Nobody Gets Out Alive: Stories by Leigh Newman (English) Hardcover Book

Description: Nobody Gets Out Alive by Leigh Newman "A collection of stories by the former books editor at Oprah.com about women and girls living the frontier Alaskan lives we associate with men"-- FORMAT Hardcover LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description LONGLISTED FOR THE NATIONAL BOOK AWARD AND THE STORY PRIZE Named a BEST BOOK OF 2022 by Oprah Daily, Vogue, Kirkus Reviews, Library Journal, and Electric Lit From a prizewinning author comes an "electric...stunning" (Publishers Weekly, starred review) debut story collection about women navigating the wilds of male-dominated Alaskan society. Set in Newmans home state of Alaska, Nobody Gets Out Alive is an exhilarating collection about women struggling to survive not just grizzly bears and charging moose, but the raw legacy of their marriages and families. Alongside stories set in todays Last Frontier--rife with suburban sprawl, global warming, and opioid addiction--Newman delves into remote wilderness of the 1970s and 80s, bringing to life young girls and single moms in search of a wilder, freer, more adventurous America. The final story takes place in a railroad camp in 1915, where an outspoken heiress stages an elaborate theatrical production in order to seduce the wife of her husbands employer. "Rich with wit and wisdom, showing us that love, marriage, and family are always a bigger and more perilous adventures than backcountry trips" (Kirkus Reviews, starred review), these keenly observed stories prove there are some questions--about love, heartbreak, and the meaning of home--that cant be outrun, no matter how hard we try. Nobody Gets Out Alive is a dazzling foil to the adventure narratives of old. Author Biography Leigh Newman is the author of Still Points North, a memoir about growing up in Alaska which was a finalist for the National Book Critic Circles John Leonard Prize. Her stories have appeared in Harpers, The Paris Review, Tin House, McSweeneys Quarterly Concern, One Story, and Electric Literature. In 2020, she was awarded The Paris Reviews Terry Southern Prize, a Best American Short Story, a Pushcart Prize, and an American Society of Magazine Editors Fiction Prize for her work in The Paris Review. Review "The collection shares a pool of characters who come and go, but the stories otherwise stand on their own. The characters are deeply crafted and filled with complexity. While their reappearances extend their individual histories, even when contained within a single story, we see multiple dimensions: good and bad, flaws and strengths."--The Chicago Review of Books "Mesmerizing."--The Arts Muse "[Newmans] characters move between stories like pieces in a sliding puzzle...their backcountry bravado -- shooting wolves from turboprops, using float planes like taxis, plucking mastodon fossils from melting glaciers -- is animated by Newmans flair for description...We are all marching toward our demise, the title of Newmans collection reminds us. But, as these vivid tales make clear, it is our flinty, fearsome resolve for survival that gives us life."--The New York Times Book Review "Newmans electric debut collection (after the memoir Still Points North) follows hardscrabble women in Alaska whose rough exteriors conceal myriad vulnerabilities... throughout, Newmans prose is both distinctive and efficient...the authors crisp portrayal of the Alaskan landscape and rugged culture holds the collection--and its magnetic characters--together. Newman firmly establishes herself as a talent with these stunning stories." --Publishers Weekly, starred review "The Alaskan wilderness is unforgiving, and so is life for the people who live there. In this arresting collection of stories, we meet people who are fighting not only the snowy tundra, but addiction, heartbreak, complicated families and the demons so many of us carry with us, regardless of when or where we live."--Good Housekeeping, Most Anticipated "The women in this absorbing debut collection are larger than life, perhaps because this is what the harsh Alaska landscape demands ... These stories are rich with wit and wisdom, showing us that love, marriage, and family are always a bigger and more perilous adventures than backcountry trips ... Bighearted stories of domestic discord by a writer with a cleareyed view of Alaskas romance and hardscrabble realism."--Kirkus Reviews (starred) "From Newman, whose memoir Still Points North was a finalist for the National Book Critic Circles John Leonard Prize, Nobody Gets Out Alive highlights women struggling to get by in rugged Alaska."--Library Journal, pre-pub alert "I have never been to Alaska, but it came alive for me from many wonderful angles in Leigh Newmans irresistible fiction debut. I didnt want Nobody Gets Out Alive to end -- to have to leave behind its warmth and soul and glittering writing, its honesty and its laughter in the dark. The stories in these pages are, as one memorable character in this book observes of anothers tall tales, funny and self-lacerating and so horrifically precise about our love and fury for each other. You feel youre in the company of a writer who has embraced unpredictability and breathes deeply while seeing far."--Jonathan Lee, author of The Great Mistake "The stories in Nobody Gets Out Alive are big and lush, full of exuberance, sorrow, and swagger. The characters roam highways, rivers, backwoods, and bus routes searching for something immense. Their boundless needs and vast hopes have nowhere to go except Alaska--a place that Newman brings wholly to life for us, alongside delight and devastation."--Chia-Chia Lin, author of The Unpassing "Nobody Gets Out Alive is a thrilling collection. Leigh Newmans indelible characters chart the turbulent waters of hope and regret in an Alaskan landscape that crackles with danger and wonder. These are gritty and powerful stories, from a wildly gifted writer." --Laura van den Berg, author of I Hold a Wolf by the Ears "Leigh Newmans Nobody Gets Out Alive is a fierce, funny, heart-wrenching book. With wit and precision, Newman lays out the entrails of the frontier narrative--part fortune-teller, part taxidermist--and shows us the bravery that masks recklessness and desperation, and the entwined beauty and devastation of Alaskas landscape and people." --Maile Meloy, author of Both Ways Is the Only Way I Want It "Emotionally astute and slyly funny, Nobody Gets Out Alive is a commanding examination of home, family, intimacy, and self-reliance. With exacting precision and endless wit, Newman gracefully leaps into any perspective she pleases--you get the impression shes not only writing unforgettable, brilliantly complex characters, shes somehow inventing souls. This is a stunningly beautiful debut collection by a masterful prose stylist."--Kimberly King Parson, National Book Award Finalist, Black Light "Nobody Gets Out Alive is an astonishingly beautiful collection: wickedly smart, psychologically rich and expertly crafted. Every one of these stories knocked me sideways. Leigh Newman is one of the wisest, funniest and most compassionate writers working today."--Molly Antopol, author of The Unamericans "Behold a storyteller completely at home in herself. Each story in Nobody Gets Out Alive flashes a new facet of Leigh Newmans singular style. This is a stellar collection with wit and wisdom galore."--Claire Vaye Watkins, author of Battleborn, Gold, Fame, Citrus, and I love you but Ive chosen darkness "Nobody Gets Out Alive is a stunning debut collection, with the most generous ratio of wickedly funny details to devastating plot lines. Its a joy to travel through these characters overlapping Alaskas, where violent longings go thrashing under the frozen stillness of the everyday, and the hard, hot work of navigating the wilderness of family can give way at any moment to a dazzle of ice and blue and light."--Karen Russell, author of Swamplandia! Review Quote "The women in this absorbing debut collection are larger than life, perhaps because this is what the harsh Alaska landscape demands ... These stories are rich with wit and wisdom, showing us that love, marriage, and family are always a bigger and more perilous adventures than backcountry trips ... Bighearted stories of domestic discord by a writer with a cleareyed view of Alaskas romance and hardscrabble realism." -- Kirkus Reviews (starred) "From Newman, whose memoir Still Points North was a finalist for the National Book Critic Circles John Leonard Prize, Nobody Gets Out Alive highlights women struggling to get by in rugged Alaska." -- Library Journal , pre-pub alert "I have never been to Alaska, but it came alive for me from many wonderful angles in Leigh Newmans irresistible fiction debut. I didnt want Nobody Gets Out Alive to end -- to have to leave behind its warmth and soul and glittering writing, its honesty and its laughter in the dark. The stories in these pages are, as one memorable character in this book observes of anothers tall tales, funny and self-lacerating and so horrifically precise about our love and fury for each other. You feel youre in the company of a writer who has embraced unpredictability and breathes deeply while seeing far." --Jonathan Lee, author of The Great Mistake "The stories in Nobody Gets Out Alive are big and lush, full of exuberance, sorrow, and swagger. The characters roam highways, rivers, backwoods, and bus routes searching for something immense. Their boundless needs and vast hopes have nowhere to go except Alaska--a place that Newman brings wholly to life for us, alongside delight and devastation." --Chia-Chia Lin, author of The Unpassing " Nobody Gets Out Alive is a thrilling collection. Leigh Newmans indelible characters chart the turbulent waters of hope and regret in an Alaskan landscape that crackles with danger and wonder. These are gritty and powerful stories, from a wildly gifted writer." --Laura van den Berg, author of I Hold a Wolf by the Ears "Leigh Newmans Nobody Gets Out Alive is a fierce, funny, heart-wrenching book. With wit and precision, Newman lays out the entrails of the frontier narrative--part fortune-teller, part taxidermist--and shows us the bravery that masks recklessness and desperation, and the entwined beauty and devastation of Alaskas landscape and people." --Maile Meloy, author of Both Ways Is the Only Way I Want It "Emotionally astute and slyly funny, Nobody Gets Out Alive is a commanding examination of home, family, intimacy, and self-reliance. With exacting precision and endless wit, Newman gracefully leaps into any perspective she pleases--you get the impression shes not only writing unforgettable, brilliantly complex characters, shes somehow inventing souls. This is a stunningly beautiful debut collection by a masterful prose stylist." -- Kimberly King Parson, National Book Award Finalist, Black Light " Nobody Gets Out Alive is an astonishingly beautiful collection: wickedly smart, psychologically rich and expertly crafted. Every one of these stories knocked me sideways. Leigh Newman is one of the wisest, funniest and most compassionate writers working today." --Molly Antopol, author of The Unamericans "Behold a storyteller completely at home in herself. Each story in Nobody Gets Out Alive flashes a new facet of Leigh Newmans singular style. This is a stellar collection with wit and wisdom galore." --Claire Vaye Watkins, author of Battleborn, Gold, Fame, Citrus, and I love you but Ive chosen darkness " Nobody Gets Out Alive is a stunning debut collection, with the most generous ratio of wickedly funny details to devastating plot lines. Its a joy to travel through these characters overlapping Alaskas, where violent longings go thrashing under the frozen stillness of the everyday, and the hard, hot work of navigating the wilderness of family can give way at any moment to a dazzle of ice and blue and light." -- Karen Russell, author of Swamplandia! Excerpt from Book 1. Howl Palace HOWL PALACE THIS SEPTEMBER, I FINALLY PUT Howl Palace up for sale. Years of poor financial planning had led to this decision, and I tried to take some comfort in my agents belief in a buyer who might show up with an all-cash offer. My agent, Silver, was a highly organized, sensible woman who grew up in Alaska--I checked--but when she advertised the listing, she failed to mention her description on the internet. "Attractively priced teardown with plane dock and amazing lake views," she wrote under the photo. "Investment potential." I am still puzzled as to why the word "teardown" upset me. Anybody who buys a house on Diamond Lake brings in a backhoe and razes the place to rubble. The mud along the shoreline wreaks havoc with foundations, and the original homes, like mine, were built in the sixties, before the pipeline, back when licensed contractors had no reason to move to Anchorage. If you wanted a house, you either built it yourself, or you hung out in the parking lot of Spenard Builders Supply handing out six-packs to every guy with a table saw in the back of his vehicle until one got broke enough or bored enough to consider your blueprints. Which is why the walls in Howl Palace meet the ceiling at such unconventional angles. Our guy liked to eyeball instead of using a level. To the families on the lake, my home is a bit of an institution. And not just because the wolf room, which Silver suggested we leave off the list of amenities, as most people wouldnt understand what we meant. About the snow-machine shed and clamshell grotto, I was less flexible. Nobody likes a yard strewn with snow machines and three-wheelers, one or two of which will always be busted and covered in blue tarp. Ours is just not that kind of neighborhood. The clamshell grotto, on the other hand, might fail to fulfill your basic home-owning needs, but it is a showstopper. My fourth husband, Lon, built it for me in the basement as a surprise for my fifty-third birthday. He had a romantic nature, when he hadnt had too much to drink. Embedded in the coral and shells are more than a few freshwater pearls that a future owner might consider tempting enough to jackhammer out of the cement. Silver brought me a box of Girl Scout cookies to discuss these matters, and so I tried my hardest to trust the rest of her advice. When she said not to bother with pulling out the chickweed or flattening the rusted remnants of the dog runs, I left both as is. But then I started thinking about what people say about baking blueberry muffins and burning vanilla candles. Buyers needed to feel the atmosphere of the place, the homeyness. Fred Meyer had some plug-in tropical air fresheners on sale. I bought a few. I shoved them into the outlets. Within minutes, the entire downstairs smelled like a burning car wreck in Hawaii. SILVER SCHEDULED THE OPEN HOUSE for the first Saturday in September. "Noon," she said. "Before families have put the kids down for a nap." The night before, I lay back in my recliner and thought how every good thing that had ever happened to me had happened in Howl Palace. And every bad thing too. Forty-three years. Five husbands. Two floatplanes. A lifetime. It felt as if I should honor my home, that strangers shouldnt come around poking through the kitchen or kicking the baseboards, seeing only the mold in the hot tub and the gnaw marks on the cabinets from the dogs Id had over the years, maybe even laughing at the name. "Howl Palace" was coined by Jamie Donovan, Danny Bob Donovans little daughter during a New Years Eve party in 1977. She said it with awe, standing in the middle of the wolf room with a half-eaten candy cane. "Mrs. Dutch," she said, "this is so beautiful, I think I need to howl a little." And howl she did, cupping her hands around her mouth and letting loose a wild, lonely cry that endeared her to me for forever. Howl Palace was still beautiful, in my mind. And could be to other people, given the right welcome. Silver had said to just relax, to let her finesse the details, but buyers needed to experience how the house would feel if they lived in it--friends coming over, kids in the backyard pitching mud chunks at mallards, a little music going on the speakers. I went to the locker freezer and pulled out fifty pounds of caribou burger, plus four dozen moose dogs. All we needed now were a few side dishes. And some buns. THE NEXT MORNING WAS BUST a hump. The menu for the cookout had expanded to include green bean casserole, macaroni salad, guacamole, and trout almondine. Trout almondine requires cream for the cream sauce, which I forgot on my eight-thirty run to Costco, leading me to substitute powdered milk mixed with a few cans of cream of mushroom soup. My fifth husband, Skip, used to call me the John Wayne of the Home Range, not in the nicest way, until he got dementia and forgot who I was or that he had to follow me around explaining how Id organized the produce drawer wrong or let too much hair fall off my head in the shower or failed to remove every single bone from his barbecued salmon because I didnt fucking ever think. Shipping him off to a facility in Washington near his daughter wasnt exactly something I struggled with. The pool table, where I planned to lay out the buffet, was coated with so much dust it looked as though a fine, silver fungus had sprouted over the felt. I dragged an old quarter sheet of plywood from the snow-machine shed and heaved it on top. If you are looking for a reason to split five cords of wood by hand each year for forty-odd years, consider my biceps at age sixty-seven. The air had the bright, whistly feel of coming cold. Even as the grass on the back lawn lay in drunken clumps, flattened by twenty-hour days of summer sunlight. Out in the garage, I found a flowery top sheet from a long-gone water bed. That went over the pool table. Soon followed the side dishes, the salads, the condiments. On went the grill, the meat at the ready on the little side table that folded up, with an indentation to rest your tongs and spatula. All that was left was the guacamole. Which was when Carls pickup pulled into the driveway. Carl wasnt my husband. Carl was the beautiful, bedeviling heartbreak of my life. His hair had thinned, but not so you saw his scalp, and age spots mottled his arms. His smell was the same as ever: WD-40, line-dried shirt, the peppermint soap he used to cut through fish slime. For one heady second, I believed he had come back to say in some soft, regretful voice: Remember when we ran into each other at Sportsmans Warehouse? It got me thinking, well, maybe we should give it another try. As Carl told me long ago, "Inside you hides a soft, secret pink balloon of dreams." He wasnt incorrect, but the balloon had withered a little over the years. And it was not a reassuring sign that Carl had a dog in the back of his vehicle. "I thought you might need a new Lab," he said. "Shes pedigree, real obedient." I had some idea what he meant: She jumped ducks before he got off a shot and went after half-dead birds in the rapids despite the rocks he threw at her backside, trying to save her from injury. Once, she had eaten a healthy portion of his dishwasher. Over my years at Howl Palace, Id had a lot of dogs, all of them black Labs with papers proving their champion field-and-trial bloodlines. I loved every one of them and loved hunting with them, but no matter how you deal with these animals at home--stick or carrot--they just cant deviate from the agenda panting through their minds, an agenda born of instinct and inbreeding, neither of which suggests that they sit there wagging their tails when a bumblebee flies through a yard. Or a bottle rocket zooms by. I have seen my share of classic family retrievers on this lake--black or yellow Labs, dumb, drooling goldens, the occasional hefty Chessie--who live only to snuggle up with the kids and ignore the smoked salmon you are about to insert into your mouth. But I have never had one in my kennel or my house. My last dog, Babs, was a hunt nut, willful, with a hole in her emotional reasoning where somebody yanked out her uterus without a fully approved vet license. I picked her up for free from an ad in the Pennysaver, and maybe that had something to do with it. She drowned after jumping out of a charter boat to retrieve the halibut that I had on the line, unaware of the tide about to suck her into the Gulf of Alaska. Still, I enjoyed her company more than Skips and Lons combined. Babs slept not just in my bed but under the covers, where we struggled over the one soft pillow. When she died, I was ready to retire from a lifetime of animal management. I was sixty-three years old and single, and I vowed to myself: no more Labs, no more husbands, no more ex-husbands either. The kennel in the bed of Carls truck only confirmed the wisdom of my decision. The whole thing lay flipped on its side, jumping and heaving from the campaign being waged against the door. Nuthatches flickered through the yellowing trees, made frantic by the sound of claws against metal. Squirrels fled for other yards. "Carl," I said. "Im about to have an open house. I cant take your dog." He looked over at the woodpile, where the remains of the chain-link runs sagged along the ground. "You could put her in the basement. In the clamshell grotto," he said. Then laughed. He had a wonderful laugh, the kind that tickled through you, slowly, inch by inch, brain cell by brain cell until you were mentally unfit to resist him. "No, Carl," I said--not even talking about the animal. "She can drink out of the fountain." "No," I said. "N. O." "Im not a dog, Details ISBN1982180307 Author Leigh Newman Short Title Nobody Gets Out Alive Language English Year 2022 ISBN-10 1982180307 ISBN-13 9781982180300 Format Hardcover Publication Date 2022-04-12 Subtitle Stories Publisher Scribner Book Company Imprint Scribner Book Company Pages 288 DEWEY 813.6 Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. 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