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Vanilla Bright like Eminem

Overview

Michel Faber is not only a master storyteller but a daring innovator as well. Here are the pitch-perfect prose, indelible characterizations, and deep empathy for which he has been highly acclaimed. Here also is a satirical streak that depicts individuals at uncanny and all-too-familiar turning points in their lives. The alienated find sanctuary in "The Safehouse," their histories and diagnoses written like endless ads on their T-shirts. In "Andy Comes Back," a man awakens after a five-year coma, only to flee his ...

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Overview

Michel Faber is not only a master storyteller but a daring innovator as well. Here are the pitch-perfect prose, indelible characterizations, and deep empathy for which he has been highly acclaimed. Here also is a satirical streak that depicts individuals at uncanny and all-too-familiar turning points in their lives. The alienated find sanctuary in "The Safehouse," their histories and diagnoses written like endless ads on their T-shirts. In "Andy Comes Back," a man awakens after a five-year coma, only to flee his home. In "The Eyes of the Soul," perpetual televised beauty replaces the derelict view from a suburban picture window. In "Finesse," a dictator holds his surgeon’s family hostage to the outcome of a risky operation. These sixteen stories move from unspeakable sadness through moments of exquisitely distilled happiness.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
PRAISE FOR VANILLA BRIGHT LIKE EMINEM

"By turns crepuscular, buoyant, delicate, wry, horrific, and otherworldly, this worldly and organ-rupturingly funny collection is a vitamin boost for the short story."—David Mitchell, author of Cloud Atlas

"Not only can he scare the bejesus out of you, he can make your heart swell"—The Times (London)

Booklist
"In the 16 short stories collected here, Faber (The Crimson and the Petal, 2002) continues to demonstrate the full range of his talents. Most of the stories contain a fantastical or magical element that only serves to underline Faber's disquieting take on alienation in modern society, and the effect is somewhat like an episode of The Twilight Zone as penned by Ian McEwan...Expertly crafted short fiction."
New York Observer
"A cunning, sui generis
New York Times - Janet Maslin
"Poignantly eerie...odd and haunting...When Mr. Faber, who wrote the intoxicating novel 'The Crimson Petal and the White,' shoehorns the name Eminem into the title of a literary short-story collection, he isn't overreaching. These stories blend darkly phantasmagoric elements with humorously commonplace ones, and Eminem makes a perfectly good avatar for that kind of thinking...Every one of the main characters here...¦reaches some point of change by the end of the story. But these are not cheap epiphanies; they are genuinely odd and stirring changes of heart. Mr. Faber, who remains a writer capable of invoking all manner of inchoate dangers, teases...[characters] toward a realization that life-or-death power is beyond both of them."
The New York Times Book Review
"The mark of greatness in golf is the ability to play long ball and sink a chip shot. Apply the same measures to writing, and you begin to get a sense of Michel Faber's talents. Vanilla Bright Like Eminem [is] a set of 16 stylish, harrowing stories that get off to running starts and have concise, cut-to-the-chase precision...Faber ranges widely among the mundane and the fantastic...but regardless of theme, a sense of empathatic understanding pervades all these tales."
The New Yorker
"[Faber] mines the mundane for the unexpected, even the surreal, with impressive assurance. Occasionally, his facility gives an impression of superficiality, but at his best he explores conflicts with a compelling balance of menace and wit."
From the Publisher
PRAISE FOR VANILLA BRIGHT LIKE EMINEM

"By turns crepuscular, buoyant, delicate, wry, horrific, and otherworldly, this worldly and organ-rupturingly funny collection is a vitamin boost for the short story."—David Mitchell, author of Cloud Atlas

"Not only can he scare the bejesus out of you, he can make your heart swell"—The Times (London)

New York Times
Poignantly eerie...odd and haunting...When Mr. Faber, who wrote the intoxicating novel 'The Crimson Petal and the White,' shoehorns the name Eminem into the title of a literary short-story collection, he isn't overreaching. These stories blend darkly phantasmagoric elements with humorously commonplace ones, and Eminem makes a perfectly good avatar for that kind of thinking...Every one of the main characters here...¦reaches some point of change by the end of the story. But these are not cheap epiphanies; they are genuinely odd and stirring changes of heart. Mr. Faber, who remains a writer capable of invoking all manner of inchoate dangers, teases...[characters] toward a realization that life-or-death power is beyond both of them.—Janet Maslin
The New Yorker
"[Faber] mines the mundane for the unexpected, even the surreal, with impressive assurance. Occasionally, his facility gives an impression of superficiality, but at his best he explores conflicts with a compelling balance of menace and wit."
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780151013142
  • Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
  • Publication date: 9/10/2007
  • Pages: 256
  • Product dimensions: 5.70 (w) x 8.20 (h) x 1.10 (d)

Meet the Author

Michel Faber

Michel Faber's work has been published in twenty countries and received several literary awards. He lives in Scotland.

Biography

Watch your step. Keep your wits about you; you will need them.

Thus Michel Faber lures readers into the Victorian saga of The Crimson Petal and the White, a novel that has earned Faber comparisons to Charles Dickens and delivered on the promise of his first, markedly different novel Under the Skin. Petal is an exhaustively researched chronicle of 1870s London as seen through the eyes of a young prostitute whose ambition carries her (and the reader) to higher levels in society. Faber's come-hither approach to writing the book jives with both his characters and his approach to reading. "I use the metaphor of a novel being like a prostitute, promising the reader a good time, promising intimacy and companionship," he says in a publisher's interview. "Ironically, even though you feel at first that you're being strung along by this beguiling voice, you do end up getting everything it promised you. And more, I hope."

Faber seduced readers with a predatory protagonist in the sci-fi-like Under the Skin. He brings his audience in league with Isserley, an otherworldly character who preys on human men in Scotland for their body parts, then sends the fruits of her labor back to her home territory. Faber's potency as a writer lies in his ability to lead the reader into a story with a number of matter-of-fact details, some sticking out more than others -- things don't get completely strange in Under the Skin until Isserley happens to flick a switch in her car and needles emerge from the passenger seat, sedating the hitchhiker she's picked up.

"The more the writer tries to force the reader to regard something as amazing and special, the more suspicious and bored the reader will become," Faber said in an interview with the Barcelona Review in 2002. "The reader needs to feel that the weirdness or the beauty or the horror in a story has an independent reality from what anyone says about it. That’s an illusion, of course: the writer is responsible. But the illusion is essential." Faber succeeds in crafting these illusions, whether they are the stuff of real life or fantasy. As the New York Times noted in its impressed and bemused review of Under the Skin, "His writing is chaste, dryly humorous and resolutely moral. The fantastic is so nicely played against the day-to-day that one feels the strangeness of both..."

It's evident from these two novels and from the short story collection Some Rain Must Fall, which mixes fantastic and humdrum settings, that Faber knows no bounds when it comes to genre or milieu. Like his protagonists, he can take his strengths into foreign territories, succeeding by coercion if necessary.

Good To Know

The first third of The Crimson Petal and the White was serialized online at the Guardian's web site.

One of Faber's early publisher bios said that "he has worked as a nurse, a pickle-packer, a cleaner, and a guinea pig for medical research."

In 2002, Faber published a novella called The Courage Consort, which has not yet been released in the U.S.

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    1. Hometown:
      A remote cottage in Ross-shire, Scottish Highlands
    1. Date of Birth:
      April 13, 1960
    2. Place of Birth:
      The Hague, Netherlands
    1. Education:
      Melbourne University
    2. Website:

Read an Excerpt

The Safehouse
 
I
 
I wake up, blinking hard against the sky, and the first thing I remember is that my wife cannot forgive me. Never, ever.
 
           Then I remind myself I don’t have a wife anymore.
 
           Instead, I’m lying at the bottom of a stairwell, thirty concrete steps below street level in a city far from my home. My home is in the past, and I must live in the present.
 
           I’m lying on a soft pile of rubbish bags, and I seem to have got myself covered in muck. It’s all over my shabby green raincoat and the frayed sleeves of my jumper, and there’s a bit on my trousers as well. I sniff it, trying to decide what it is, but I can’t be sure.
 
           How strange I didn’t notice it when I was checking this place out last night. OK, it was already dark by then and I was desperate to find somewhere to doss down after being moved on twice already. But I remember crawling into the rubbish really carefully, prodding the bin bags with my hands and thinking this was the softest and driest bed I was likely to find. Maybe the muck seeped out later on, under pressure from my sleeping body.
 
           I look around for something to wipe my clothes with. There’s nothing, really. If I were a cat, I’d lick the crap off with my tongue, and still be a proud, even fussy creature. But I’m not a cat. I’m a human being.
 
           So, I pull a crumpled-up advertising brochure out of the trash, wet it with dregs from a beer bottle, and start to scrub my jacket vigorously with the damp wad of paper.
 
           Maybe it’s the exercise, or maybe the rising sun, but pretty soon I feel I can probably get by without these dirty clothes—at least until tonight. And tonight is too far away to think about.
 
           I stand up, leaving my raincoat and jumper lying in the garbage, where they look as if they belong anyway. I’m left with a big white T-shirt on, my wrinkled neck and skinny arms bare, which feels just right for the temperature. The T-shirt’s got writing on the front, but I’ve forgotten what the writing says. In fact, I can’t remember where I got this T-shirt, whether someone gave it to me or I stole it or even bought it, long long ago.

            I climb the stone steps back up to the street, and start walking along the footpath in no particular direction, just trying to become part of the picture generally. The big picture. Sometimes in magazines you see a photograph of a street full of people, an aerial view. Everyone looks as though they belong, even the blurry ones.
 
           I figure it must be quite early, because although there’s lots of traffic on the road, there’s hardly any pedestrians. Some of the shops haven’t opened yet, unless it’s a Sunday and they aren’t supposed to. So there’s my first task: working out what day it is. It’s good to have something to get on with.
 
           Pretty soon, though, I lose my concentration on this little mission. There’s something wrong with the world today, something that puts me on edge.
 
           It’s to do with the pedestrians. As they pass by me on the footpath, they look at me with extreme suspicion—as if they’re thinking of reporting me to the police, even though I’ve taken my dirty clothes off to avoid offending them. Maybe my being in short sleeves is the problem. Everyone except me seems to be wrapped up in lots of clothes, as though it’s much colder than I think it is. I guess I’ve become a hard man.
 
           I smile, trying to reassure everybody, everybody in the world.
 
           Outside the railway station, I score half a sandwich from a litter bin. I can’t taste much, but from the texture I can tell it’s OK—not slimy or off. Rubbish removal is more regular outside the station than in some other places.
 
           A policeman starts walking towards me, and I run away. In my haste I almost bump into a woman with a pram, and she hunches over her baby as if she’s scared I’m going to fall on it and crush it to death. I get my balance back and apologize; she says “No harm done,” but then she looks me over and doesn’t seem so sure.
 
 
By ten o’clock, I’ve been stopped in the street three times already, by people who say they want to help me.
 
           One is a middle-aged lady with a black woolen coat and a red scarf, another is an Asian man who comes running out of a newsagent’s, and one is just a kid. But they aren’t offering me food or a place to sleep. They want to hand me over to the police. Each of them seems to know me, even though I’ve never met them before. They call me by name, and say my wife must be worried about me.
 
           I could try to tell them I don’t have a wife anymore, but it’s easier just to run away. The middle-aged lady is on high heels, and the Asian man can’t leave his shop. The kid sprints after me for a few seconds, but he gives up when I leap across the road.
 
           I can’t figure out why all these people are taking such an interest in me. Until today, everyone would just look right through me as if I didn’t exist. All this time I’ve been the Invisible Man, now suddenly I’m everybody’s long-lost uncle.
 
           I decide it has to be the T-shirt.
 
           I stop in front of a shop window and try to read what the T-shirt says by squinting at my reflection in the glass. I’m not so good at reading backwards, plus there’s a surprising amount of text, about fifteen sentences. But I can read enough to tell that my name is spelled out clearly, as well as the place I used to live, and even a telephone number to call. I look up at my face, my mouth is hanging open. I can’t believe that when I left home I was stupid enough to wear a T-shirt with my ID printed on it in big black letters.
 
           But then I must admit I wasn’t in such a good state of mind when I left home—suicidal, in fact.
 
           I’m much better now.
 
           Now, I don’t care if I live or die.
  
 
Things seem to have taken a dangerous turn today, though. All morning, I have to avoid people who act like they’re about to grab me and take me to the police. They read my T-shirt, and then they get that look in their eye.
 
           Pretty soon, the old feelings of being hunted from all sides start to come back. I’m walking with my arms wrapped around my chest, hunched over like a drug addict. The sun has gone away but I’m sweating. People are zipping up their parkas, glancing up at the sky mistrustfully, hurrying to shelter. But even under the threat of rain, some of them still slow down when they see me, and squint at the letters on my chest, trying to read them through the barrier of my arms.
 
           By midday, I’m right back to the state I was in when I first went missing. I have pains in my guts, I feel dizzy, I can’t catch my breath, there are shapes coming at me from everywhere. The sky loses its hold on the rain, starts tossing it down in panic. I’m soaked in seconds, and even though getting soaked means nothing to me, I know I’ll get sick and helpless if I don’t get out of the weather soon.
 
           Another total stranger calls my name through the deluge, and I have to run again. It’s obvious that my life on the streets is over.
 
           So, giving up, I head for the Safehouse.
 
 
II
 
I’ve never been to the Safehouse before—well, never inside it anyway. I’ve walked past many times, and I know exactly where to find it. It’s on the side of town where all the broken businesses and closed railway stations are, the rusty barbed-wire side of town, where everything waits forever to be turned into something new. The Safehouse is the only building there whose windows have light behind them.
 
           Of course I’ve wondered what goes on inside, I won’t deny that. But I’ve always passed it on the other side of the street, hurried myself on before I could dawdle, pulling myself away as if my own body were a dog on a lead.
 
           Today, I don’t resist. Wet and emaciated and with my name writ large on my chest, I cross the road to the big grey building.
 
           The Safehouse looks like a cross between a warehouse and school, built in the old-fashioned style with acres of stone façade and scores of identical windows, all glowing orange and black. In the geometric centre of the building is a fancy entrance with a motto on its portal. gib mir deine arme, it says, in a dull rainbow of wrought iron.

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Table of Contents

Contents
The Safehouse 1
Andy Comes Back 27
The Eyes of the Soul 37
Serious Swimmers 49
Explaining Coconuts 61
Finesse 77
Flesh Remains Flesh 97
Less than Perfect 111
A Hole with Two Ends 127
The Smallness of the Action 139
All Black 153
Mouse 171
Someone to Kiss It Better 193
Beyond Pain 209
Tabitha Warren 227
Vanilla Bright like Eminem 239

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