Moab Is My Washpot by Stephen Fry (English) Paperback Book

Description: Moab Is My Washpot by Stephen Fry A number one bestseller in Britain, Stephen Frys astonishingly frank, funny, wise memoir is the book that his fans everywhere have been waiting for. Since his PBS television debut in the Blackadder series, the American profile of this multitalented writer, actor and comedian has grown steadily, especially in the wake of his title role in the film Wilde, which earned him a Golden Globe nomination, and his supporting role in A Civil Action. Fry has already given readers a taste of his tumultuous adolescence in his autobiographical first novel, The Liar, and now he reveals the equally tumultuous life that inspired it. Sent to boarding school at the age of seven, he survived beatings, misery, love affairs, carnal violation, expulsion, attempted suicide, criminal conviction and imprisonment to emerge, at the age of eighteen, ready to start over in a world in which he had always felt a stranger. One of very few Cambridge University graduates to have been imprisoned prior to his freshman year, Fry is a brilliantly idiosyncratic character who continues to attract controversy, empathy and real devotion. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Author Biography Stephen Fry is an actor, producer, director, and writer who has appeared in numerous TV series and movies, including Jeeves and Wooster, Wilde, Gosford Park, V for Vendetta and The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug. He is the bestselling author of four novels and several works of nonfiction. He divides his time between New York and the UK. Review Praise for Moab Is My Washpot"Fry is a master of provocative tangents and he remembers with a cheeky wit . . . Delicious."—The New Yorker"An engagingly rueful memoir . . . Enormously entertaining."—Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times Book Review"This book bubbles; it boils and it bubbles with wonderful language, quick wit, and loopy digression . . . [Frys] voice is delightfully irreverent, cozy, smart, funny and insightfully honest . . . A great read!"—Spalding Gray"Stephen Fry is one of the great originals . . . That so much outward charm, selfawareness and intellect should exist alongside behaviour that threatened to ruinthe lives of the innocent victims, noble parents and Fry himself, gives the booka tragic grandeur that lifts it to classic status." —Financial Times"Fry, well known for his television roles in the British comedies Jeeves and Wooster and Blackadder, continues to entertain in this fresh and hilarious boyhood memoir . . . His hindsight provides witty entertainment in this gay coming-of-age story that will delight readers . . . With this daring and feisty story, Fry will delight fans and nonfans."—Booklist"The engaging Mr. Fry admits to lies, thievery, homosexuality, excessive cleverness, and other peccadilloes in this boarding-school adventure . . . An author in the long and honorable tradition of English Eccentrics, Theatrical Division, presents his coming-of-age story. With all the wit and Pythonesque antics, his book will entertain the Masterpiece Theatre crowd and others as well."—Kirkus Reviews Review Quote Praise for Moab Is My Washpot "Fry is a master of provocative tangents and he remembers with a cheeky wit . . . Delicious." -- The New Yorker "An engagingly rueful memoir . . . Enormously entertaining." --Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times Book Review "This book bubbles; it boils and it bubbles with wonderful language, quick wit, and loopy digression . . . [Frys] voice is delightfully irreverent, cozy, smart, funny and insightfully honest . . . A great read!" --Spalding Gray "Stephen Fry is one of the great originals . . . That so much outward charm, self awareness and intellect should exist alongside behaviour that threatened to ruin the lives of the innocent victims, noble parents and Fry himself, gives the book a tragic grandeur that lifts it to classic status." -- Financial Times "Fry, well known for his television roles in the British comedies Jeeves and Wooster and Blackadder, continues to entertain in this fresh and hilarious boyhood memoir . . . His hindsight provides witty entertainment in this gay coming-of-age story that will delight readers . . . With this daring and feisty story, Fry will delight fans and nonfans." -- Booklist "The engaging Mr. Fry admits to lies, thievery, homosexuality, excessive cleverness, and other peccadilloes in this boarding-school adventure . . . An author in the long and honorable tradition of English Eccentrics, Theatrical Division, presents his coming-of-age story. With all the wit and Pythonesque antics, his book will entertain the Masterpiece Theatre crowd and others as well." -- Kirkus Reviews Excerpt from Book Chapter 1 Joining In "Look, Marguerite . . . England!" Closing lines of The Scarlet Pimpernel , 1934 For some reason I recall it as just me and Bunce. No one else in the compartment at all. Just me, eight years and a month old, and this inexpressibly small dab of misery who told me in one hot, husky breath that his name was Samuelanthonyfarlowebunce. I remember why we were alone now. My mother had dropped us off early at Paddington Station. My second term. The train to Stroud had a whole carriage reserved for us. Usually by the time my mother, brother and I had arrived on the platform there would have been a great bobbing of boaters dipping careless farewells into a sea of entirely unacceptable maternal hats. Amongst the first to arrive this time, my brother had found a compartment where an older boy already sat amongst his opened tuck-box, ready to show off his pencil cases and conker skewers while I had moved respectfully forward to leave them to it. I was still only a term old after all. Besides, I wasnt entirely sure what a conker skewer might be. The next compartment contained what appeared to be a tiny trembling woodland creature. My brother and I had leaned from our respective windows to send the mother cheerfully on her way. We tended to be cruelly kind at these moments, taking as careless and casual a leave of her as possible and making a great show of how little it mattered that we were leaving home for such great stretches of time. Some part of us must have known inside that it was harder for her than it was for us. She would be returning to a baby and a husband who worked so hard that she hardly saw him and to all the nightmares of uncertainty, doubt and guilt which plague a parent, while we would be amongst our own. I think it was a tacitly agreed strategy to arrive early so that all this could be got over with without too many others milling around. The loudness and hattedness of Other Parents were not conducive to the particular Fry tokens of love: tiny exertions of pressure on the hands and tight little nods of the head that stood for affection and deep, unspoken understanding. A slightly forced smile and bitten underlip aside, Mummy always left the platform outwardly resolute, which was all that mattered. All that taken care of, I slid down in my seat and examined the damp shivering thing opposite. He had chosen a window seat with its back to the engine as if perhaps he wanted to be facing homewards and not towards the ghastly unknown destination. "You must be a new boy," I said. A brave nod and a great spreading of scarlet in downy, hamstery cheeks. "My names Fry," I added. "Thats my bro talking next door." A sudden starburst of panic in the fluffy little chicks brown eyes, as if terrified that I was going to invite my bro in. He probably had no idea what a bro was. The previous term I hadnt known either. "Roger, Roger!" I had cried, running up to my brother in morning break. "Have you had a letter from--" "You call me bro here. Bro. Understood?" I explained everything to the broken little creature in front of me. "A bro is a brother, thats all. Hes Fry, R. M. And Im Fry, S.J. See?" The hamster-chick-squirrel-downy-woodland thing nodded to show that it saw. It swallowed a couple of times as if trying to find the right amount of air to allow it to speak without sobbing. "I was a new boy last term," I said, a huge and perfectly inexplicable surge of satisfaction filling me all the way from gartered woollen socks to blue-banded boater. "It really isnt so bad, you know. Though I expect you feel a bit scared and a bit homesick." It didnt quite dare look at me but nodded again and gazed miserably down at shiny black Cambridge shoes which seemed to me to be as small as a babys booties. "Everybody cries. You mustnt feel bad about it." It was at this point that it announced itself to be Samuelanthonyfarlowebunce, and to its friends Sam, but never Sammy. "I shall have to call you Bunce," I told him. "And you will call me Fry. Youll call me Fry S.J. if my bro is about, so there wont be any mix up. Not Fry Minor or Fry the Younger, I dont like that. Here, Ive got a spare hankie. Why dont you blow your nose? Therell be others along in a minute." "Others?" He looked up from emptying himself into my hankie like a baby deer hearing a twig snap by a water pool and cast his eyes about him in panic. "Just other train boys. There are usually about twenty of us. You see that piece of paper stuck to the window? Reserved for Stouts Hill School it says. Weve got this whole carriage to ourselves. Four compartments." "What happens when we get. . . when we get there?" "What do you mean?" "When we get to the station." "Oh, therell be a bus to meet us. Dont worry, Ill make sure you arent lost. How old are you?" "Im seven and a half." He looked much younger. Nappy age, he looked. "Dont worry," I said again. "Ill look after you. Everything will be fine." Ill look after you. The pleasure of saying those words, the warm wet sea of pleasure. Quite extraordinary. A little pet all to myself. "Well be friends," I said. "It wont be nearly as bad as you expect. Youll see." Kindly paternal thoughts hummed in my mind as I tried to imagine every worry that might be churning him up. All I had to do was remember my own dreads of the term before. "Everyones very nice really. Matron unpacks for you, but youve got to take your games clothes down to the bag room yourself, so youll have to know your school number so as you can find the right peg. My numbers one-o-four, which is the highest number in the schools history, but twelve boys left last term and there are only eight or nine new boys, so there probably wont ever be a one-o-five. Im an Otter, someonell probably tell you what House youre in. You should watch out for Hampton, he gives Chinese burns and dead legs. If Mr. Kemp is on duty he gives bacon slicers. Its soccer this term, my bro says. I hate soccer but its conkers as well which is supposed to be really good fun. My bro says everyone goes crazy at conker time. Conkers bonkers, my bro says." Bunce closed up the snotty mess in the middle of my hankie and tried to smile. "In two weeks time," I said, remembering something my mother had told me, "youll be bouncing about like a terrier and you wont even be able to remember being a bit nervous on the train." I looked out of the window and saw some boaters and female hats approaching. "Though in your case," I added, "youll be bunting about. . ." A real smile and the sound of a small giggle. "Here we go," I said. "I can hear some boys coming. Tell you what, heres my Ranger . Why dont you be reading it when they come in, so youll look nice and busy." He took it gratefully. "Youre so kind," he said. "Ive never met anyone as kind as you". "Nonsense," I replied, glowing like a hot coal. I heard the grand sounds of approaching seniors. "Okay then, Mum," someone said. "Dont say okay, darling. And you will write this time, wont you?" "Okay, Mum." My bro and I never called our parents Mum and Dad. It was always Mummy and Daddy until years later when Mother and Father were officially sanctioned. Towards adulthood we allowed ourselves to use, with self-conscious mock-Pooterism, Ma and Pa. Last term, I had put my hand up in an art lesson and said, "Mummy, can I have another piece of charcoal?" The form had howled with laughter. There again, during the first weeks of summer holidays I often called my mother "Sir" or "Matron." Bunce buried himself in the Trigan Empire, but I knew that he was listening to the sounds too and I could tell that the confidence and loudness of the other boys voices terrified him. He clutched the sides of the comic so hard that little rips appeared on the outer pages. On the way to Paddington after lunch I had felt more dread, infinitely more terror and despair at the prospect of school than I had the term before. During the lo Details ISBN1616954728 Author Stephen Fry Short Title MOAB IS MY WASHPOT Pages 368 Language English ISBN-10 1616954728 ISBN-13 9781616954727 Media Book Format Paperback Year 2014 Publication Date 2014-11-11 Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2014-11-11 NZ Release Date 2014-11-11 US Release Date 2014-11-11 UK Release Date 2014-11-11 Imprint Soho Press Inc Place of Publication New York Publisher Soho Press Inc Replaces 9781569472026 DEWEY 823.914 Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:141754275;

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