2012, ISBN: 9780743400732

Gebundene Ausgabe

Delacorte Press. Very Good. 5.95 x 1.19 x 8.49 inches. Hardcover. 2012. 352 pages. <br>An international bestseller published in over thir ty countries, this riveting sci-fi dystopic… Mehr…

Delacorte Press. Very Good. 5.95 x 1.19 x 8.49 inches. Hardcover. 2012. 352 pages. <br>An international bestseller published in over thir ty countries, this riveting sci-fi dystopic thriller is a bona fi de page-turner. --MTV.com Callie lost her parents when the Spore Wars wiped out everyone between the ages of twenty and sixty. Sh e and her little brother, Tyler, go on the run, living as squatte rs with their friend Michael and fighting off renegades who would kill them for a cookie. Callie's only hope is Prime Destination s, a disturbing place in Beverly Hills run by a mysterious figure known as the Old Man. He hires teens to rent their bodies to End ers--seniors who want to be young again. Callie, desperate for th e money that will keep her, Tyler, and Michael alive, agrees to b e a donor. But the neurochip they place in Callie's head malfunct ions and she wakes up in the life of her renter. Callie soon dis covers that her renter intends to do more than party--and that Pr ime Destinations' plans are more evil than she could ever have im agined. . . . Praise for STARTERS: A smart, swift, inventive, a ltogether gripping story. --#1 New York Times bestselling author DEAN KOONTZ Compelling, pulse-pounding, exciting . . . Don't mis s it! --New York Times bestselling author Melissa Marr Readers w ho have been waiting for a worthy successor to Suzanne Collins's The Hunger Games will find it here. Dystopian sci-fi at its best. --Los Angeles Times Intriguing, thought-provoking and addictive . --BookReporter.com Readers will stay hooked. . . . Constantly rising stakes keep this debut intense. --Kirkus Reviews Fast-pac ed dystopian fiction. . . . The inevitable sequel can't appear so on enough. --Booklist Intriguing, fast-paced . . . Fans of dysto pian novels will be completely engaged and clamoring for the sequ el. --School Library Journal Addictive and alluring. --Examiner. com Chilling and riveting. --Shelf-Awareness.com A must-read fo r fans of The Hunger Games and Legend. Fast-paced, romantic, and thought-provoking. --Justine Editorial Reviews Review A smart, swift, inventive, altogether gripping story. -Dean Koontz Fans of The Hunger Games will love it. -Kami Garcia, coauthor of the bestselling BEAUTIFUL CREATURES/Caster series STARTERS is a comp elling, pulse-pounding, exciting sci-fi adventure with a strong f emale lead. Don't miss it! -New York Times bestselling author Me lissa Marr The only thing better than a terrific concept is one that is as well executed as Starters. Readers who have been waiti ng for a worthy successor to Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games wi ll find it here. Dystopian sci-fi at its best, Starters is terrif ic series kickoff with a didn't-see-that-coming conclusion that w ill leave readers on the edges of their seats. -Los Angeles Times Built up to a dramatic climax and a stunning twist, Starters is an addictive and alluring tale about human nature's darker side, and how far we'll go to get what we want. Readers everywhere wil l want to dive right in, and Hunger Games fans especially will fi nd themselves hooked. -Examiner.com This story of those who are not what they seem twists along with multiple-identity switcheroo s and chase scenes worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster . . . The in evitable sequel can't appear soon enough. -Booklist Constantly r ising stakes keep this debut intense. -Kirkus Reviews Newcomer P rice launches a dystopian series that offers . . . a notable comm and of technique . . . Raising questions about class, property, a nd body/mind separation, Price's thriller features well-crafted t ension, believable villains, and moments of stolen sweetness. -Pu blishers Weekly Intriguing, fast-paced . . . Fans of dystopian n ovels will be completely engaged and clamoring for the sequel. - School Library Journal Hard to imagine a young adult reader who would not be interested in this book -VOYA The concept is compu lsively gruesome. . . . Price develops her plot and characters wi th tight, punchy writing and a sure, confident touch. -The Daily Mail This action-packed novel is set in a twisted, hostile worl d and is a must-read for fans of The Hunger Games and Legend. Fas t paced, romantic, and thought provoking, the jaw-dropping ending left us starving for a sequel. -Justine Magazine Starters is a dystopian read you'll want to snatch up for yourself . . . With i ts intriguing plot-twists and dash of romance, Lissa's novel is a bona fide pageturner that proves you can't take anything--or any one--at face value. -MTV.com's Hollywood Crush Blog Intriguing, thought-provoking and addictive. -BookReporter.com Chilling and riveting. -Shelf-Awareness.com About the Author LISSA PRICE i s the award-winning international bestselling author of STARTERS, published in over thirty countries, and ENDERS. She has lived in India and Japan but now resides in Los Angeles. You can visit he r at www.LissaPrice.com and follow her on Twitter at @Lissa_Price and Facebook at @LissaPriceAuthor. Excerpt. ? Reprinted by perm ission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Enders gave me the cree ps. The doorman flashed a practiced smile as he let me into the b ody bank. He wasn't that old, maybe 110, but he still made me shu dder. Like most Enders, he sported silver hair, some phony badge of honor of his age. Inside, the ultramodern space with its high ceilings dwarfed me. I walked through the lobby as if gliding thr ough a dream, my feet barely touching the marble floor. He direc ted me to the receptionist, who had white hair and matte red lips tick that transferred to her front teeth when she smiled. They ha d to be nice to me there, in the body bank. But if they saw me on the street, I'd be invisible. Forget that I had been top of my c lass--back when there was school. I was sixteen. A baby to them. The receptionist's heels clicked and echoed in this stark space as she took me to a small waiting room, empty except for silver b rocade chairs in the corners. They looked like antiques, but the chemical scent in the air belonged to new paint and synthetics. T he so-called nature sounds of forest birds were just as fake. I g lanced at my frayed sweats and scuffed shoes. I had brushed them as best I could, but the stains would not go away. And because I had tramped all the way to Beverly Hills in the morning drizzle, I was also wet as a lost cat. My feet hurt. I wanted to collapse into a chair, but I didn't dare leave a damp butt-mark on the br ocade. A tall Ender popped into the room, interrupting my little etiquette dilemma. Callie Woodland? He looked at his watch. You' re late. Sorry. The rain . . . It's all right. You're here. He extended his hand. His silver hair seemed whiter in contrast to his artificial tan. As his smile broadened, his eyes widened, mak ing me more nervous than usual with an Ender. They didn't deserve to be called seniors, as they preferred, these greedy old fogies at the end of their lives. I forced myself to shake his wrinkled hand. I'm Mr. Tinnenbaum. Welcome to Prime Destinations. He wra pped his other palm over mine. I'm just here to see . . . I look ed around at the walls like I'd come to inspect the interior desi gn. How it all works? Of course. No charge for that. He grinned and finally released my hand. Why don't you follow me? He extend ed his arm as if I couldn't find my way out of the room. His teet h were so bright, I flinched a little when he smiled. We walked d own a short hallway to his office. Go right in, Callie. Have a s eat by the desk. He closed the door. I bit my tongue to keep fro m gasping at the total extravagance inside. A massive copper foun tain flowed with endless water alongside one wall. The way they w ere letting this clear, clean water fall and splash, you'd think the stuff was free. A glass desk embedded with LED lights domina ted the center of the room, with an airscreen display hovering a foot above it. It showed a picture of a girl my age, with long re d hair, wearing gym shorts. Although she was smiling, the photo w as straight-on, like some full-length mug shot. Her expression wa s sweet. Hopeful. I sat in a modern metal chair as Mr. Tinnenbau m stood behind the desk, pointing at the air display. One of our newest members. Like you, she heard about us through a friend. Th e women who rented her body were quite pleased. He touched the co rner of the screen, changing the picture to a teen in a racing sw imsuit, with major abs. This fellow, Adam, referred her. He can s nowboard, ski, climb. He's a popular rental for outdoorsy men who haven't been able to enjoy these sports for decades. Hearing hi s words made it all too real. Creepy old Enders with arthritic li mbs taking over this teen's body for a week, living inside his sk in. It made my stomach flip. I wanted to bolt, but one thought ke pt me there. Tyler. I gripped the seat of my chair with both ha nds. My stomach growled. Tinnenbaum extended a pewter dish of Sup ertruffles in paper cups. My parents had had the same dish, once. Would you like one? he asked. I took one of the oversized choc olates in silence. Then I remembered my rusty manners. Thank you. Take more. He waved the dish to entice me. I took a second and a third, since the dish still hovered near my hand. I wrapped th em in their paper cups and slipped them into my sweatshirt pocket . He looked disappointed not to see me eat them, like I was to be his entertainment for the day. Behind my chair, the fountain bub bled and splashed, teasing me. If he didn't offer me something to drink soon, he just might get to see me with my head under the f ountain, slurping like a dog. Could I have a glass of water? Ple ase? Of course. He snapped his fingers and then raised his voice as if speaking to some hidden device. Glass of water for the you ng lady. A moment later, an Ender with the figure of a model cam e in balancing a glass of water on a tray. It was wrapped in a cl oth napkin. I took the glass and saw small cubes glistening like diamonds. Ice. She set the tray beside me and left. I tilted my head back and downed the sweet water all at once, the cool liquid running down my throat. My eyes closed as I savored the cleanest water I'd had since the war ended. When I finished, I let one of the ice cubes fall into my mouth. I bit into it with a crunch. W hen I opened my eyes, I saw Tinnenbaum staring at me. Would you like more? he asked. I would have, but his eyes told me he didn' t mean it. I shook my head and finished the cube. My fingernails looked even dirtier against the glass as I set it back on the tra y. Seeing the ice melting in the glass reminded me of the last ti me I had had ice water. It seemed like forever, but it was only a year ago, the last day in our house before the marshals came. W ould you like to know how it all works? Tinnenbaum asked. Here at Prime Destinations? I stopped myself from rolling my eyes. Ende rs. Why else would I be there? I gave him a half smile and nodded . He tapped a corner of the airscreen to clear it, and then a se cond time to bring up holo-mations. The first one showed a senior reclining on a lounge chair, the back of her head being fitted w ith a small cap. Colored wires protruding from the cap led to a c omputer. The renter is connected to a BCI--Body Computer Interfa ce--in a room staffed with experienced nurses, he said. Then she' s put into a twilight sleep. Like at the dentist? Yes. All her vital signs are monitored throughout the entire journey. On the o ther side of the screen, a teen girl reclined in a long padded ch air. You'll be put under, with a kind of anesthesia. Completely p ainless and harmless. You wake up a week later, a little groggy b ut a whole lot richer. He flashed those teeth again. I forced my self not to wince. What happens during the week? She gets to be you. He spread his palms and rotated them. Do you know about comp uter assists that help amputees move fake hands? They just think about it and it moves? It's very much like that. So she visualiz es that she's me and if she wants something, she just thinks it a nd my hand grabs it? Just like she was in your body. She uses he r mind to walk your body out of here, and gets to be young again. He cradled one elbow in his other hand. For a little while. But how . . . ? He nodded to the other side of the screen. Over her e, in another room, the donor--that would be you--is connected to the computer via a wireless BCI. Wireless? We insert a tiny ne urochip into the back of your head. You won't feel a thing. Total ly painless. Allows us to connect you to the computer at all time s. We then connect your brain waves to the computer, and the comp uter connects the two of you. Connects. My brow furrowed as I tr ied to imagine two minds connected that way. BCI. Neurochip. Inse rted. This was getting creepier by the minute. That urge to run w as coming back hard. But at the same time, I wanted to know more. I know, it's all so new. He gave me a condescending smirk. We m ake sure you're completely asleep. The renter's mind takes over y our body. She answers a series of questions posed by the team to be sure everything is working the way it should. Then she's free to go enjoy her rented body. The diagram showed graphics of the rented body playing golf, playing tennis, diving. The body retai ns its muscle memory, so whatever sports you've played, she'll be able to play. When the time is over, the renter walks the body b ack here. The connection is shut down in the proper sequence. The renter is taken off the twilight-sleep drugs. She is checked ove r and then goes on her merry way. You, the donor, are restored to your full brain functions via the computer. You awake in your bo dy as if you'd slept for several days. What if something happens to me while she's in my body? Snowboarding, skydiving? What if I get hurt? Nothing like that has ever happened here. Our renters sign a contract that makes them financially liable. Believe me, everyone wants that deposit back. He made me sound like a rental car. A chill went through me like someone had run an ice cube up my spine. That reminded me of Tyler, the only thing keeping me i n that chair. What about the chip? I asked. That's removed afte r your third rental. He handed me a sheet of paper. Here. This mi ght put you at ease. Rules for Renters at Prime Destinations 1. You may not alter the appearance of your rental body in any way, including but not limited to piercings, tattoos, hair cutting or dyeing, cosmetic contact lenses, and any surgical procedures, in cluding augmentation. 2. No changes to the, Delacorte Press, 2012, 3, Atria. Good. 5.31 x 0.8 x 8.25 inches. Paperback. 2001. 320 pages. <br>It has been nearly three decades since Shirley Mac Laine commenced her brave and public commitment to chronicling he r personal quest for spiritual understanding. In testament to the endurance and vitality of her message, each of her eight legenda ry bestsellers -- from Don't Fall Off the Mountain to My Lucky St ars -- continues today to attract, dazzle, and transform countles s new readers. Now Shirley is back -- with her most breathtakingl y powerful and unique book yet. This is the story of a journey. It is the eagerly anticipated and altogether startling culminatio n of Shirley MacLaine's extraordinary -- and ultimately rewarding -- road through life. The riveting odyssey began with a pair of anonymous handwritten letters imploring Shirley to make a difficu lt pilgrimage along the Santiago de Compostela Camino in Spain. T hroughout history, countless illustrious pilgrims from all over E urope have taken up the trail. It is an ancient -- and allegedly enchanted -- pilgrimage. People from St. Francis of Assisi and Ch arlemagne to Ferdinand and Isabella to Dante and Chaucer have tak en the journey, which comprises a nearly 500-mile trek across hig hways, mountains and valleys, cities and towns, and fields. Now i t would be Shirley's turn. For Shirley, the Camino was both an i ntense spiritual and physical challenge. A woman in her sixth dec ade completing such a grueling trip on foot in thirty days at twe nty miles per day was nothing short of remarkable. But even more astounding was the route she took spiritually: back thousands of years, through past lives to the very origin of the universe. Imm ensely gifted with intelligence, curiosity, warmth, and a profoun d openness to people and places outside her own experience, Shirl ey MacLaine is truly an American treasure. And once again, she br ings her inimitable qualities of mind and heart to her writing. B alancing and negotiating the revelations inspired by the mysterio us energy of the Camino, she endured her exhausting journey to Co mpostela until it gradually gave way to a far more universal voya ge: that of the soul. Through a range of astonishing and liberati ng visions and revelations, Shirley saw into the meaning of the c osmos, including the secrets of the ancient civilizations of Atla ntis and Lemuria, insights into human genesis, the essence of gen der and sexuality, and the true path to higher love. With rich i nsight, humility, and her trademark grace, Shirley MacLaine gentl y leads us on a sacred adventure toward an inexpressibly transcen dent climax. The Camino promises readers the journey of a thousan d lifetimes. Editorial Reviews About the Author Shirley MacLain e has appeared in more than fifty films, has been nominated for a n Academy Award six times, and received the Oscar for Best Actres s in 1984 for Terms of Endearment. She also recently starred in t he hit TV show Downton Abbey. A longtime outspoken advocate for c ivil rights and liberties, she is the author of ten international bestsellers. She lives in Malibu, California, and Santa Fe, New Mexico. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 Whenever I travel, I prefer to do it light; however, seven pounds of lightness was new to me. Having done the trek her self, my Brazilian friend Anna Strong warned me that each ounce I carried in my backpack would become tons after a few weeks. Sooo ...shoes would be essential and must be carefully selected -- jus t one pair to walk in and one pair to put on at the end of each d ay. I have always had trouble with extraneous sounds while sleepi ng. I knew I would be sleeping in shelters (refugios) along the w ay with many others who snored, coughed, talked, and dreamed out loud. I wondered about my ever-present sound machine. Too heavy, I decided. I couldn't carry the batteries. I opted instead for ea rplugs, even though I had been told by my homeopath and acupunctu rist that earplugs obstructed the meridians to the kidneys. I car ried a light sleeping bag, two pairs of socks, two pairs of panti es, two T-shirts, a small towel, a small washcloth, one bar of so ap, one pair of shorts, one pair of light leggings to shield me f rom the sun's rays, some homeopathic remedies (for giardiases, na usea, cuts and bruises), Band-Aids, Nu Skin, adhesive tape, a wat er bottle (there would be fountains of clear water in every villa ge along the way), my passport, several notebooks, a tiny address book, a few credit cards (which I vowed not to use), a little mo ney (which I hoped I would not resort to), one Gortex jacket, one pair of Gortex slacks, one sweater (since I'd be walking in cold as well as hot weather), a sun hat, sunglasses, melatonin for sl eep, and my precious Pearlcorder with many small tapes. I am a T aurus, and therefore a person who accumulates things. I immediate ly understood this journey would be an examination of what was es sential to me. The road and her energy will provide all you need, Anna told me. She will tell you what to throw away -- and you wi ll become humble as a result. You will see what a temple your bod y really is, that it is not a prison, and you will discover your essence. She told me I would find a stick to walk with. It would speak to me as though it would want to help. My feet would derive energy from the ground itself, which is why it is infinitely bet ter to walk than to ride the Camino in a vehicle. I would receive messages from the path as though it was talking to me, until I b ecame the path and all of its history. I met with others who ha d taken the pilgrimage. They advised me not to eat too much and t o drink lots of water -- at least two liters per day. There would be many good restaurants, but it was best to stay within the ene rgy of the path's intent, which was to be essentially stripped of trappings. I should not be afraid of anything while trekking -- first of all, they told me, the Spanish government protected all pilgrims and had harsh laws against interfering with a pilgrim's progress. I was told it would be better to walk alone, even thoug h I would encounter many people along the way. Everything I carri ed with me would be a distraction. I should learn to let go. And I should be prepared to die, because to do such a pilgrimage mean t I was ready to give up the old values that conflicted my life. I could honestly say that I had no problem with dying if that wa s what was meant to be. I had had enough of the state of affairs as I knew them to be. I was ready for a new understanding to prop el me forward for the rest of my life. In preparing for my walk, I decided to rehearse with my backpack. I packed all the items and one day decided to walk the hills of Calabasas in California as a precursor. That is exactly what happened. I felt precursed w ith what I experienced. par It was a trail I had often taken. As I parked my car at the entrance, out of the corner of my eye I n oticed a Latino man, scruffy, no shoes, and slightly wild-eyed, i n the trees near the trail. I ignored him, locked my car, strapp ed on my backpack, and began my hike. I fingered my Swiss Army kn ife and made a mental note that I was safe with it. I also noted that I would try to make it way up the trail to a bench where I k new I could remove my backpack and rest. Thus began my contempla tion on how goal-oriented I was. A goal was so important to me th at sometimes the reaching of it justified the means by which I ac complished it. I walked for miles thinking about reaching that be nch. Then I walked even further. The backpack was heavy and the h ike was becoming a struggle. I stopped and put some Emergency C i nto my water bottle. I drank and walked on. Finally, I stopped, e xhausted, and realized I had long since passed the bench that had been my goal! The significance of this small event was not lost on me. I was truly disappointed in my overachievement. But I had often done such things, remaining separated from the path I was o n because of my intense desire to reach the goal. Maybe that was the definition of success in this world. I was an example of the accepted term, when what I was looking for was the true meaning o f success. One has to achieve some version of success in order to know there is another version. In any case, I turned around, re traced my steps, and after some miles, recognized the bench. I de cided not to rest on it and continued down the mountain. When I r eached my car, there was the Latino man, looking in worse shape t han before. May I help you? I asked him. My feet are burning fr om no shoes, he said. I need a ride to my car. I realized I was talking to a man of Spanish descent and feeling almost as though I were living a future event on the Camino. I thought, I should b e kind to strangers. I offered him a ride to his car, which I su pposed wasn't far away. He climbed in beside me. He was filthy an d smelled bad. I don't know why I'm doing this, he said in a con fused state. Sometimes we all do things for reasons we don't und erstand, I answered, thinking of what I would be doing in a week without understanding it either. I started the car and told him I was going to do the Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage. He seemed to understand and know it. Are you Catholic? I asked. He nodde d and said, Yes. Are you doing penance? I asked. He nodded. Are you doing penance? he asked. I said I didn't think so. Then he looked at my breasts. I had made a conscious decision not to wea r a bra on the Camino because the straps hurt my shoulders with t he backpack. It had occurred to me that such an elimination of un derwear would be provocative. I wondered if I had manifested my c oncern into a reality. The man continued to stare at my breasts. Oh, God, I thought. This could be dangerous. There was no one in sight for miles. He finally took his eyes off my anatomy and sa id, Can I make love to you? It was surreal. I slammed on the bra kes and erupted. Are you out of your mind? I screamed. What the h ell do you think you're doing? Of course not, you idiot. I picked you up because you needed help, your feet were burning, you need ed water and to return to your car, and this is what you do? You are outrageous! I was furious, which seemed to activate some sens e of misplaced justice in his mind. There you go, you see? he sa id. I asked you, instead of demanding, and you won't do it. My m outh fell open. I was in trouble now. I thought of really going a fter him more irately, but something I saw flicker across his fac e stopped me. He had not touched me or advanced toward me physica lly. Then he said, I passed my car. Let me out, he demanded. The re was no car in sight anywhere. Sure, I answered. He opened the door on his side and climbed out. Listen, I said, you should wa tch that sex stuff, you know. It can get you in a lot of trouble. Over his shoulder he said, Yes, thank you. I know. I'm always d oing this. Then he walked away. I sat in my car in a state of bewilderment. Had he been real? It was as though an experiential vision had just happened to me. I turned to look at him again. He had disappeared. There was no man and no car. I vowed to never b e afraid of going braless again, and I knew I would have to give much thought to the truth that reality was where the mind was and that I had been so determined to make a goal of my bench that I had passed it....Reality simply was where the mind was. I could u nderstand more deeply why I was an actress. I could manifest what I needed in reality. I had manifested a barefoot, filthy wandere r to warn me that the Camino was feminine and, as a result, human sexuality would rise. Everyone had told me that the Camino offer ed those who walked it a love affair. It was the individual's cho ice whether to take it. Some weeks later, I would be faced with t hat choice. Copyright ® 2000 by Shirley MacLaine ., Atria, 2001, 2.5<

2009, ISBN: 9780743400732

Speak. Good. 8.26 x 5.72 x 0.69 inches. Paperback. 2009. 247 pages. remainder.<br>Hildy Biddle wants something monumental to happen so she can finally prove herself to be more than… Mehr…

Speak. Good. 8.26 x 5.72 x 0.69 inches. Paperback. 2009. 247 pages. remainder.<br>Hildy Biddle wants something monumental to happen so she can finally prove herself to be more than a high school journalist. The problem? Her town?s biggest story stars a ghost, which is not an easy interview. But while the local paper is playing up people?s fears with shocking headlines of creepy h appenings, Hildy is determined to discover what?s really going on . Unfortunately, her desire to uncover the truth is starting to c ause a stir. With rumors swirling and tensions high, can Hildy pu sh past all the hype and find out the real truth? Editorial Revi ews Review A-peeling all around! School Library Journal Sharp p acing and an intriguing premise....She stocks her work with stron g, sage women, the elements for a budding romance and plenty of f unny moments. ùPublishers Weekly, starred review About the Autho r July 12, 1951 - I was born at eleven A.M., a most reasonable ti me, my mother often said, and when the nurse put me in my mother' s arms for the first time I had both a nasty case of the hiccups and no discernible forehead (it's since grown in). I've always be lieved in comic entrances. As I grew up in River Forest, Illinoi s in the 1950's I seem to remember an early fascination with thin gs that were funny. I thought that people who could make other pe ople laugh were terribly fortunate. While my friends made their c areer plans, declaring they would become doctors, nurses, and law yers, inwardly, I knew that I wanted to be involved somehow in co medy. This, however, was a difficult concept to get across in fir st grade. But I had a mother with a great comic sense (she was a high school English teacher) and a grandmother who was a funny pr ofessional storyteller--so I figured the right genes were in ther e somewhere, although I didn't always laugh at what my friends la ughed at and they rarely giggled at my jokes. That, and the fact that I was overweight and very tall, all made me feel quite diffe rent when I was growing up--a bit like a water buffalo at a tea p arty. My grandmother, who I called Nana, had the biggest influen ce on me creatively. She taught me the importance of stories and laughter. She never said, 'Now I'm going to tell you a funny stor y', she'd just tell a story, and the humor would naturally flow f rom it because of who she was and how she and her characters saw the world. She showed me the difference between derisive laughter that hurts others and laughter that comes from the heart. She sh owed me, too, that stories help us understand ourselves at a deep level. She was a keen observer of people. I kept a diary as a c hild, was always penning stories and poems. I played the flute he artily, taught myself the guitar, and wrote folk songs. For years I wanted to be a comedienne, then a comedy writer. I was a vorac ious reader, too, and can still remember the dark wood and the gr een leather chairs of the River Forest Public Library, can hear m y shoes tapping on the stairs going down to the children's room, can feel my fingers sliding across rows and rows of books, lookin g through the card catalogues that seemed to house everything tha t anyone would ever need to know about in the entire world. My pa rents divorced when I was eight years old, and I was devastated a t the loss of my father. I pull from that memory regularly as a w riter. Every book I have written so far has dealt with complex fa ther issues of one kind or another. My father was an alcoholic an d the pain of that was a shadow that followed me for years. I att empted to address that pain in Rules of the Road. It was a very h ealing book for me. I didn't understand it at the time, but I was living out the theme that I try to carry into all of my writing: adversity, if we let it, will make us stronger. In my twenties, I had a successful career in sales and advertising with the Chic ago Tribune, McGraw-Hill, and Parade Magazine. I met my husband E van, a computer engineer, while I was on vacation. Our courtship was simple. He asked me to dance; I said no. We got married five months later in August, 1981. But I was not happy in advertising sales, and I had a few ulcers to prove it. With Evan's loving sup port, I decided to try my hand at professional writing. I wish I could say that everything started falling into place, but it was a slow, slow build--writing newspaper and magazine articles for n ot much money. My daughter Jean was born in July of 82. She had t he soul of a writer even as a baby. I can remember sitting at my typewriter (I didn't have a computer back then) writing away with Jean on a blanket on the floor next to me. If my writing was bad that day, I'd tear that page out of the typewriter and hand it t o her. 'Bad paper,' I'd say and Jean would rip the paper in shred s with her little hands. I had moved from journalism to screenwr iting when one of the biggest challenges of my life occurred. I w as in a serious auto accident which injured my neck and back seve rely and required neurosurgery. It was a long road back to wholen ess, but during that time I wrote Squashed, my first young adult novel. The humor in that story kept me going. Over the years, I h ave come to understand how deeply I need to laugh. It's like oxyg en to me. My best times as a writer are when I'm working on a boo k and laughing while I'm writing. Then I know I've got something. Joan's first novel, Squashed, won the Delacorte Prize for a Fir st Young Adult Novel. Five novels for young adult readers have fo llowed: Thwonk, Sticks, Rules of the Road (LA Times Book Prize an d Golden Kite), Backwater and Hope was Here (Newbery Honor Medal) . Joan lives in Darien, CT with her husband and daughter. Copyr ight © 2000 by Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers. All rights reserved. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reser ved. DATELINE: Banesville, New York. May 3. Bonnie Sue Bomgartn er, Banesville's soon-to-be 67th Apple Blossom Queen, let loose a stream of projectile vomiting in the high school cafeteria. It was the tuna fish, she gasped miserably, and proceeded to upchuc k again. I wrote that down on my notepad as Darrell Jennings an d I took a big step back. The crowning of the queen was tomorro w at 10:00 A.M. in the Happy Apple Tent--a major moment in my sma ll town of Banesville, an orchard-growing community in Upstate Ne w York where apples are our livelihood and the core of our existe nce. The nurse rushed in. Darrell, the editor of The Core, the high school paper where I worked as a reporter, said, It's a clif fhanger, Hildy. The festival law says if the queen is sick and ca n't appear, the runner-up gets crowned. I didn't know that. H e pushed his glasses onto his head and grinned. That's why I'm th e editor. I jabbed him in the arm for that comment. Darrell has been editing my copy for close to forever. Bonnie Sue heaved a gain and the nurse mentioned something about food poisoning. My brother had food poisoning and it kept coming up all weekend, Da rrell whispered ominously. Stay on this, Hildy. This could be big . Bigger than big. I want the story behind the story. He always says that. Mrs. Perth, the festival coordinator, who also work ed in the school office, ran in. She'll be fine, everyone. Bonn ie Sue looked close to apple green. I felt for her, honestly, eve n though she was the kind of gorgeous girl who acted like she was personally responsible for her looks. Mrs. Perth handed Bonnie Sue a tub of lip gloss. Bonnie Sue glossed and stuck her head ba ck in the bucket. Everything, Mrs. Perth said fiercely, will be fine. She shooed us out of the cafeteria, but not before she s aid to me, Hildy, of course we don't want to mention this inciden t in our paper. I looked at my notes. Why not? Hildy, the App le Blossom Festival is about the hope of the harvest yet to come. Banesville needed a good harvest. We were still -reeling from two bad harvests in a row. This was a make-or-break year for the orchards. I understand about the hope, Mrs. Perth, but a queen with food poisoning is kind of interesting and-- Mrs. Perth forc ed out a smile. The Apple Blossom Queen is the symbol of unbridle d joy and farm-fresh produce. Her plump hand covered mine. And we wouldn't want that symbol to be tarnished in any way. Would we? But Bonnie Sue has food poisoning. That's the truth. The trut h, she snarled, is that we've had quite enough problems in Banesv ille! This festival is committed to being happy and positive from beginning to end! Her eyes turned to slits. You're just like you r father, Hildy Biddle. Thank you, I said quietly. She shut the cafeteria door in my face. From behind the door, I heard Bonni e Sue bellow, I'm not giving up my crown! I earned it! It's mine! I wrote that down, too. I was standing in front of Frankie's Funny Fun Mirrors, watching them stretch my legs and elongate my neck and head as the Apple Blossom Festival pulsated around me. Two little boys ran up, snickering. What's worse than finding a worm in an apple you're eating? the bigger one asked me. Wha t? Finding half a worm! They grabbed their throats, shrieked, Eeeewwww! and ran off. I made a face in the mirror, stuck out my tongue. Hildy Biddle, reporter at large. I headed across t he midway that was actually Banesville High's football field. I w alked under the great arch of blossoms, passing men dressed like Johnny Appleseed. I turned left at the storytelling tent where Gr anny Smith, our local storyteller, was holding forth; did a twirl and a two-step past Bad Apple Bob and the Orchard Boys playing t heir foot-stomping regional hit, You Dropped Me Like an Apple Pee l on the Ground. Oh, baby, I sang along with them, why'd you ha ve to go? You're just like your father, Hildy Biddle. I guess that meant obstinate, unbending, always searching for truth. I can live with that. I remembered being with Dad at the festiva l when I was little, riding the Haunted Cider Mill roller coaster , hiding behind him when the wicked queen from Snow White walked by with her poisoned apple. We'd eat fat caramel apples, drink ci der till our stomachs would groan. Everywhere I looked, there see med to be a memory of him. He died three years ago from a heart attack. I still can't imagine what God was thinking when he le t that happen. I looked up in the sky and saw Luss Lustrom's tw o-seater prop plane flying overhead. I waved even though he could n't see me. Luss gave air tours of the apple valley. I rode with him last year. I'll never forget the experience--flying low over the apple trees that were in full blossom. The sky seemed bluer t han it did when I was standing on the ground; the valley seemed s weeter; the promise of good soil that people would fight for and cry over seemed real to me. Luss did his best cackling ghost la ugh as we flew over the old Ludlow property, a place some people in town thought was haunted. The ghost of old man Ludlow, Luss shouted darkly. Will we see him? I hoped not. I had wanted to keep flying in the sky with Luss and not come down, but when you r family owns an orchard, coming down to earth isn't optional. I headed to the Happy Apple Tent, where the queen would be crowne d. Bonnie Sue Bomgartner wasn't anywhere to be seen. She had miss ed the filling of the giant grinning apple balloon. She'd missed Mayor Frank T. Fudd's annual declaration: I can feel it in my bon es; this is going to be the best festival ever! The tent was cram med with people. Tanisha Bass, my best friend and The Core's phot ographer, was stationed by the entrance. A group of small childre n dressed like honeybees held hands and wove through the crowd. My cousin Elizabeth, The Core's graphic artist, who wrote for th e paper only when we were desperate for copy, whispered, I heard Bonnie Sue is still at home. Darrell, our editor, shook his hea d. She made it to the convertible in her pink dress. And puked on the dress, I heard. That was Lev Radner, my second former boyf riend and The Core's marketing manager. I looked at Lev's thick , curly dark hair, his blue eyes, his chiseled jaw. He was seriou sly cute, but I'm sorry, when a guy cheats on me--and this does h appen with disturbing regularity--I'm gone. T. R. Dobbs, our sp ortswriter, marched up. This just in--the convertible turned back . How do you know this? I demanded. I never divulge my source s, T.R. said, smiling. Big woman approaching. Tanisha pointed t o Mrs. Perth, who was chugging toward the tent, apple blossoms bo uncing on her straw hat, not a happy camper. I stepped into her path. Mrs. Perth, could you-- She almost ran me over! Are you c oming? she barked, looking behind her. I looked to see Lacey Ho rton, the Apple Blossom Queen runner-up, walking hesitantly towar d the tent, not in the traditional pink dress with pink heels, bu t in jeans, boots, and a work shirt. Lacey was president of the H orticulture Club and, like me, the child of family orchard owners . She caught up with Mrs. Perth, who snapped, How you think you can represent the growers of Banesville dressed like that, Miss Horton, I will never know. Lacey smiled sweetly. All I know how to be is -myself. Mrs. Perth harrumphed and handed Lacey a tub of lip gloss. Lacey handed it back. I took notes like mad. Tan isha snapped shots. Suddenly another photographer elbowed his way past Tanisha and started photographing Lacey. Tanisha tapped h im on the shoulder. Excuse me. The guy ignored her. His cap rea d Catch the buzz in Banesville . . . Read THE BEE. The Bee is our local newspaper. Mrs. Perth hissed, Let's get this over with. Lacey looked down. She wasn't gorgeous like Bonnie Sue, but she was pretty enough, with dark brown hair and green eyes. Congra tulations, Lacey, I said, grinning. How's it feel to be queen? Weird, she whispered. We've had so many challenges in town, I c ontinued. What's it mean to you to be queen of this year's festiv al? Mrs. Perth interrupted, We don't have time for-- I'd like to answer Hildy's question, Mrs. Perth. Lacey smiled at me. It me ans that maybe I can help people understand what it's like to be a small farmer. I felt like cheering. Lacey wasted no time re defining her role. She stood on the stage, one hand steadying her crown, the other holding the microphone. We all know in Banesv ille how things can change suddenly, like the weather, she began. People chuckled. That, Speak, 2009, 2.5, Atria. Good. 5.31 x 0.8 x 8.25 inches. Paperback. 2001. 320 pages. <br>It has been nearly three decades since Shirley Mac Laine commenced her brave and public commitment to chronicling he r personal quest for spiritual understanding. In testament to the endurance and vitality of her message, each of her eight legenda ry bestsellers -- from Don't Fall Off the Mountain to My Lucky St ars -- continues today to attract, dazzle, and transform countles s new readers. Now Shirley is back -- with her most breathtakingl y powerful and unique book yet. This is the story of a journey. It is the eagerly anticipated and altogether startling culminatio n of Shirley MacLaine's extraordinary -- and ultimately rewarding -- road through life. The riveting odyssey began with a pair of anonymous handwritten letters imploring Shirley to make a difficu lt pilgrimage along the Santiago de Compostela Camino in Spain. T hroughout history, countless illustrious pilgrims from all over E urope have taken up the trail. It is an ancient -- and allegedly enchanted -- pilgrimage. People from St. Francis of Assisi and Ch arlemagne to Ferdinand and Isabella to Dante and Chaucer have tak en the journey, which comprises a nearly 500-mile trek across hig hways, mountains and valleys, cities and towns, and fields. Now i t would be Shirley's turn. For Shirley, the Camino was both an i ntense spiritual and physical challenge. A woman in her sixth dec ade completing such a grueling trip on foot in thirty days at twe nty miles per day was nothing short of remarkable. But even more astounding was the route she took spiritually: back thousands of years, through past lives to the very origin of the universe. Imm ensely gifted with intelligence, curiosity, warmth, and a profoun d openness to people and places outside her own experience, Shirl ey MacLaine is truly an American treasure. And once again, she br ings her inimitable qualities of mind and heart to her writing. B alancing and negotiating the revelations inspired by the mysterio us energy of the Camino, she endured her exhausting journey to Co mpostela until it gradually gave way to a far more universal voya ge: that of the soul. Through a range of astonishing and liberati ng visions and revelations, Shirley saw into the meaning of the c osmos, including the secrets of the ancient civilizations of Atla ntis and Lemuria, insights into human genesis, the essence of gen der and sexuality, and the true path to higher love. With rich i nsight, humility, and her trademark grace, Shirley MacLaine gentl y leads us on a sacred adventure toward an inexpressibly transcen dent climax. The Camino promises readers the journey of a thousan d lifetimes. Editorial Reviews About the Author Shirley MacLain e has appeared in more than fifty films, has been nominated for a n Academy Award six times, and received the Oscar for Best Actres s in 1984 for Terms of Endearment. She also recently starred in t he hit TV show Downton Abbey. A longtime outspoken advocate for c ivil rights and liberties, she is the author of ten international bestsellers. She lives in Malibu, California, and Santa Fe, New Mexico. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 Whenever I travel, I prefer to do it light; however, seven pounds of lightness was new to me. Having done the trek her self, my Brazilian friend Anna Strong warned me that each ounce I carried in my backpack would become tons after a few weeks. Sooo ...shoes would be essential and must be carefully selected -- jus t one pair to walk in and one pair to put on at the end of each d ay. I have always had trouble with extraneous sounds while sleepi ng. I knew I would be sleeping in shelters (refugios) along the w ay with many others who snored, coughed, talked, and dreamed out loud. I wondered about my ever-present sound machine. Too heavy, I decided. I couldn't carry the batteries. I opted instead for ea rplugs, even though I had been told by my homeopath and acupunctu rist that earplugs obstructed the meridians to the kidneys. I car ried a light sleeping bag, two pairs of socks, two pairs of panti es, two T-shirts, a small towel, a small washcloth, one bar of so ap, one pair of shorts, one pair of light leggings to shield me f rom the sun's rays, some homeopathic remedies (for giardiases, na usea, cuts and bruises), Band-Aids, Nu Skin, adhesive tape, a wat er bottle (there would be fountains of clear water in every villa ge along the way), my passport, several notebooks, a tiny address book, a few credit cards (which I vowed not to use), a little mo ney (which I hoped I would not resort to), one Gortex jacket, one pair of Gortex slacks, one sweater (since I'd be walking in cold as well as hot weather), a sun hat, sunglasses, melatonin for sl eep, and my precious Pearlcorder with many small tapes. I am a T aurus, and therefore a person who accumulates things. I immediate ly understood this journey would be an examination of what was es sential to me. The road and her energy will provide all you need, Anna told me. She will tell you what to throw away -- and you wi ll become humble as a result. You will see what a temple your bod y really is, that it is not a prison, and you will discover your essence. She told me I would find a stick to walk with. It would speak to me as though it would want to help. My feet would derive energy from the ground itself, which is why it is infinitely bet ter to walk than to ride the Camino in a vehicle. I would receive messages from the path as though it was talking to me, until I b ecame the path and all of its history. I met with others who ha d taken the pilgrimage. They advised me not to eat too much and t o drink lots of water -- at least two liters per day. There would be many good restaurants, but it was best to stay within the ene rgy of the path's intent, which was to be essentially stripped of trappings. I should not be afraid of anything while trekking -- first of all, they told me, the Spanish government protected all pilgrims and had harsh laws against interfering with a pilgrim's progress. I was told it would be better to walk alone, even thoug h I would encounter many people along the way. Everything I carri ed with me would be a distraction. I should learn to let go. And I should be prepared to die, because to do such a pilgrimage mean t I was ready to give up the old values that conflicted my life. I could honestly say that I had no problem with dying if that wa s what was meant to be. I had had enough of the state of affairs as I knew them to be. I was ready for a new understanding to prop el me forward for the rest of my life. In preparing for my walk, I decided to rehearse with my backpack. I packed all the items and one day decided to walk the hills of Calabasas in California as a precursor. That is exactly what happened. I felt precursed w ith what I experienced. par It was a trail I had often taken. As I parked my car at the entrance, out of the corner of my eye I n oticed a Latino man, scruffy, no shoes, and slightly wild-eyed, i n the trees near the trail. I ignored him, locked my car, strapp ed on my backpack, and began my hike. I fingered my Swiss Army kn ife and made a mental note that I was safe with it. I also noted that I would try to make it way up the trail to a bench where I k new I could remove my backpack and rest. Thus began my contempla tion on how goal-oriented I was. A goal was so important to me th at sometimes the reaching of it justified the means by which I ac complished it. I walked for miles thinking about reaching that be nch. Then I walked even further. The backpack was heavy and the h ike was becoming a struggle. I stopped and put some Emergency C i nto my water bottle. I drank and walked on. Finally, I stopped, e xhausted, and realized I had long since passed the bench that had been my goal! The significance of this small event was not lost on me. I was truly disappointed in my overachievement. But I had often done such things, remaining separated from the path I was o n because of my intense desire to reach the goal. Maybe that was the definition of success in this world. I was an example of the accepted term, when what I was looking for was the true meaning o f success. One has to achieve some version of success in order to know there is another version. In any case, I turned around, re traced my steps, and after some miles, recognized the bench. I de cided not to rest on it and continued down the mountain. When I r eached my car, there was the Latino man, looking in worse shape t han before. May I help you? I asked him. My feet are burning fr om no shoes, he said. I need a ride to my car. I realized I was talking to a man of Spanish descent and feeling almost as though I were living a future event on the Camino. I thought, I should b e kind to strangers. I offered him a ride to his car, which I su pposed wasn't far away. He climbed in beside me. He was filthy an d smelled bad. I don't know why I'm doing this, he said in a con fused state. Sometimes we all do things for reasons we don't und erstand, I answered, thinking of what I would be doing in a week without understanding it either. I started the car and told him I was going to do the Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage. He seemed to understand and know it. Are you Catholic? I asked. He nodde d and said, Yes. Are you doing penance? I asked. He nodded. Are you doing penance? he asked. I said I didn't think so. Then he looked at my breasts. I had made a conscious decision not to wea r a bra on the Camino because the straps hurt my shoulders with t he backpack. It had occurred to me that such an elimination of un derwear would be provocative. I wondered if I had manifested my c oncern into a reality. The man continued to stare at my breasts. Oh, God, I thought. This could be dangerous. There was no one in sight for miles. He finally took his eyes off my anatomy and sa id, Can I make love to you? It was surreal. I slammed on the bra kes and erupted. Are you out of your mind? I screamed. What the h ell do you think you're doing? Of course not, you idiot. I picked you up because you needed help, your feet were burning, you need ed water and to return to your car, and this is what you do? You are outrageous! I was furious, which seemed to activate some sens e of misplaced justice in his mind. There you go, you see? he sa id. I asked you, instead of demanding, and you won't do it. My m outh fell open. I was in trouble now. I thought of really going a fter him more irately, but something I saw flicker across his fac e stopped me. He had not touched me or advanced toward me physica lly. Then he said, I passed my car. Let me out, he demanded. The re was no car in sight anywhere. Sure, I answered. He opened the door on his side and climbed out. Listen, I said, you should wa tch that sex stuff, you know. It can get you in a lot of trouble. Over his shoulder he said, Yes, thank you. I know. I'm always d oing this. Then he walked away. I sat in my car in a state of bewilderment. Had he been real? It was as though an experiential vision had just happened to me. I turned to look at him again. He had disappeared. There was no man and no car. I vowed to never b e afraid of going braless again, and I knew I would have to give much thought to the truth that reality was where the mind was and that I had been so determined to make a goal of my bench that I had passed it....Reality simply was where the mind was. I could u nderstand more deeply why I was an actress. I could manifest what I needed in reality. I had manifested a barefoot, filthy wandere r to warn me that the Camino was feminine and, as a result, human sexuality would rise. Everyone had told me that the Camino offer ed those who walked it a love affair. It was the individual's cho ice whether to take it. Some weeks later, I would be faced with t hat choice. Copyright ® 2000 by Shirley MacLaine ., Atria, 2001, 2.5<

2005, ISBN: 9780743400732

Knopf Publishing Group. Very Good. 4.33 x 1.26 x 7.01 inches. Paperback. 2005. 497 pages. <br>A seductive and evocative epic on an intimate scal e, that tells the extraordinary stor… Mehr…

Knopf Publishing Group. Very Good. 4.33 x 1.26 x 7.01 inches. Paperback. 2005. 497 pages. <br>A seductive and evocative epic on an intimate scal e, that tells the extraordinary story of a geisha girl. Summoning up more than twenty years of Japan's most dramatic history, it u ncovers a hidden world of eroticism and enchantment, exploitation and degradation. From a small fishing village in 1929, the tale moves to the glamorous and decadent heart of Kyoto in the 1930s, where a young peasant girl is sold as servant and apprentice to a renowned geisha house. She tells her story many years later from the Waldorf Astoria in New York; it exquisitely evokes another c ulture, a different time and the details of an extraordinary way of life. It conjures up the perfection and the ugliness of life b ehind rice-paper screens, where young girls learn the arts of gei sha - dancing and singing, how to wind the kimono, how to walk an d pour tea, and how to beguile the most powerful men. ., Knopf Publishing Group, 2005, 3, Atria. Good. 5.31 x 0.8 x 8.25 inches. Paperback. 2001. 320 pages. <br>It has been nearly three decades since Shirley Mac Laine commenced her brave and public commitment to chronicling he r personal quest for spiritual understanding. In testament to the endurance and vitality of her message, each of her eight legenda ry bestsellers -- from Don't Fall Off the Mountain to My Lucky St ars -- continues today to attract, dazzle, and transform countles s new readers. Now Shirley is back -- with her most breathtakingl y powerful and unique book yet. This is the story of a journey. It is the eagerly anticipated and altogether startling culminatio n of Shirley MacLaine's extraordinary -- and ultimately rewarding -- road through life. The riveting odyssey began with a pair of anonymous handwritten letters imploring Shirley to make a difficu lt pilgrimage along the Santiago de Compostela Camino in Spain. T hroughout history, countless illustrious pilgrims from all over E urope have taken up the trail. It is an ancient -- and allegedly enchanted -- pilgrimage. People from St. Francis of Assisi and Ch arlemagne to Ferdinand and Isabella to Dante and Chaucer have tak en the journey, which comprises a nearly 500-mile trek across hig hways, mountains and valleys, cities and towns, and fields. Now i t would be Shirley's turn. For Shirley, the Camino was both an i ntense spiritual and physical challenge. A woman in her sixth dec ade completing such a grueling trip on foot in thirty days at twe nty miles per day was nothing short of remarkable. But even more astounding was the route she took spiritually: back thousands of years, through past lives to the very origin of the universe. Imm ensely gifted with intelligence, curiosity, warmth, and a profoun d openness to people and places outside her own experience, Shirl ey MacLaine is truly an American treasure. And once again, she br ings her inimitable qualities of mind and heart to her writing. B alancing and negotiating the revelations inspired by the mysterio us energy of the Camino, she endured her exhausting journey to Co mpostela until it gradually gave way to a far more universal voya ge: that of the soul. Through a range of astonishing and liberati ng visions and revelations, Shirley saw into the meaning of the c osmos, including the secrets of the ancient civilizations of Atla ntis and Lemuria, insights into human genesis, the essence of gen der and sexuality, and the true path to higher love. With rich i nsight, humility, and her trademark grace, Shirley MacLaine gentl y leads us on a sacred adventure toward an inexpressibly transcen dent climax. The Camino promises readers the journey of a thousan d lifetimes. Editorial Reviews About the Author Shirley MacLain e has appeared in more than fifty films, has been nominated for a n Academy Award six times, and received the Oscar for Best Actres s in 1984 for Terms of Endearment. She also recently starred in t he hit TV show Downton Abbey. A longtime outspoken advocate for c ivil rights and liberties, she is the author of ten international bestsellers. She lives in Malibu, California, and Santa Fe, New Mexico. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 Whenever I travel, I prefer to do it light; however, seven pounds of lightness was new to me. Having done the trek her self, my Brazilian friend Anna Strong warned me that each ounce I carried in my backpack would become tons after a few weeks. Sooo ...shoes would be essential and must be carefully selected -- jus t one pair to walk in and one pair to put on at the end of each d ay. I have always had trouble with extraneous sounds while sleepi ng. I knew I would be sleeping in shelters (refugios) along the w ay with many others who snored, coughed, talked, and dreamed out loud. I wondered about my ever-present sound machine. Too heavy, I decided. I couldn't carry the batteries. I opted instead for ea rplugs, even though I had been told by my homeopath and acupunctu rist that earplugs obstructed the meridians to the kidneys. I car ried a light sleeping bag, two pairs of socks, two pairs of panti es, two T-shirts, a small towel, a small washcloth, one bar of so ap, one pair of shorts, one pair of light leggings to shield me f rom the sun's rays, some homeopathic remedies (for giardiases, na usea, cuts and bruises), Band-Aids, Nu Skin, adhesive tape, a wat er bottle (there would be fountains of clear water in every villa ge along the way), my passport, several notebooks, a tiny address book, a few credit cards (which I vowed not to use), a little mo ney (which I hoped I would not resort to), one Gortex jacket, one pair of Gortex slacks, one sweater (since I'd be walking in cold as well as hot weather), a sun hat, sunglasses, melatonin for sl eep, and my precious Pearlcorder with many small tapes. I am a T aurus, and therefore a person who accumulates things. I immediate ly understood this journey would be an examination of what was es sential to me. The road and her energy will provide all you need, Anna told me. She will tell you what to throw away -- and you wi ll become humble as a result. You will see what a temple your bod y really is, that it is not a prison, and you will discover your essence. She told me I would find a stick to walk with. It would speak to me as though it would want to help. My feet would derive energy from the ground itself, which is why it is infinitely bet ter to walk than to ride the Camino in a vehicle. I would receive messages from the path as though it was talking to me, until I b ecame the path and all of its history. I met with others who ha d taken the pilgrimage. They advised me not to eat too much and t o drink lots of water -- at least two liters per day. There would be many good restaurants, but it was best to stay within the ene rgy of the path's intent, which was to be essentially stripped of trappings. I should not be afraid of anything while trekking -- first of all, they told me, the Spanish government protected all pilgrims and had harsh laws against interfering with a pilgrim's progress. I was told it would be better to walk alone, even thoug h I would encounter many people along the way. Everything I carri ed with me would be a distraction. I should learn to let go. And I should be prepared to die, because to do such a pilgrimage mean t I was ready to give up the old values that conflicted my life. I could honestly say that I had no problem with dying if that wa s what was meant to be. I had had enough of the state of affairs as I knew them to be. I was ready for a new understanding to prop el me forward for the rest of my life. In preparing for my walk, I decided to rehearse with my backpack. I packed all the items and one day decided to walk the hills of Calabasas in California as a precursor. That is exactly what happened. I felt precursed w ith what I experienced. par It was a trail I had often taken. As I parked my car at the entrance, out of the corner of my eye I n oticed a Latino man, scruffy, no shoes, and slightly wild-eyed, i n the trees near the trail. I ignored him, locked my car, strapp ed on my backpack, and began my hike. I fingered my Swiss Army kn ife and made a mental note that I was safe with it. I also noted that I would try to make it way up the trail to a bench where I k new I could remove my backpack and rest. Thus began my contempla tion on how goal-oriented I was. A goal was so important to me th at sometimes the reaching of it justified the means by which I ac complished it. I walked for miles thinking about reaching that be nch. Then I walked even further. The backpack was heavy and the h ike was becoming a struggle. I stopped and put some Emergency C i nto my water bottle. I drank and walked on. Finally, I stopped, e xhausted, and realized I had long since passed the bench that had been my goal! The significance of this small event was not lost on me. I was truly disappointed in my overachievement. But I had often done such things, remaining separated from the path I was o n because of my intense desire to reach the goal. Maybe that was the definition of success in this world. I was an example of the accepted term, when what I was looking for was the true meaning o f success. One has to achieve some version of success in order to know there is another version. In any case, I turned around, re traced my steps, and after some miles, recognized the bench. I de cided not to rest on it and continued down the mountain. When I r eached my car, there was the Latino man, looking in worse shape t han before. May I help you? I asked him. My feet are burning fr om no shoes, he said. I need a ride to my car. I realized I was talking to a man of Spanish descent and feeling almost as though I were living a future event on the Camino. I thought, I should b e kind to strangers. I offered him a ride to his car, which I su pposed wasn't far away. He climbed in beside me. He was filthy an d smelled bad. I don't know why I'm doing this, he said in a con fused state. Sometimes we all do things for reasons we don't und erstand, I answered, thinking of what I would be doing in a week without understanding it either. I started the car and told him I was going to do the Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage. He seemed to understand and know it. Are you Catholic? I asked. He nodde d and said, Yes. Are you doing penance? I asked. He nodded. Are you doing penance? he asked. I said I didn't think so. Then he looked at my breasts. I had made a conscious decision not to wea r a bra on the Camino because the straps hurt my shoulders with t he backpack. It had occurred to me that such an elimination of un derwear would be provocative. I wondered if I had manifested my c oncern into a reality. The man continued to stare at my breasts. Oh, God, I thought. This could be dangerous. There was no one in sight for miles. He finally took his eyes off my anatomy and sa id, Can I make love to you? It was surreal. I slammed on the bra kes and erupted. Are you out of your mind? I screamed. What the h ell do you think you're doing? Of course not, you idiot. I picked you up because you needed help, your feet were burning, you need ed water and to return to your car, and this is what you do? You are outrageous! I was furious, which seemed to activate some sens e of misplaced justice in his mind. There you go, you see? he sa id. I asked you, instead of demanding, and you won't do it. My m outh fell open. I was in trouble now. I thought of really going a fter him more irately, but something I saw flicker across his fac e stopped me. He had not touched me or advanced toward me physica lly. Then he said, I passed my car. Let me out, he demanded. The re was no car in sight anywhere. Sure, I answered. He opened the door on his side and climbed out. Listen, I said, you should wa tch that sex stuff, you know. It can get you in a lot of trouble. Over his shoulder he said, Yes, thank you. I know. I'm always d oing this. Then he walked away. I sat in my car in a state of bewilderment. Had he been real? It was as though an experiential vision had just happened to me. I turned to look at him again. He had disappeared. There was no man and no car. I vowed to never b e afraid of going braless again, and I knew I would have to give much thought to the truth that reality was where the mind was and that I had been so determined to make a goal of my bench that I had passed it....Reality simply was where the mind was. I could u nderstand more deeply why I was an actress. I could manifest what I needed in reality. I had manifested a barefoot, filthy wandere r to warn me that the Camino was feminine and, as a result, human sexuality would rise. Everyone had told me that the Camino offer ed those who walked it a love affair. It was the individual's cho ice whether to take it. Some weeks later, I would be faced with t hat choice. Copyright ® 2000 by Shirley MacLaine ., Atria, 2001, 2.5<

2001, ISBN: 9780743400732

Atria. Good. 5.31 x 0.8 x 8.25 inches. Paperback. 2001. 320 pages. <br>It has been nearly three decades since Shirley Mac Laine commenced her brave and public commitment to chronicl… Mehr…

Atria. Good. 5.31 x 0.8 x 8.25 inches. Paperback. 2001. 320 pages. <br>It has been nearly three decades since Shirley Mac Laine commenced her brave and public commitment to chronicling he r personal quest for spiritual understanding. In testament to the endurance and vitality of her message, each of her eight legenda ry bestsellers -- from Don't Fall Off the Mountain to My Lucky St ars -- continues today to attract, dazzle, and transform countles s new readers. Now Shirley is back -- with her most breathtakingl y powerful and unique book yet. This is the story of a journey. It is the eagerly anticipated and altogether startling culminatio n of Shirley MacLaine's extraordinary -- and ultimately rewarding -- road through life. The riveting odyssey began with a pair of anonymous handwritten letters imploring Shirley to make a difficu lt pilgrimage along the Santiago de Compostela Camino in Spain. T hroughout history, countless illustrious pilgrims from all over E urope have taken up the trail. It is an ancient -- and allegedly enchanted -- pilgrimage. People from St. Francis of Assisi and Ch arlemagne to Ferdinand and Isabella to Dante and Chaucer have tak en the journey, which comprises a nearly 500-mile trek across hig hways, mountains and valleys, cities and towns, and fields. Now i t would be Shirley's turn. For Shirley, the Camino was both an i ntense spiritual and physical challenge. A woman in her sixth dec ade completing such a grueling trip on foot in thirty days at twe nty miles per day was nothing short of remarkable. But even more astounding was the route she took spiritually: back thousands of years, through past lives to the very origin of the universe. Imm ensely gifted with intelligence, curiosity, warmth, and a profoun d openness to people and places outside her own experience, Shirl ey MacLaine is truly an American treasure. And once again, she br ings her inimitable qualities of mind and heart to her writing. B alancing and negotiating the revelations inspired by the mysterio us energy of the Camino, she endured her exhausting journey to Co mpostela until it gradually gave way to a far more universal voya ge: that of the soul. Through a range of astonishing and liberati ng visions and revelations, Shirley saw into the meaning of the c osmos, including the secrets of the ancient civilizations of Atla ntis and Lemuria, insights into human genesis, the essence of gen der and sexuality, and the true path to higher love. With rich i nsight, humility, and her trademark grace, Shirley MacLaine gentl y leads us on a sacred adventure toward an inexpressibly transcen dent climax. The Camino promises readers the journey of a thousan d lifetimes. Editorial Reviews About the Author Shirley MacLain e has appeared in more than fifty films, has been nominated for a n Academy Award six times, and received the Oscar for Best Actres s in 1984 for Terms of Endearment. She also recently starred in t he hit TV show Downton Abbey. A longtime outspoken advocate for c ivil rights and liberties, she is the author of ten international bestsellers. She lives in Malibu, California, and Santa Fe, New Mexico. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 Whenever I travel, I prefer to do it light; however, seven pounds of lightness was new to me. Having done the trek her self, my Brazilian friend Anna Strong warned me that each ounce I carried in my backpack would become tons after a few weeks. Sooo ...shoes would be essential and must be carefully selected -- jus t one pair to walk in and one pair to put on at the end of each d ay. I have always had trouble with extraneous sounds while sleepi ng. I knew I would be sleeping in shelters (refugios) along the w ay with many others who snored, coughed, talked, and dreamed out loud. I wondered about my ever-present sound machine. Too heavy, I decided. I couldn't carry the batteries. I opted instead for ea rplugs, even though I had been told by my homeopath and acupunctu rist that earplugs obstructed the meridians to the kidneys. I car ried a light sleeping bag, two pairs of socks, two pairs of panti es, two T-shirts, a small towel, a small washcloth, one bar of so ap, one pair of shorts, one pair of light leggings to shield me f rom the sun's rays, some homeopathic remedies (for giardiases, na usea, cuts and bruises), Band-Aids, Nu Skin, adhesive tape, a wat er bottle (there would be fountains of clear water in every villa ge along the way), my passport, several notebooks, a tiny address book, a few credit cards (which I vowed not to use), a little mo ney (which I hoped I would not resort to), one Gortex jacket, one pair of Gortex slacks, one sweater (since I'd be walking in cold as well as hot weather), a sun hat, sunglasses, melatonin for sl eep, and my precious Pearlcorder with many small tapes. I am a T aurus, and therefore a person who accumulates things. I immediate ly understood this journey would be an examination of what was es sential to me. The road and her energy will provide all you need, Anna told me. She will tell you what to throw away -- and you wi ll become humble as a result. You will see what a temple your bod y really is, that it is not a prison, and you will discover your essence. She told me I would find a stick to walk with. It would speak to me as though it would want to help. My feet would derive energy from the ground itself, which is why it is infinitely bet ter to walk than to ride the Camino in a vehicle. I would receive messages from the path as though it was talking to me, until I b ecame the path and all of its history. I met with others who ha d taken the pilgrimage. They advised me not to eat too much and t o drink lots of water -- at least two liters per day. There would be many good restaurants, but it was best to stay within the ene rgy of the path's intent, which was to be essentially stripped of trappings. I should not be afraid of anything while trekking -- first of all, they told me, the Spanish government protected all pilgrims and had harsh laws against interfering with a pilgrim's progress. I was told it would be better to walk alone, even thoug h I would encounter many people along the way. Everything I carri ed with me would be a distraction. I should learn to let go. And I should be prepared to die, because to do such a pilgrimage mean t I was ready to give up the old values that conflicted my life. I could honestly say that I had no problem with dying if that wa s what was meant to be. I had had enough of the state of affairs as I knew them to be. I was ready for a new understanding to prop el me forward for the rest of my life. In preparing for my walk, I decided to rehearse with my backpack. I packed all the items and one day decided to walk the hills of Calabasas in California as a precursor. That is exactly what happened. I felt precursed w ith what I experienced. par It was a trail I had often taken. As I parked my car at the entrance, out of the corner of my eye I n oticed a Latino man, scruffy, no shoes, and slightly wild-eyed, i n the trees near the trail. I ignored him, locked my car, strapp ed on my backpack, and began my hike. I fingered my Swiss Army kn ife and made a mental note that I was safe with it. I also noted that I would try to make it way up the trail to a bench where I k new I could remove my backpack and rest. Thus began my contempla tion on how goal-oriented I was. A goal was so important to me th at sometimes the reaching of it justified the means by which I ac complished it. I walked for miles thinking about reaching that be nch. Then I walked even further. The backpack was heavy and the h ike was becoming a struggle. I stopped and put some Emergency C i nto my water bottle. I drank and walked on. Finally, I stopped, e xhausted, and realized I had long since passed the bench that had been my goal! The significance of this small event was not lost on me. I was truly disappointed in my overachievement. But I had often done such things, remaining separated from the path I was o n because of my intense desire to reach the goal. Maybe that was the definition of success in this world. I was an example of the accepted term, when what I was looking for was the true meaning o f success. One has to achieve some version of success in order to know there is another version. In any case, I turned around, re traced my steps, and after some miles, recognized the bench. I de cided not to rest on it and continued down the mountain. When I r eached my car, there was the Latino man, looking in worse shape t han before. May I help you? I asked him. My feet are burning fr om no shoes, he said. I need a ride to my car. I realized I was talking to a man of Spanish descent and feeling almost as though I were living a future event on the Camino. I thought, I should b e kind to strangers. I offered him a ride to his car, which I su pposed wasn't far away. He climbed in beside me. He was filthy an d smelled bad. I don't know why I'm doing this, he said in a con fused state. Sometimes we all do things for reasons we don't und erstand, I answered, thinking of what I would be doing in a week without understanding it either. I started the car and told him I was going to do the Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage. He seemed to understand and know it. Are you Catholic? I asked. He nodde d and said, Yes. Are you doing penance? I asked. He nodded. Are you doing penance? he asked. I said I didn't think so. Then he looked at my breasts. I had made a conscious decision not to wea r a bra on the Camino because the straps hurt my shoulders with t he backpack. It had occurred to me that such an elimination of un derwear would be provocative. I wondered if I had manifested my c oncern into a reality. The man continued to stare at my breasts. Oh, God, I thought. This could be dangerous. There was no one in sight for miles. He finally took his eyes off my anatomy and sa id, Can I make love to you? It was surreal. I slammed on the bra kes and erupted. Are you out of your mind? I screamed. What the h ell do you think you're doing? Of course not, you idiot. I picked you up because you needed help, your feet were burning, you need ed water and to return to your car, and this is what you do? You are outrageous! I was furious, which seemed to activate some sens e of misplaced justice in his mind. There you go, you see? he sa id. I asked you, instead of demanding, and you won't do it. My m outh fell open. I was in trouble now. I thought of really going a fter him more irately, but something I saw flicker across his fac e stopped me. He had not touched me or advanced toward me physica lly. Then he said, I passed my car. Let me out, he demanded. The re was no car in sight anywhere. Sure, I answered. He opened the door on his side and climbed out. Listen, I said, you should wa tch that sex stuff, you know. It can get you in a lot of trouble. Over his shoulder he said, Yes, thank you. I know. I'm always d oing this. Then he walked away. I sat in my car in a state of bewilderment. Had he been real? It was as though an experiential vision had just happened to me. I turned to look at him again. He had disappeared. There was no man and no car. I vowed to never b e afraid of going braless again, and I knew I would have to give much thought to the truth that reality was where the mind was and that I had been so determined to make a goal of my bench that I had passed it....Reality simply was where the mind was. I could u nderstand more deeply why I was an actress. I could manifest what I needed in reality. I had manifested a barefoot, filthy wandere r to warn me that the Camino was feminine and, as a result, human sexuality would rise. Everyone had told me that the Camino offer ed those who walked it a love affair. It was the individual's cho ice whether to take it. Some weeks later, I would be faced with t hat choice. Copyright ® 2000 by Shirley MacLaine ., Atria, 2001, 2.5<