There is a dominant father and a socially ambitious mother who adores her son Dennis. When he arrives it is at once clear to the reader why he does not fit in with his smugly conventional family. Then, with the outbreak of war, the tone of the book changes: it focuses on Dennis’s refusal to fight, indeed on his abhorrence of violence; his falling in love with Alan; and his close friendship with Antoinette, who has not realised she is lesbian but is unabashed when she does. Dennis, however, is in agony about being ‘a musical man’ (slang for being gay): ‘Abnormal – perverted – against nature – he could hear the epithets that would be hurled against him. But what had nature been about, in giving him the soul of a woman in the body of a man?’Running through all this is the background of the war. At first everyone thought it would be over by Christmas. Then there were the horrors of 1915. And then conscription started. Month by month one sees what happens to Dennis and the other COs (conscientious objectors) he knows.The book was published by C.W. Daniel, a pacifist publisher, in May 1918. In September the book was banned for being ‘likely to prejudice the recruiting, training, and discipline of persons in his Majesty’s forces.’ Unsold copies were seized and the publisher was fined.

    Hollywood screenwriter Cora Sharpe has taken to writing letters to the unborn child she's tentatively dubbed Esme - even though it sounds like a noise your nose makes. But then, Cora has what one of the endless intimates she thinks of as her Committee calls "a big loud life," and recent events have been no exception. Her confidant and writing partner, Bud, has been on a bipolar roller coaster. Her dear friend William, AIDS-ridden, has finally taken leave of his life, with the aplomb befitting "a suburban show business sultan." And in the vacuum that follows his departure, Cora's romance with quiet, gentle Ray has suddenly flickered and expired. Then Cora finds out she's pregnant, and even the Committee can't steer her through this one. In a fight-or-flight confrontation with maturity, flight seems to have the upper hand. So when her mother, Viv, tries to rally support for her latest madcap scheme - to kidnap her Alzheimer's-stricken father from a nursing home and take him back to Whitewright, Texas, the place of his birth - Cora, for once, is game. With Bud in tow, she signs on for what turns out to be a cosmic (not to mention comic) exploration of the urges that drive us to feather our nests and fill them, to flee them and find our way home. With singular deftness, Fisher captures the ambivalence and absurdity of modern maternity, in her wittiest and wisest novel to date.

    His ex-wife has taken up with a new man, a marketing guru and motivational speaker who seems to be disturbingly influencing his son, Dylan. Meanwhile Dylan’s football team keeps being beaten 0–11, as he stands disconsolately on the wing waiting vainly to receive the ball. At work Brian is drowning in a sea of spreadsheets and is becoming increasingly confused by the complexities of modern communication and management jargon. So poetry will be his salvation. But can Brian’s poetry save him from Toby Salt, his arch nemesis in the Poetry Group and potential rival suitor to Brian’s new poetic inspiration, Liz? Worst of all Toby has announced that boutique artisan publishing house Shooting from the Hip will be publishing his first collection, titled This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleft, in the autumn. And when he goes missing Brian is inevitably the number one suspect.Part tender love story, part murder mystery, part coruscating description of a wasted life, and interspersed with some of the funniest poems about the mundane and the profound, Diary of a Somebody is the most original novel you will read this year.

    Love can be shit. Whatever has happened to you, whatever will happen to you, whatever might happen to you, whatever hasn't happened to you, well . . . you're not alone. Andre Jordan's drawings and prose are culled from a life of heartache and unrequited love. Simple, sad, clever, and darkly hilarious, they tell of both dismal places and hopeful realizations.

    It's this juxtaposition, the poet's gift for poignant love songs paired with a comedian's timing and self-deprecating wit, that has earned Jann a legion of loyal fans on the stage as well as the page. Two years after the success of her first publication if i knew, don(c)^t you think i'd tell you? (Insomniac Press), acclaimed singer / songwriter and now bestselling author Jann Arden is at it again with her second book, i'll tell you one damn thing, and that's all i know. Little escapes the observant and immensely creative Jann whose musings and entertaining ramblings travel beyond goose poop (if you don't remember, buy the first book) to ponder the state of the world, the state of the States, and the state of her hair (she really is a blonde).

    The poems are prefaced by a thoughful introduction by the poet Joseph Brodsky, a friend of Akhmatova in her later years.

    Now in this beautiful keepsake edition, Bombeck's moving words are paired with original art that bring to life the warm portrait of motherhood contained within. An angel marvels at the detail and overtime that the good Lord is putting into his creation of mothers. Despite the six pairs of hands and the three pairs of eyes that every mother needs, the angel thinks she has discovered a flaw:"There's a leak," she pronounced. "I told you that you were trying to put too much into this model.""It's not a leak," said the Lord. "It's a tear.""What's it for?""It's for joy, sadness, disappointment, pain, loneliness and pride.""You are a genius," said the angel.The Lord looked somber, "I didn't put it there." Every mother will treasure this moving tribute, penned by America's most beloved expert on motherhood.

    Adopting a sunny, genial tone, Dunthorne lures the reader to darker places, exploring death and dread, failure and regret - the 'lounge of our suffering'. Often, he catches us off-guard: a 'whiplash' effect where poems shift from laughter to slaughter in a moment. Impertinent owls, an immersive theatre troupe, ancient men from the Great War and idiot balloonists - such characters dramatise our human fancies and foibles, joining the protagonist in scenarios both humorously bizarre and all-too-familiar. These performances serve to probe and unpeel the layers of the self - all the way down to the raw.

    1008 at the height of the Heian period, Lady Sarashina (as she is known) probably wrote most of her work towards the end of her life, long after the events described. Thwarted and saddened by the real world with all its deaths and partings and frustrations, Lady Sarashina protected herself by a barrier of fantasy and so escaped from harsh reality into a rosier more congenial realm. She presents her vision of the world in beautiful prose, the sentences flowing along smoothly so that we feel we are watching a magnificent scroll being slowly unrolled.'It is like seeing a garden at night in which certain parts are lit up so brightly that we can distinguish each blade of grass, each minute insect, each nuance of colour, while the rest of the garden and the tidal wave that threatens it remain in darkness'--Ivan Morris

    Their uneventful but always interesting everyday life is the main subject of a novel that evokes the charmingly contented and timeless while managing to be both funny and profound about human relations.

    In the first chapter her brother, a devout Catholic (whereas Patience is a rather unthinking Catholic, nevertheless she undeniably is one) comes to tea to tell her that her husband Edward is being unfaithful. Patience, who is perfectly happy with her husband, her children and her St John’s Wood life, is not too upset, in fact she is more curious than anything else because a) her husband had never seemed inattentive, on the contrary, b) she is mystified at the thought of another woman going to bed with Edward out of choice.Fortuitously (for this is a caper, a farce, a satire, something unreal – which is why coincidence is allowable) Patience meets Philip and upon going back with him to his room in Regent’s Park ‘realises that through seven years of marriage she has never understood the meaning of married love, has never had a moment of sexual pleasure, has been cheated by her husband of true happiness.’ This is what Tribune magazine told its readers, assuring them that there was ‘no melodrama – or pornography here. Patience is a truly delightful, idyllic story of a simple soul’s discovery of the beauties of sexual love and her attempts to reconcile it with her mild Catholicism and her ardent maternal love.’

    Although he has edited several anthologies of his favorite poems, this volume forges a new path for him, as a poet of light verse. He writes—with his characteristic combination of humor and insight—on love, modernity, nostalgia, politics, religion, and other facets of daily life. Keillor’s verses are charming and playful, locating sublime song within the humdrum of being human.

    While focusing on the words from the project, new photography launches each section which speaks to the reader's journey through the world: Love Found, Being In Love, Love Lost, Hope, Despair, Living and Dying.

    Christmas is supposed to be a time of peace on earth and goodwill toward all. But not for Lewis Black.He says humbug to the Christmas tradtitions and trappings that make the holiday memorable. In I'm Dreaming of a Black Christmas, his hilarious and sharply observed book about the holiday, Lewis lets loose on all things Yule. It's a very personal look at what's wrong with Christmas, seen through the eyes of "the most engagingly pissed-off comedian ever."*From his own Christmas rituals—which have absolutely nothing to do with presents or the Christmas tree or Rudolph—to his own eccentric experiences with the holiday (from a USO Christmas tour to playing Santa Claus in full regalia), I'm Dreaming of a Black Christmas is classic Lewis Black: funny, razor-sharp, insightful, and honest.You'll never think of Christmas in the same way.

     Bishop was unforgiving of fashion and limited ways of seeing and feeling, but cast an even more trenchant eye on her own work. One wishes this volume were thicker, though the perfections within mark the rightness of her approach. The poems are sublimely controlled, fraught with word play, fierce moral vision (see her caustic ballad on Ezra Pound, "Visits to St. Elizabeths"), and reticence. From the surreal sorrow of the early "Man-Moth" (leaping off from a typo she had come across for "mammoth"), about a lonely monster who rarely emerges from "the pale subways of cement he calls his home," to the beauty of her villanelle "One Art" (with its repeated "the art of losing isn't hard to master"), the poet wittily explores distance and desolation, separation and sorrow.