A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius: A Memoir Based on a True Story by Dave Eggers. Read online, or download in secure EPUB format. Read "A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius A Memoir Based on a True Story" by Dave Eggers available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5. A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers - From the author of The Circle—the inspiration for the major motion picture starring Emma Watson.

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This content was uploaded by our users and we assume good faith they have the permission to share this book. If you own the copyright to this book and it is. Editorial Reviews. redelocidi.tk Review. Dave Eggers is a terrifically talented writer; don't hold eBook features: Highlight, take notes, and search in the book . Download Best Book A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, PDF FILE Download A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius Free.

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Search Search Search Browse menu. Sign in. Her oncologist, who sometimes we liked and sometimes we did not, came and visited and glanced at stainless steel charts and chatted on the side of the bed—he has been her oncologist for many years. They gave her new blood and had monitored her white blood cell count. They had wanted to keep her longer, but she had insisted on going home; she was terrified of being in there, was finished with hospitals, did not want—.

She had come out feeling defeated, stripped, and now, safely at home, she did not want to go back. She had made me and Beth promise that she would never have to go back. We had promised. A family walks by outside, two parents, a small child in snow-pants and a parka, a stroller. They do not look through our window. It is hard to tell if they know. They might know but are being polite. My mother likes to have the curtains open so she can see the yard and the street.

During the day it is often very bright outside, and though the brightness is visible from inside the family room, somehow the light does not travel effectively into the family room, in terms of bringing to the family room any noticeable illumination. I am not a proponent of the curtains being open. I have plans for them, the nosy, the inquisitive, the pitying, have developed elaborate fantasies for those who would see us as grotesque, pathetic, our situation gossip fodder.

I lift them over my head and then bring them down, break them over my knee, their spines like dowels of balsa. I push offenders into giant vats of acid and watch them struggle, scream as the acid burns, breaks them apart. My hands fly into them, breaking their skin—I pull out hearts and intestines and toss them aside. I do head-crushings, beheadings, some work with baseball bats—the variety and degree of punishment depending on the offender and the offense.

Those I barely know, like the family that just walked by, are spared the worst—nothing personal. We are both distantly worried about the bleeding nose, my mother and I, but are for the time being working under the assumption that the nose will stop bleeding. While I hold her nose she holds the half-moon receptacle as it rests on the upper portion of her chest, under her chin.

Just then I have a great idea.

I try to get her to talk funny, the way people talk when their nose is being held. Her neck has veins. Her back has freckles. She used to do a trick where it looked like she would be pulling off her thumb, when in fact she was not.

Do you know this trick? As children, we watched with both glee and terror. We would make her do the trick for our friends, who were also horrified and enthralled. But kids loved her. Everyone knew her from school—she directed the plays in grade school, would take in kids who were going through divorces, knew and loved and was not shy about hugging any of them, especially the shy ones—there was an effortless kind of understanding, an utter lack of doubt about what she was doing that put people at ease, so unlike some of the mothers, so brittle and unsure.

Like Dean Baldwin, the beefy, dirty-blond boy up the block, who would stand in the street and, unprovoked, give her the finger as she drove by.

Bad kid, she would say, and she meant it—she had an inner hardness that under no circumstances did you want to trifle with—and would have him struck from her list until the second he might say sorry Dean unfortunately did not , at which time he would have gotten a hug like anyone else.

But she wore her strength casually, had a trusting carelessness with her flesh and muscles. She would cut herself while slicing vegetables, cut the living shit out of her finger, usually her thumb, and it would bleed everywhere, on the tomatoes, the cutting board, in the sink, while we watched at her waist, awed, scared she would die. This action might not be possible to undo. Are you sure you want to continue?

Upload Sign In Join. Save For Later. Create a List. Read on the Scribd mobile app Download the free Scribd mobile app to read anytime, anywhere. Feb 12, ISBN: The house is a factory. Where were you? In the bathroom, I say. Hmph, she says. For fifteen minutes? It was longer. Was something broken? Did you fall in? Were you playing with yourself?

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I was cutting my hair. You were contemplating your navel. Did you clean up? That thing is handy, huh? I ask my mother, walking past her, toward the kitchen. I get a popsicle from the refrigerator and come back to the family room.

The fighting show thing, I say. Hmm, she says, then turns, lifts her head to spit. Is it still bleeding? I ask, sucking on my popsicle. Hold it tighter, she says. Okay, I say, and hold it tighter. Her skin is hot. Loser, we would say. Aw, screw you, he would say, and go make himself a Bloody Mary. Where are you going? I usually say. Out, she usually says. Of course you sleep at night, I say.

A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius (Kobo eBook)

What the hell are you talking about? Would you check it? I let go of her nostrils.

I watch the nose. She is still tan from the summer. Her skin is smooth, brown. Is it turned on? Is the cartridge plugged all the way in? Turn it off and on again.

Okay, he says, and goes back downstairs. They had wanted to keep her longer, but she had insisted on going home; she was terrified of being in there, was finished with hospitals, did not want— She had come out feeling defeated, stripped, and now, safely at home, she did not want to go back. Okay, we said. I push her forehead as far back as possible. The arm of the couch is soft and pliable.

She spits. She is used to the spitting, but still makes strained, soft vomiting noises. Does it hurt? I ask. Does what hurt? The spitting. No, it feels good, stupid. Some people know. Of course they know. Everyone knows. Everyone is talking. I say. No, she says. Cut it out. Start your free 30 days. Page 1 of 1. The best thing about this book is its title. The rest was well written, just not very interesting. Exhausting, exhilarating, profane, but bot really in the current evolution of "rude" language.

I could, did live it. Eggers travels in my head sitting next to Virginia Woolf. This book has flaws. A randomness that fails to support a narrative for one. But all of it is done with a self-awareness and vividness that makes this book a character piece, and a brilliant one at that. The stream of judgmental or paranoid ramblings are generally balanced by the self-doubt and guilt displayed by Eggers over his actions.

Eggers is a refreshing voice, a hipster that admits he really wants all those things he says he too cool to want. Laugh out loud funny in parts and, despite the subject matter, surprisingly uplifting. Dave Eggers' writing style is rhythmic and unconventional, almost like listening to jazz as if it were the written word. His talent is evident, and the back-and-forth musicality of the dialogue was a marvel to follow along with, but the narrative ceased to interest me after awhile. I can't believe it took me so long to get to this one.

I really liked it, even if the too-precious opening really put me off at first. I really tried to finish this since I feel it's unfair to say it was horrible without reading the whole thing, but I just couldn't.

Life is just too short. I was sure it was going to get better. It had to. It didn't. I really felt like this book was not only pointless, it was a con. There was no story and no talent for telling one. It was like be trapped at a party with someone who won't stop telling insanely boring stories about themselves, and can't even tell them well. There seems to be this idea in books, movies, music, art that you can just produce crap and it's OK, and witty, and clever, and somehow becomes good as long as you let everyone know you think it's crap too.

I don't understand that line of thinking.

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

I tried to like this book, really and truly I did. I thought it would be clever and unusual and brilliantly worded like a David Foster Wallace book can be. After all, I'd unfortunately paid good money for it. And it's not easy to be so critical about an autobiographical book in which the author's parents die and leave him raising his much younger brother - you really want to root for this book and the author behind it. But it's awful. It doesn't matter whether Eggers really believes he's clever or is merely posturing as such for a lark.

I'm sorry to be harsh, but if Mr. Eggers is anything in person like he is on the page, people must flee the room when they see him moving their way at a cocktail party. It doesn't. Do yourself a HUGE favor: I wish Mr. Eggers and his family all the best, but a decent turn of phrase once in a while does not an author make.

Don't believe anyone who would have you think that critics of this book simply don't 'get' it. In this case, there is no substance whatsoever and precious little in the smoke-and-mirrors department, either. It's that bad.

Couldn't actually finish I truly wanted to fall head over hills with the book and Eggers himself but I didn't. I won't elaborate since, well, I read it about years ago and all I can remember is feeling unimpressed. That won't stop me though from reading other books by Eggers in the future. I felt like this book served as a lesson on the use of literary devices in non-fiction. I enjoyed the recurring paranoid moments inside Egger's head, and the frequent frisbee sessions.

I did not finish it. I think it's unfair towards the author to complain that the book was neither funny, sad, original nor well written, since he clearly didn't intend for it to have any of those qualities. Usually I can understand that people have different taste than me, but this book is universally bad. This memoir tells of the author's family. His parents died in and and the author took his 8-year-old brother with him to San Francisco, where they lived near the author's sister.

The author was involved with Might magazine and spent a lot of tome doing stupid things, as well as caring for his brother, The work is seriously disfigured by totally excessive use of obscene and blasphemous language which adds nothing to the account, but makes the reading of the book repeatedly disgusting.

I was very glad to get to the last page.

Why did I read it? site's recent list of " books one should read in a lifetime" includes the book and my reading this book brings to 56 the number of books on that list I have read. Good book but there was something wrong with it. At the beginning he says to stop reading at a certain page and he was right. Very good first attempt at a book but needs to be condensed a bit. I did finish it but it was a stretch.

My least favourite so far of Eggers' books but I still enjoyed it, particularly its capturing of San Francisco youthful naivety, undercut by grief and the fallout of parental deaths from cancer.

The tone was at times a bit cloying but deliberately so, so overall effective. Man, I found this tiresome. I love what Dave Eggers is doing for literature right now, let me state that at the beginning. But this book I felt like I was listening to some half-drunk, privileged and over-educated guy from college prattle on about his life and his dreams.

Y'know, I didn't even enjoy that when I was in college. This was an ok book; it had it's good parts and it had it's bad parts, it probably could have been a tad shorter and a bit more pointed, but the writing style was interesting if a little sex obsessed.

Probably the worst book I've ever read and made it all the way through. I just kept thinking 'something' has to happen that will make this story rate the press acclaim it received; nothing happened and thankfully it finally ended. I have to agree with the 1 and 2 star reviewers here who call this book self-indulgent and overrated. You should care, but you don't, because the author is too wrapped up in seeing how cutesy he can be, language-wise.

It just wore me down, until I said to myself, screw it, I can't make it the rest of the way. And since I was pretty far in, I feel like a fool for thinking this crap was gonna improve. The fact that I found this book lying on a seat in an airport lounge should have alerted me, I guess.

Another book in a gazillion libraries here, so that depresses me. Eggers has an interesting style of writing that vacillates between posturing and staring straight into the camera that I enjoyed. Other reviewers have called it "stream of consciousness," while I felt the opposite, like even his thoughts were being self-censored. Maybe not censored, but edited and broadcasted in a way that he deemed fit.

I felt like I wanted to like it, but didn't feel especially connected to the narrator. The book was definitely aimed at a certain and very specific type of white, young, male demographic in a way that made it difficult not to feel a little put off.

It was funny, but overall and I think very consciously - and explicitly at the end masturbatory.

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Very smart, but not for me. I did not like this book and wish I hadn't wasted my time to read it. There was a couple of spots that we good but way to much use of a particular swear word which I think is never needed and indicates a real lack of ability to write good literature.

I would never call this a 'new classic'. If this is a good example of this generation it speaks very poorly! Reading Eggers' debut thirteen years after its publication, after only recently being informed about the 'New Sincerity'-movement allegedly co-started by him, I wasn't very much prejudiced. I bought the book when it was translated into Dutch, in the hardcover version.

Only now I see the cover is taken from a painting by Komar and Melamid - I allready had a reproduction of one of their social-realist Stalin-pranks at the wall.You can see it, the bulge, even under the blanket.

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers

Eggers and his family all the best, but a decent turn of phrase once in a while does not an author make. You can read this item using any of the following Kobo apps and devices: They have names that sound fast and indomitable, names like American cars and electronics, like Firestar and Mercury and Zenith.

Fine, fine writing.