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A sparkling debut novel set in the sixties about a boy's emotional and fantastical journey through alien worlds and family pain.

Against the backdrop of the troubled 1960s, this coming-of-age novel weaves together a compelling psychological drama and vivid outer-space fantasy. Danny Shapiro is an isolated teenager, living with a dying mother and a hostile father and without friends. To cope with these circumstances, Danny forges a reality of his own, which includes the sinister "Three Men in Black", mysterious lake creatures with insectlike carapaces, a beautiful young seductress and thief with whom Danny falls in love, and an alien/human love child who-if only Danny can keep her alive-will redeem the planet. Danny's fictional world blends so seamlessly with his day-to-day life that profound questions about what is real and what is not, what is possible and what is imagined begin to arise. As the hero in his alien landscape, he finds the strength to deal with his own life...<

A true story of murder, justice, and the military from the author of Marine Sniper, the Vietnam classic with more than a million copies in print. In Vietnam, they're known as "Jungle Rules"- those by which the U.S. military tries to keep control, often allowing inconvenient facts and regulations to conveniently slip between the cracks. This is the battlefield Captain Terry O'Connor of the JAG Corps is stepping onto. There's been a murder. After a long day on patrol, Private Celestine Anderson returned to base, only to come under fire from a group of racist white marines. That was when he finally snapped, and killed one of his tormentors. The inexperienced O'Connor must defend him. But the case pulls O'Connor into the heart of the Vietnam conflict, where bullets overrule books and death is the only judge of men<

EDITORIAL REVIEW: from the introductory: "Speed never hurt anybody-it's the sudden stop at the end. It's not how much change that signals danger, but how fast it's changing...." WE'RE losing a planet, Neel. I'm afraid that I can't ... understand it." The bald and wrinkled head wobbled a bit on the thin neck, and his eyes were moist. Abravanel was a very old man. Looking at him, Neel realized for the first time just how old and close to death he was. It was a profoundly shocking thought. "Pardon me, sir," Neel broke in, "but is it possible? To lose a planet, I mean. If the readings are done correctly, and the k-factor equations worked to the tenth decimal place, then it's really just a matter of adjustment, making the indicated corrections. After all, Societics is an exact science-" "Exact? *Exact!* Of course it's not! Have I taught you so little that you dare say that to me?" Anger animated the old man, driving the shadow of death back a step or two. Neel hesitated, feeling his hands quiver ever so slightly, groping for the right words. Societics was his faith, and his teacher, Abravanel, its only prophet. This man before him, carefully preserved by the age-retarding drugs, was unique in the galaxy. A living anachronism, a refugee from the history books. Abravanel had singlehandedly worked out the equations, spelled out his science of Societics. Then he had trained seven generations of students in its fundamentals. Hearing the article of his faith defamed by its creator produced a negative feedback loop in Neel so strong his hands vibrated in tune with it. It took a jarring effort to crack out of the cycle. "The laws that control Societics, as postulated by ... you, are as exact as any others in the unified-field theory universe." "No they're not. And, if any man I taught believes that nonsense, I'm retiring tomorrow and dropping dead the day after. My science-and it is really not logical to call it a science-is based on observation, experimentation, control groups and corrected observations. And though we have made observations in the millions, we are dealing in units in the billions, and the interactions of these units are multiples of that. And let us never forget that our units are people who, when they operate as individuals, do so in a completely different manner. So you cannot truthfully call my theories exact. They fit the facts well enough and produce results in practice, that has been empirically proven. So far. Some day, I am sure, we will run across a culture that doesn't fit my rules. At that time the rules will have to be revised. We may have that situation now on Himmel. There's trouble cooking there." "They have always had a high activity count, sir," Neel put in hopefully. <

Staring out from the front page is a picture of Mom, and I swear she’s looking me right in the eyes. The caption reads, ‘Attempted Murderer To Be Given Parole.’<

From Publishers Weekly

From the age of 19 until his death from AIDS in 1990 when he was 32, artist Keith Haring kept handwritten notebooks in which he recorded thoughts on his work, his personal relationships, his homosexuality, the books he had read, other artists and his commercial success. An internationally renowned pop icon by the time he was 24, Haring presumably knew the journals would eventually be made public. As a result, some of the entries betray a youthful self-consciousness. Nevertheless, these outspoken statements provide insight into the sexuality that permeates Haring's art and reveal a great deal about his aesthetics, creative development, working methods, competitiveness with other artists, openness to new experiences, love of children, devotion to friends and determination to go on in the face of death. The entries are arranged by year, and lists of Haring's exhibitions and projects are appended. An appreciative introduction by Yale art historian Thompson sets Haring's work in context. Illustrations not seen by PW. BOMC selection.
Copyright 1996 Reed Business Information, Inc.

From Library Journal

The journals Haring kept since high school, here illustrated with previously unpublished drawings, should help to illuminate his cheery, raucous street art.
Copyright 1996 Reed Business Information, Inc.