The Pleasure of My Company
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Steve Martin's "gifts for subtlety and slyness compare to those of the finest comic novelists" (People) and his latest New York Times bestseller--a witty and tender tour de force--is now in paperback!
Shopgirl revealed the novelist in Steve Martin--witty, tender, intelligent, and passionate about his craft. And with the successful publication of The Pleasure of My Company, his reputation as one of our most gifted writers has been confirmed. Here, the reader is introduced to Daniel Pecan Cambridge, whose life is full and rich--but only within the confines of his Santa Monica apartment. Daniel's pathological obsession with street curbs and gas station attendants wearing blue hats may prevent him from venturing into the world outside of his window, but not from pursuing romance in his own peculiar way.
Meticulously constructed, laugh-out-loud funny, and brilliantly inventive, Steve Martin's chronicle of a modern-day neurotic yearning to break free has touched more than 200,000 readers. Now in paperback, thousands more can have the pleasure of discovering his most delightful novel to date.
would be the end of Clarissa’s visits … wouldn’t it? Though she would probably have to stop one day when she graduates or when her course—meaning me—is over. One of us is getting screwed: Either she’s a professional and I should be paying her, or she’s an intern and I’m a guinea pig. Then something exciting happened. Her cell phone rang. It was exciting because what crossed her face ranged wildly on the map of human emotion. And oh, did I divide that moment up into millionths: The phone rang.
floor. She was wearing a prim pink blouse that made her look so wholesome it was as if Norman Rockwell had painted a pinup. She had a bloom on her cheeks that lied about her real age. Her face had gentle angles, one rosy thing sloping into the next, and it suggested none of the hardness she must have experienced. It seemed as though she were determined to stay innocent, to hang back even though life was dragging her painfully forward. And all my conjecture bore out because she looked up at me and
happy laugh. I now had Teddy moored in front of a hanging display of games and toys, and not only did I show him everything, I presented each prospect as though it were a tiara on a velvet pillow. And he, like a potentate reviewing yet another slave girl, rejected everything. He kept looking back and mewing and, unable to point, threw open his palm with five fingers indicating five different directions. Somehow, and I’m not sure telepathy was not involved, he navigated us back to crackers. This
“C’mon in, let’s talk,” she said. We passed Teddy off between us several times as we entered the bedroom. I knew what the invitation was about, camping buddies. But she seemed to have something on her mind of a verbal nature. Clarissa accommodated my lighting requirements by closing the door just enough to create a soft half-light in the bedroom. After a while we put Teddy in the center of the bed, and though he still was wide awake, he calmed and made dove sounds. We were lying on either side of
happened next. My counting habit continued into college, where its real import, purpose, and power were revealed to me. The class assignments seemed trifling, but the irresistible counting work seemed vital not only to my well-being but to the world’s. I added textbook page numbers together, divided them by the total page numbers, and using my own formulas, redistributed them more appropriately. Page 262 of Science and Environment could become a more natural page 118, and I would razor-cut the