt.

"That's right," Joyce said, "pressure or pain?"
"I don't know, Mom. I just feel it. It's big."
Walter glanced up from the box. "You two may be under the impression that you are alone, in our own house, but in fact you're providing Mrs. Gamble with an excellent view of the examination from her kitchen window. She probably has already figured out what's on Dan's neck. I bet she's on her way over here now with a cure-all, with some organic
liver." Daniel did not mutter a brotherly "Shut up," or try to move away from the sink. His head was still hanging back and he gurgled when he spoke.

"Organic liver?"
"I'm going to talk to the doctor, Daniel," Joyce said.
"Aw, Mom, it's all right. I don't want to mess up the day."
"Overnight you have a--protrusion--as big as a--"
Walter stood up, to see. He had not ever been athletically inclined but he understood his mother's confusion. There was no ball in any American game that he knew of for purposes of comparisons. "How'd you get that?" he asked, gaping. "I have a sore throat," Daniel said, as if that explained the vaguely three-sided growth that was slightly smaller than a tennis ball. "I woke up with it."

Over the phone the doctor prescribed aspirin and bed rest and further consultation in a day or two if the pustule hadn't drained on its own. Joyce hung up the telephone and opened the refrigerator to look at the two hundred deviled eggs she'd made the day before. The McCloud family was supposed to drive up to Wisconsin, to Lake Margaret, for Aunt Jeannie's twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Joyce did not want to leave
her son at home with such an odd malady. "Are you well enough, Daniel, to ride in the car," she said, "or are you sick enough for me, at least, to stay with you?"

Walter set his spoon down on the table and turned around to look at her. They had to go. Aunt Jeannie had asked for his help, and Joyce had made the lime Jell-O in the doughnut molds, the orange Jell-O in the fish molds, the deviled eggs, a ham and a kettle of baked beans. He realized that he'd been looking forward to the day. He didn't want to miss the occasion, and he also didn't like the idea of being at the lake, at the extravaganza, without his mother. It was she, it was her presence, that kept a family party from going off center.

There were no ballet classes in August, and Walter and his two dancing-school friends, Susan and Mitch, had been hired by Aunt Jeannie to serve the hors d'oeuvres and refill the champagne glasses. They had been instructed to wear black dress pants and white shirts and black bow ties. Aunt Jeannie had purchased silver plastic bowler hats for the
servers and commanded her daughter Francie to sew silver-sequined vests. Walter had told his friends that Aunt Jeannie was a nut case, there wasn't any straighter arrow than her husband, and so there was bound to be some excitement. They'd load the car with grocery bag after grocery bag, sacks filled with buns, cantaloupes, cherries, peaches, whole watermelons, gallons of milk. On the way Walter planned to be in the fold-out seat in the back of the station wagon, squashed against Mitch, across from Susan, all of their legs tangled together, the wind blowing through the car so that none of the other McClouds, neither his parents, nor Daniel, if he made it, could hear the conversation.

Walter had been taken from his Illinois home to Wisconsin, to Lake Margaret, through the summers ever since he was born. His great-grandfather had built the Victorian house, the barn, the pump house, the privy and the summer kitchen. The estate had passed to
Joyce's father and after his death to Joyce and her two sisters and two brothers.

Weekend after weekend Joyce's husband, Robert, stopped at the iron gate and Joyce and her two boys got out and walked up the wooded drive. That was the important part, to walk the last stretch, to see it all come slowly through the trees: first, in the far distance, the glint of the lake, and then the red and blue of the plaid hammock strung between the oaks, and the stone shepherd boy in the middle of the fountain, the grassy opening, the croquet hoops and colored balls, and finally the house itself, the lovely old white clapboard house, with scallops and latticework, the long windows, the lacy curtains, the swing on the front porch moving in the breeze.

Walter loved that walk, the feeling that you couldn't get to Lake Margaret by car, not really. The place still had the lingering odor of carriage leather, starched sheets and kerosene lamps, and sometimes he imagined that the relatives, all of them who had come before, were still sleeping in their iron beds upstairs under the eaves. They were
sleeping, the whiteness of the hot afternoon under their closed lids, the sounds in their ears of the water and the insects, the halyard idly banging against the mast in the soft hot wind. He knew the ancestors because there were photographs on a Peg-Board in the living room, pictures of the jowly great-grandmother and the great-grandfather awkwardly holding a baby. There were pictures of the great-aunts, the solemn young women with their hair piled on top of their heads, and the great-uncles with handlebar mustaches and what looked like barbershop-quartet clothes. It was so strange, Walter thought, that a
house could outlive a person; strange, marvelous even, that he could walk up the drive and out of time.

Walter hated the idea of staying home from the lake, missing the anniversary party, and only because Daniel had a goiter and a sore throat. It was Daniel who, point by point, convinced Joyce that they should go and leave him behind. He would be fine in a day or two, he assured her, and, in case she'd forgotten, he was no longer five but seventeen years old, capable of pouring his own ginger ale and putting himself to bed. Actually, he said, he'd welcome the chance to rest up, to get ready for two important swim team races in the coming week.

The McClouds' house and the Gambles' house were the only two homes on Maplewood Avenue that were mirror images of each other, so that kitchen faced kitchen, dining room faced dining room. To set the day to rights Joyce, from the kitchen window, flagged down Mrs. Gamble at her sink. In a matter of seconds both women were out in their yards, standing at the Gambles' chain-link fence. Daniel's little dog, Duke, a terrier and
beagle mix, did not seem to realize that it was futile to try to mount the Gamble collies through the diamond links, and Joyce absently reached for his choke collar, pulling him to her so that he was standing on his hind legs, his eyes bulging.

"How's the carport construction coming, Florence?" Joyce asked. Mrs. Gamble reached over the fence toward Duke. "Give the boy to me." She hoisted him up, and when she had him, clasped to her bosom, she lifted up the flap of his black ear and whispered down into the inner chamber. He stopped scrabbling and went still.

Joyce remembered then that at breakfast Walter had said something about Mrs. Gamble. What was it? A line about Mrs. Gamble giving an examination, Mrs. Gamble knowing more than they did. She couldn't get it back exactly. But it was true, she thought, that Florence was like the headmistress of the block, the dread matron patrolling the corridors.

She should have had a career, Joyce supposed, a position that made use of her unusual talents. A postal official barking at the next customer to step up to the window, or a meter maid marking time with her long chalk on the stick. When the children pestered the milkman for ice on humid mornings, out Mrs. Gamble charged from her back door, snapping her bullwhip on the pavement. The urchin pack scattered, gone, not a sound
but the burr of the Borden's motor and the echo of the whip. Why she owned such a thing was a mystery, although some said it had come down to her from her cowhand uncle. Why she felt the need to police the children and the milkman was another puzzle. Joyce had found Walter trembling in the bushes once, the ice melting in his clenched fist, water running down his arm. There was probably not enough in Florence's three-story
house, Joyce thought, and the quarter-acre lot, to keep a woman with her intellect occupied, and so she had moved beyond her property line, out into the alley, to keep watch and edify. There was no doubt that she was the pioneer with improvements on Maplewood Avenue: there had been the state-of-the-art chain-link fence, and then the rubber straps with hooks that went over the top of the trash cans to prevent retarded Billy
Wexler from swiping the lids. Most recently, there was to be the addition of the carport.

Each house had its own matching garage facing the alley, but the Gambles
were soon also going to have a driveway up their front lawn, ending in a carport. No one had driveways in Oak Ridge, Illinois, much less a carport. No one had ever dreamed of a carport. "How's the construction coming?" Joyce asked again.

After the update on the project, the slackers who passed for workmen, the crack in the concrete, the broken spotlight, Joyce asked Mrs. Gamble if she could keep an eye on Daniel while the family went off to Wisconsin to celebrate Jeannie and Ted's wedding anniversary. Mrs. Gamble raised her blond eyebrow. "How long?"
"It will take most of the day, but we'll try to be home before dark," Joyce said. "Daniel knows to call you if he feels--" "No. How many years? How long has it been for Ted?" "Twenty-five, Florence. They, Ted and Jeannie, have been married for twenty-five years." Before Mrs. Gamble could make a remark about her relations, Joyce reached for Duke, prattling in a motherly way--"Here you come, upsa-daisy."

Mrs. Gamble grinned into the glare of the sun and murmured, "I hope the Jell-Os don"t melt on the way." She always watched over the McClouds' house when they were gone. It was not a hardship for her, no more devotion required to watch an empty
house than a full one. Walter imagined her taking the key from her apron pocket, opening the back door, and roaming through their house when they were away, during a thunderstorm, under the pretext of checking the windows. He pictured her moving silently through all of their rooms, transfixed, so that her personal habits fell away and she didn't need to pluck at her shirt or clear her throat. She would not open the drawers or rummage around the attic. Through the simple darkness of the house
she'd see into Robert and Joyce and Daniel and himself; she'd see their dreams laid out before her, see their unrealistic aspirations, their daffy ideals and the thin weave of their allegiances.

In adulthood Walter made an effort to refrain from thinking of the scenes of his boyhood as Greek theater, and yet, in spite of his resolve, he could not keep from associating Mrs. Gamble with Daniel's sickness. She was the old lady seer, the one with the pin curls, the X's of the bobby pins spelling out an oracle. It was Mrs. Gamble, after all, who watched over Daniel on Aunt Jeannie's anniversary. In their absence
she may have walked through the McClouds' house whispering, I hope the lawn chemicals haven't leached into the water, I hope the lead pipes haven't
poisoned. . . . I hope the pollution from Gary. . . . I hope it isn't, I hope it hasn't. She might have left in her wake something as insubstantial, as potent, as a dark hope.

As it turned out there was so much baggage on the trip to Lake Margaret that Walter's friends, Susan and Mitch, sat crushed in one fold-out seat in the back of the car, and Walter was left with the middle bench seat. Robert McCloud had arranged the two aquamarine coolers, the suitcases and the grocery bags. It wasn't for nothing, he said, that Joyce had been a Girl Scout: she was fully prepared for an ice age, a drought, a monsoon and the invasion of the termites. Walter was pinned against the door by the coolers, it was awkward to turn around, and he had to shout to be heard. The teenagers gave up talking after a few minutes on the expressway. Susan and Mitch fell asleep against each other. Nothing had gone according to plan, and Walter stared gloomily out the window. Just as well that Daniel was sick, he thought. If he'd come they'd have had to tie him to the roof rack.

Joyce glanced back now and then to make sure there was nothing unseemly going on between the two lovebirds in the kiddie seat. She gave her husband a preview of the day to come, quietly, and with restraint, evoking her hysterical sister. Even marking the gestures, not imitating them full out, was funny, and Robert snorted into his shirt and twice said, "Oh, Joycie."

She had enough sense not to ask Walter if he was all right. She could see that he was troubled about something, and he in his turn knew that she had taken note of his unhappiness. Her general sympathy brought him a guilty little pleasure. His thin skin and tender heart were at once a source of pride and anxiety to her. He had asked to study ballet, she had known better than to try to talk him out of it, and she had clung to
the belief that his enthusiasm for the dance would shield him from the predictable taunts. It had been such a stroke of luck that his two dancing-school friends happened to live in Oak Ridge. They had been put together in the First Junior Class at the Kenton School of Ballet in Chicago when they were ten years old and together they"d advanced all the way up to the Second Intermediate Class. But through good and bad fortune Walter would always have his own temperament, and Joyce feared
that he would feel the injuries of adolescence more keenly than his peers. Still, she hadn't given up on a straightforward future for him, and she wondered if it was Susan, if the leggy girl squeezing against Mitch, was the source of his present misery.

Her conclusion was not exactly off the mark. Walter was thinking about the night the week before, when he and Susan and Mitch had been in the McClouds' living room, dancing and listening to records. Walter had picked out Tchaikovsky's Serenade, a piece that had been their favorite since the previous summer. George Balanchine, the greatest choreographer in the history of the dance, according to Walter, had made a plotless ballet to the music, and Walter, in a tribute to b
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Sort by: Showing all of 7 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 19, 2001

    Jane Hamilton's Best Yet!

    This book captures genuine emotion. As the novel progressed I got a real feeling of being in the places, both emotional and physical, the author describes. I will miss being part of Walter's (the prince) life. This book also flows better than some of the author's previous novels, so if you have enjoyed any of her others, you will certainly enjoy The Short History of A Prince

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 4, 2000

    get hooked on hamilton

    A wonderful book. Jane Hamilton writes with such vision. her words draw you into this book and don't let you go until the last page. She deals with real life issues head on and forces you look at yourself and how you deal with things.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 7, 2013

    Couldn't get interest this book and cannot recommend.  

    Couldn't get interest this book and cannot recommend.  

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 28, 2010

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    Posted January 6, 2010

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 26, 2008

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 25, 2008

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