By Jonathan Lethem
Anna Karenina left her husband for a rushing officer. woman Chatterley left hers for the gamekeeper. Now Alice Coombs has her boyfriend for not anything … not anything at all. simply how that are meant to have come to cross and what Philip Engstrand, Alice’s spurned boyfriend, can do approximately it's the premise for this vertiginous speculative romance via the acclaimed writer of Gun, with Occasional Music.
Alice Coombs is a particle physicist, and he or she and her colleagues have created a void, a gap within the universe, that they've taken to calling Lack. yet Lack is a nullity with taste—tastes; it absorbs a pomegranate, mild bulbs, an argyle sock; it disdains a bow tie, an ice ax, and a scrambled duck egg. To Alice, this selectivity interprets as an impossible to resist character. To Philip, it makes Lack an unbeatable rival, for the way can he win Alice again from anything that has no flaws—because it has no characteristics? inventive, hilarious, and surely mind-expanding, As She Climbed around the Table is the easiest boy-meets-girl-meets-void tale ever written.
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Sample text
Life, he decided, was all about trade-offs. They’d been in the hills for two days, all of it on the move, sleeping two to three hours a night. He was part of the special operations team of the 75th Ranger Regiment, based permanently at Fort Benning, Georgia, where there was a nice NCO club with good beer on tap. By closing his eyes and concentrating, he imagined he could still taste the cold beer, but that moment passed quickly. He had to focus here, every second. They were fifteen thousand feet above sea level, in the Hindu Kush mountains, in that gray zone that was both Afghanistan and Pakistan, and neither—at least to the locals.
Hadn’t moved at all. Driscoll brought his M4 up, settled the sights on the nape of the man’s neck, and then tightened his finger on the trigger. Easy, easy … squeeze … Pop. Not much of a sound. Hard to hear at all at a range of more than fifty meters, but the bullet flew true and transited the target’s head, leaving a puff of green vapor behind, and he went off to see Allah, or whatever god he acknowledged; at twenty-odd years old, growing and eating and learning, and probably fighting, came to an abrupt and unwarned end.
Wrong gomer was his immediate thought, followed by Shit. The face was the embodiment of confusion and shock. He was shaking his head, trying to get his brain initialized, but young and tough as he was, he wasn’t fast enough for the necessities of the moment. Near the back wall of the chamber Driscoll saw movement, a shadow hunched over, sliding along the rock wall. Not moving toward them but somewhere else. Driscoll holstered his pistol, turned to Tait, then pointed at the gomer on the ground—Cuff ’em—then flipped on his NV and dropped the M4’s sights over the moving shadow.