By Pat Frank
The vintage apocalyptic novel that surprised the area.
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This is often the tale of ways, one after the other, a guy chanced on himself a relatives. virtually nowhere in fiction is there a stranger, costlier, or funnier kinfolk -- and the lifestyles that the individuals of The Animal Familylive jointly, there within the desert beside the ocean, is as notable and as captivating because the relations itself.
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Oskar Matzerath ist ein type, dessen „geistige Entwicklung schon bei der Geburt abgeschlossen ist“. Mit drei Jahren beschließt er, nicht weiter zu wachsen. Der groteske Außenseiter betrachtet die Welt mit schonungslos-sarkastischem Blick „von unten“. Sein ständiger Begleiter ist eine Blechtrommel. Mit ihr ertrommelt er sich Distanz, fordert, schreckt auf.
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Additional info for Alas, Babylon
It was strange that he lived alone in that wooden mausoleum. He even had his office in there, instead of in the Professional Building like the other lawyers. He was a hermit, and a snob, and a nigger lover, and no better than a pervert. God knows what he did with those girls upstairs. Maybe all he did was make them take off their clothes and put them on again while he watched. She had heard of such things. And yet she couldn't make herself believe there was anything basically wrong with Randy. She had voted for him in the primaries and stood up for him at the meetings of the Frangipani Circle when those garden club biddies were pecking him to bits.
A voyeur. It was disgusting. The things that went on in small towns, people wouldn't believe. Florence faced the bureau mirror, wondering how much he had seen. Many years ago a man had told her she looked something like Clara Bow. Thereafter, Florence wore her hair in bangs, and didn't worry too much about her chubby figure. The man, an imaginative idealist, had gone to England in 1940, joined the Commandos, and got himself killed. She retained only a vague and inexact memory of his caresses, but she could never forget how he had compared her to Clara Bow, a movie star.
He saw no women, not even around the clubs and the BX. The most congested area on the base was the steps and lawn in front of the alert barracks opposite wing headquarters, where standby crewmen, rigid and stiff in pressure suits, talked and smoked. Trucks, tail gates down, were backed to the curb. Drivers slouched over their wheels as if they had been there a long time. He drove onto Base Operations and parked close to the flight-line fence. Last year he had seen B-47's, tankers, and fat transports stretching their wings, tip to tip, the length of the line-miles.
Alas, Babylon by Pat Frank