The Philosopher's Apprentice: A Novel
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A brilliant philosopher with a talent for self-destruction, Mason Ambrose gratefully accepts an offer no starving ethicist could refuse. He must travel to a private tropical island and tutor Londa Sabacthani, a beautiful, brilliant adolescent who has lost both her memory and her moral sense in a freak accident. Londa's soul is an empty vessel—and Mason's job will be to fill it.
But all is not as it seems on Isla de Sangre. Londa's reclusive mother is secretly sheltering a second child whose conscience is a blank slate. Even as the mystery deepens, Mason confronts a frightening question: What will happen when Londa, her head crammed with lofty ideals and her bank account filled to bursting, ventures out to remake our fallen world in her own image?
this?” “You haven’t done it yet, but you will. Listen, darling. I just got off the phone with Colonel Fox. Our liberated hostages are still behaving badly. It would appear that their new and improved pineal glands have atrophied.” “You expected otherwise?” She pointedly ignored my question. “In keeping with Dame Quixote’s ultimatum, I should call Colonel Fox back and arrange for Pielmeister to join his fellow incorrigibles on the foremast—unless you think Gittikac, Wintergreen, or North would
Washington Post March,” and a roller coaster subjecting a dozen diminutive passengers to its scale-model vicissitudes. As I gaped in appreciation, the tree planter introduced himself as Brock Hawes, “the sensitive half of the relationship, Henry being in charge of dental appointments and balancing the checkbook.” “Donya, will you excuse us, darling?” Henry said. “The adults need to talk.” “I want to stay here,” Donya said. “Sorry, tomato,” Henry said. “You can’t make me go.” “Donya…” “If
clearing ringed by ferns. From his backpack he withdrew a bag of figs, a bunch of bananas, and a flask of Hawaiian Punch, immediately convening a jungle picnic for Donya and himself, leaving the rest of us to continue the ceremony on our own. For the next hour, we eulogized Edwina with anecdotes. Brock described her touching attempts to enter the universe of Donya’s miniature amusement park. Javier praised Edwina’s financial generosity, most especially her insistence on paying for his father’s
neither received nor deserved an Oscar, but having seen Searching for My Soul, I’m ready to give him one.” We moved on. Davy Crockett’s confession, a tour de force called Moon Over Bexar, took as its theme the dubious ideals of the Alamo defenders: how they were ultimately seeking to found a republic in which they could own West African slaves, the Mexican government in its wisdom having outlawed that controversial institution. While the beaker freak’s bucolic locutions seemed completely
running the numbers,” she said. “Our present civilian population is three thousand seventeen. I immediately subtracted the orphans and pregnant teens, also the zombie troupers—there’s no time to reprogram them for defilade—which gave me a hypothetical fighting force of two thousand and fifty-eight, including professional staff and maintenance workers. Next I conducted an informal survey and learned that about a third of those potential defenders, six hundred and eighty-five, are prepared to take