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J R
Winner of the 1976 National Book Award, J R is a biting satire about the many ways in which capitalism twists the American spirit into something more dangerous, yet pervasive and unassailable. At the center of the novel is a hilarious eleven year old—J R—who with boyish enthusiasm turns a few basic lessons in capitalist principles, coupled with a young boy's lack of conscience, into a massive and exploitative paper empire. The result is one of the funniest and most disturbing stories ever told about the corruption of the American dream.
Details
Title
J R
Introduction by
Rick Moody
Title First Published
02 January 2012
Format
Paperback
Nb of pages
752 p.
ISBN-10
1-56478-433-9
ISBN-13
978-1-56478-433-9
GTIN13 (EAN13)
9781564784339
Nb of pages
752
Dimensions
5.5 x 8.5 in.
List Price
$18.95
Excerpt
—Money…? in a voice that rustled.
—Paper, yes.
—And we'd never seen it. Paper money.
—We never saw paper money till we came east.
—It looked so strange the first time we saw it. Lifeless.
—You couldn’t believe it was worth a thing.
—Not after Father jingling his change.
—Those were silver dollars.
—And silver halves, yes and quarters, Julia. The ones from his pupils. I can hear him now…
—Sunlight, pocketed in a cloud, spilled suddenly broken across the floor through the floor through the leaves of the trees outside.
—Coming up the veranda, how he jingled when he walked.
—He’d have his pupils rest the quarters that they brought him on the backs of their hands when they did the scales. He charged fifty cents a lesson, you see, Mister…
—Coen, without the h. Now if both you ladies…
—Why, its just like that story about Father’s dying wish to have his bust sunk in Vancouver harbor, and his ashes sprinkled on the water there, without James and Thomas out in the rowboat, and both of them hitting at the bust with their oars because it was hollow and wouldn’t go down, and the storm coming up behind while they were out there, blowing his ashes back into their beards.
—There was never a bust of Father, Anne. And I don’t recall his ever being in Australia.
—That’s just what I mean, about stories getting started.
—Well, it can’t help repeating them before a perfect stranger.
—I’d hardly call Mister Cohen a stranger, Julia. He knows more about our business than we do ourselves.
—Ladies, please. I haven’t come out here simply to dig into your intimate affairs but since your brother died intestate, certain matters will have to be dealt with which otherwise might never come up at all. Now to return to this question of…
—I’m sure we have nothing to hide. Lots of brothers don’t get on, after all.
—And do come and sit down, Mister Cohen.
—You might as well tell him the whole story, Julia.
—Well, Father was just sixteen years old. As I say, Ira Cobb owned him some money. It was for work that Father had done, probably repairing some farm machinery. Father was always good with his hands. And then his problem came up over money, instead of paying Father Ira gave him an old violin and he took it down to the barn to try to learn to play it. Well his father heard it and went right down, and broke the violin over Father’s head. We were a Quaker family, after all, where you just didn’t do things that didn’t pay.
—Of course, Miss Bast, it’s all… quite commendable. Now, returning to this question of property…
—That’s what we’re discussing, if you’ll be a little patient. Why, Uncle Dick, Father’s older brother, had walked all the way back to Indiana, every step of the way from Andersonville prison.
—And after that business of the violin, Father left home and went to teaching school.
—The one thing he’d wanted, all his life, was to own as far as he could see in any direction. I hope we’ve cleared things up for you now.
—We might if he came back here and sat down. He won’t find anything gazing out the window.
—I had hoped, said Mister Coen from the far end of the room, where he appeared to steady himself against the window frame, —I expected Mrs. Angel to be with us here today, he went on in a tone as drained of hope as the gaze he had turned out through evergreen foundation planting just gone sunless with stifling the prospect of roses run riot only to be strangled b the honeysuckle which had long since overwhelmed the grape arbor at the back, where another building was being silently devoured by rhododendron before his eyes.
—Mrs. Angel?
—The daughter of the decedent.
—Oh, that’s Stella’s married name isn’t it. You remember, Julia, Father used to say…
—Why, Stella called earlier, you told me yourself Anne. To say she was taking a later train.
—That name was changed from Engels, somewhere along the way…
—I’m afraid I’ll miss her then, I have to be in court…
—You’re losing a button here, Mister Cohen. Thomas had the same trouble when he got stout. He couldn’t keep a crease in anything either.
—Miss… Bast. I’m afraid I haven’t made myself clear. My court appearance today has nothing whatsoever to do with this matter. There is no reason for any of this to ever come into court. In fact believe me Miss Blast…both of you ladies, the last thing I would wish would be to… to see you ladies in court. Now. You must understand that I am not here simply as Mister Angel’s attorney, I am here as counsel for General Roll…
—You remember back when Thomas started it, Julia? And we thought it was a military friend he’d made?
—Of course it was James who had friends in the military.
—Yes, he’d run off to war, you know, Mister Cohen. A drummer boy in the Spanish war.
—The… Spanish war? That was 'thirty-seven, wasn’t it? or ‘thirty-eight?
—Oh, not so long ago as that. I think you mean ‘ninety-seven, or ‘ninety-eight was it Anne? When they sank the Maine?
—Who? That’s one I never heard. Do you feel unwell, Mister Cohen?
—Yes, Thomas ran off right after James did, but he was too small for the war of course. He joined a tom show passing through town, playing clarinet in the entreact and they also let him look after the dogs, finding livery stables to put them up in. You might have noticed his scar, Mister Cohen, where one of the bloodhounds tore open his thumb. He carried it with him right into the grave, but you’re not leaving us so soon, Mister Cohen? Of course if we we’ve answered all your questions, I know you must be a busy man.
—Mister Cohen might like a nice glass of cold water.
—No, it isn’t… water I need. If you ladies, you… just for a moment, if you’ll give me your undivided attention…
—We have no objection at all, Mister Cohen. We’re telling you everything we can think of.
—Yes but, some of it is not precisely relevant…
—If you’ll simply tell us what it is you want to know, instead of wandering around the room here waving your arms. We want to see this settled as much as anyone.
—Yes… thank you, Miss Bast. Precisely. Now. As we are all aware, the bulk of your brother’s estate consists of his controlling share in the General Roll Corporation…
—Share! I think Thomas had at least forty shares, or forty-five was it Anne? Because we have…
—Precisely, Miss Bast. Since its founding, General Roll has been a closely held company owned by members of your family. Under the guidance of the decedent, and more recently that of his son-in-law Mister Angel, General Roll has prospered substantially…
—You certainly wouldn’t know it from the dividends, Mister Cohen. There simply have not been any.
—Precisely. This is one of the difficulties we face now. Since your brother, and more recently his son-in-law, have wished to build the company larger rather than simply extract profits from it, its net worth has grown considerably, and with that growth of course have come certain obligations which the company right now is being hard pressed to satisfy. Since no buy-sell arrangements had been mad with the decedent prior to his death, no cross-purchase plan providing life insurance on each of the principals or an entity plan that would have allowed the company itself to buy up his interest, in the absence of any such arrangements as these, the money which will be required to pay the very substantial death taxes…
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