By Scott O'Connor
Within the Nineteen Fifties, the CIA started a clandestine operation referred to as undertaking MKULTRA, within which unwitting americans have been subjected to insidious drug and mind-control experiments. within the twenty years this system ran, a nation’s belief was once betrayed and numerous lives—and families—were destroyed.
Haunted and encouraged through those real-life occasions, acclaimed novelist Scott O’Connor has crafted a riveting, journey de strength literary mystery that vividly imagines the devastating emotional legacy of the sort of software in the course of the eyes of 1 of its extra unforeseen sufferers. CIA analyst Henry March, an unassuming “company man” pressured to spearhead MKULTRA’s San Francisco department, unearths himself bridging an untenable divide among his devotion to his spouse and children—his cherished Hannah and candy autistic Thomas—and the brutality of his day-by-day activity. Torn among accountability and sense of right and wrong, Henry’s personal id starts to fray, until eventually he ultimately reaches the last word brink. Amid the wreckage, Henry March disappears with out a hint, taking with him the proof of his sins and changing into the private extremely secret of all.
Twenty years later, because the nation struggles less than the load of the Vietnam warfare, one other younger agent will hazard every little thing to discover Henry, safeguard Hannah, and piece jointly the outstanding aftermath of the crimes prior to it’s too late.
Hailed as “one to watch” (Los Angeles Times), specially for his skill “to make whatever attractive of unspeakable matters” (The long island Times), O’Connor has crafted a gorgeous, delicate, and psychologically astute examine the depths to which a central authority will sink in provider of its personal energy and the power required of the human spirit to set itself loose. wonderful and unflinching, part global is either a page-turning drama and a transcendent social gathering of our enduring capability for desire.
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Additional resources for Half World: A Novel
Whenever it stopped of its own accord at one of those holes bordered with thorns that farmers dig along the edge of their ploughed land, Charles, waking with a start, would quickly remember the broken leg, and try to recall all the fractures that he knew. It was no longer raining; day was breaking, and, on the leaﬂess branches of the apple trees, birds sat motionless, ﬂuﬃng out their tiny feathers in the cold morning wind. The ﬂat landscape extended as far as the eye could see, the clumps of trees round the farms making widely spaced splashes of dark purple on that vast grey surface which, at the horizon, merged with the dreary tones of the sky.
When he entered Les Bertaux his horse took fright, and shied violently. It was a prosperous-looking farm. Through the open half-doors of the stables you could see huge draught horses placidly feeding from brand-new mangers. A stream of vapour arose from the big manureheap that ﬂanked the buildings, and, standing out among the hens and turkeys, ﬁve or six peacocks––that luxury of Pays de Caux farmyards––were pecking for food. The sheep-run was long and the barn tall, with walls as smooth as the back of your hand.
Père Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. They put oﬀ any discussion of money matters, there was plenty of time for that, since the marriage could not decently take place before the end of Charles’s mourning, that is to say, not until the following spring. The winter passed in waiting. Mademoiselle Rouault busied herself with her trousseau. Part of it was ordered from Rouen, and she made herself nightgowns and nightcaps with the help of fashionplates which she borrowed. During the visits Charles made to the Madame Bovary farm they talked about the preparations for the wedding, wondering which room they’d use for the wedding feast, how many courses they’d have, and what particular dishes they’d serve.