White Tiger on Snow Mountain

White Tiger on Snow Mountain

by David Gordon


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Thirteen hilarious, moving, and beautifully brutal stories by David Gordon, the award-winning author of Mystery Girl and The Serialist.

In these funny, surprising, and touching stories, Gordon gets at the big stuff—art and religion, literature and madness, the supernatural, and the dark fringes of sexuality—in his own unique style, described by novelist Rivka Galchen as “Dashiell Hammett divided by Don DeLillo, to the power of Dostoyevsky—yet still pure David Gordon.”

Gordon's creations include ex-gangsters and terrifying writing coaches, Internet girlfriends and bogus memoirists, Chinatown ghosts, and vampires of Queens. “The Amateur” features a cafe encounter with a terrible artist who carries a mind-blowing secret. In the long, beautifully brutal title story, a man numbed by life finds himself flirting with and mourning lost souls in the purgatory of sex chatrooms. The result is both unflinching and hilarious, heartbreaking and life-affirming.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780544343740
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Publication date: 10/28/2014
Pages: 304
Product dimensions: 5.90(w) x 8.30(h) x 1.20(d)

About the Author

David Gordon was born in New York City. He attended Sarah Lawrence College and holds an MA in English and comparative literature and an MFA in writing, both from Columbia University. His first novel, The Serialist, won the VCU Cabell First Novelist Award and was a finalist for an Edgar Award. His second novel, Mystery Girl, was picked as one of The New Yorker’s best books of the year. His work has appeared in the Paris Review, the New York Times Magazine, and other publications. He has worked in film, fashion, publishing, and pornography.

Read an Excerpt

Man-Boob Summer

I was spending some time at my parents’ place that summer. I was thirty-eight and out of ideas. I had finished my midlife crisis graduate degree a bit early, and after turning in my thesis, I promptly fell into the utter despair that comes from completing a long, difficult, and entirely pointless project. I was deeply, profoundly in debt, ruined really, and had no idea what I would do next. Also, I’d just been kicked out of the apartment in Soho where I’d been living for several years when my landlady, a ninety-five-year-old artist, finally died. That crumbling little building was like the last ragged fort of Old Bohemia, sandwiched between Louis Vuitton and Victoria’s Secret. For decades my landlady had clung on, through Alzheimer’s and pneumonia and broken hips, while her relatives and accountant bided their time. When at last she went, only the South American woman who looked after her cried, and a month later the building sold for $12 million. My books and winter clothes went into storage with the dining room set I’d won in my divorce settlement, and I moved across the bridge to New Jersey.

Immediately, I established a new regimen. I rose at eight, so that my parents wouldn’t think I was a bum, and sat at my little desk, really a folding snack table in the guest room, doing the crossword puzzle until they left for work, when I sometimes took a quick nap. They never reproached me, but I wallowed in my failure and liked to imagine the looks on their faces if I got a job in their building buffing the floors. Then I went running. Then lunch. Then down to the pool.
   The apartment complex (I wish there was a more graceful term for these minor high-rise city-states) actually had a very nice pool, small but almost empty on the weekdays, and set on the edge of the cliffs overlooking the Hudson and Manhattan Island. On a clear day you could see the individual cars traveling across the bridge and up and down the city’s west side, like corpuscles in an IV drip. On a stormy day you could see the weather before it arrived.
   That summer I swam, snoozed, and got my first tan ever. I tried to read, but my heart had turned against literature, which I blamed for much of my misfortune. Had I looked at Tolstoy or Stendhal, I think I would have hurled myself off the cliffs. On the other hand, I was afraid that opening a new book by a promising young writer might trigger a homicidal rampage. Would that I had never learned to read! The only safe choice was Simenon’s mystery novels about Inspector Maigret, which I consumed one after another, in measured doses, like lithium. Sometimes all you can stand to think about is a guy with a mustache solving a murder.
   The only other weekday regulars at the pool were a few lizardy old-timers and this weird Russian family. At least, I thought they were Russian. The leader was an overweight guy with a toupee and a tiny Speedo swimsuit. It was a garish brown-red color, rust really (I mean the toupee here, not the Speedo, which was, get this, white). I kept waiting for it (the toupee) to come off when he swam, but it never did, so maybe it was real after all. It didn’t look any faker than his mustache, which turned up at the ends like Poirot’s. (I read a few dozen of those Agatha Christie books that summer too.)
   The woman (his wife? his daughter?) was blond and stocky, and when I sat submerged in the Jacuzzi, bubbles rumbling around my nose, and she lowered herself in across from me, I saw how her thighs were scored with the plastic pattern of her chair. The marks looked like welts, like someone had whipped her, and even though I knew it was only from sitting and reading Us magazine, I instantly felt something sorrowful and wounded about her, like there was always smoke in her eyes, smoke only she could smell, or else she was allergic to something that was there around us but that I was too crude to sense.
   Then there was the kid. He was five or six maybe. A real whiner. He was blond and wan, and no matter what he was doing — floating in the man’s arms and practice-kicking, jumping into the pool, eating a cookie — he screeched incessantly in this high, petulant squeal that set my teeth on edge. I shouldn’t say this, because I’m sure I was a kid like that too, but I couldn’t stand the little crybaby.
   But the thing I wanted to say, the significant thing, was about the guy’s boobs. Yes, they were hairy. However, that isn’t the key issue. What I really wanted to mention was that one of them was bigger than the other. I think the left. And I mean dramatically bigger, like several cup sizes. I didn’t even notice it at first, he had so much else going on, but one afternoon I just happened to lift my gaze from Maigret Sets a Trap, and there he was, rising from the pool, mustache drooping, water streaming through his body hair like rushes along a sandbank, and I saw it, one flat male breast and one pendulous female breast. It was as if something womanly, long buried, was fighting to burst forth, as if the man was riven in two. Although I knew he couldn’t see me behind my shades, I felt like he was staring right at me, with a plaintive face, and deliberately showing me his burden and his wound. What could cause such a thing? Cancer? Cholesterol? Love? (Love in the Time of Cholesterol?) The mad thought occurred to me that it might start throbbing wildly, like a cartoon creature in raptures. Teetering on the verge of a freak-out, I quickly looked away.

The other people who were always there were the lifeguards, mainly local teenagers. There were usually two on duty at a time, one sitting in that high chair over the water and one checking for passes as you came in. It had been a very long time since I’d swum in a supervised pool like that, maybe since I was a kid myself, and the change in perspective was dramatic. Before I’d been intimidated, especially by the girl lifeguards: Not only did their sleek bodies, summer-streaked hair, and impossibly tan, impossibly smooth legs disturb me, but they also swam better than me, obviously, and by virtue of that seemed more adult, as if they had been promoted to Woman while I was still a little boy who might get water in his eyes and need to be yanked out, bawling.
   Now of course I was old enough to be their father, and for the most part they treated me as such, punching my pass with a thank-you, informing me politely if the pool was about to close. When I said good morning to a burly blond lifeguard with a nest of big back zits (bacne, we called it in my day), and he looked down to avoid my gaze, it suddenly hit me, maybe for the first time: I’m an adult now, and he is the one intimidated by me.
   Except for Lisa. Of course, I didn’t know her name at first. Remember, they sat up top and the sun was always in my eyes. She was just a slim silhouette, with long dark hair, a life-saver’s red one-piece, and one of those macramé things braided around her ankle. But this day was extra hot, and every few pages, I’d jump into the water to cool off. I was the only one swimming, and I realized after a couple of turns that, due no doubt to some insurance rule, each time I got in the pool, she had to put down her book, leave her shade and soda, and climb up the ladder to her post.
   “That’s OK,” I shouted as she sprang from her chair. “Relax.”
   “No, that’s OK,” she said. “It’s my job.”
   I dove in, wriggling along the bottom like a tadpole, and popped up at the other end. “Look,” I said, “I think it’s safe, -really,” and showed her how the water only came up to my eyes, although I cheated a bit, pushing onto my toes at the deep end. “If I start drowning, just yell, ‘Stand up, you idiot!’”
   A girlish laugh rang out from the haze of sun I was talking to. “No way. It’s my sacred duty to protect you.”
   “Hey,” I asked, “do you think if you had to, you could really lift me out of the pool? You’re kind of little. Don’t they have some kind of height requirement?”
   She stuck her tongue out at me. “Try it and see.”
   “OK,” I said, hoisting myself onto the concrete. Water ran down my legs and puddled around my feet. I waved a finger in challenge. “Be on your guard. When you least expect it, expect it.”
   I lay back down in my chair, and from the safety of my sunglasses and book, I looked her over more closely. She wasn’t -really short at all. In fact, her legs were long and slender, and they kept folding and unfolding, rubbing against each other like cats in the warmth of the sun. She wore a too-big hooded gray sweatshirt, and the bathing suit cut high above her jutting hip bone. And her ass, when she climbed down from her throne and sprawled on her belly to read, was just perfect.

Table of Contents

Man-Boob Summer
We Happy Few
What I’ve Been Trying to Do All This Time
Su Li-Zhen
I, Gentile
Vampires of Queens
I Think of Demons
White Tiger On Snow Mountain
Literature I Gave You Everything
and Now What Am I?
The Amateur

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White Tiger on Snow Mountain: Stories 4.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 2 reviews.
brf1948 More than 1 year ago
I won this book as a giveaway at Goodreads. I had not read David Gordon before, but his book sounded like something I would enjoy, with the sort of humor that I appreciate. And I was not disappointed. There was one story I skipped as a little too rank for me, but most were extremely funny and just dry enough to appeal. It's one of those books you have to look around, and find someone to share this line or that paragraph with. The laughter is still ringing through my workplace. There is a lottery to decide who will have it when I finish. Short stories are a favorite of mine, and there are some that are just short, and some that are so complete that you can't imagine them any differently. David Gordon is an exceptional writer, and I am so pleased to have 'found' him with the help of Goodreads. I will watch for him in the future.
eheinlen More than 1 year ago
I loved this book! The writing was spectacular and several times I found myself laughing out loud. I highly recommend this book and its stories.