The Happy Hollisters, however, were all written by Andrew Svenson, whose identity as Jerry West was kept secret until several years after his death in 1975.Īndrew Svenson was born in Belleville, NJ, in 1910, and his interest in writing started early. Many of these series were intended to have long publishing lives, and were written by multiple authors using the same pseudonym. The Stratemeyer Syndicate was a book packager, well-known for its development of children’s book series including Tom Swift, The Bobbsey Twins, The Hardy Boys, and Nancy Drew. Jerry West was the pen name assigned to Svenson when he started writing The Happy Hollisters for the Stratemeyer Syndicate. Svenson, a prolific yet somewhat anonymous, writer of books for children. The Happy Hollisters by Jerry West was actually written by Andrew E.
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Over her six-decade career, Lynn sold more than 45 million albums, according to her personal website.Īfter the turn of the century, Lynn found a second act of sorts from the success of a 2004 collaboration with Jack White. In 1972, Lynn became the first woman in history to win the Country Music Association’s Entertainer of the Year trophy, and she would add a mantle’s worth of hardware to go with it over the years - four Grammys, a 2003 Kennedy Center honor, and a Presidential Medal of Freedom a decade later. Her signature 1970 hit “Coal Miner’s Daughter” became the title of her 1976 autobiography, which was turned into the Oscar-winning 1980 film with Sissy Spacek as the lead. The reveal that puts everything in perspective comes incredibly late in the book, frequently leaving you lost and bewildered as everyone besides Harrow acts with outside knowledge. Like GIDEON THE NINTH, HARROW THE NINTH is a book that requires patience. You see, Harrow’s never heard of a Gideon in her life. But wait, I hear you say, her cavalier wasn’t Ortus, it was Gideon! What happened to Gideon? That question, my friends, is the crux of the entire book. Unsurprisingly, HARROW THE NINTH is an unusual book, told in alternating perspectives: Harrow’s present day recollections are told in second person, while flashbacks to previous events at Canaan House, the location where she underwent a series of trials to become a Lyctor, accompanied by her cavalier Ortus, are told in third person. Harrow trains for the confrontation, but soon realizes not all the other Lyctor’s are her allies. Imbued with even greater necromantic power than she’s had before, Harrow barely gets a moment to rest before she’s confronted with the news that the Emperor is at war with a deadly enemy, and it will be at the Lyctor sanctuary in a matter of months. Harrow the Ninth achieved her dream of becoming one of the Emperor’s Lyctors, but the process nearly cost her her life. No: that sleep had been too dark for dreams. Insultingly casual though I found their manner, I was reassured by the very vapidity of these doctors or joggers or weightlifters – something to do with their unsmiling pursuit of the good life. The doctors around my bed were in leisurewear, a frieze of freckles and shorts, tan, arm hair. But why the pride in these doctor children (why not shame, why not dread?): intimates of trauma and mortification, of bacilli and trichinae, the routine excruciations of time, with their disgusting furniture and their disgusting vocabulary (the bloodstained rubber bib, hanging on its hook) – life’s gatekeepers. Consider the Jewish joke, with the old lady running distractedly along the sea shore: Help! My son the doctor is drowning! Amusing, I suppose. And the thought came to me, fully formed, fully settled: how I hate doctors. Availing themselves of my immobility, the doctors were, I sensed, discussing matters having to do with their copious free time. Although my paralysis was pretty well total, I did find I could move my eyes. American doctors: I sensed their vigour, barely held in check, like the force of the growth of their hair and the heavy touch of their heavy hands. I came rushing upward out of the blackest sleep to find myself surrounded by doctors. |