MobileRead Forums - View Single Post - "The Year We Finally Solved Everything" only 99 cents

rudykerkhoven · 11-28-2010, 01:07 PM

Only a few days left to pick up "The Year We Finally Solved Everything" for 99 cents. Here is an excerpt of the first page:

At first I don’t know if he’s talking about a person, the name of a band, the title of a period-piece epic, or what. He immediately continues, ‘Shan Won, it’s a country, a small island off the coast of China. I won’t think less of you if you’ve never heard of it—to be perfectly honest, I hadn’t myself.’ Spencer gives me a moment to recollect all that I might know about this country. Maybe it was part of the grade 7 socials curriculum? How would he know? He holds his pint above the table, acknowledges my ignorance, takes a quick sip, carries on. ‘That was until a few days back, when I got this in the post. It’s from an old schoolmate, Leon. He’s one of those types who can never sit still in one country, a twenty-first century vagabond. You know the one: gets a job picking indigenous berries in country x for a year, scrapes by just enough money to purchase a ticket to country y where he scavenges a new job in a hostel pub and does it all over again, country after country after country, x after y after z.’ Spencer is rummaging through the inside of his satchel, ‘Or should that be z after y after x?’ He finds what he needs and pauses, his hands hidden away from me. ‘We were best mates long before Anna and I left England but I haven’t seen him in a good few years now. And then I got this letter,’ he displays the envelope. ‘Take a look.’

I notice the small, ornate postage stamp in the corner, a stylized portrait of a strange sailboat with a disproportionally tall mast holding three long, spearhead sails. The embossed metallic colouring is striking, highlights of gold, copper, chrome and pewter—I swear these are the actual metals that I run my fingertips and nails over, the intricacies seemingly impossible to discern with the naked eye. Imprinted in a small and vaguely Gothic font at the bottom of the stamp is the country, Shan Won. I open the letter:

Dear Spencer,
It’s perfect here.
Leon

That’s it. I flip the page over. That’s it. The paper itself is worn and soft and almost velvet, as if it had been handled incessantly, day after day, perhaps for weeks, trying to get the succinct wording absolutely perfect. ‘This is it?’ I query, holding it up to the light as if there might be something written in invisible ink. Spencer nods and I ask if Leon’s letters are usually this short.

Spencer laughs before throwing back the rest of his pint in such a quick and effortless motion that it signals either we best get going or we best be ordering another. I suspect the latter. ‘Who the [expletive] writes letters? He might as well have sent me a telegraph.’

11-28-2010, 01:07 PM	#10
rudykerkhoven keeps getting older Posts: 56 Karma: 75000 Join Date: Sep 2010 Location: Vancouver, BC Device: Kindle	Only a few days left to pick up "The Year We Finally Solved Everything" for 99 cents. Here is an excerpt of the first page: At first I don’t know if he’s talking about a person, the name of a band, the title of a period-piece epic, or what. He immediately continues, ‘Shan Won, it’s a country, a small island off the coast of China. I won’t think less of you if you’ve never heard of it—to be perfectly honest, I hadn’t myself.’ Spencer gives me a moment to recollect all that I might know about this country. Maybe it was part of the grade 7 socials curriculum? How would he know? He holds his pint above the table, acknowledges my ignorance, takes a quick sip, carries on. ‘That was until a few days back, when I got this in the post. It’s from an old schoolmate, Leon. He’s one of those types who can never sit still in one country, a twenty-first century vagabond. You know the one: gets a job picking indigenous berries in country x for a year, scrapes by just enough money to purchase a ticket to country y where he scavenges a new job in a hostel pub and does it all over again, country after country after country, x after y after z.’ Spencer is rummaging through the inside of his satchel, ‘Or should that be z after y after x?’ He finds what he needs and pauses, his hands hidden away from me. ‘We were best mates long before Anna and I left England but I haven’t seen him in a good few years now. And then I got this letter,’ he displays the envelope. ‘Take a look.’ I notice the small, ornate postage stamp in the corner, a stylized portrait of a strange sailboat with a disproportionally tall mast holding three long, spearhead sails. The embossed metallic colouring is striking, highlights of gold, copper, chrome and pewter—I swear these are the actual metals that I run my fingertips and nails over, the intricacies seemingly impossible to discern with the naked eye. Imprinted in a small and vaguely Gothic font at the bottom of the stamp is the country, Shan Won. I open the letter: Dear Spencer, It’s perfect here. Leon That’s it. I flip the page over. That’s it. The paper itself is worn and soft and almost velvet, as if it had been handled incessantly, day after day, perhaps for weeks, trying to get the succinct wording absolutely perfect. ‘This is it?’ I query, holding it up to the light as if there might be something written in invisible ink. Spencer nods and I ask if Leon’s letters are usually this short. Spencer laughs before throwing back the rest of his pint in such a quick and effortless motion that it signals either we best get going or we best be ordering another. I suspect the latter. ‘Who the [expletive] writes letters? He might as well have sent me a telegraph.’