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Dear Money: A Novel Kindle Edition
India Palmer, living the cash-strapped existence of the writer, is visiting wealthy friends in Maine when a yellow biplane swoops down from the clear blue sky to bring a stranger into her life, one who will change everything.
The stranger is Win Johns, a swaggering and intellectually bored trader of mortgage-backed securities. Charmed by India’s intelligence, humor, and inquisitive nature—and aware of her near-desperate financial situation—Win poses a proposition: “Give me eighteen months and I’ll make you a world-class bond trader.”
Shedding her artist’s life with surprising ease, India embarks on a raucous ride to the top of the income chain, leveraging herself with crumbling real estate, never once looking back . . .Or does she? With a light-handed irony that is by turns as measured as Claire Messud’s and as biting as Tom Wolfe’s, Martha McPhee tells the classic American story of people reinventing themselves, unaware of the price they must pay for their transformation.
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherMariner Books
- Publication dateMay 1, 2010
- File size566 KB
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Editorial Reviews
Amazon.com Review
In this Pygmalion tale of a novelist turned bond trader, Martha McPhee brings to life the greed and riotous wealth of New York during the heady days of the second gilded age. India Palmer, living the cash-strapped existence of the writer, is visiting wealthy friends in Maine when a yellow biplane swoops down from the clear blue sky to bring a stranger into her life, one who will change everything.The stranger is Win Johns, a swaggering and intellectually bored trader of mortgage-backed securities. Charmed by India's intelligence, humor, and inquisitive nature and aware of her near-desperate financial situation Win poses a proposition: Give me eighteen months and I'll make you a world-class bond trader. Shedding her artist's life with surprising ease, India embarks on a raucous ride to the top of the income chain, leveraging herself with crumbling real estate, never once looking back...Or does she?
With a light-handed irony that is by turns as measured as Claire Messud's and as biting as Tom Wolfe's, Martha McPhee tells the classic American story of people reinventing themselves, unaware of the price they must pay for their transformation.
Amazon Exclusive: A Letter from Martha McPhee, Author of Dear Money
Dear Amazon Readers, I began thinking about Dear Money in 2004. Everyone, all over America, was buying a home, it seemed. People with money, without money, strawberry pickers and billionaires. Loans were easy to come by, and none of it made any sense. I met a bond trader of mortgage-backed securities and I was curious, wanted to get to the bottom of what this was all about, asked him a thousand questions. With all of a trader’s bravado and swagger he propositioned me, keen on my interest: "You give me eighteen months, I’ll turn you into a world-class bond trader." I loved the notion. He was at a huge Wall Street firm, a little bored by simply making so much money. He wanted a new challenge. For me, the idea of changing careers, making gobs of money, struck a chord and I chose to explore it through fiction. Why? What was all the nonsense? How could it be that all these people with no money could buy homes? I also wanted a home of my own. Around this time, a house in Maine that my husband and I loved--the one pictured here--was up for sale. We'd rented it in the summer for many years. It was in falling-down condition, wind blowing right through its walls, and the asking price was over a million dollars. Even in that time of national irresponsibility we knew we couldn't ever get a mortgage for it. So I took that house, my desire for it--with its breathtaking view of the cold Atlantic and the little islands floating just offshore, the dunes and the sweet peas and the finches and the seals, the clap of waves on the shore--and wove it into the novel that was turning around in my mind until the house became mine. The story: cash-strapped novelist transformed by Wall Street tycoon into fabulously successful securities trader. Now, with all the money in the world, what would she do with the falling-to-pieces summer cottage? What would this transformation make of her? And in this world thick with money, where does the artist stand?
Martha McPhee
(Photo © Pryde Brown Photographs)
From Bookmarks Magazine
From Booklist
From Kirkus Reviews
Review
"I can't remember the last time I couldn't put a book down. I read Dear Money in cars, in waiting rooms, even at a rest stop on the turnpike. I read whole passages out loud to my husband. Martha McPhee is a wickedly good social observer, a writer of beautiful, lyrical prose, and a consummate storyteller. This is a very smart novel that unpacks small surprises and pleasures on every single page."
-- "Dani Shapiro, author of Black & White""Martha McPhee's fourth novel wouldn't be so funny if it didn't ring so true...McPhee has a lot of fun with a couple of archetypes--a Pygmalion transformation of the novelist into a financial high roller and a 'city mouse/country mouse' exchange of ambitions--but what makes this novel work so well is that India continues to engage the reader's empathy, even affection, as she forsakes literary high-mindedness for filthy lucre."
-- "Kirkus Reviews (starred review)""Although no one can profess to comprehend the complexities of the current economic quagmire, McPhee dishes its jargon with all the aplomb of someone who TiVos CNBC. Delivering virulent social satire with a velvet, humanitarian touch, McPhee's timely send-up deftly parodies the fallout from misplaced priorities."
-- "Booklist"McPhee plays with the notion of 'keeping up with the Joneses' in an entertaining and ironic way.
-- "Library Journal""Wouldn't be so funny if it didn't ring so true...India continues to engage the reader's empathy, even affection, as she forsakes literary high-mindedness for filthy lucre."
-- "Kirkus Reviews (starred review)""Martha McPhee writes with verve and uncanny insight about those recent, heady dreams of easy wealth. This New York Pygmalian story takes us beyond what we thought we knew about money and art and all their precarious alliances, in an adventure that recreates the city's temptations, both material and idealistic. Dear Money is conceived with such cutting precision and grace, it will make readers think of a contemporary Edith Wharton, but there's a dark mischief here too, shades of Andy Warhol. Full of beautiful, unflinching sentences, this is an uncompromising, brave, brilliant story."
-- "Rene Steinke, author of Holy Skirts"About the Author
Martha McPhee is the author of four previous novels and a finalist for the National Book Award. Her fiction has appeared in the New Yorker and Zoetrope. A few years ago, when a legendary bond trader claimed he could transform her into a booming Wall Street success, she toyed with the notion but wrote Dear Moneyinstead. She lives in New York City with her children and husband, the poet and writer Mark Svenvold.
Kate Reading is an Audie Award-winning narrator and has received dozens of Earphones Awards. She has been named by AudioFile magazine as a Voice of the Century, as well as the Best Voice in Science Fiction & Fantasy in 2008 and 2009 and Best Voice in Biography & Culture in 2010. She is also a theater actor in the Washington, DC, area and has been a member of the Woolly Mammoth Theatre Company since 1987. Her work onstage has been recognized by the Helen Hayes Awards Society, among others.
From The Washington Post
India is actually hired on a bet, as in the old Eddie Murphy vehicle "Trading Places": A legendary trader brags to the head of his investment firm that, in 18 months, he can teach the clueless novelist to penetrate the secrets of the market. "You're a storyteller -- that's why I wanted you," the fittingly named Win (private plane, sailboat, ski lodge) assures India (credit card debt). "Most people are driven by consensus, but . . . you're going to be reading, perceiving the larger story, and that's why we're going to win this bet."
India isn't a fish out of water; she's a fish tossed into the shark tank. It's 2004, and the mortgage-backed securities that she's learning to trade will eventually bring down the economy. "My world, down here among the masses, had never collided with the intricacies of high finance," India admits, but, as predicted, she's a quick study. Soon she's able to understand how "the restructuring of the mortgage pools came [with] an explosion of other mortgage-backed security products -- PACs and TACs and Z bonds and IOs and POs and floating-rate bonds and stripped MBS bonds and countless other derivative products that only the creators truly understood and that the politicians had allowed to become deregulated."
McPhee does a competent job of explaining what a bond trader actually does, but the material proves pretty dry. In fairness, it's hard to make poetry out of the stock market (though another recent novel that addresses the financial crisis, Jess Walter's "The Financial Lives of the Poets," does exactly that). Still, India Palmer is meant to have a particularly penetrating outsiders' view of Wall Street -- an artist's clarity of vision -- and McPhee doesn't deliver it. McPhee did her homework, but it still feels like homework.
Two other recent novels -- Jonathan Dee's "The Privileges" and Adam Haslett's "Union Atlantic" -- consider the moral compass of the Wall Street type, the secret soul of the filthy rich. Not a bad subject, in the era of Madoff. As a narrator, India is refreshingly frank in admitting that jealousy is her main emotion. She craves her rich friends' picturesque lives -- their beach houses and fancy tables at benefits. Chatty and confiding, she reveals the price of her dress ($775), the exact amount in her Vanguard account ($1,927.58), and the nationality of her masseuse (Korean). Unfortunately, apart from the jealousy, she doesn't let us much into her psyche.
While India claims to be crazy about her husband, she barely pays any attention to him. He doesn't so much as pout when she suddenly starts working 60-hour weeks. Her two girls -- whose private-school tuition was her primary motivation for ditching the artistic dream -- are ciphers, not to mention the least demanding children in the history of civilization. Talk about having your cake and eating it, too.
Of course, McPhee isn't aiming for strict realism. After all, "Dear Money" is a fourth novel about a fourth novelist who quits writing novels to be a trader. McPhee herself, though offered training by a real-life bond trader, has obviously chosen to stick with fiction. But this satire implies that the differences between the novelist and the money man are not quite as great as you might think.
bookworld@washpost.com
Reviewed by by Lisa Zeidner
Copyright 2010, The Washington Post. All Rights Reserved.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
One
THE STORY begins, of course, with real estate. The heady days of 2003. Maine. Pond Point, the old Victorian cottage tied together, it seemed, with twine, standing as it does before the dunes with a swath of sea grass like a moat, sweet pea shoots, their blue flowers dancing in a late-afternoon breeze blowing offshore. The beach. Miles of sand, flanked by rivers, one large, one small, spilling into the Atlantic. Little islands floating just offshore, connected at low tide by sandbars that reach to them like arms.
Those wonderful July days, as Emma Chapman declared with that fierce enthusiasm of hers that spoke of a desire to appreciate every chance life gives to her. July—each day’s weather a mystery, a surprise. Storms blow in from nowhere to entertain the day. From an immaculate sky, fog settles down thick as cotton while sandpipers and plovers dart about. Thunderheads in the afternoon, towering cumulus, then a crack of thunder. Heart-shattering sunsets. Or simply the stillness of early morning in high season, a scorcher in the offing, but for now, an hour past dawn, towels and bathing suits still damp on the clothesline, the sun rising over the river, heating the woods, bringing the strong smell of pine sap into the kitchen where coffee brewed. On the porch, Emma, squarely facing the ocean in a golden bar of sunlight, seemed to have everything in life, and the only thing more she wanted, it seemed to me, was to own this—the salt air and gratifying geometries of the sea, all that came with this house.
I did not like the house at first. The wind blew right through the walls, and chipmunks and mice had made it (even our beds) their home. It was wet and cold. The screen door banged with an alarming thud. The neighbor’s house was occupied by a family of Bostonians—you could tell this by the big B for the Boston Red Sox that appeared everywhere: on their hats, their barbecue aprons, the kites their children sent upward to broadcast their allegiance to the heavens. They greeted us and smiled stiffly in a way that seemed to register a conviction that there would be no further need to continue down the path of fellow feeling.
The Bostonians’ cottage was a bit too close. They weeded their flower beds and assiduously mowed a “lawn” that was mostly sand. They prosecuted a passion for golf by purchasing tiny plastic golf sets for their boys, who whacked little golf-ball-sized Wiffle balls across the lot, and when an errant ball landed on the side of the Chapmans’ rundown summer rental, the Bostonian boys sat sullenly staring across the lot at our girls, unable to ask for help. Our girls seemed to enjoy their discomfort, but took pity on them, tossing the balls back, which the boys accepted without thanks, and moved their game farther away. “By their fruits you shall know them,” my husband, Theodor, noted. “Yeah,” I said. But I admired, actually came to envy, Emma’s passion for the house, despite the frosty neighbors, and wanted to see it with her eyes since it gave her so much pleasure. The views took in the open Atlantic, sailboats leaning into the breeze, cormorants and seagulls and, on occasion, even seals, their dog-like heads bobbing in the surf.
Emma and Will had been renting the house for six years, driving up from New York for the month with their two daughters, Will commuting back and forth. Emma had found the house. Strolling the beach, she had asked various sunbathers camped beneath umbrellas if they rented their homes, the cottages in the dunes behind them. The elderly couple she eventually found did not rent, but they were charmed by her determination: Oh, that’s your house? That one there? The red one with the turret? It’s right out of a Hopper painting. No, no, a Wyeth. It’s pure Wyeth. It’s from the 1880s? Oh, how I’d love to spend a week there, absorbing all that history.
The couple took her up to the house, showed her around. Every window framed a spectacular view. She could see through the mess of all the guests, the children of nieces and nephews with names like Sacagawea—I kid you not—overrunning the place. The couple had no children of their own. “A view from every window,” Emma said. She was exuberant. It was the quality I loved best about her. Emma complimented the children (diapered, juice-stained, sticky fingers). “Sacagawea, what an original name,” she said. And she complimented the vintage piano and the antique windowpanes, the fraying curtains. In the turret bedroom she complimented the old photographs hanging crookedly on the wall. “Why, they’re Bachrach,” she said, examining the signature of one of the prints and noticed they were all signed by him. She flashed her smile on Mrs. Hov (“Chekhov without the chek,” Mrs. Hov would say). “Yes, they are,” Mrs. Hov confirmed, and her milky blue eyes brightened. “I grew up in Connecticut,” she said, as if in explanation and to underscore her more prominent past, her voice soft and self-assured. An elegant woman still, with slender fingers that had long ago mastered the piano, today she wore a simple housedress, but yesterday she was the smiling girl in all the sepia-tinted prints.
Mr. Hov was a retired Swift scholar and an amateur poet of the A. E. Housman mold, with a firm yet charming manner. The couple was at the house when Theodor and I arrived with our two girls for a long weekend. The Hovs had come to fix the boiler and were just leaving. I would remember them for a long time, a pair, he a smaller version of her with the same kind blue eyes, hazy with cataracts. Though she had a full head of lovely white hair and he was bald. He was in the middle of reciting a poem he’d written, his voice earnest and mellifluous: “I try the fleeting years to catch. / But, mark thee well, this one firm adage of the sea!” Emma and Will listened; she leaned into his caress, standing on the porch overlooking the dunes and ocean. She wore a smile that, having begun in sincerity, hadn’t quite anticipated how long a poem could actually go on, and was striving mightily, along with the poem, to prop herself up.
Upon our arrival, Theodor and I found them in a state of suspension, the elderly man holding forth. “For whom our time has come, / And man is laid beneath the sand, the sod, or sea.” It was an ode to Pond Point. Hov’s wife had been coming here since the 1930s. Together they bought the house in the 1950s, for a song, with the equity they’d accrued in their primary home. Standing there on the porch of their second home, windblown and kissed by the Maine light, Mrs. Hov, her lips curled, just slightly, with love, watched her husband’s gentle hands conduct his words. “The sharpened sands their lips do pulse and / Tongueless, whisper songs most sure. / ’Tis we, not thee, that shall endure, / that shall endure!”
A moment of silence followed and then Emma burst into applause. “Just a little something I wrote in 1983,” Mr. Hov said, turning his attention fully to us, my girls’ eyes wide with curiosity at the spectacle. “Ah, your guests have arrived,” he said. “We’ve heard all about you, Emma and Will’s friends. All good, I can assure you! Welcome, renowned New Yorkers! I invite you all to have a wonderful weekend.”
We knew all about Emma’s cast of friends. She was always telling stories about her collection of elaborate people—friends marrying in the final stages of fatal cancer; a wife whose slender book of poems about her adulterous love affair with a young buck became a bestseller, publicly shaming her (also adulterous) husband with both her betrayal and her success; a young bride who prided herself on her Gypsy ancestors, using her lineage to land her a spot on the reality television show My Wedding Day. The Hovs were somehow part of that mix, Emma’s menagerie.
Within a few sentences Mr. Hov spilled forth what Emma had told them of us, all of it hyperbolic and with exclamations. Like the Hovs, we were characters in the theater of her life, and it did feel that, if you stuck around long enough, some intriguing plot would unfold for you. Mr. Hov was well into the details of local history, the Sagadahoc settlement: “They came in 1607, same as Jamestown, though the settlers did not fare so well.” His expression seemed to appreciate the drama of that antique failure. He directed our attention to the piping plovers nesting in the dune grass—his way of saying to be careful as we walked through it to the beach, not to upset the plovers, as they are rare and protected. “Now, no more of us,” he said cheerily. “We are out of your hair.” He turned to his wife: “Eunice, I am in the car.” He enunciated each word with care. Then he left, Eunice trailing slowly, happily behind.
“Don’t you just love them?” Emma said, greeting us, kissing us—the flourish of arrival, folding us immediately into her arms. “I’m so glad you got to meet them, because, you know, I’m going to have to kill them.” Emma spoke with mischief. “A pity, because they are nice, aren’t they?” Then she listed all the other people she’d have to murder in order to buy the place: the ne’er-do-well young niece, her husband, her children and little Sacagawea too. The way Emma talked, you almost believed she would kill. And the way she smiled, lips crimping ever so slightly, like someone who wants to steal a gorgeous piece of fruit from a store’s sidewalk display, you almost believed she’d get away with it.
“I love it. I love it. I love it,” Emma said, an elegant woman with fine, bird-like bones. She took us on a tour of the house, up and down the stairs, showing us where we would bathe, eat, read, sleep. “In the turret,&rdqu...
Product details
- ASIN : B003OUXB72
- Publisher : Mariner Books; First edition (May 1, 2010)
- Publication date : May 1, 2010
- Language : English
- File size : 566 KB
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Screen Reader : Supported
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Not Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Sticky notes : On Kindle Scribe
- Print length : 354 pages
- Best Sellers Rank: #373,108 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #408 in City Life Fiction (Kindle Store)
- #512 in Humorous Literary Fiction
- #1,876 in Fiction Urban Life
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
A few years ago, when a legendary bond trader claimed he could transform Martha McPhee into a booming Wall Street success, she toyed with the notion -- but wrote Dear Money instead. McPhee has been honored with fellowships from the National Endowment of the Arts and The John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation. In 2002 she was nominated for a National Book Award. Her essays and reviews have appeared in numerous magazines and newspapers including The New York Times, The Chicago Tribune, The Newark Star Ledger, Vogue, More, Harper's Bazaar, Self, Traveler, Travel & Leisure, among many others. She lives in New York City with her children and husband, the poet and writer Mark Svenvold.
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India Palmer, a critically acclaimed, award-winning, but cash-poor novelist, struggles to balance the budget and keep up with "The Joneses." Her husband, Theodor, a sculptor, is content with their bohemian lifestyle, (which is not too shabby, more like chic shabby.) They have a rent-controlled apartment in New York and two beautiful daughters. But India wants, she desires, she hails--money. She craves the material pleasures and lifestyle that her investment-banker friend, Will Chapman, and his wife, Emma, already possess. Interestingly, Will wants to walk away from his Wall Street job and write novels.
Every summer, Theo and India visit with the Chapmans in Pond Point, Maine, where Will and Emma rent a house for the summer, a house they are poised to buy. It is old, damp, drafty, but it has charm, a turret, and a million-dollar view. When their cravenly wealthy, securities-trader friend, Win, swoops down to visit in his canary yellow plane, the die is cast for India. Win makes an offer to mentor India on Wall Street and turn her into a brilliant bond trader.
McPhee develops her story and characters gradually, fully, and with a page-turning brio. She utilizes some conventions in her broad strokes but she shakes it up and out of the box enough to leave her own thumbprint. Her narrative crackles with colorful imagery and megawatt metaphors, and she strikes a supple balance between the inner and outer lives of her characters. Her exploration of the human desire for transformation and the tug of war between art and commerce is acerbically keen. The final scene is ironically triumphant and sublime.
The names are clever--India's husband is an artist who works in gold and precious metals, named Theodor--Theo d'Or? A first-time novelist who hits it big is Lily Starr, and so on. There are plenty of glancing references to designers and places that will be well-known to Sex and the City fans--much of the book feels like a female version of one of Woody Allen's New York movies....which can be a problem if the reader is not so big on New York--upscale Manhattan in particular--the jokes may pass you right by.
It's still a fine read--skim over the financial minutiae and you can easily follow the story--I used to represent some of the Masters of the Universe, so much of the finance-speak is passingly familiar to me, but you won't need to know much--just know that this takes place after 9/11 and before the mortgage crash of 2008 and you'll be fine.
Our critically-but-not-financially-successful novelist heroine, as the book jacket tells us, takes a job as a bond trader to make money, given this unlikely opportunity because a friend of a friend (named "Win," get it?) makes a bet with his boss that he can Pygmalion her into a success. Be warned that this does not happen until about halfway through the book. Just read and enjoy and be patient. It will reward you.