Open new arrival City: outlet sale A Novel online

Open new arrival City: outlet sale A Novel online

Open new arrival City: outlet sale A Novel online
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A New York Times Notable Book • One of the ten top novels of the year —Time and NPR

NAMED A BEST BOOK ON MORE THAN TWENTY END-OF-THE-YEAR LISTS, INCLUDING The New YorkerThe AtlanticThe EconomistNewsweek/The Daily Beast • The New Republic • New York Daily News • Los Angeles TimesThe Boston GlobeThe Seattle Times • Minneapolis Star Tribune • GQ • Salon • Slate • New York magazine • The Week • The Kansas City StarKirkus Reviews

A haunting novel about identity, dislocation, and history, Teju Cole’s Open City is a profound work by an important new author who has much to say about our country and our world.

Along the streets of Manhattan, a young Nigerian doctor named Julius wanders, reflecting on his relationships, his recent breakup with his girlfriend, his present, his past. He encounters people from different cultures and classes who will provide insight on his journey—which takes him to Brussels, to the Nigeria of his youth, and into the most unrecognizable facets of his own soul.

“[A] prismatic debut . . . beautiful, subtle, [and] original.”—The New Yorker

“A psychological hand grenade.”The Atlantic

“Magnificent . . . a remarkably resonant feat of prose.”—The Seattle Times

“A precise and poetic meditation on love, race, identity, friendship, memory, [and] dislocation.”—The Economist

Review

Winner of the Hemingway Foundation/PEN Award for a distinguished first book of fiction

Finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award   
 
"Reminiscent of the works of W.G. Sebald, this dreamy, incantatory debut was the most beautiful novel I read this year—the kind of book that remains on your nightstand long after you finish so that you can continue dipping in occasionally as a nighttime consolation." –Ruth Franklin, The New Republic
 
"A psychological hand grenade." –Alexis Madrigal, The Atlantic, Best Books I Read This Year
 
“A meditative and startlingly clear-eyed first novel.” –Newsweek/Daily Beast Writers’ Favorite Books 2011
 
"This year, literary discovery came, for me, in the form of Teju Cole’s debut novel, Open City, a deceptively meandering first-person narrative about a Nigerian psychiatry resident in New York. The bonhomous flâneur who strolls Manhattan from top to bottom, reveals, in the course of his walking meditations, both more about the city and about himself than we – or indeed he – could possibly anticipate. Cole writes beautifully; his protagonist is unique; and his novel, utterly thrilling." –Clare Messud in the Globe and Mail
 
“On the surface, the story of a young, foreign psychiatry resident in post-9/11 New York City who searches for the soul of the city by losing himself in extended strolls around teeming Manhattan. But it''s really a story about a lost nation struggling to regain a sense of direction after that shattering, disorienting day 10 years ago. A quiet, lyrical and profound piece of writing.” –Seattle Times, 32 of the Year’s Best Books
 
“[Open City is] lean and mean and bristles with intelligence. The multi-culti characters and streets of New York are sharply observed and feel just right…Toward the end, there’s a poignant, unexpected scene in a tailor’s shop that’s an absolute knockout.” –Jessica Hagedorn, author of Toxicology in Salon.com “Writers choose their favorite books of 2011”
 
“I couldn''t stop reading Teju Cole''s debut novel and was blown away by his ability to capture the human psyche with such beautiful yet subtle prose.” –Slate.com, Best Books of 2011
 
“An unusual accomplishment, ‘Open City’ is a precise and poetic meditation on love, race, identity, friendship, memory, dislocation and Manhattan bird life.” –The Economist, 2011 Books of the Year
 
“The most interesting new writer I encountered this year.” –Books and Culture, Favorite Books of 2011
 
"A Sebaldesque wander through New York." –The Guardian, Best Books of the Year
 
“An indelible debut novel. Does precisely what literature should do: it brings together thoughts and beliefs, and blurs borders…A compassionate and masterly work.” – The New York Times Book Review

“The cool, concise prose of Open City draws you in more quietly, then breaks your heart. Who knew that taking a long walk in Manhattan could be so profound?” –Jessica Hagedorn, author of Toxicology in New York Magazine

“[Teju Cole] has a phenomenal voice…prodigious talent, beautiful language.” – WNYC’s The Takeaway

“Beautiful, subtle, and finally, original…What moves the prose forward is the prose—the desire to write, to defeat solitude by writing. Cole has made his novel as close to a diary as a novel can get, with room for reflection, autobiography, stasis, and repetition. This is extremely difficult, and many accomplished novelists would botch it, since a sure hand is needed to make the writer’s careful stitching look like a thread merely being followed for its own sake. Mysteriously, wonderfully, Cole does not botch it.” – James Wood, The New Yorker 

 “Nothing escapes Julius, the narrator of Teju Cole’s excellent debut novel…In Cole’s intelligent, finely observed portrait, Julius drifts through cities on three continents, repeatedly drawn into conversation with solitary souls like him: people struggling with the emotional rift of having multiple homelands but no home.”-- GQ

“A complicated portrait of a narrator whose silences speak as loudly as his words—all articulated in an effortlessly elegant prose…Teju Cole has achieved, in this book, a rare balance. He captures life’s urgent banality, and he captures, too, the ways in which the greater subjects glimmer darkly in the interstices.”— The New York Review of Books

“The most thoughtful and provocative debut I’ve read in a long time. The best first novel of 2011.” – The Daily Beast

 “In another novel the city would serve as a mere setting. Cole, though, all but foists it on us in case we might be tempted to narrow our view or even look away.”-- New York Daily News
 
“Masterful.”—Kirkus (starred review)
 
“Intelligent and panoramic…engaged with the world in a rare and refreshing way.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
 
“One of the most intriguing novels you’ll likely read…the alienated but sophisticated viewpoint is oddly poignant and compelling…reads like Camus’s L’etranger.”—Library Journal
 
“Unique and pensive.”-- Booklist
 
“Open City is a meditation on history and culture, identity and solitude. The soft, exquisite rhythms of its prose, the display of sensibility, the lucid intelligence, make it a novel to savor and treasure.”
 
—Colm Tóibín, author of The Master and Brooklyn
 
“The pages of Open City unfold with the tempo of a profound, contemplative walk through layers of histories and their posthumous excavations. The juxtaposition of encounters, seen through the eyes of a knowing flâneur, surface and then dissolve like a palimpsest composed, outside of time, by a brilliant master.”
 
—Rawi Hage, author of De Niro’s Game, winner of the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award
 
“A gorgeous, crystalline, and cumulative investigation of memory, identity, and erasure. It gathers its power inexorably, page by page, and ultimately reveals itself as nothing less than a searing tour de force. Teju Cole might just be a W. G. Sebald for the twenty-first century.”
 
—Anthony Doerr, author of The Shell Collector
 
"If Baudelaire was a young African, wandering the streets of contemporary New York, this is the book he’d write. A melancholy, beautiful meditation on modern urban life, it has echoes of W.G. Sebald and Walter Benjamin and reveals Teju Cole as one of a talented new generation of global writers, at home in the world.”-- Hari Kunzru
 
 
“A reader feels the density of [Julius’s] mind but also the fragility of his identity.” – Los Angeles Times
 
“Magnificent…the trip is as meaningful as the destination. Open City is a remarkably resonant feat of prose.” – The Seattle Times
 
“A quiet novel that somehow manages to scream.” – The Boston Globe
 
“Quietly powerful.” – O: The Oprah Magazine
 
 “My favourite novel of the year, dreamlike and meandering, like the best of W G Sebald.” –Alain de Botton, The New Statesman
 
“[A] remarkable and highly accomplished first novel. . . . exquisitely composed. . . .I have read it twice, and I still cannot pin it down to a theme or a type. At once symbolical and precise, part fiction, part reportage or memoir, it is beyond category.”  –Jan Morris, The Independent

About the Author

Teju Cole was born in the United States in 1975 and raised in Nigeria. He is the author of  Every Day Is for the Thief and  Open City,which won the PEN/Hemingway Award, the Internationaler Literaturpreis, the Rosenthal Family Foundation Award for Fiction from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and the New York City Book Award, and was nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award. His photography has been exhibited in India and the United States. He is Distinguished Writer in Residence at Bard College

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

9781400068098|excerpt

Cole: OPEN CITY

PART 1

Death is a perfection of the eye

ONE

And so when I began to go on evening walks last fall, I found Morningside Heights an easy place from which to set out into the city. The path that drops down from the Cathedral of St. John the Divine and crosses Morningside Park is only fifteen minutes from Central Park. In the other direction, going west, it is some ten minutes to Sakura Park, and walking northward from there brings you toward Harlem, along the Hudson, though traffic makes the river on the other side of the trees inaudible. These walks, a counterpoint to my busy days at the hospital, steadily lengthened, taking me farther and farther afield each time, so that I often found myself at quite a distance from home late at night, and was compelled to return home by subway. In this way, at the beginning of the final year of my psychiatry fellowship, New York City worked itself into my life at walking pace.

Not long before this aimless wandering began, I had fallen into the habit of watching bird migrations from my apartment, and I wonder now if the two are connected. On the days when I was home early enough from the hospital, I used to look out the window like someone taking auspices, hoping to see the miracle of natural immigration. Each time I caught sight of geese swooping in formation across the sky, I wondered how our life below might look from their perspective, and imagined that, were they ever to indulge in such speculation, the high-rises might seem to them like firs massed in a grove. Often, as I searched the sky, all I saw was rain, or the faint contrail of an airplane bisecting the window, and I doubted in some part of myself whether these birds, with their dark wings and throats, their pale bodies and tireless little hearts, really did exist. So amazed was I by them that I couldn’t trust my memory when they weren’t there.

Pigeons flew by from time to time, as did sparrows, wrens, orioles, tanagers, and swifts, though it was almost impossible to identify the birds from the tiny, solitary, and mostly colorless specks I saw fizzing across the sky. While I waited for the rare squadrons of geese, I would sometimes listen to the radio. I generally avoided American stations, which had too many commercials for my taste—Beethoven followed by ski jackets, Wagner after artisanal cheese—instead tuning to Internet stations from Canada, Germany, or the Netherlands. And though I often couldn’t understand the announcers, my comprehension of their languages being poor, the programming always met my evening mood with great exactness. Much of the music was familiar, as I had by this point been an avid listener to classical radio for more than fourteen years, but some of it was new. There were also rare moments of astonishment, like the first time I heard, on a station broadcasting from Hamburg, a bewitching piece for orchestra and alto solo by Shchedrin (or perhaps it was Ysaÿe) which, to this day, I have been unable to identify.

I liked the murmur of the announcers, the sounds of those voices speaking calmly from thousands of miles away. I turned the computer’s speakers low and looked outside, nestled in the comfort provided by those voices, and it wasn’t at all difficult to draw the comparison between myself, in my sparse apartment, and the radio host in his or her booth, during what must have been the middle of the night somewhere in Europe. Those disembodied voices remain connected in my mind, even now, with the apparition of migrating geese. Not that I actually saw the migrations more than three or four times in all: most days all I saw was the colors of the sky at dusk, its powder blues, dirty blushes, and russets, all of which gradually gave way to deep shadow. When it became dark, I would pick up a book and read by the light of an old desk lamp I had rescued from one of the dumpsters at the university; its bulb was hooded by a glass bell that cast a greenish light over my hands, the book on my lap, the worn upholstery of the sofa. Sometimes, I even spoke the words in the book out loud to myself, and doing so I noticed the odd way my voice mingled with the murmur of the French, German, or Dutch radio announcers, or with the thin texture of the violin strings of the orchestras, all of this intensified by the fact that whatever it was I was reading had likely been translated out of one of the European languages. That fall, I flitted from book to book: Barthes’s Camera Lucida, Peter Altenberg’s Telegrams of the Soul, Tahar Ben Jelloun’s The Last Friend, among others.

In that sonic fugue, I recalled St. Augustine, and his astonishment at St. Ambrose, who was reputed to have found a way to read without sounding out the words. It does seem an odd thing—it strikes me now as it did then—that we can comprehend words without voicing them. For Augustine, the weight and inner life of sentences were best experienced out loud, but much has changed in our idea of reading since then. We have for too long been taught that the sight of a man speaking to himself is a sign of eccentricity or madness; we are no longer at all habituated to our own voices, except in conversation or from within the safety of a shouting crowd. But a book suggests conversation: one person is speaking to another, and audible sound is, or should be, natural to that exchange. So I read aloud with myself as my audience, and gave voice to another’s words.

In any case, these unusual evening hours passed easily, and I often fell asleep right there on the sofa, dragging myself to bed only much later, usually at some point in the middle of the night. Then, after what always seemed mere minutes of sleep, I was jarred awake by the beeping of the alarm clock on my cellphone, which was set to a bizarre marimba-like arrangement of “O Tannenbaum.” In these first few moments of consciousness, in the sudden glare of morning light, my mind raced around itself, remembering fragments of dreams or pieces of the book I had been reading before I fell asleep. It was to break the monotony of those evenings that, two or three days each week after work, and on at least one of the weekend days, I went out walking.

At first, I encountered the streets as an incessant loudness, a shock after the day’s focus and relative tranquillity, as though someone had shattered the calm of a silent private chapel with the blare of a TV set. I wove my way through crowds of shoppers and workers, through road constructions and the horns of taxicabs. Walking through busy parts of town meant I laid eyes on more people, hundreds more, thousands even, than I was accustomed to seeing in the course of a day, but the impress of these countless faces did nothing to assuage my feelings of isolation; if anything, it intensified them. I became more tired, too, after the walks began, an exhaustion unlike any I had known since the first months of internship, three years earlier. One night, I simply went on and on, walking all the way down to Houston Street, a distance of some seven miles, and found myself in a state of disorienting fatigue, laboring to remain on my feet. That night I took the subway home, and instead of falling asleep immediately, I lay in bed, too tired to release myself from wakefulness, and I rehearsed in the dark the numerous incidents and sights I had encountered while roaming, sorting each encounter like a child playing with wooden blocks, trying to figure out which belonged where, which responded to which. Each neighborhood of the city appeared to be made of a different substance, each seemed to have a different air pressure, a different psychic weight: the bright lights and shuttered shops, the housing projects and luxury hotels, the fire escapes and city parks. My futile task of sorting went on until the forms began to morph into each other and assume abstract shapes unrelated to the real city, and only then did my hectic mind finally show some pity and still itself, only then did dreamless sleep arrive.

The walks met a need: they were a release from the tightly regulated mental environment of work, and once I discovered them as therapy, they became the normal thing, and I forgot what life had been like before I started walking. Work was a regimen of perfection and competence, and it neither allowed improvisation nor tolerated mistakes. As interesting as my research project was—I was conducting a clinical study of affective disorders in the elderly—the level of detail it demanded was of an intricacy that exceeded anything else I had done thus far. The streets served as a welcome opposite to all that. Every decision—where to turn left, how long to remain lost in thought in front of an abandoned building, whether to watch the sun set over New Jersey, or to lope in the shadows on the East Side looking across to Queens—was inconsequential, and was for that reason a reminder of freedom. I covered the city blocks as though measuring them with my stride, and the subway stations served as recurring motives in my aimless progress. The sight of large masses of people hurrying down into underground chambers was perpetually strange to me, and I felt that all of the human race were rushing, pushed by a counterinstinctive death drive, into movable catacombs. Aboveground I was with thousands of others in their solitude, but in the subway, standing close to strangers, jostling them and being jostled by them for space and breathing room, all of us reenacting unacknowledged traumas, the solitude intensified.



One Sunday morning in November, after a trek through the relatively quiet streets on the Upper West Side, I arrived at the large, sun-brightened plaza at Columbus Circle. The area had changed recently. It had become a more commercial and tourist destination thanks to the pair of buildings erected for the Time Warner corporation on the site. The buildings, constructed at great speed, had just opened, and were filled with shops selling tailored shirts, designer suits, jewelry, appliances for the gourmet cook, handmade leather accessories, and imported decorative items. On the upper floors were some of the costliest restaurants in the city, advertising truffles, caviar, Kobe beef, and pricey “tasting menus.” Above the restaurants were apartments that included the most expensive residence in the city. Curiosity had brought me into the shops on the ground level once or twice before, but the cost of the items, and what I perceived as the generally snobbish atmosphere, had kept me from returning until that Sunday morning.

It was the day of the New York Marathon. I hadn’t known. I was taken aback to see the round plaza in front of the glass towers filled with people, a massive, expectant throng setting itself into place close to the marathon’s finish line. The crowd lined the street leading away from the plaza toward the east. Nearer the west there was a bandstand, on which two men with guitars were tuning up, calling and responding to the silvery notes on each other’s amplified in- struments. Banners, signs, posters, flags, and streamers of all kinds flapped in the wind, and mounted police on blindered horses regulated the crowd with cordons, whistles, and hand movements. The cops were in dark blue and wore sunshades. The crowd was brightly attired, and looking at all that green, red, yellow, and white synthetic material in the sun hurt the eyes. To escape the din, which seemed to be mounting, I decided to go into the shopping center. In addition to the Armani and Hugo Boss shops, there was a bookshop on the second floor. In there, I thought, I might catch some quiet and drink a cup of coffee before heading back home. But the entrance was full of the crowd overflow from the street, and cordons made it impossible to get into the towers.

I changed my mind, and decided instead to visit an old teacher of mine who lived in the vicinity, in an apartment less than ten minutes’ walk away on Central Park South. Professor Saito was, at eighty-nine, the oldest person I knew. He had taken me under his wing when I was a junior at Maxwell. By that time he was already emeritus, though he continued to come to campus every day. He must have seen something in me that made him think I was someone on whom his rarefied subject (early English literature) would not be wasted. I was a disappointment in this regard, but he was kindhearted and, even after I failed to get a decent grade in his English Literature before Shakespeare seminar, invited me to meet with him several times in his office. He had, in those days, recently installed an intrusively loud coffee machine, so we drank coffee, and talked: about interpretations of Beowulf, and then later on about the classics, the endless labor of scholarship, the various consolations of academia, and of his studies just before the Second World War. This last subject was so total in its distance from my experience that it was perhaps of most interest to me. The war had broken out just as he was finishing his D.Phil, and he was forced to leave England and return to his family in the Pacific Northwest. With them, shortly afterward, he was taken to internment in the Minidoka Camp in Idaho.

In these conversations, as I now recall them, he did almost all the talking. I learned the art of listening from him, and the ability to trace out a story from what was omitted. Rarely did Professor Saito tell me anything about his family, but he did tell me about his life as a scholar, and about how he had responded to important issues of his day. He’d done an annotated translation of Piers Plowman in the 1970s, which had turned out to be his most notable academic success. When he mentioned it, he did so with a curious mixture of pride and disappointment. He alluded to another big project (he didn’t say on what) that had never been completed. He spoke, too, about departmental politics. I remember one afternoon that was taken up with his recollection of a onetime colleague whose name meant nothing to me when he said it and which I don’t remember now. This woman had become famous for her activism during the civil rights era and had, for a moment, been such a campus celebrity that her literature classes overflowed. He described her as an intelligent, sensitive individual but someone with whom he could never agree. He admired and disliked her. It’s a puzzle, I remember him saying, she was a good scholar, and she was on the right side of the struggles of the time, but I simply couldn’t stand her in person. She was abrasive and egotistical, heaven rest her soul. You can’t say a word against her around here, though. She’s still considered a saint.

After we became friends, I made it a point to see Professor Saito two or three times each semester, and those meetings became cherished highlights of my last two years at Maxwell. I came to view him as a grandfatherly figure entirely unlike either of my own grandfathers (only one of whom I’d known). I felt I had more in common with him than with the people who happened to be related to me. After graduation, when I left, first for my research stint at Cold Spring Harbor, and then to medical school in Madison, we lost touch with each other. We exchanged one or two letters, but it was hard to have our conversations in that medium, since news and updates were not the real substance of our interaction. But after I returned to the city for internship, I saw him several times. The first, entirely by accident—though it happened on a day when I had been thinking about him—was just outside a grocery store not far from Central Park South, where he had gone out walking with the aid of an assistant. Later on, I showed up unannounced at his apartment, as he had invited me to do, and found that he still maintained the same open-door policy he had back when he had his office at the college. The coffee machine from that office now sat disused in a corner of the room. Professor Saito told me he had prostate cancer. It wasn’t entirely debilitating, but he had stopped going to campus, and had begun to hold court at home. His social interactions had been curtailed to a degree that must have pained him; the number of guests he welcomed had declined steadily, until most of his visitors were either nurses or home health aides.

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Top reviews from the United States

Ginny
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
The book has many other excellent qualities, but it is this intimate understanding of ...
Reviewed in the United States on August 11, 2017
One of the most remarkable books I''ve read in some time! At first, I was drawn in by the beauty of the style-- the gorgeous sentences alone are worth the read--but once you''ve made it some pages in to Open City, you begin to realize that you are not reading ABOUT a man... See more
One of the most remarkable books I''ve read in some time! At first, I was drawn in by the beauty of the style-- the gorgeous sentences alone are worth the read--but once you''ve made it some pages in to Open City, you begin to realize that you are not reading ABOUT a man walking through a city and a moment in culture and history; you ARE that man. Cole has the astonishing gift of understanding how to write movement through time and space so that it is not merely described but directly experienced. The book has many other excellent qualities, but it is this intimate understanding of how to manage cognitive cues in language that makes Cole''s work and vision so extraordinary.
8 people found this helpful
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M. Van Cleve
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Wonderful
Reviewed in the United States on December 25, 2016
The narrator of this wonderful book is a flaneur, though without the light-hearted associations that may go with that word - he has much in common with Austerlitz, the narrator of W.G. Sebald''s book of that name. He is also an unreliable narrator: We gradually become aware... See more
The narrator of this wonderful book is a flaneur, though without the light-hearted associations that may go with that word - he has much in common with Austerlitz, the narrator of W.G. Sebald''s book of that name. He is also an unreliable narrator: We gradually become aware that we are becoming acquainted, through a fascinating veil of art historical, musical and sociological allusions, with a profoundly damaged human being. The clues are there from the beginning, but he''s so thoughtful and reflective, which we think of as admirable traits, that one resists for quite some time the conclusion that the narrator has some kind of profound personality disorder that we are viewing from the inside. (Also, we''re at once distracted from and pointed toward this understanding by the fact that he is himself a psychiatrist - the book hides in plain sight.) I''d be interested to hear, from someone with professional training, what the narrator''s diagnosis might be. In any case it''s a wonderful book, full of fascination, that creates its portrait from a series of small, imperceptible gestures that, we eventually realize, were actually hammer blows.
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Case Quarter
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
the counter-parts
Reviewed in the United States on March 28, 2017
at the end of teja cole’s Open City, what becomes clear is that there is no ending. after following the reflections of julius, a bi-racial, german-nigerian, psychiatrist by day, as he wanders around manhattan by night, with walks an overseas trip in search of his european... See more
at the end of teja cole’s Open City, what becomes clear is that there is no ending. after following the reflections of julius, a bi-racial, german-nigerian, psychiatrist by day, as he wanders around manhattan by night, with walks an overseas trip in search of his european grandmother, in brussels, belgium, many of his reflections on death—the death of a former english literature professor, the death of a grandfather, and the last weeks in the life of the composer, gustave mahler—some sense of an ending, certainly, is expected.

and, yet, it is at the end of this first-person confession, this open-ended narrative, to which the moral of the story is ‘life goes on’, that the form becomes evident. for not until the end can one know that there is no intended listener for julius, that the story stands as a personal undated journal by a man who spends quite a bit of time by himself, when he isn’t working, reading philosophy, essays, histories and european literature, attending non-mainstream movies, symphonic concerts, and art galleries and photography exhibitions by himself. an aesthete, a bit of a cosmopolitan.

a long-distance relationship falls apart. by chance, on a manhattan street, he is recognized by the sister of a friend he knew in nigeria. she is in a new york biracial relationship. julius doesn’t appear to be looking for a relationship or bothered by sexual desire. he is comfortable as a solitude. he has friends in manhattan, but not close friends, and no romantic interests.

during his walks, his color and african features attract the attention of black immigrants from africa and island countries, seeking camaraderie with him, from which julius maintains distance, while lending an ear to the stories of the immigrants who escaped violence, poverty, and oppression, and their struggle to succeed in the united states.

in brussels, which became an ‘open city’ during world war 2, he meets university educated muslim immigrants who, unlike their counterparts in the united states, have no gratitude for their host country, express their displeasure for western culture, their experiences as immigrants, and tolerance for forms of islamic rule which would raise eyebrows if openly discussed in many western countries, even in this novel’s pre-911 setting.

subtle queasiness pervades cole’s text, giving rise to the disturbing suspicion that julius is using his skills as a psychiatrist to cope for the lack of a fuller emotional and social life and avoidance of his own bi-racial history; that his predilection for the arts, juxtaposed against the social violence he encounters within the world through experience, media, and conversation, functions for him in a manner similar to how personal violence functioned for justin bateman in bret easton ellis’ American Psycho. credit cole’s control of tension for how Open City becomes counter-story to ellis’ novel, both novels exploring existential freedom within the city, questioning who are the free, and by what act of daring their freedom is won or given and maintained.

the important difference between the two novels is the inclusion of black immigrants seeking sanctuary in open cities. a new addition to existential literature of violence.
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Harmonica Lou
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
One of a kind
Reviewed in the United States on June 25, 2014
I have been reading fiction of many kinds for many years, and Open City seemed to allow me to pass through a door I didn''t know was there. I notice that many reviewers adore the book. For good reason, I would say. If you appreciate introspection, quiet meditations on... See more
I have been reading fiction of many kinds for many years, and Open City seemed to allow me to pass through a door I didn''t know was there. I notice that many reviewers adore the book. For good reason, I would say. If you appreciate introspection, quiet meditations on history, architecture, art, and psychology, they are all here. Cole also has several very touching pieces of relationships that allow a different sort of depth to emerge in his writing. Yes, and then there''s the writing itself. Beautiful, distinctive prose. I grew up in NYC and his descriptions of his walks through various parts of the city were haunting and vivid.

We see the world through the eyes of a man of mixed race whose heritage seems to remain a problem he is unable to solve. We
read the description of a brutal attack he is subjected to by two young men. His reaction seems strangely muted, as are many of the feelings in the book. At one point he says "..sometimes it is hard to shake the feeling that ...there really is an epidemic of sorrow sweeping our world, the full brunt of which is being borne, for now, by only a luckless few." Perhaps the author and his main character are among them. He is also confronted with the accusation of a long ago rape but an African woman he had forgotten. Here again, he shows little reaction. Perhaps his tendency is to intellectualize, or aesthetisize. We don''t learn enough.

Some critics here and elsewhere take Cole to task for lacking a plot. True, but I never missed it. The book is interesting and soulful enough to do without it. The main character, Julius, is a resident in psychiatry. There are a few comments about his patients, about psychology generally. All of them are interesting but strangely undeveloped for man in this profession. But he has one great passage about a new head of the psychiatry department that all of us in the profession of psychotherapy should take to heart. He says: "And it was especially satisfying to me, with my stubbornly held and somewhat naive vision, as I approaches the end of my training, of what psychiatry really ought to be about: provisional, hesitant, and as kind as possible." (Amen!)

There is much more, including a glowing account of attending a Mahler concert that is likely to stir a desire in most readers to listen to the music he names, whether they have heard it before or not. That''s deep and powerful writing.

The book is like a tapas meal one wants more of, but also some tastes that are only hinted at. There is a wish for more of these
dishes.
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Roger DeBlanck
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Savor Every Page
Reviewed in the United States on September 30, 2013
I savored every page of Teju Cole''s debut novel, Open City. In fact, I began rationing the pages, about a chapter or two a day, so that this unforgettable book wouldn''t end too quickly. The main character is Julius, a Nigerian doctor, who is completing his residency in... See more
I savored every page of Teju Cole''s debut novel, Open City. In fact, I began rationing the pages, about a chapter or two a day, so that this unforgettable book wouldn''t end too quickly. The main character is Julius, a Nigerian doctor, who is completing his residency in psychiatry at a hospital in New York. By day he treats his patients, and by night he traverses the city''s streets. The meandering plot takes Julius on a journey of self-discovery, which also includes a trip to Brussels and a never-ending foray into the remembrances of his past. His every encounter and observation simmers with foresight. Open City is literature of the highest rank. It seethes with intellection, or, more precisely, it rages with ideas. The narrative is a meditation on family and relationships, history and humanity, race and culture, art and science. The story haunts with its spellbinding insights and quiet secrets. A mood that blends disturbance and compassion emerges on every page. The slow, methodical pacing does not deter from the intense intimacy unfolding with each new revelation Julius has about the state of the world, the role of society, and the identity of self. The graceful prose leaves you hypnotized with its fervid descriptions and sage reflections. I felt nothing short of mesmerized with this book''s incredible sensitivity and its impressive scope of knowledge. Calling this novel a masterpiece does not overstate its impact. I absolutely loved this book and am thrilled to add it to my list of favorites.
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Abeer Y. Hoque
4.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
dense and deep
Reviewed in the United States on August 9, 2011
Teju Cole''s debut novel, Open City, is a loose yet dense narrative which characterises a cruel, sensitive globalisation through the peregrinations of a young Nigerian-German doctor in New York. It''s true that New York City could embody everything all on its own... See more
Teju Cole''s debut novel, Open City, is a loose yet dense narrative which characterises a cruel, sensitive globalisation through the peregrinations of a young Nigerian-German doctor in New York.

It''s true that New York City could embody everything all on its own - ritual, roots, ruin, plus their opposites, but Mr. Cole''s thoughtful and observant writing is what sets aside his portrayal. An aimless walk downtown sets the scene for a spectacular account of a beached albino whale and a link with Dutch history (further explored in a trip to Brussels). An art gallery brings together early American painting, a treatise on deafness, and simple human contact. There were scores of similar conjunctions. Classical music, was a running theme, as were the ideas behind mental health and the failures of family and relationships. I thought this was such a smart and generous perspective: "what psychiatry really ought to be about: provisional, hesitant, and as kind as possible..."

There were many beautiful lines - these are only a few:

"all lovers live on partial knowledge..."

"the sudden metallic green of a subway train hurtling by, exposed to the elements where it crossed the work site, a livid vein drawn across the neck of 9/11..."

"My hands held metal, my eyes starlight..."

"the jagged little branches would unfold their hidden wings and the entire crown of the tree would become a living cloud..."

"there really is an epidemic of sorrow sweeping our world..."

In the end, what I liked about "Open City" - its history and connectivity - the fact that these disparate political and social elements weren''t forced together, but lay sometimes naturally, sometimes uncomfortably side by side, was also what made the narration feel crowded. And in some cases, the writing felt clinical or removed. That said, it was a good read, dense and deep, and I look forward to Mr. Cole''s coming books.
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Peter Stephens
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
An Engrossing Meditation and Celebration of Language
Reviewed in the United States on August 5, 2011
A young doctor takes breaks from his busy psychiatric residency and, later, private practice by walking the streets of New York and traveling briefly to Brussels. Julius''s rich, diary-like account of his interactions with the cities'' people and structures, salted with his... See more
A young doctor takes breaks from his busy psychiatric residency and, later, private practice by walking the streets of New York and traveling briefly to Brussels. Julius''s rich, diary-like account of his interactions with the cities'' people and structures, salted with his incomplete self-knowledge and unresolved past, amounts to Open City, an engrossing meditation and celebration of language.

I''d rather share my experience with Open City than review it. After reading the novel, I began (a bit like Julius, who settles into a flâneur''s perspective during his walks) running into lengthy, insightful, and deservedly positive reviews of it in The New Yorker, The New York Times, and The New Statesman. Not much I can add to what they say.

Observation and language worked like plot to carry me along, mind and spirit, though Julius''s wanderings. Julius often feels reflective and associative, much like anyone reading, and subject to crosscurrents of art, music, literature, his own fine-tuned senses and city life. Consider the synchronicity in this paragraph after Julius describes a performance of Gustav Mahler''s Ninth Symphony at Carnegie Hall:

"In the glow of the final movement, but well before the music ended, an elderly woman in the front row stood, and began to walk up the aisle. She walked slowly, and all eyes were on her, though all ears remained on the music. It was a though she had been summoned, and was leaving into death, drawn by a force invisible to us. The old woman was frail, with a think crown of white hair that, backlit by the stage, became a halo, and she moved so slowly that she was like a mote suspended inside the slow-moving music. One of her arms was slightly raised, as though she were being led forward by a helper - as though I was down there with my [grandmother], and the sweep of the music was pushing us gently forward as I escorted her out into the darkness. As she drifted to the entrance and out of sight, in her gracefulness she resembled nothing so much as a boat departing on a country lake early in the morning, which to those still standing on the shore, appears not to sail but to dissolve into the substance of the fog."

Blends and juxtapositions like these, and the love of seeing a good mind observe like a good lens and absorb like good film, caused Miguel Syjuco in his NY Times review to call the novel "a symphonic experience." Experiencing this kind of joy and honesty book-wide has been the literary (and maybe the musical!) high point of my year. What critic George Steiner said about Lawrence Durrell fifty years ago applies at least as well to Teju Cole: "He stands in the tradition of the fullness of prose. He is attempting to make language once again commensurate with the manifold truths of the experienced world."
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Mary Reinert
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Stream of consciousness without the angst
Reviewed in the United States on March 1, 2012
Usually if the term "stream of consciousness" is in a review, I run the opposite direction. Just because so many reviewers told of the huge part New York City played in this novel, I decided to give it a chance. I was not disappointed. With almost no plot, the novel is... See more
Usually if the term "stream of consciousness" is in a review, I run the opposite direction. Just because so many reviewers told of the huge part New York City played in this novel, I decided to give it a chance. I was not disappointed. With almost no plot, the novel is played out in the mind of Julius as he roams New York and later Brussels. There are two reasons I found this novel so fascinating.

First, the author does an excellent job of laying the events on top of the history of the place. He refers to the World Trade Center ruins as a "palimpsest." I had to look up the word, (refers to parchment used again after earlier writings have been erased) but what an excellent way to describe our current world built upon all the ruins of the past. "There had been communities here before Columbus ever set sail, before Verranzano anchored his ships in the narrows, or the black Portuguese slave trader Esteban Gomez sailed up the Hudson....and I, one of the still legible crowd, entered the subway. I wanted to find the line that connected me to my own part in these stories." I loved that connection the author draws between not only Julius but other characters with the historical or global. Along this same line, the reference to the demise of Tower Records. "I was touched not only at the passage of these fixtures in my mental landscape but also at the swiftness and dispassion with which the market swallowed even the most resilient enterprises."

Secondly, this is really a book about connections. Some reviewers have referred to Julius as detached and making no connections; I see it just the opposite, he makes the connections, but without all the mental hand-wringing and angst found in so many modern novels. The author aptly demonstrates that extremely superficial connections are often highly overrated and that other deep connections have almost no basis. Because Julius is be-racial, he is often immediately referred to as "brother". The cab driver assumes he is a "brother", Saidu immediately asks if he is African, Farouq calls him "brother. The incident with the muggers is another example of a connection that really isn''t even there. "There had earlier been, it occurred to men, on the most tenuous of connections between us, looks on a street corner by strangers, a gesture of mutual respect based on our being young, black, male; based, in other words, on our being ''brothers...a way of saying, I know something of what life is like for you out here." Calling someone a brother implies an understanding, a connection, but it takes more than outward appearance to make one a true brother.

On the other hand some connections are so strong yet based on so little. Julius'' rememberence and tenderness of his Oma is based on treasuring her hand quietly kneading his shoulder when he was young. His interactions with Professor Saito were "cherished highlights." Even the story told by a minor character demonstrates how one-sided connections can be; what is important to one, is hardly noticeable by the other. The bootblack says of his past employer, "The loss of Mr. Berard was like the loss of my own brother. He wouldn''t put it that way, of course."

Just like a palimpsest, there are many layers to this novel. It is one that is worth re-reading. In addition to what I have pointed out, there is food for thought about racism, religion, and cultural clashes. All this, but without all the "oh, poor me". Some may dislike the fact that Julius is so unemotional, but I believe he is just someone who realizes he is not the center of the universe. Interesting, intelligent, and thought-provoking.
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Avid Reader
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Subtle, surprising, wonderfully written
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on September 23, 2019
It''s hard to fully review this book without creating spoilers, so I will keep this short and try to avoid spoilers... The first thing that strikes you is the evocative nature of the writing - I was hooked in the early paragraphs. On first impressions what we seem to be...See more
It''s hard to fully review this book without creating spoilers, so I will keep this short and try to avoid spoilers... The first thing that strikes you is the evocative nature of the writing - I was hooked in the early paragraphs. On first impressions what we seem to be faced with is a description of the well-written wanderings of an individual through New York. First impressions can be very deceptive. There''s no real plot, at least there kind of is but it''s a weak one (find grandmother) - if you want the heavily plotted novel with lots of explosions, "characters" and thrills then read Eric van Lustbader, Dan Brown, or Robert Ludlum - not this. This book is far more subtle than that. There are so many aspects to this novel. At times you feel like the character is moving through a living body, going down into the intestines of the city and popping up in various different locations, which are magically described. There are concepts that arise throughout such as simulacrum, edifice, microcosms...I could go on... Things move languidly to two big reveals, the first of which most people will get and is somewhat shocking. I''m not sure everyone will get the second big reveal. The ending is absolutely mind-blowing. Me reading: uhhmmm, why is he telling me this, WHAT THE?, OMG I just realized! At the abrupt end you realize the significance of so many details and events that you questioned the importance of at the time. I wanted to go back through the novel immediately with a notebook and reestablish the chronology - but I didn''t - in some ways that would spoils things. There are various references to Italo Calvino throughout, and I can now see that probably isn''t an accident. Kundera said in "The Art of the Novel" that the greatest novels say something that can''t be said in any other way, and I think this novel probably ticks that box. It''s hard to see how else this would be pulled off. Amazing. I don''t often read novels, but loved Teju Cole''s other book of essays: Known and Strange Things, so this was on my list for a while - absolutely glad I read it. For me, one of the best novels I''ve ever read, and I will be mulling it over for weeks to come.
It''s hard to fully review this book without creating spoilers, so I will keep this short and try to avoid spoilers...

The first thing that strikes you is the evocative nature of the writing - I was hooked in the early paragraphs. On first impressions what we seem to be faced with is a description of the well-written wanderings of an individual through New York. First impressions can be very deceptive. There''s no real plot, at least there kind of is but it''s a weak one (find grandmother) - if you want the heavily plotted novel with lots of explosions, "characters" and thrills then read Eric van Lustbader, Dan Brown, or Robert Ludlum - not this. This book is far more subtle than that.

There are so many aspects to this novel. At times you feel like the character is moving through a living body, going down into the intestines of the city and popping up in various different locations, which are magically described. There are concepts that arise throughout such as simulacrum, edifice, microcosms...I could go on...

Things move languidly to two big reveals, the first of which most people will get and is somewhat shocking. I''m not sure everyone will get the second big reveal. The ending is absolutely mind-blowing. Me reading: uhhmmm, why is he telling me this, WHAT THE?, OMG I just realized! At the abrupt end you realize the significance of so many details and events that you questioned the importance of at the time. I wanted to go back through the novel immediately with a notebook and reestablish the chronology - but I didn''t - in some ways that would spoils things.

There are various references to Italo Calvino throughout, and I can now see that probably isn''t an accident.

Kundera said in "The Art of the Novel" that the greatest novels say something that can''t be said in any other way, and I think this novel probably ticks that box. It''s hard to see how else this would be pulled off. Amazing.

I don''t often read novels, but loved Teju Cole''s other book of essays: Known and Strange Things, so this was on my list for a while - absolutely glad I read it. For me, one of the best novels I''ve ever read, and I will be mulling it over for weeks to come.
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'Delia
3.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Sometimes
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on November 8, 2013
I looked forward to this book as I had read several favourable reviews but I must confess that the book left me a bit lukewarm. I found some sections a bit contrived - as if the author was seeking to impress with his intelligence. a good read which could have been better if...See more
I looked forward to this book as I had read several favourable reviews but I must confess that the book left me a bit lukewarm. I found some sections a bit contrived - as if the author was seeking to impress with his intelligence. a good read which could have been better if the author just ''spoke'' instead of trying to ''compose'' all the time.
I looked forward to this book as I had read several favourable reviews but I must confess that the book left me a bit lukewarm. I found some sections a bit contrived - as if the author was seeking to impress with his intelligence. a good read which could have been better if the author just ''spoke'' instead of trying to ''compose'' all the time.
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B. Adams
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Wonderful, meandering look at modern life in the big city
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on February 1, 2017
A thoughtful, well-written novel that creates a rounded, fascinating narrator as he observes life in New York and beyond. All sorts of big subjects are touched upon with a light touch.
A thoughtful, well-written novel that creates a rounded, fascinating narrator as he observes life in New York and beyond. All sorts of big subjects are touched upon with a light touch.
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Zindaba Chungu
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
thanks
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on April 10, 2015
thanks great book and service delivery
thanks great book and service delivery
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Kein Torga
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Una obra fascinante
Reviewed in Spain on January 21, 2018
Había leído algún ensayo de Teju Cole, razón por la que me animé con esta novela. El libro en sí carece de un argumento novelístico al uso. Julius, un nigeriano emigrado a EEUU, pasea por New York, donde reside y trabaja como psiquiatra. Y eso es el libro: los paseos de...See more
Había leído algún ensayo de Teju Cole, razón por la que me animé con esta novela. El libro en sí carece de un argumento novelístico al uso. Julius, un nigeriano emigrado a EEUU, pasea por New York, donde reside y trabaja como psiquiatra. Y eso es el libro: los paseos de Julius, sus reflexiones sobre lo que ve. En estas reflexiones mezcla el tiempo pasado de la cultura estadounidense, la europea y la africana, que confluyen en esa gran urbe que es Nueva York. Sobre todo, Open City es un libro sobre el tiempo, la memoria y la identidad. La memoria, y la supresión deliberada o no de algún recuerdo, serán fundamentales en este libro que no puedo dejar de recomendar.
Había leído algún ensayo de Teju Cole, razón por la que me animé con esta novela.
El libro en sí carece de un argumento novelístico al uso. Julius, un nigeriano emigrado a EEUU, pasea por New York, donde reside y trabaja como psiquiatra.
Y eso es el libro: los paseos de Julius, sus reflexiones sobre lo que ve. En estas reflexiones mezcla el tiempo pasado de la cultura estadounidense, la europea y la africana, que confluyen en esa gran urbe que es Nueva York.
Sobre todo, Open City es un libro sobre el tiempo, la memoria y la identidad.
La memoria, y la supresión deliberada o no de algún recuerdo, serán fundamentales en este libro que no puedo dejar de recomendar.
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