Generation A: A Novel

Generation A: A Novel

Douglas Coupland

Language: English

Pages: 320

ISBN: 1439157022

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Generation A
is set in the near future in a world where bees are extinct, until five unconnected people all around the world— in the United States, Canada, France, New Zealand, and Sri Lanka—are all stung. Their shared experience unites them in ways they never could have imagined.

Generation A
mirrors Coupland’s debut novel, 1991’s Generation X. It explores new ways of storytelling in a digital world. Like much of Coupland’s writing, it occupies the perplexing hinterland between optimism about the future and everyday apocalyptic paranoia. Imaginative, inventive, and fantastically entertaining, Generation A is his most ambitious work to date.

Les routes incertaines (Chroniques du Nouvel-Ontario, tome 3)

No New Land

Born Naked

Dagmar's Daughter

Faux et filatures

Le Hasard et la volonté











afternoon, my response was the same as it would have been before bees became extinct: I shouted, “Fuckity fucking fuck, ow, holy shit that hurts, motherfucker!” I slapped my arm and the bee fell to the ground. Mitch, Erik and his wife were staring at me as if I were bleeding from my eyes. “You fucking fuckheads, stop staring!” Even Kayla the battered dog appeared taken aback by my language. “Don’t pretend to be so sanctimonious, you cheesy, hypocritical fucks.” Erik looked at Mitch. “She has

“Let’s open the curtains and let in some fresh air.” Kimberly freaked out again. It took her father some minutes to make the connection between the curtains, the windows and the monster, and by then Kimberly was so upset that she ended up spending the night in her parents’ room, the blinds drawn. The next morning Kimberly was fine again—until she remembered the monster. She froze, realizing that there were windows everywhere and that the monster could appear at any one of them at any time. She

Starbucks and the shop windows and the middle-aged people looking calm and rich, and I thought, I hate the world. I hate the way everything has a surface—hardness; softness—the way everything has a smell: chestnut blossoms and roasting chickens. I hate the way our bodies move through the world, clip-clop, like beef marionettes. I hate how the world has turned into one massive hamburger-making machine, how the world is only about people now—everything else on the planet must bow to our will

their souls rebelled altogether and fled the bodies that had contained them. And once a soul leaves a body, it’s all over; there’s no going back. The thing is, the bodies that had created the souls remained alive and continued their everyday activities, such as balancing chequebooks, repairing screen doors and comparison shopping for white terry-cotton socks at the mall, while their souls met in small groups at the intersections of roads, confirming with each other that what had happened was

seventy-two hours had passed, I had realized that I had no family left—all of them were gone. It is very strange to no longer have any roots in a country that goes back for tens of thousands of years. I was not allowed to return to my bank job, because my father was no longer there—I had to become everything for myself. I spent a few years subsisting by cleaning up debris and rebuilding structures for NGOs like UNICEF and UNESCO. Unlike many young men my age, I refused to be lured to Dubai, and

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