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Mary and O'Neil

Mary and O'Neil

3.9 34
by Justin Cronin

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Mary and O’Neil frequently marveled at how, of all the lives they might have led, they had somehow found this one together. When they met at the Philadelphia high school where they’d come to teach, each had suffered a profound loss that had not healed. How likely was it that they could learn to trust, much less love, again?

Justin Cronin’s


Mary and O’Neil frequently marveled at how, of all the lives they might have led, they had somehow found this one together. When they met at the Philadelphia high school where they’d come to teach, each had suffered a profound loss that had not healed. How likely was it that they could learn to trust, much less love, again?

Justin Cronin’s poignant debut traces the lives of Mary Olson and O’Neil Burke, two vulnerable young teachers who rediscover in each other a world alive with promise and hope. From the formative experiences of their early adulthood to marriage, parenthood, and beyond, this novel in stories illuminates the moments of grace that enable Mary and O’Neil to make peace with the deep emotional legacies that haunt them: the sudden, mysterious death of O’Neil’s parents, Mary’s long-ago decision to end a pregnancy, O’Neil’s sister’s battle with illness and a troubled marriage. Alive with magical nuance and unexpected encounters, Mary and O’Neil celebrates the uncommon in common lives, and the redemptive power of love.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“An astonishingly good first novel...fully engaging from the first paragraph. What a gift: to be able to live alongside these people for a while.”
–Ann Patchett, Chicago Tribune

“A literary love story...about the fragility of good fortune and the accidental ways of finding happiness.”
–USA Today

“Justin Cronin must have been a novelist in an earlier life. What else could account for the mature insight and the beautifully controlled technique we find in his debut novel?...Cronin succeeds, touchingly and tenderly, in portraying life itself as a triumph of hope over experience.”
–The Boston Globe

“Justin Cronin’s Mary and O’Neil is that rare thing: a wholly engrossing story of the ordinary life.”
–Madison Smartt Bell, author of All Souls’ Rising

The Barnes & Noble Review
In unassailably well-crafted prose, novelist Justin Cronin offers us the story of an ordinary family placed under extraordinary circumstances and held together by the solid footing of love and intimacy. Remember how deeply moving Terms of Endearment was? The 1983 movie, starring Shirley MacLaine and Debra Winger, brought the emotional and physical realities of cancer out from behind closed doors, taking on the complexities of family relations under extraordinary circumstances, breaking ground in its portrayal of mothers and daughters. And it explored what it means to keep on living and find happiness in the face of death. This is the territory of Justin Cronin's debut novel, Mary and O'Neil.

We first meet O'Neil through the eyes of his parents, whose powerful story of married love opens the novel. O'Neil is a bright, athletic, good-natured college sophomore, the apple of his parents' eye. Their road trip to his college for parents' weekend becomes a crucible for the family's emotional quandaries, both expressed and unexpressed. After 30 years of happy marriage, Arthur has just passed unscathed (or at least uncompromised) through his first bout with adulterous temptation. Miriam has an acorn-sized lump on her breast that she hasn't told anyone about. Neither of them knows exactly how to adjust to the adulthood of their children, particularly their new adult relationships. Miriam can't bring herself to trust her daughter, Kay's, new husband, and Arthur experiences surges of alpha-male defensiveness when he meets his son's new girlfriend. Both Miriam and Arthur are taking their first tentative steps toward growing old together, reconciling their differences and affections in a very slow but tender dance toward the inevitable.

Beyond the life and destiny of their parents lie the unfolding lives of O'Neil and Kay. O'Neil casts about -- as most of us do -- throughout his 20s, losing his footing and finding it again when he begins to build a family of his own. A paragon of classical reversal, Mary -- O'Neil's devoted wife, the mother of three, a driven graduate student -- is, when we first meet her, an aimless waitress, pregnant out of wedlock and indifferent to the baby's father. O'Neil's marriage to Mary is his bedrock as he finds himself confronted with the horrible prospect of losing his sister, now a divorced mother of three, to cancer. As the last palpable traces of O'Neil's happy, supposedly normal childhood in suburban New York fade with Kay's agonized death, O'Neil comes to understand and acknowledge the unalterable permanence of those bonds that are formed in love.

Minna Proctor is a writer and translator. She lives in New York

Sylvia Brownrigg
[An] artful debut . . . .Cronin writes clear and careful prose, and is admirably fearless in the scope of his imagination.
New York Times Book Review
Cronin's new book begins with a dream, a reflective, tender hush that will sustain the tale to come. The mood is one of encroaching loss, and the characters we meet will genuinely suffer. They will not, however, become embittered, nor will they lose their capacity for love. There are eight stories here; together they give shape and hue to the protagonists' quiet lives. O'Neil, when we meet him, is a college student just stepping into his life. Mary, for her part, is afloat with good intentions and a certain indecisiveness. O'Neil will tragically lose the parents he loves. Mary will abort the baby that she is too young to have. They will find healing, then, in one another, and in the simple progress of their lives, and they will be saved as well by improbable touches—by the odd coincidence, by the almost overwhelming goodness of perfect strangers, by the profusion of telling dreams. Cronin leaves the primary action to the left of his stage—the deaths, the abortion, the wedding, the revelations are mostly summarized, made retrospective, dreamed through. In their stead are elegant passages about everyday life, the vital ways in which we can and must care for one another's souls.
—Beth Kephart

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
The title of Cronin's debut collection of eight interconnected stories, set between 1979 and the present, implies that the content will be devoted to the relationship between the eponymous duo. Instead, they don't appear in the same tale until halfway through, detailing their marriage in their early 30s after both become teachers. Before this, there's a lengthy opening story concerning the events leading up to the accidental death of O'Neil's parents, Arthur and Miriam; another story on how O'Neil and his older sister, Kay, cope with the aftermath; and a third about the abortion Mary has at the age of 22. After the wedding, the stories still don't always focus on the pair, with one devoted solely to Kay's own dysfunctional marriage. Cronin, a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, is an accomplished craftsman, and at times his prose is quite moving and beautiful, though the sadness he channels is too often uninflected by humor. Playing out variations on the theme of the inability of parents and children to truly know one another, Cronin is capable of creating fresh poignancy. Readers interested in going straight to the best of the collection should head for "Orphans" and "A Gathering of Shades," in which the author affectingly paints how the two siblings help each other through the pain of living and dying, showcasing the real love story here. Agent, Ellen Levine. (Feb. 13) Forecast: This is a promising debut collection, and national print advertising in the New Yorker and alternative weeklies should target the appropriate readership. Sponsorship announcements will also feature the title on NPR. Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
It is 1979, and 19-year-old O'Neil Burke has it all. He's in love, successful in college, and warmed by the affection of his parents and older sister Kay. After a weekend visiting their son, the Burkes, protecting each other from dark, unshared secrets, drive off an icy embankment and die. O'Neil's mounting losses include his girl, his career ambitions, and any sense of direction. Eventually, he finds his way back into a pleasant life, teaching high school English in Philadelphia and marrying Mary. More sorrow solidifies the bond between O'Neil and his sister when she fights a losing battle with cancer in her late thirties. Cronin's key mistake in this fine series of linked short stories about a family weathering crushing blows is indicated by his misleading title. Mary, who makes her first appearance nearly 100 pages into the book, is not nearly the presence that O'Neil, his parents, and his sister are. This is too bad, as the scenes between Mary and O'Neil are rich with affectionate humor, leaving the reader wanting more. Nevertheless, this is a worthy first effort by a novelist worth watching. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 10/1/00.]--Beth E. Andersen, Ann Arbor Dist. Lib., MI Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
With subtlety and grace, a first novel—actually a series of eight linked, chronologically arranged stories—illuminates momentous if commonplace events in the lives of a modern New England family. It's 1979, and O'Neil's parents, Arthur and Miriam, are preparing to visit him at his New Hampshire college. Each has a secret: she's just learned that she probably has breast cancer; he's just written a note to Dora Auclaire, a family friend he believes he's fallen in love with. Those secrets are never divulged (though Arthur's note will surface later). On their return to Glenn's Mills, New York, they take a wrong turn in a snowstorm and are killed; their deaths will reverberate throughout these pages. O'Neil's future wife Mary is introduced well into the novel, working rather aimlessly at a bar in a Minnesota college town not far from where she grew up. Pregnant by her artist roommate, a man she doesn't particularly like, she decides on abortion:"How terrible, she thought, to be twenty-two, and already have the worst thing of her life to remember." Cronin only sparingly sketches the details of how Mary and O'Neil meet, while their wedding is related in a brilliant passage titled simply"Groom." Late for the ceremony, O'Neil remembers his parents:"He holds the picture in his mind as long as he can, until ... the signal breaks up like a radio station gone out of range." Nothing very unusual happens to the couple. They become teachers, have children, incur debts, face marital problems. Much of the story's second half is taken up with O'Neil's sister Kay, now stricken with cancer. Throughout, O'Neil himselfiscast in the everyday roles of son, brother, husband, and father, yetCronin infuses these passages of common life with a tenderness and depth that draw the reader in. A quiet debut, its very understatement giving rise to its poignancy and strength.

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Random House Publishing Group
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5.50(w) x 8.30(h) x 0.60(d)

Read an Excerpt

Last of the Leaves

November 1979

Arthur in darkness—drifting, drifting—the planet spinning toward dawn: he awakens in gray November daybreak to the sounds of running water and a great arm brushing the side of his house. The wind, he thinks, the wind; the end of autumn, the last of the leaves pulled away. The running water, he understands, was never real.

He lies in the dark of the bedroom he shares with his wife, waiting for the dream to fade—a dream in which, together, they sail over a cliff into blackness. What else? A sense of water below, a lake or stream, Miriam's hand in his, of everything loosed from the earth; a feeling like accomplishment, shapes fitting together with mathematical precision, all the equations of the heavens ringing. A dream of final happiness, in which they, Arthur and Miriam, together, at the last, die.

Arthur rises, takes a wool sweater from the chair by his bed, pushes his feet into the warm pockets of his slippers. He draws the sweater over his head, his twisted pajama top; he puts on his glasses and pauses, letting his eyes, cakey with sleep, adjust. In the feeble, trembling light (The moon? A streetlamp? The day is hours off), he discerns the form of his wife, a crescent-shaped ridge beneath the blankets, and knows her face and body are turned away from him, toward the window, open two inches to admit a trail of cold night air. How is it possible he knows he is going to die?

And that the thought does not grieve him? But the feeling, he believes, is just a tattered remnant of his dream, still near to him in the dark and cold of the predawn room, Arthur still, after all, in his pajamas; by breakfast it will recede, by lunchtime it will vanish altogether, dissolving into the day like a drop of iodine in water. Is it possible he is still asleep? And Arthur realizes this is probably true; he is fast asleep, standing in the icy bedroom, knees locked, his chin lolled forward into the downy fan of hair on his chest; he is, in fact, about to snore.

To snore! And with this his head snaps to attention, his eyes fly open; he is, at last and truly, awake, dropped as if from a great height to land, perfectly uninjured, here. The living, breathing Arthur. But to be fifty-six years old, and dream of death, and not be afraid; this thought has somehow survived the journey into Arthur's encroaching day, hardening to a kernel of certainty in his heart. He shakes his head at the oddness of this fact, then at the coldness of the room, Christ Almighty; even in the dark Arthur can see his breath billowing before him like a cloud of crystals.

Below the blue bulk of their bedding his wife adjusts herself, pulling the blankets tighter, as if to meet his thought; a hump disengages itself from the small of her back, travels the width of the mattress to Arthur's side, and vanishes with the sound of four paws striking the wide-plank floor. A flash of blond tail: the cat, Nestor, awakened from its spot between them, darts through the bedskirts and is gone. Enough, Arthur thinks; onward. He closes the window—a sudden silence, the wind sealed away from him—and departs the bedroom, shutting the door with a muffled snap. Behind it his wife will sleep for hours.

Downstairs, his mind on nothing, Arthur fills a carafe with water from the kitchen sink, pours it into the coffeemaker, scoops the fragrant dirt of ground beans into the paper filter, and turns on the machine; he sits at the table and waits. Dear God, he thinks, thank you for this day, this cup of coffee (not long now; the machine, sighing good-naturedly to life, exhales a plume of steam and releases a ricocheting stream into the pot), and while we're at it, God, thank you for the beauty of this time of year, the leaves on the trees by the river where I walked yesterday, thank you for the sky and earth, which you, I guess, in your wisdom, will have to cover with snow for a while, so we don't forget who's boss. I like the winter fine, but it would be nice if it wasn't a bad one. This is just a suggestion. Amen.

Arthur opens his eyes; a pale light has begun to gather outside, deepening his view of the sloping yard and the tangle of woods beyond. He pours the coffee, spoons in sugar, softens its color with a dollop of milk; he stands at the counter and drinks. Not a bad one, please.

Today is the day they will drive six hours north to see their son, a sophomore in college, lately and totally (or so he says, his voice on the phone as bright as a cork shot from a bottle: totally, Pop) in love. Arthur doesn't doubt this is the case, and why should he? What the hell? Why not be in love? He sits at the kitchen table, dawn creeping up to his house; he thinks of the long day and the drive through mountains ahead of him, the pleasure he will feel when, his back and eyes sore from hours on the road, he pulls into the dormitory lot and his boy, long legged and smiling and smart, bounds down the stairs to greet them. In the foyer with its bulletin boards and scuffed linoleum and pay phone, the young lady watches them through the dirty glass. Susan? Suzie? Arthur reviews the details.

Parents from Boston, JV field hockey first string (again the memory of his son's voice, brightly laughing: But her ankles aren't thick, the way they get, you know, Pop?); an English class they took together, Shakespeare or Shelley or Pope, and the way she read a certain poem in class, the thrilling confidence in her voice cementing the erotic bargain between them. (I mean, she looked right at me, Pop, the whole time, I think she had the thing memorized; you should have seen it, the whole class knew!) And Arthur knows what his son is saying to him: Here I am. Look. And Arthur does: Susan or Suzie (Sarah?), fresh from her triumphs of love and smarts in the marbled halls of academe, banging the hard rubber ball downfield on the bluest blue New Hampshire autumn day.

Sounds above: Arthur hears the bedroom door open, his wife's slippered trudge down the carpeted hall, the mellow groan of the pipes as she fills the basin with water to wash. Arthur pours himself a second cup of coffee and fills a mug for Miriam—extra sugar, no milk—positioning it on the table by the back kitchen stairs. Outside the sky has turned a washed-out gray, like old plastic; a disappointment. For a while Arthur sits at the table and watches the sky, asking it to do better.

Miriam enters, wrapped in her pale-blue robe, and takes the coffee almost without looking, a seamless transaction that always pleases him. She sips, pauses, and sniffs at the mug.

"This is sort of old."

"I've been up awhile," Arthur says. "I'll make a fresh pot if you want."

"No, I'll do it." But she doesn't; she takes a place at the table across from him. Her face is scrubbed, her combed hair pulled back from her face; she does not dye it, allowing the gray to come on without fuss, nor perm it, the way so many women they know have done. Arthur lets his eyes rest there, in the whiteness of the part of her hair, thinking of his dream, a vague disturbance that no longer creates in him any particular emotion, as the widest rings on pond water will lap the shore without effect. (Something about a lake? He no longer recalls.) She holds the cup of old coffee with both hands, like a hot stone to warm them, resting there on the table.

"What time is it?" She yawns. "Is it six-thirty?"

Arthur nods. "I thought we should get an early start. We can stop for lunch at that place in Northampton."

"Not there." She shakes her head. "Do you remember the last time? Please. Let's stop someplace else."

Arthur shrugs; he doesn't remember what was wrong with the restaurant. "I thought it was all right," he says. "We can try that place across the street. Or we can pack a lunch."

Miriam rises, dumps her mug of coffee down the sink, and begins to make the pot she has promised herself. Arthur watches his wife, full of a great, sad love for her; he knows this day will be hard. Not the drive, which they have made many times; not seeing O'Neil, their son. Arthur understands it is the girl she dreads. She tries to like the girls he likes, but it is always difficult for her.

"We have to be nice, you know."

Miriam stops rinsing the pot. "Quit reading my mind."

"Okay. But we do." Arthur rises and goes to where she is standing, her hands resting on the edge of the sink. He wraps his arms around her slender waist and smells the beginnings of her tears—a sweet, phosphorescent odor, like melting beeswax.

"It's stupid, I know."

"I don't think it's stupid at all. Why is it stupid?"

"I feel like someone in a play," she says. "You know, the mother? That old bitch, can't let go, nobody's good enough for her boy."

"And you're right. Nobody is. And you're not like that at all."

A heavy sigh. Still, Arthur holds on.

"She's just somebody he met in class. We've been through this—how many times?"

"They're probably sleeping together."

Arthur nods. "Probably."

"God, listen to me." She shakes her head and resumes cleaning the pot. "You probably think it's just great."

Arthur doesn't answer. The cat comes nosing into the kitchen and coils first around Arthur's feet and then around Miriam's, asking to be let out.

"That goddamned cat," Arthur says. He kisses Miriam's neck, still warm with sleep and the sheets of their bed. "You know, I had the strangest dream," he says suddenly.

Still facing away, Miriam tips her head against his. "I think I did too. So. Tell me about yours."

Arthur lets his eyes fall closed; in this interior darkness, his wife's body pressed against his, her hips and his hips meeting—always the old rhythm implied, the metronome of marriage—he imagines he is asleep and tries to return to his dream, following it down a long hallway, a trick he has used before.

"I'm not sure," he says after a moment. "I've already forgotten."

"Was it a bad dream?" She is stroking his hair. "I heard you muttering."

"I don't know." Arthur draws air into his chest. "Some of it."

"What else?"

Arthur thinks. It is her voice he is following now; below him, without warning, he suddenly feels the tug of blackness, a yawning chasm as vast as a stadium. And something else: the smell of baking bread. He has never had a dream like this before, of this he is certain. The memory of it makes him feel strangely happy. He opens his eyes.

"I think you were in it." He shrugs at nothing; already the information is gone, as is his memory that she, too, has dreamt, and meant to tell him what. "I think you saved me from something, as usual. So it was a good dream."

She turns to face him then; her eyes still moist, she kisses him quickly and smiles. Up close he sees that her face is tired, and newly thin: his fault. Regret slices through him, and then, filling its wake, a pale and luminous awe. How many times has she performed this duty? He searches her gray eyes with his own. How many times has she been awakened from a sound slumber by a distant cry and made her fumbling way down a darkened hall, to wrap herself around a son or daughter whose arms flailed at nothing, saying, No, no, there's nothing to fear, none of it was real? He asks this, and for an instant he imagines that the children are asleep upstairs; but of course this is an illusion, a trick of time, like the pea that darts from shell to shell unseen, and so is in both places at once and also neither. No: it is morning in their kitchen, the children are grown and gone, O'Neil at college waiting for their visit, his sister, Kay—moody, mysterious Kay—married now and living her life in New Haven. The passage of years is amazing, a thing of wonder. He stands before it as, in the past, he stood outside the children's doors, listening to Miriam deliver the comforts he could not: a glass of water, a fresh blanket, Miriam holding the child's hand in hers to say, squeezing, See? This is real. How many times? A thousand? A thousand thousand? Count the stars in the heavens, Arthur thinks, and you will know that number.

"You're welcome," she tells him.

And their day begins.

Each of them has a secret. Here is Arthur's:

His secret is a letter, which he has delayed writing until this morning, at the office where he works—a letter he will never send. It is a letter to a woman not his wife.

Dear Dora, he writes.

How did it come about? Even Arthur doesn't know; could not say, precisely, how it is that on this morning in November he, Arthur, age fifty-six, a devoted married man for twenty-nine years, has fallen in love (is he? in love?) with Dora Auclaire. But he has; he does. Confusingly, he loves his wife no less because of it; he dares to think, knowing it to be a kind of arrogance—something terribly, destructively male—that he loves her even more. To think of Miriam is to think of himself, the span of his life and his children's lives, and to know what is meant by a common destiny. He is human, and therefore weak, but his weakness is for Miriam. He cannot look at her and not feel love, or the fear that comes with love: that someday one of them will be alone.

But Dora Auclaire: he has known her—how long? Ten years? Fifteen? Did they know one another when their children were small? Arthur allows himself the pleasure of thinking of her, and what she might be doing now, at ten-thirty in the morning on a Friday in fall at the busy clinic where she sees her patients: the young girls in trouble, the old men wheezing from years of smoking, the tiny babies who have cried, mysteriously, through the night. He sees her, moving from room to room—neither gliding nor marching, her stride merely purposeful—wearing her clean white coat with jeans and a sweater beneath (not much jewelry; earrings, perhaps, to complement her heart-shaped face, and a single silver chain), touching, advising, jotting notes on a chart in her fine, square print, before excusing herself to telephone the hospital in Cooperstown to reserve a bed for the teenage boy in the examining room whose two-day stomachache is almost certainly not caused by drugs, as his mother claims, but acute appendicitis.

Arthur, at his desk four blocks away, sees it all. (And before he knows it, there is Miriam too: plunking a due-date card into the stamper at the checkout desk, refiling spools of shiny microfilm, pushing a cart of books, heavy with facticity, through the quiet, dusty aisles.) She is a lonely, spirited woman in her mid-forties, a physician and a widow with two young sons—a woman who could chop a cord of wood one minute and swab a toddler's throat the next—and Arthur loves her. He loves her strong, thin hands, and her gleaming stethoscope, and her sadness, which she does not wear around her like a shawl—some garment of mourning—but inside, in a deep place he cannot see but feels: the same grief that he would carry if Miriam were gone. Her husband, Sam, was a carpenter who restored old houses, and it was an old house that killed him; six years ago, on a bright morning in May (Arthur remembers reading of it in the papers), he stepped from the window of a fourth-story cupola of a falling-down Queen Anne on Devereaux Street, placed his weight on a ledge that turned out to be rotten with moisture, and down he went in a rattling rain of tools and equipment, forty feet to the packed-dirt yard.

Meet the Author

Justin Cronin is a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop and associate professor of English at La Salle University. His work has appeared in many literary journals, including Epoch, Greensboro Review, and Crescent Review, and in The Philadelphia Inquirer Magazine. He lives with his wife and their young daughter in Philadelphia.

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Mary and O'Neil 3.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 35 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is a beautifully written book with stories that touch your heart with their insight, compassion, and tenderness. I have read and reread this book and bought copies for friends and family. It is book every one should read. It will remind you how precious everything in life is.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is the author's debut, but it feels like a classic from the first page. The real satisfaction is Cronin's exquisite prose: there are passages on almost every page that had me in awe of this man's talent. I haven't felt this way about a book or an author since I first 'discovered' J.D. Salinger, or Anne Tyler: complete and utter astonishment that someone can craft such beautiful prose and make you care so deeply about the characters, joy and pain and all. As a reader, I felt a real sense of importance with these stories--you read them, and you just know that Justin Cronin is destined for greatness. 'Mary and O'Neil' is among the most promising debuts I've seen in years.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I first read his newest book! passage. It was unexpectedly complex and vastly interesting. Then the Summer Guest and now this! I can't wait for more. It seems a quiet tale until the people of it become treasured and their lives so true. Just read it.
DebsSweet More than 1 year ago
I don't understand why some authors remind us over and over again of certain facts are surely not to be forgotten anyway. Is this an attempt to make the story longer? I was so distracted by the same information time and again SO I rate it 3 stars. Some of the book was nice, interesting and funny at times.
CLSR More than 1 year ago
This very short story of love is immense. Don't pass it up.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This beautifully written novel reads like poetry. Laid out in 8 short stories, the lives of Mary & O'Neil are woven in and out of those of their families and friends. Justin Cronin treats us to glimpses of life - these characters' lives, our own lives, and the great long chain of all human life. Bravo!
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EcubedI More than 1 year ago
Ordinary life told extraordinarily well.  The emotion of this story snuck up on me.  The intertwining stories of everyday people point to how to live and enjoy life as it comes.  
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DCReed More than 1 year ago
Great book, but why is the electronic version -- that requires only electrons, and not atoms to deliver -- more than the paperback? Moronic. This is yet another reason why I'll be tossing out my Nook and returning to print books.
fangmFL More than 1 year ago
I loved it and I am looking forward to more from Justin Cronin
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