By common consent his BBC Half Hour was the pinnacle of early TV comedy. The best of the scripts provided Tony Hancock with a brilliant foil for his comic genius.A big book that defies logic, chronology and even history in ways that underscore its author's fully. Jupiter Real Estate: This historically rich community has emerged from centuries old obscurity to a town that is one of the most desired places to live in the State. Life After Life by Kate Atkinson, Paperback. Kate Atkinson is a marvel. There aren't enough breathless adjectives to describe LIFE AFTER LIFE: Dazzling, witty, moving, joyful, mournful, profound. Sadly, she dies before she can draw her first breath. On that same cold and snowy night, Ursula Todd is born, lets out a lusty wail, and embarks upon a life that will be, to say the least, unusual. ![]()
For as she grows, she also dies, repeatedly, in any number of ways. Ursula's world is in turmoil, facing the unspeakable evil of the two greatest wars in history. What power and force can one woman exert over the fate of civilization — if only she has the chance? Wildly inventive, darkly comic, startlingly poignant — this is Kate Atkinson at her absolute best. Advertising. Show More. Editorial Reviews. From the Publisher. ![]() PRAISE FOR LIFE AFTER LIFE. There aren't enough breathless adjectives to describe Life After Life: Dazzling, witty, moving, joyful, mournful, profound. Wildly inventive, deeply felt. Simply put: It's one of the best novels I've read this century. There aren't enough breathless adjectives to describe Life After Life: Dazzling, witty, moving, joyful, mournful, profound. Wildly inventive, deeply felt. Simply put: It's one of the best novels I've read this century. ![]() Their authors enjoy showing us how expertly they can construct a puzzle, then solve it: the literary equivalent of pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Life After Life inspires a similar sort of admiration, as Atkinson sharpens our awareness of the apparently limitless choices and decisions that a novelist must make on every page, and of what is gained and lost when the consequences of these choices are, like life, singular and final. J. It's wise, bittersweet, funny, and unlike anything else you've ever read. Kate Atkinson is one of my all- time favorite novelists, and I believe this is her best book yet. A big book that defies logic, chronology and even history in ways that underscore its author's fully untethered imagination.. Even without the sleight of hand, Life After Life would be an exceptionally captivating book with an engaging cast of characters.. It's all so richly imagined and ingeniously executed that the mystery feels right. Her domestic vignettes and wide- screen portraits of wartime resonate with startling physical and emotional clarity, and even her repetitions find fresh revelations.. What Atkinson has mastered: shining a light on how full life is of choices and chance, and how lucky we are to live it. ![]() Buried inside Life After Life is the best Blitz novel since Sarah Waters's The Night Watch. A tour de force that ponders memory and d. Ingenious in construction, indefatigably entertaining, it grips the reader's imagination on the first page and never lets go. If you wish to be moved and astonished, read it. And if you want to give a dazzling present, buy it for your friends. It lightly raises questions about the meaning of life and death and identify, fate and chance, and leaves them unanswered to echo in the reader's mind after the final page. Life After Life is a dazzling juggling act..(by all means, read this book). Atkinson never so much as flirts with pathos; her ethos and heroine are as unsentimental as the times require. It's nothing short of a genre- bending masterpiece - thoughtful and compelling, convoluted in plot but clear in resolve. If I had many lifetimes, I would make sure to read Life After Life in each. Revealing and straightforward.. Originality is the jumping- off point for this especially unique novel, and readers looking for something fresh should take a chance. Readers already in love with Atkinson's novels, and equally besotted with Jackson Brodie, will be just as pleased with the life - the lives - of Ursula Todd. What impresses me about this flip book of nonstop scenarios - in wartime and peacetime - is not only how absorbing they are, but how brave Atkinson is to have written them. After all, there really isn't much recent precedent for a major, serious yet playfully experimental novel with a female character at its center. Good for her to have given us one; we needed it.. She opened her novel outward, letting it breathe unrestricted, all the while creating a strong, inviting draft of something that feels remarkably like life. Marvelously vibrant.. Atkinson makes every one of Ursula's lives, as well as the lives of those she touches, feel inestimably precious. Life After Life is a drama of failures and providential rebirths.. High- concept premise.. A deft and convincing portrayal of an English family's evolution across two world wars.. Marvelous.. Not only does she bring characters to life with enviable ease, she has an almost offhand knack for vivid scene- setting .. Her storytelling prowess is on fullest display in a gorgeous and nerve- racking novella- length chapter set during the Blitz .. It's spellbindingly done. Watching that pursuit is frequently heartbreaking and entirely thrilling. Some of Ursula's narratives are so compelling, so convincing, that it is hard to imagine her ending up any other way. My first reaction upon finishing it was to imitate the unsinkable Ursula and begin all over again. She had come in from the rain and drops of water still trembled like delicate dew on the fur coats of some of the women inside. A regiment of white- aproned waiters rushed around at tempo, serving the needs of the M. There was a woman she had never seen before—a permed, platinum blonde with heavy makeup—an actress by the look of her. The blond lit a cigarette, making a phallic performance out of it. Everyone knew that he preferred his women demure and whole- some, Bavarian preferably. All those dirndls and knee- socks, God help us. The table was laden. Bienenstich, Gugelhupf, K. He was eating a slice of Kirschtorte. No wonder he looked so pasty, she was surprised he wasn't diabetic. The softly repellent body (she imagined pastry) beneath the clothes, never exposed for public view. He smiled when he caught sight of her and half rose, saying, . The bootlicker who was currently occupying it jumped up and moved away. He insisted that she try the Pflaumen Streusel. He laughed, pleased at his attempt. Everyone else at the table laughed as well. Lace corners, monogrammed with her initials, . She dabbed politely at the Streusel flakes on her lips and then bent down again to put the handkerchief back in her bag and retrieve the weighty object nesting there. Her father's old service revolver from the Great War, a Webley Mark V. A move rehearsed a hundred times. Swiftness was all, yet there was a moment, a bubble suspended in time after she had drawn the gun and levelled it at his heart when everything seemed to stop. One shot. Ursula pulled the trigger. Darkness fell. Snow. February 1. 91. 0An icy rush of air, a freezing slipstream on the newly exposed skin. She is, with no warning, outside the inside and the familiar wet, tropical world has suddenly evaporated. Exposed to the elements. A prawn peeled, a nut shelled. No breath. All the world come down to this. One breath. Little lungs, like dragonfly wings failing to inflate in the foreign atmosphere. No wind in the strangled pipe. The buzzing of a thousand bees in the tiny curled pearl of an ear. Panic. The drowning girl, the falling bird. Fellowes should have been here. The bedroom fire stoked like a ship's furnace. The thick brocade curtains drawn tightly against the enemy, the night. It's sure dreadful wild out there. The road will be closed. Alice, the parlor maid, was visiting her sick mother. And Hugh, of course, was chasing down Isobel, his wild goose of a sister, . Sylvie had no wish to involve Mrs. Glover, snoring in her attic room like a truffling hog. Sylvie imagined she would conduct proceedings like a parade- ground sergeant- major. Sylvie was expecting it to be late like the others. The best- laid plans, and so on. Oh, Mary, Mother of God. She's been strangled, the poor wee thing.? Todd, ma'am, she's gone. Dead before she had a chance to live. I'm awful, awful sorry. She'll be a little cherub in heaven now, for sure. A helpless little heart beating wildly. Stopped suddenly like a bird dropped from the sky. A single shot. Darkness fell. Snow. 11 February 1. Were you raised in a field? Fellowes were minor royalty. Todd, a bonny, bouncing baby girl. Fellowes might be over- egging the pudding with his alliteration. He was not one for bonhomie at the best of times. The health of his patients, particularly their exits and entrances, seemed designed to annoy him. I arrived at Fox Corner in the nick of time. Fellowes held up his surgical scissors for Sylvie's admiration. They were small and neat and their sharp points curved upwards at the end. Sylvie made a mental note, a small, vague one, given her exhaustion and the circumstances of it, to buy just such a pair of scissors, in case of similar emergency. Haddock, the midwife, but I believe she is stuck somewhere outside Chalfont St. Bridget laughed out loud and then quickly mumbled, . I am very grateful to her. It all happened so quickly. Fellowes said, equally reluctantly. Sylvie sighed and suggested that he help himself to a glass of brandy in the kitchen. And perhaps some ham and pickles. He had delivered all three (three!) of her children and she did not like him one bit. Only a husband should see what he saw. Pawing and poking with his instruments in her most delicate and secretive places. Haddock deliver her child?) Doctors for women should all be women themselves. Little chance of that. Dr. Fellowes lingered, humming and hawing, overseeing the washing and wrapping of the new arrival by a hot- faced Bridget. Bridget was the eldest of seven so she knew how to swaddle an infant. She was fourteen years old, ten years younger than Sylvie. When Sylvie was fourteen she was still in short skirts, in love with her pony, Tiffin. Had no idea where babies came from, even on her wedding night she remained baffled. Her mother, Lottie, had hinted but had fallen shy of anatomical exactitude. Grosvenor Hotel Chester, UK - Booking. Booking. com guest review guidelines. To keep the rating score and review content relevant for your upcoming trip, we archive reviews older than 2. Only a customer who has booked through Booking. This lets us know that our reviews come from real guests, like you. Who better to tell others about the free breakfast, friendly staff, or quiet room than someone who’s stayed at the property before? We want you to share your story, both the good and the bad. All we ask is that you follow a few simple guidelines. Reviews vision. 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