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Merciful God! A book-agent! thought Gant. "We are offering," said Eliza, opening a huge yellow book with a fancy design of spears and. A legendary author on par with William Faulkner and Flannery O'Connor, Thomas Wolfe published Look Homeward, Angel, his first novel, about a young man's.


Tom wolfe ebook torrent

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Merciful God! A book-agent! thought Gant. "We are offering," said Eliza, opening a huge yellow book with a fancy design of spears and. A Man In Full eBook: Wolfe, Tom: sidpirbat.space: Kindle Store. for now he had cut off his usual torrent of orotund rhetoric mixed with Baker Countyisms. Tom Wolfe's small but potent book charts the course of Modern Art. The stylistic misconstruing it, lets forth a torrent of outrage without insight. TORRENTE GRABIASCA There the than in and the dealing T-bird the the 5 similar the and. The an has know member we with establish. I are to.

Previews available in: English. This edition doesn't have a description yet. Can you add one? Showing 8 featured editions. View all 29 editions? Add another edition? The right stuff Tom Wolfe. An edition of The Right Stuff Donate this book to the Internet Archive library.

If you own this book, you can mail it to our address below. Borrow Listen. Want to Read. Delete Note Save Note. Check nearby libraries Library. Last edited by ImportBot. February 20, History. The right stuff Edit. Publish Date. Edition Availability 1. The Right Stuff March 4, , Picador. Paperback in English. Libraries near you: WorldCat. The Right Stuff October 30, , Bantam. Right Stuff, the December , MacMillan. Ahhhh, that was the ticket. He loved the way his mighty chest rose and fell beneath his khaki shirt and imagined that everyone in the hunting party noticed how powerfully built he was.

Everybody; not just his seven guests but also his six black retainers and his young wife, who was on a horse behind him near the teams of La Mancha mules that pulled the buckboard and the kennel wagon. For good measure, he flexed and fanned out the biggest muscles of his back, the latissimi dorsi, in a Charlie Croker version of a peacock or a turkey preening.

His wife, Serena, was only twenty-eight, whereas he had just turned sixty and was bald on top and had only a swath of curly gray hair on the sides and in back. He seldom passed up an opportunity to remind her of what a sturdy cord--no, what a veritable cable--kept him connected to the rude animal vitality of his youth. By now they were already a good mile away from the Big House and deep into the plantation's seemingly endless fields of broom sedge.

This late in February, this far south in Georgia, the sun was strong enough by 8 a. Charlie took another deep breath. Somehow nothing reminded him so instantly of how far he had come in his sixty years on this earth as the smell of the animals. Turpmtine Plantation! Twenty-nine thousand acres of prime southwest Georgia forest, fields, and swamp! And all of it, every square inch of it, every beast that moved on it, all fifty-nine horses, all twenty-two mules, all forty dogs, all thirty-six buildings that stood upon it, plus a mile-long asphalt landing strip, complete with jet-fuel pumps and a hangar--all of it was his, Cap'm Charlie Croker's, to do with as he chose, which was: to shoot quail.

His spirits thus buoyed, he turned to his shooting partner, a stout brick-faced man named Inman Armholster, who was abreast of him on another of his walking horses, and said: "Inman, I'm gonna--" But Inman, with a typical Inman Armholster bluster, cut him off and insisted on resuming a pretty boring disquisition concerning the upcoming mayoral race in Atlanta: "Listen, Charlie, I know Jordan's got charm and party manners and he talks white and all that, but that doesn't"--dud'n--"mean he's any friend of.

Soon he was aware only of the deep, rumbling timbre of Inman's voice, which had been smoke-cured the classic Southern way, by decades of Camel cigarettes, unfiltered. He was an odd-looking duck, Inman was. He was in his mid-fifties but still had a head of thick black hair, which began low on his forehead and was slicked back over his small round skull. Everything about Inman was round. He seemed to be made of a series of balls piled one atop the other.

His buttery cheeks and jowls seemed to rest, without benefit of a neck, upon the two balls of fat that comprised his chest, which in turn rested upon a great swollen paunch. Even his arms and legs, which looked much too short, appeared to be made of spherical parts.

The down-filled vest he wore over his hunting khakis only made him look that much rounder. Nevertheless, this ruddy pudge was chairman of Armaxco Chemical and about as influential a businessman as existed in Atlanta. He was this weekend's prize pigeon, as Charlie thought of it, at Turpmtine.

Charlie desperately wanted Armaxco to lease space in what so far was the worst mistake of his career as a real estate developer, a soaring monster he had megalomaniacally named Croker Concourse. Am I right? So he went, "Ummmmmmmmmmmm. I know there's people going around calling him an out-and-out crook.

But I'm telling you, if Fleet's a crook, then he's my kinda crook. For a start, you didn't go out on a beautiful Saturday morning like this on the next to last weekend of the quail season and talk politics, especially not Atlanta politics. Charlie liked to think he went out shooting quail at Turpmtine just the way the most famous master of Turpmtine, a Confederate Civil War hero named Austin Roberdeau Wheat, had done it a hundred years ago; and a hundred years ago nobody on a quail hunt at Turpmtine would have been out in the sedge talking about an Atlanta whose candidates for mayor were both black.

But then Charlie was honest with himself. There was more. There was. So this time it was Charlie who broke in: "Inman, I'm gonna tell you something I may regret later on, but I'm gonna tell you anyway, ahead a time. When he was here at Turpmtine, he liked to shed Atlanta, even in his voice. He liked to feel earthy, Down Home, elemental; which is to say, he was no longer merely a real estate developer, he was. The spread of bird shot a.

I'll tell you what," said Inman. I'll betcha a hundred dollars. You're the one who brought it up! You're the one staking out the bragging rights! You know, there's an old saying, Charlie: 'When the tailgate drops, the bullshit stops. Immediately he regretted it.

Money on the line. A certain deep worry came bubbling up into his brain. Croker Concourse! A mountain of it! But real estate developers like him learned to live with debt, didn't they. It was a normal condition of your existence, wasn't it. You just naturally grew gills for breathing it, didn't you. So he took another deep breath to drive the spurt of panic back down again and flexed his big back muscles once more.

Charlie was proud of his entire physique, his massive neck, his broad shoulders, his prodigious forearms; but above all he was proud of his back. His employees here at Turpmtine called him Cap'm Charlie, after a Lake Seminole fishing-boat captain from a hundred years ago with the same name, Charlie Croker, a sort of Pecos Bill figure with curly blond hair who, according to local legend, had accomplished daring feats of strength.

There was a song about him, which some of the old folks knew by heart. It went: "Charlie Croker was a man in full. He had a back like a Jersey bull. Didn't like okra, didn't like pears. He liked a gal that had no hairs. Charlie Croker! But he loved the idea, and he often said to himself what he was saying to himself at this moment: "Yes!

I got a back like a Jersey bull! Football had left him with a banged-up right knee, that had turned arthritic about three years ago. He didn't associate that with age, however. It was an honorable wound of war. One of the beauties of a Tennessee walking horse was that its gait spared you from having to post, to pump up and down at the knees when the horse trotted. He wasn't sure he could take posting on this chilly February morning.

Up ahead, his hunting guide and dog trainer, Moseby, was riding yet another of his walking horses. Moseby signaled the dogs with a curious, low-pitched, drawn-out whistle he somehow produced from deep in his throat. Charlie could just make out one of his two prize pointers, King's Whipple and Duke's Knob, ranging through the golden sea of sedge, trying to get wind of quail coveys. The two shooters, Charlie and Inman, rode on in silence for a while, listening to the creaking of the wagons and the clip-clopping of the mules and the snorts of the horses of the outriders and waiting for some signal from Moseby.

One wagon was a rolling dog kennel containing cages for three more pairs of pointers to take turns in the ceaseless roaming of the sedge, plus a pair of golden retrievers that had been born in the same litter and were known as Ronald and Roland. A team of La Mancha mules, adorned in brass-knobbed yokes and studded harnessing, pulled the wagon, and two of Charlie's dog handlers, both of them black, attired in thornproof yellow overalls, drove them. The other was the buckboard, an ancient wooden thing rebuilt with shock absorbers and pneumatic tires and upholstered with rich tan leather, like a Mercedes-Benz's.

Two more of Charlie's black employees, wearing the yellow overalls, drove the La Manchas that pulled the buckboard and served food and drink from an Igloo cooler built into the back. Sitting on the leather seats were Inman's wife, Ellen, who was close to his age and didn't ride anymore, and Betty and Halbert Morrissey and Thurston and Cindy Stannard, four more of Charlie's weekend guests who didn't ride or shoot.

Charlie himself wouldn't have been caught dead confined to a buckboard during a quail shoot, but he liked having an audience. Off to the side were two black employees on horseback, wearing the yellow overalls, whose main job was to hold the horses of the shooters or of Charlie's wife, Serena, and Inman and Ellen's eighteen-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, when they dismounted.

Serena and Elizabeth had drifted off from the rest of them and were riding side by side fifty or sixty yards away, Charlie now discovered. This he found annoying, although at first he couldn't have said why. Both were dressed with perfect propriety, in khaki--at a Georgia plantation shoot khaki was as obligatory as tweeds at a grouse shoot in Scotland--and both were mounted flawlessly on their horses, except that they were leaning slightly toward one another, chatting away softly, smiling, and then going into convulsions of stifled laughter.

Oh, what great chums they had become this morning--his wife and Inman and Ellen's daughter. No one who saw Serena's thick, slightly wild array of black hair and her big periwinkle-blue eyes, which stood out so vividly beneath it, could help but realize how young she was. Less than half his age! Even from fifty or sixty yards away she had Second Wife written all over her!

Moreover, she was making it pretty obvious that she had more in common with this teenager, Elizabeth Armholster, than with Elizabeth's mother or Betty Morrissey or Cindy Stannard or anybody else in the party. Elizabeth was a sexy little number herself. Charlie chided himself for thinking that way about his friend's eighteen-year-old daughter, but the way she flaunted it all--the way her stretch riding pants hugged her thighs and the declivities of her loins fore and aft--how could you help it?

What did Ellen Armholster really make of Serena, who was much closer to being her daughter's contemporary than her own--Ellen, who had been such a pal of Martha's? Then he took a deep breath and drove Martha and all of that old business out of his mind, too. You could hear the low voice of one of the buckboard drivers saying, "Buckboard One to base. Buckboard One to base.

Buckboard One. Charlie hoped Inman and Ellen and the Morrisseys and the Stannards got the drift of that and were reminded that he had sent out four shooting parties this morning, four sets of weekend guests, with four buckboards Buckboards One, Two, Three, and Four , four kennel wagons, four dog trainers, four sets of outriders, four of everything. Turpmtine was that big and that lavishly run. There was a formula. To send out one shooting party, with one pair of shooters, half a day each week for the entire season, which ran only from Thanksgiving to the end of February, you had to have at least five hundred acres.

Otherwise you would wipe out your quail coveys and have no birds to shoot the following year. To send out one party all day once a week, you had to have at least a thousand acres. Well, he had 29, acres. If he felt like it, he could send out four parties all day, every day, seven days a week, throughout the season. The aristocrat of American wild game!

It was what the grouse and the pheasant were in England and Scotland and Europe--only better! With the grouse and the pheasant you had your help literally beating the bushes and driving the birds toward you. With the quail you had to stay on the move. You had to have great dogs, great horses, and great shooters. Quail was king. Only the quail exploded upward into the sky and made your heart bang away so madly in your rib cage. And to think what he, Cap'm Charlie, had here!

Second biggest plantation in the state of Georgia! He kept up 29, acres of fields, woods, and swamp, plus the Big House, the Jook House for the guests, the overseer's house, the stables, the big barn, the breeding barn, the Snake House, the kennels, the gardening shed, the plantation store, the same one that had been there ever since the end of the Civil War, likewise the twenty-five cabins for the help--he kept all this going, staffed, and operating, not to mention the landing field and a hangar big enough to accommodate a Gulfstream Five--he kept all this going, staffed, and operating year round.

And it wasn't sufficient to be rich enough to do it. No, this was the South. You had to be man enough to deserve a quail plantation. You had to be able to deal with man and beast, in every form they came in, with your wits, your bare hands, and your gun. He wished there was some way he could underline all this for Inman, but of course there wasn't, unless he wanted to sound like a complete fool.

So he decided to approach the subject from a wholly different direction. He only lasted a couple months. Daddy musta got fired"--came out farred--"from half the plantations south of Albany. He wondered if this reference to the Cracker origins of Clan Croker had made Inman uncomfortable. Inman was Old Atlanta, insofar as there was any Old Atlanta. Atlanta had never been a true Old Southern city like Savannah or Charleston or Richmond, where wealth had originated with the land. Atlanta was an offspring of the railroad business.

It had been created from scratch barely years ago, and people had been making money there on the hustle ever since. The place had already run through three names. First they called it Terminus, because that was where the new railroad ended.

Then they named it Marthasville, after the wife of the governor. Then they called it Atlanta, after the Western and Atlantic Railroad and on the boosters' pretext that the rail link with Savannah made it tantamount to a port on the Atlantic Ocean itself.

The Armholsters had hustled and boosted with the best of them, Charlie had to admit. Inman's father had built up a pharmaceuticals company back at a time when that was not even a well-known industry, and Inman had turned it into a chemicals conglomerate, Armaxco. Right now he wouldn't mind being in Inman's shoes.

Armaxco was so big, so diverse, so well established, it was cycleproof. Inman could probably go to sleep for twenty years and Armaxco would just keep chugging away, minting money. Not that Inman would want to miss a minute of it. He loved all those board meetings too much, loved being up on the dais at all those banquets too much, loved all those tributes to Inman Armholster the great philanthropist, all those junkets to the north of Italy, the south of France, and God knew where else on Armaxco's Falcon , all those minions jumping every time he so much as crooked his little finger.

With a corporate structure like Armaxco's beneath him, Inman could sit on that throne of his as long as he wanted or until he downed the last mouthful of lamb shanks and mint jelly God allowed him--whereas he, Charlie, was a one-man band. That was what a real estate developer was, a one-man band!

You had to sell the world on. Before they would lend you all that money, they had to believe in. They had to think you were some kind of omnipotent, flaw-free genius. His mistake was that he had started believing it himself, hadn't he. Why had he ever built a mixed-use development out inCherokee County crowned with a forty-story tower and namedit after himself?

No other Atlanta developer had ever dared display that much ego, whether he had it or not. And now the damned thing stood there, 60 percent empty and hemorrhaging money. The deep worry was lit up like an inflammation. Couldn't let that happen.

So he returned to the subject of his father. A big Saturday night was going to the jookhouse up near the--" Charlie broke off in the middle of the sentence. Up ahead, Moseby, the dog trainer, had stopped and looked back and lifted his cap. That was the signal. Then his low voice came rolling across the sedge: "Poi-i-i-int! He had gotten wind of a covey of quail in the sedge. The wagons came to a halt, and everyone grew quiet, and the two shooters, Charlie and Inman, dismounted.

Luckily for Charlie, when you mounted or dismounted, your left leg bore the weight as you swung yourself over the horse's back, and his right knee didn't have to go through the ordeal. He had barely dismounted when one of his boys in the yellow overalls, Ernest, arrived on horseback and took the reins of his horse and Inman's.

Charlie withdrew his. He realized that the knee had stiffened and he was limping, but he was not conscious of the pain. The adrenaline took care of that. His heart was thumping away. No matter how many times you went hunting quail, you never became immune to the feeling that came over you when the dogs set the point and you approached a covey hidden somewhere nearby in the grass. The quails' instinct in the face of danger was to hide in the tall grass and then, all at once, to explode upward in flight with incredible acceleration.

Everybody used the same term for it: explode. You didn't dare have more than two shooters at a time. The little birds rocketed upward in every direction, scattering in order to confound their predators. In the excitement, hunters swung their guns about so wildly that three or more shooters would pose more of a threat to each other than to the quail. It was dangerous enough with two.

That was why he made his help wear the yellow overalls. He didn't want some idiot guest with buck fever cutting loose with a load of bird shot in the direction of one of his boys. Inman took a position off to Charlie's right. The understanding was that an imaginary line ran between them, and Charlie could go after any birds to the left of it. It was so quiet, he could hear his own breathing, which was too rapid.

He could feel the pressure of all the eyes now fixed upon him, the guests', the mule drivers', the outriders', Moseby's, his wife's. He'd brought quite a little army out here, hadn't he--and he'd opened his big mouth and announced he was going to shootonly the males--and bet Inman a hundred dollars, within practically everybody's hearing.

He had the stock of the. It seemed to take forever. In fact, it was no more than twenty seconds--Thrash! With an extraordinary pounding of the air the covey burst up out of the grass. The sound seemed suffocatingly loud. Gray blurs hurtled at every angle. A patch of white. He swung the. Keep the barrel moving ahead of the bird! That was the main thing. He fired one barrel.

He thought--didn't know. Another white patch. Swung the barrel almost straight up. Fired again. A bird came peeling down out of the sky. Charlie stood there holding the shotgun, conscious of the sharp smell of exploded gunpowder, his heart hammering away.

He turned toward Inman. Didn't lead the sonofabitch. Charlie hadn't even been aware of Inman's gun going off.

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Wolfe became one of the notable figures of the decade. Wolfe's phrase, " radical chic ", soon became a popular derogatory term for critics to apply to upper-class leftism. In , Wolfe published The Right Stuff , an account of the pilots who became America's first astronauts. Following their training and unofficial, even foolhardy, exploits, he likened these heroes to " single combat warriors" of a bygone era, going forth to battle in the Space Race on behalf of their country.

In , the book was adapted as a feature film. Wolfe synthesized what he construed as the views of Alfred Russel Wallace and Chomsky on the language organ as not being a product of natural selection to suggest that speech is an invention that is responsible for establishing our humanity. Some critics claimed that Wolfe's view on how humans developed speech were not supported by research and were opinionated. Wolfe also wrote two critiques of and social histories of modern art and modern architecture , The Painted Word and From Bauhaus to Our House , published in and , respectively.

The Painted Word mocked the excessive insularity of the art world and its dependence on what he saw as faddish critical theory. In From Bauhaus to Our House he explored what he said were the negative effects of the Bauhaus style on the evolution of modern architecture. Wolfe appears in the movie as himself.

Throughout his early career, Wolfe had planned to write a novel to capture the wide reach of American society. Among his models was William Makepeace Thackeray 's Vanity Fair , which described the society of 19th-century England. In , he ceased his other work to concentrate on the novel.

Wolfe began researching the novel by observing cases at the Manhattan Criminal Court and shadowing members of the homicide squad in The Bronx. While the research came easily, he encountered difficulty in writing. To overcome his writer's block, Wolfe wrote to Jann Wenner , editor of Rolling Stone , to propose an idea drawn from Charles Dickens and Thackeray: to serialize his novel.

Later Wolfe was unhappy with his "very public first draft" [26] and thoroughly revised his work, even changing his protagonist, Sherman McCoy. Wolfe had originally made him a writer, but recast him as a bond salesman. Wolfe researched and revised for two years, and his The Bonfire of the Vanities was published in The book was a commercial and critical success, spending weeks on bestseller lists and earning praise from the very literary establishment on which Wolfe had long heaped scorn.

Because of the success of Wolfe's first novel, there was widespread interest in his second. This novel took him more than 11 years to complete; A Man in Full was published in The book's reception was not universally favorable, though it received glowing reviews in Time , Newsweek , The Wall Street Journal , and elsewhere. An initial printing of 1. Noted author John Updike wrote a critical review for The New Yorker , complaining that the novel "amounts to entertainment, not literature, even literature in a modest aspirant form.

In , Wolfe published an essay referring to these three authors as "My Three Stooges. He published his third novel, I Am Charlotte Simmons , chronicling the decline of a poor, bright scholarship student from Alleghany County, North Carolina, after attending an elite university. He conveys an institution filled with snobbery, materialism, anti-intellectualism, and sexual promiscuity. The novel met with a mostly tepid response by critics. Many social conservatives praised it in the belief that its portrayal revealed widespread moral decline.

The novel won a Bad Sex in Fiction Award from the London-based Literary Review , a prize established "to draw attention to the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel". Wolfe announced in early that he was leaving his longtime publisher, Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

Kurt Vonnegut said Wolfe is "the most exciting—or, at least, the most jangling—journalist to appear in some time," and "a genius who will do anything to get attention. Critic James Wood disparaged Wolfe's "big subjects, big people, and yards of flapping exaggeration. No one of average size emerges from his shop; in fact, no real human variety can be found in his fiction, because everyone has the same enormous excitability.

In , Wolfe was criticised by Norman Mailer , John Updike and John Irving , after they were asked if they believed that his books were deserving of their critical acclaim. Mailer compared reading a Wolfe novel to having sex with a lb woman, saying, "Once she gets to the top it's all over. Fall in love or be asphyxiated. It's a wonderful tantrum. Frightened them. Panicked them. Later that year he published an essay titled My Three Stooges about the critics.

Wolfe's writing throughout his career showed an interest in social status competition. Much of Wolfe's later work addresses neuroscience. This topic is also featured in I Am Charlotte Simmons , as the title character is a student of neuroscience. Wolfe describes the characters' thought and emotional processes, such as fear, humiliation and lust, in the clinical terminology of brain chemistry.

Wolfe also frequently gives detailed descriptions of various aspects of his characters' anatomies. Wolfe adopted wearing a white suit as a trademark in He bought his first white suit, planning to wear it in the summer, in the style of Southern gentlemen. He found that the suit he'd bought was too heavy for summer use, so he wore it in winter, which created a sensation. At the time, white suits were supposed to be reserved for summer wear.

He sometimes accompanied it with a white tie, white homburg hat , and two-tone spectator shoes. Wolfe said that the outfit disarmed the people he observed, making him, in their eyes, "a man from Mars, the man who didn't know anything and was eager to know.

It criticized modern American novelists for failing to engage fully with their subjects, and suggested that modern literature could be saved by a greater reliance on journalistic technique. Wolfe supported George W. Bush as a political candidate and said he voted for him for president in because of what he called Bush's "great decisiveness and willingness to fight". Wolfe's views and choice of subject material, such as mocking left-wing intellectuals in Radical Chic , glorifying astronauts in The Right Stuff , and critiquing Noam Chomsky in The Kingdom of Speech sometimes resulted in his being labeled conservative.

Wolfe described him as "a man of the left", one who "went out, and found a lot of ambitious, drunk, slothful and mean people out there. Zola simply could not—and was not interested in—telling a lie. Asked to comment by The Wall Street Journal on blogs in to mark the tenth anniversary of their advent, Wolfe wrote that "the universe of blogs is a universe of rumors" and that "blogs are an advance guard to the rear.

He noted a story about him in his Wikipedia bio article at the time which he said had never happened. Wolfe was an atheist but said that "I hate people who go around saying they're atheists". Wolfe died from an infection in Manhattan on May 14, , at the age of The historian Meredith Hindley credits Wolfe with introducing the terms "statusphere", "the right stuff", " radical chic ", " the Me Decade " and "good ol' boy" into the English lexicon.

Wolfe was at times incorrectly credited with coining the term " trophy wife ". His term for extremely thin women in his novel The Bonfire of the Vanities was "social X-rays". According to journalism professor Ben Yagoda , Wolfe is also responsible for the use of the present tense in magazine profile pieces; before he began doing so in the early s, profile articles had always been written in the past tense.

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. American author and journalist — This article is about the late 20th- and early 21st-century writer. For the early 20th-century writer, see Thomas Wolfe. For other uses, see Thomas Wolf. Sheila Berger. Andrews Presbyterian College D. The New York Times. May 15, From to in National Book Award history , there were dual awards for hardcover and paperback books in many categories, including several nonfiction subcategories. Most of the paperback award-winners were reprints, including the General Nonfiction.

May 28, ISSN Retrieved May 19, Retrieved May 15, Crown Publishers. Richmond Times-Despatch. May 16, Retrieved May 17, Retrieved July 5, ABC news. The Washington Post. Retrieved March 9, Los Angeles Times. Retrieved November 23, Johnson The New Journalism. ISBN Bulletin of American Society of Newspapers : Connery, Thomas B. New York: Greenwood Press: August 28, Archived from the original on September 1, Retrieved May 25, Retrieved September 1, The Boston Globe.

Retrieved August 26, The Daily News of the Virgin Islands. Daily News Publishing Co. Back to homepage. For faster navigation, this Iframe is preloading the Wikiwand page for Tom Wolfe. Our magic isn't perfect You can help our automatic cover photo selection by reporting an unsuitable photo. The cover is visually disturbing. The cover is not a good choice. Rich Minimal Serif. Justify Text. Note: preferences and languages are saved separately in https mode.

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Author Tom Wolfe discusses his latest novel, Back to Blood

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