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By Joyce Carol Oates

Finally lower back to print in a stunning new exchange paperback variation, American Appetites is vintage Joyce Carol Oates—a suspenseful mystery within which the satisfied facade of an prosperous suburban couple crumbles less than the burden of tragedy and scandal.

For twenty-six years, Ian McCullough, a demographics researcher at a social technological know-how imagine tank, has been fortunately married to Glynnis, a winning cookbook author and a super hostess.

When a drunken argument a few suspected infidelity turns actual, Ian unintentionally pushes Glynnis via a plate glass window—or did she fall? Now, Glynnis is useless, Ian is charged with homicide, and their American dream is shattered. and shortly, in a court the place guilt and accountability turn into very separate matters, Ian will stand trial, scuffling with for his life.

A refined, witty, and chilling novel from the incomparable Joyce Carol Oates, American Appetites explores our insatiable starvation for energy, love, and good fortune, and the way cozy, privileged lives—and the process fate—can be dramatically reworked in an instant.

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Oh certain. He stood along with his face lifted to the bathe, hair plastered over his brow. sizzling water streamed over his physique, after which, with a twist of the taps, chilly water, bracingly chilly water: as though to stroke his flesh into oblivion. a bath is the very position, Ian proposal, within which to diminish one’s wrists. The blood could drain away instantly, because it is usually current annoying. however it was once now not a significant idea. He was once taking into account a dream he’d had the evening ahead of . . . one among a couple of skinny, stray, wayward goals, the product now not of a deep and profound sleep yet of a snooze infected through attention and reminiscence: a dream of sexual hope and sexual frustration, acute as an adolescent’s. Glynnis stood bare sooner than him, now not as she’d been on the time of her dying yet as she’d been after they have been first enthusiasts, but taunting and mocking him as she’d by no means performed in lifestyles; and moving, at the same time he reached desperately for her, into one other lady . . . was once it Sigrid Hunt? . . . a feminine physique, lady being, faceless, summary, unnamed. How Ian had desired to bury himself in her, anonymous as she was—bury his blood-swollen penis in her—but greater than his penis: his very soul! yet he woke, and the dream all of sudden light. His rodlike penis throbbed with hope, shameful to him, like an previous remnant of a misplaced self: this too, quickly fading. Self-loathing washed over him; its sourness lined the interior of his mouth. The needle-thin spray had long gone very chilly. Ian’s tooth started to chatter; his genitals withered, retracted; gooseflesh dimpled his physique. He became off the bathe, dried himself approximately, entered the crowded locker room with a towel round his waist. with no his glasses he blinked myopically and innocently, below no legal responsibility to acknowledge someone or to notice that others appeared to not realize him. At such occasions he had constantly felt uneasy, absurdly uncovered and weak; considering the fact that boyhood it had appeared to him (and appeared so nonetheless) that others, boys and males, inhabited their our bodies in a manner that he didn't. And now in fact that the scandal had so publicly damaged round him, this “Ian McCullough” that was once either him and never him, he knew that different males seemed him with precise curiosity, with interest if no longer frank repugnance: even those that had continuously cherished him; even, he intended, those that inspiration the fees opposed to him unjustified. He moved between them as though he have been one in every of them—note the naked toes, the dripping hair, the towel tucked adroitly round the lean waist—but he knew himself a terminally in poor health guy to whom members felt themselves obliged to be type, yet certainly not obliged to find. How Glynnis will be harm, and incensed, at this diminution of my reputation, Ian suggestion. For after all it displays upon her besides. Dressing hurriedly, but with strange clumsiness, Ian listened to Denis at the different facet of the row of lockers: the deep-chested baritone voice, the explosive laughter. . . . To whom used to be he conversing? Ian didn't realize the opposite man’s voice. Denis was once tremendously good beloved in Hazelton, a minimum of through males certainly not his specialist competitors, essentially simply because he was once so simply amused, so able to snort: taking and giving excitement in terms of his laughter.

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