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In Furiously Happy, #1 New York Times bestselling author Jenny Lawson explores her lifelong battle with mental illness. A hysterical, ridiculous book about crippling depression and anxiety? That sounds like a terrible idea.

But terrible ideas are what Jenny does best.

As Jenny says:

"Some people might think that being 'furiously happy' is just an excuse to be stupid and irresponsible and invite a herd of kangaroos over to your house without telling your husband first because you suspect he would say no since he's never particularly liked kangaroos. And that would be ridiculous because no one would invite a herd of kangaroos into their house. Two is the limit. I speak from personal experience. My husband says that none is the new limit. I say he should have been clearer about that before I rented all those kangaroos.

"Most of my favorite people are dangerously fucked-up but you'd never guess because we've learned to bare it so honestly that it becomes the new normal. Like John Hughes wrote in The Breakfast Club, 'We're all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it.' Except go back and cross out the word 'hiding.'"

Furiously Happy is about "taking those moments when things are fine and making them amazing, because those moments are what make us who we are, and they're the same moments we take into battle with us when our brains declare war on our very existence. It's the difference between "surviving life" and "living life". It's the difference between "taking a shower" and "teaching your monkey butler how to shampoo your hair." It's the difference between being "sane" and being "furiously happy."

Lawson is beloved around the world for her inimitable humor and honesty, and in Furiously Happy, she is at her snort-inducing funniest. This is a book about embracing everything that makes us who we are - the beautiful and the flawed - and then using it to find joy in fantastic and outrageous ways. Because as Jenny's mom says, "Maybe 'crazy' isn't so bad after all." Sometimes crazy is just right.

• Sales Rank: #3803 in eBooks
• Published on: 2015-09-22
• Released on: 2015-09-22
• Format: Kindle eBook

Amazon.com Review

An Amazon Best Book of September 2015: Jenny Lawson follows up her marvelous debut Let’s Pretend This Never Happened with her determination to be furiously happy: she will seize the strangest and most glorious moments of her life while she stares down her depression, severe anxiety, avoidant personality disorder, and much more—and dares it to stop her. Furiously Happy is not only a battle cry but a delirious seesaw of a memoir. One moment you swoop upward as Lawson relates her attempts to hold a koala in Australia while wearing a koala costume and explains her quirky love for taxidermied animals (who must be dead from natural causes only), and you’re giggling like a three-year-old. Then your stomach drops like an artillery shell when Lawson exposes the dark side of her mental illnesses: trying not to cut herself and holing up in her bedroom for days on end. The ups and downs make this a difficult book to read all in one go. However, Lawson uses both her hilarious and heartbreaking episodes to camouflage so many life lessons and biting observations. (A poignant example: when cancer victims don’t respond to medication, no one blames the cancer victim; people with mental illness don’t get the same respect.) This is a book you’ll want to savor. Whether or not you too suffer from depression, you’ll turn the last page fired up by Lawson’s conviction that you can be furiously happy no matter what life hurls at you.--Adrian Liang

Review

“Jenny made me laugh so hard I feared for my safety! I think that's how she was able to get past my defenses and make me feel more okay about myself.” ―Allie Brosh, author of Hyperbole and a Half

“You'll laugh, wince, writhe in discomfort, cry, then laugh again. You might even feel the need to buy a raccoon. But the two things you'll never do is doubt Jenny's brilliance or her fearlessness when it comes to having honest discussions about mental illness, shame, and the power of human resilience. She's changing the conversation one rented sloth at a time.” ―Brené Brown, Ph.D., LMSW, author of the #1 New York Times Bestseller, Daring Greatly

“I freaked strangers out by snort-laughing on the subway and in restaurants. I can't stop talking about this book to friends. I'll shut up now and let you resume your life but buy this book. It's AMAZING.” ―Paul Fischer, author of A Kim Jong-Il Production

“The Bloggess writes stuff that actually is laugh-out-loud, but you know that really you shouldn't be laughing and probably you'll go to hell for laughing, so maybe you shouldn't read it. That would be safer and wiser.” ―Neil Gaiman

“Even when I was funny, I wasn't this funny.” ―Augusten Burroughs, author of Running with Scissors and This Is How

“Lawson's self-deprecating humor is not only gaspingly funny and wonderfully inappropriate; it allows her to speak...in a real and raw way.” ―O, The Oprah Magazine

“[Lawson] writes with a rambling irreverence that makes you wish she were your best friend.” ―Entertainment Weekly

“Take one part David Sedaris and two parts Chelsea Handler and you'll have some inkling of the cockeyed humor of Jenny Lawson...[She] flaunts the sort of fearless comedic chops that will make you spurt Diet Coke through your nose.” ―Parade

About the Author
JENNY LAWSON, The Bloggess, is an award-winning humor writer known for her great candor in sharing her struggle with depression and mental illness. Her two memoirs, Let's Pretend This Never Happened and Furiously Happy, were #1 New York Times bestsellers.

Most helpful customer reviews

15 of 15 people found the following review helpful.
Thank God for Amazon's Daily Deals
By Whistlers Mom
Last year I bought this author's hilarious LET'S PRETEND THIS NEVER HAPPENED when it was a Daily Deal and enjoyed it enormously. I didn't know that she had written a second book until it showed as a Daily Deal and I grabbed it and stopped reading the book I was in the middle of to wolf it down. (Figuratively speaking, of course.)

Her first book is a memoir of her bizarre childhood. It's presented in a comic manner and I suspect that many readers will be upset to learn that her life hasn't been non-stop laughs. Not that this one isn't wet-your-pants funny in parts, but Ms. Lawson's main goal here is to discuss her life-long battle with depression and she does so in a way that's peculiarly her own. (And sometimes just peculiar.) Mental illness is the Final Frontier of medicine and we still can't fully convinced ourselves that it's not "all in your head." Of course, it IS "all in your head" but that doesn't make it less debilitating or easier to treat. The societal costs of untreated or poorly treated mental illness in terms of suicide, unemployment or underemployment, incarceration, etc. has never been calculated. Maybe we just don't want to think about it.

This is an inside look at chronic depression from a woman who has struggled all of her life and will continue to do so. Barring a miracle cure, there are no happy endings for those with chronic depression. But there can be happy days and hours and minutes in between the misery and Jenny valiantly grabs every one of them and savors it. If you have ever suffered from depression or if you love someone who has, you should read this book.

I remember reading LET'S PRETEND and thinking that it must have been uncomfortable growing up with a father whose idea of parenting was waking his little daughters up and telling them that he had brought them a pet squirrel. The "pet" was road-kill that Dad had gutted and was using as a hand puppet. Not exactly the sort of childhood memory that makes it into the eulogy, right? But it turns out that having a taxidermist father has some advantages after all. When her stuffed road-kill raccoon suffers a Las Vegas-related accident, Pop was able to fashion new hands and feet for it. [Incidentally, road-kill isn't really a literary "theme" in these books. It's just something that Texas has a LOT of.]

This family has been given enough lemons to keep a lemonade stand going indefinitely. I admire this lady (and her wonderful husband!) more than I can say. She is a beacon of hope for those who live in the shadows. God bless her.

24 of 25 people found the following review helpful.
best. book. ever.
By erin g
CAUTION - do not read this on an airplane when people are trying to sleep around you. do not drink water while reading. you will laugh out loud and wake people up and/or (probably both) spit out your water onto your kindle! happened to me. just a warning!

Jenny Lawson's second book does not disappoint. If you are a fan of funny things, or if you have suffered from mental illnesses (or know someone who does) this will hit you in all the right places. it will tickle your funnybone, and at times it might make you tear up. i had quite a range of emotions just in the first few chapters. in fact, i haven't even finished it yet but i am confident that it deserves more than 5 stars. i am going to write a note to Amazon, picketing for more than 5 stars! - this is at least 6 stars worth of funny!!!!

you do not need to read Jenny's first book to jump into this one, in case you were wondering, however, i strongly suggest reading it to get a lot of references that she discusses and to get a better background on her family and upbringing. it will give you the back story on Beyonce the chicken, and also taxidermy. you may even want to head over to her blog (thebloggess.com) for a little taste of her humor and insight.

i also suggest to read the entire book including the preface and such that you might normally skip over. this book is great, and i cannot wait for her next one!!!! i also suggest getting the hard copy over kindle because i am a little mad that i don't have the cute Rory cover to look at!

PS- tip- when Jenny travels to do book signings and such, she often stops in the airport bookstores and signs copies! follow her on instagram to see where she is doing mystery signings to get yourself a backup copy!

4 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
Hilariously funny and fun--and insightful
By Theresa Alan
Depression and anxiety and physical pain don’t sound like the stuff of comedy, but Jenny Lawson makes her quirks and disorders hilarious. Also, she makes my level of anxiety disorder seem hardly disorderly, which is comforting. Through a series of essays on everything from overscheduled kids to her terror of keeping track of her expenses to deal with the accountant, she talks about dealing with the minutia of life through the lens of someone who is also dealing with often debilitating mental disorders. There are several quotable moments in this series of essays. For those of us who battle depression: “We find ourselves unable to do anything but cling to the couch and force ourselves to breathe.”

And: “When you come out of the grips of depression, you are a survivor who doesn’t get a pat on the back or congratulations from coworkers.”

And: “’Just cheer up’ is an almost universally looked at as the most unhelpful cure ever. It’s pretty much the equivalent of telling someone who just had their legs amputated to ‘just walk it off.’”

She points out that mental illness is a severe chemical imbalance and not just “having a case of the Mondays.”

She recommends enjoying the non-shi@#y things in life and reminds us that even when everything is going our way, we can still be sad.
Even for folks who don’t battle anxiety disorder and clinical depression (as opposed to situational depression when you lose a loved one or a job or something), this is a hilarious, fun book. This is her second book, but the first of hers I read. I look forward to reading her first book Let’s Pretend This Never Happened.

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[N116.Ebook] Ebook The Kindness of Enemies: A Novel, by Leila Aboulela

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“A versatile prose stylist... [Aboulela’s] lyrical style and incisive portrayal of Muslims living in the West received praise from the Nobel Prize winner J. M. Coetzee... [she is] a voice for multiculturalism.”—New York Times

It’s 2010 and Natasha, a half Russian, half Sudanese professor of history, is researching the life of Imam Shamil, the 19th century Muslim leader who led the anti-Russian resistance in the Caucasian War. When shy, single Natasha discovers that her star student, Oz, is not only descended from the warrior but also possesses Shamil’s priceless sword, the Imam’s story comes vividly to life. As Natasha’s relationship with Oz and his alluring actress mother intensifies, Natasha is forced to confront issues she had long tried to avoid—that of her Muslim heritage. When Oz is suddenly arrested at his home one morning, Natasha realizes that everything she values stands in jeopardy.

Told with Aboulela’s inimitable elegance and narrated from the point of view of both Natasha and the historical characters she is researching, The Kindness of Enemies is both an engrossing story of a provocative period in history and an important examination of what it is to be a Muslim in a post 9/11 world.

• Sales Rank: #424146 in Books
• Published on: 2016-01-05
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 9.20" h x 1.10" w x 6.30" l, .0 pounds
• Binding: Hardcover
• 320 pages

Review
Praise for THE KINDNESS OF ENEMIES:

An Amazon Best Book of the Month

“An absorbing novel . . . reminds us of the complexity of the web woven by those threads of faith, nationality, politics and history.”—New York Times Book Review

“A rich, multilayered story, a whole syllabus of compelling topics. As a novelist, Aboulela moves confidently between dramatizing urgent, contemporary issues and providing her audience with sufficient background to follow these discussions about the changing meaning of jihad, the history of Sufism and the racial politics of the war on terror.”—Washington Post

“Our political narrative of the war on terror too often reads like ‘Harry Potter,’ with forces of good and evil neatly and absolutely demarcated. Aboulela has written a book for grown-ups, one whose complexity is born of compassion, that speaks more forcefully than a thousand opinion pieces. By charting the pattern of human folly down the generations, she has done more than breathe life into legend. She has made the story of an obscure 19th century warrior topical and the story of three ordinary citizens in 21st century Scotland timeless.”—Anthony Marra, San Francisco Chronicle

"Riveting . . . [a novel] about the wish and murmur of lives lived centuries ago— what they tell us and how we exalt them, long for them, look to them to make our existence sufferable and better still, interesting. There is a tremendous amount going on in The Kindness of Enemies—but it does not crowd the reader. Rather, it hums in hushed and meditative tones through prisoners of war in historic and contemporary fantasy rooted in reality."—LA Times

“Radiant with historical detail and vivid descriptions . . . The entire novel is, in many ways, an extended rumination on the complexities of being Muslim in the West, but it is also an invitation to see identity as more variegated than the either/or distillations of the Global War on Terror . . . an excellent historical lens through which to project a complex and, seemingly, contradictory Islamic identity from the past into the present . . . The Kindness of Enemies reads as a well-crafted but quiet plea for the kind of humanism that once allowed enemies to respect one another.”—Los Angeles Review of Books

"Timely, vastly important, and brilliantly engaging."—Bustle, 17 Of January 2016's Best Books To Fire Up Your New Year

"A fascinating combination of Leo Tolstoy’s Hadji Murat and A.S. Byatt’s Possession."—The Millions, Most Anticipated Books of 2016

“Leila Aboulela’s The Kindness of Enemies...recreates the fascinating story of the rebel of the Caucasus, Imam Samil, a 19th-century warrior who battled to defend his home against the invading Russians and united the Muslims of the region under his iconic leadership. Weaving the story of his relationship with a Georgian princess he kidnapped into a more contemporary story of mistaken terrorism, we learn much about the nature of loss, the legacy of exile, and the meaning of home at a time in our world when all three are high in our minds.”
—Mariella Forstrup, The Guardian Best Books of 2015

"A richly imagined novel about a half-Russian, half-Sudanese professor whose studies of a 19th-century Muslim leader become a portal into his world. The story alternates between two narratives: his in the Caucasus Mountains of the 1830s and hers in the present day.”—Travel + Leisure

"In this remarkable and highly suspenseful novel Leila Aboulela moves back and forth between contemporary Scotland, where everyone is on the watch for terrorism, and nineteenth century Russia, where Iman Shamil is fighting for his freedom. The Kindness of Enemies is a wonderful evocation of faith and fate and what it means to be an outsider."—Margot Livesey

“Aboulela challenges readers with thought-provoking ideas about the meaning of jihad,then and now, and demonstrates how ignorance of another’s beliefs prohibits us from embracing our common humanity.”—Library Journal

“Aboulela, winner of the Caine Prize, pens an ambitious tri-continental story covering more than 200 years and tackling themes of Islamic faith, personal heritage, and the disparity between academic and personal reconstructions of historic events...a nuanced story of identity and sense of place.”—Publishers Weekly

"Aboulela seamlessly moves between 2010 Scotland and the stories set in the nineteenth century and shows how complex geopolitical processes can lead to unlikely alliances...an astute exploration of the fluidity of identity that proves just how ineffective a check-the-boxes approach to the issue can truly be."—Booklist

“Aboulela makes it clear not only that the current conflict between East and West has old roots, but also that "East" and "West" are little more than convenient fictions. . . . . Aboulela is a great storyteller, and she writers with clarity and elegance. A pleasurable and engaging read for fans of both contemporary and historical fiction.”—Kirkus Reviews

About the Author
Leila Aboulela won the first Caine Prize for African Writing. She is the author of four books: Lyrics Alley; The Translator, a New York Times 100 Notable Book of the Year; Minaret; and a book of short stories, Colored Lights.

Excerpt. � Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Scotland, December 2010

Allah was inscribed on the blade in gold. Malak read the Arabic aloud to me. She looked more substantial than my first impression; an ancient orator, a mystic in shawls that rustled. The sword felt heavy in my hand; iron-steel, its smooth hilt of animal horn. I had not imagined it would be beautiful. But there was artistry in the vegetal decorations and Ottoman skill from the blade’s smooth curve down to its deadly tip. A cartouche I could not make out. I put my thumb on the crossbar – long ago Imam Shamil’s hand had gripped this. Malak said the sword had been in her family for generations. ‘If I ever become penniless, I will show it to the Antiques Roadshow,’ she laughed, and offered me tea. It was still snowing outside, the roads were likely to become blocked, but I wanted to stay longer, I wanted to know more. I put the sword back into its scabbard. With care, almost with respect, she mounted it on the wall again.

I followed her to the kitchen. It felt unusual to walk in my socks through a stranger’s house. Malak had asked me to take off my boots at the door and she herself was wearing light leather slip-ons. The house suited her with its rugs of burgundy and browns, cushions for what must be a seating area on the floor and more Islamic calligraphy on the walls. One tapestry took up the whole side of the sitting room, its large rugged words stitched in green. It looked like a banner carried by a charging horseman. Whatever these letters symbolized was the reason men left the comforts of their homes for the collision of the battlefield. Or was that too idealized an interpretation? My childhood memory of the Arabic alphabet had become hazy and the letters were not easy to distinguish. Malak might read the words out to me. Remarkable that a successful actor would choose to move to such an isolated farmhouse. Even the nearest town, Brechin, was miles away. And this home did not look like a bolthole, an excuse to visit her student son now and again. It looked settled, lived in. Malak Raja had turned her back on London, carried her furniture and family heirlooms north. ‘I brought the scimitar by train,’ she said, scooping tea leaves. ‘I knew I wouldn’t be able to get it past security at Heathrow.’
I took my notebook out and laid it open on the kitchen table. I thought she would be used to media interviews. But I had looked her up on Google and, surprisingly, there were none. Only a list of her roles and a brief description: Born in Baghdad of Persian and Russian ancestry . . . has a diverse range of accents . . . trained at the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School. Her roles were too minor to merit interviews. Perhaps the female equivalent of Yul Brynner or Ben Kingsley was doomed not to fare as well. Malak Raja had been one of Macbeth’s witches on stage; she was an auntie in Bombay Barista, a mother in the BBC’s new Conan the Barbarian. Recently she had played the wife of a beleaguered Iranian ambassador in Spooks and the voice of a viper in a Disney cartoon. Later when we became friends she told me that being a viper was lucrative.

Now at her kitchen table, instead of listening to my questions, she asked me about myself. The tea smelled of cinnamon and threatened a memory. She knew only what her son had told her. ‘And you know what boys are like,’ she twisted her bangles. ‘They never tell their mothers everything.’ She called him Ossie. His friends and teachers called him Oz. We were all eager to avoid his true name, Osama.

I too had an unfortunate name, my surname. One that I nagged my mother and stepfather to change. It was good that I did that; had I waited for marriage, I would have waited in vain. ‘Imagine,’ I said, ‘arriving in London in the summer of 1990, fourteen years old, just as Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. Imagine an unfamiliar school, a teacher saying to the class, “We have a new student from Sudan. Her name is Natasha Hussein.”’ From the safe distance of the future, I joined my classmates in laughing out loud.

Malak grunted with sympathy. ‘Oh they must have had a field day with you!’ Behind her through the window, the snow was falling, grey and continuous like static on a television screen.

I felt a slight drop of fatigue. I had been tense these past few days preparing for yesterday’s talk. The previous night I had hardly slept, post-presentation euphoria and that unexpected new thread. I had started with ‘Thank you for coming out in this freezing weather.’ For a Monday at 8 p.m., it was a good turnout, boosted by the History Society’s new introduction of refreshments. There was also a decent showing from the Muslim Society, drawn no doubt by the title, ‘Jihad as Resistance – Russian Imperial Expansion and Insurrection in the Caucasus’. When they realised that my focus was Imam Shamil’s leadership from 1830 to 1859 rather than the present, they seemed a little restless. Sensitive to their attention span, I finished ten minutes earlier than planned. The Q&A session started with predictable questions from my colleagues that reflected their own research interests. Then a young girl in hijab asked, ‘Are you a Muslim?’ It was easy to dismiss the query as irrelevant, even silly. I laughed and that made her face flush with embarrassment. She was sitting next to Oz and I got the impression that they had come together. He was one of my brightest students, the one who asked the good questions in class, the one I found myself preparing my lectures for, pointing out an extra reference to, making that little bit more of an effort. Like turning back to the mirror to dab on another bit of make-up before an important meeting.

Oz disappointed me at the Q&A session by not saying anything. Perhaps I even turned to him when the laughter died, expecting at least a response. But he just looked past me, out of the window, at the first flakes of snow. After the talk, as I was putting my laptop away, he came up to me and said that his mother’s descendants were from the Caucasus and that she could tell me more. ‘Call her,’ he said, his hands in the back of his jeans, his trouser legs tucked into big white trainers. ‘She can tell you more, personal stuff too.’ He took out his mobile phone. ‘Here’s her number, she won’t mind at all. Come over and see our sword. A real one that was used for jihad, I’m not kidding!’

When I called Malak the following morning and she said, ‘Come now if you like,’ I jumped in the car and drove all the way with my windscreen wipers flapping away at the falling snow. I was on a high when I held the sword, knowing that it was a privilege, hoping for a breakthrough. No, I was not here to talk about myself. She had lured me this far like a fortune teller. I was usually restrained, keeping back the shards and useless memories. I had worked too hard to fit in. To be here and now. That’s how I wanted to appear – topical, relevant, and despite my research interest, inhabiting the present. And now the mention of my father’s name stalled me, I teetered on the brink of the usual revulsion. If I had been Dr Hussein, the girl wouldn’t have asked me if I were Muslim. And yet still I would have had to explain the non-Muslim Natasha. Better like this, not even Muslim by name.

Many Muslims in Britain wished that no one knew they were Muslim. They would change their names if they could and dissolve into the mainstream for it was not enough for them to openly condemn 9/11 and 7/7, not enough to walk against the wall, to raise a glass of champagne, to eat in the light of Ramadan and never step into a mosque or say the shahada or touch the Qur’an. All this was not enough, though most people were too polite to say it. All these actions somehow fell short of the complete irrevocable dissolution that was required. Yet children pick up vibes, they know more than they can express, they feel and understand before learning the words for a particular emotion or idea. Many of the young Muslims I taught throughout the years couldn’t wait to bury their dark, badly dressed immigrant parents who never understood what was happening around them or even took an interest, who walked down high streets as if they were still in a village, who obsessed about halal meat and arranged marriages and were so impractical, so arrogant as to imagine that their children would stay loyal. Instead their children grew up as chameleons not only shifting their colours at will, but able to focus on two opposing goals at the same time. They grew up reptiles plotting to silence their parents’ voices, to muffle their poor accents, their miseries, their shuffling feet, their lives of toil and bafflement, their dated ideas of the British Empire, their gratitude because they remembered all too clearly the dead-ends they had left behind.
I was actually one of the lucky ones. I was one of the ones who saw the signs early on in the tricksy ways of school children, in the way my mother, snow-white as she was, was disliked for being Russian. I saw the writing on the wall and I was not too proud to take a short-cut to the exit.

Oz brought in a flurry of snow with him. He stood stamping his wellies, taking off his scarf and gloves. Melting snow gleamed on his hair and I could tell that his lips were numb. The news of the snow-storm was not reassuring. ‘Some of the trains are cancelled; I had to change twice. Here, Malak, I got you the vitamins you asked for.’ He used her first name as if he was indulging her. He seemed more grown-up in her presence. Perhaps his role was to be the steady responsible son so that she could be the ditzy artistic parent. Yet I had seen in him too the inclination for theatre. Oz liked to make his classmates laugh at his impersonations of politicians. He once had me laughing out loud when he used a clothes hanger and did Abu Hamza, the hook-handed cleric. Shaking the snow off his coat, he hung it behind the door. ‘When I got out of the station the bus wasn’t there and all the taxis were taken. The roads are pretty bad. I walked because it was quicker than hanging around waiting for the bus.’
‘Poor Ossie,’ drawled Malak without much sympathy. This was a sharper side of her, a glimpse of the mother who had handed him calmly to babysitters, tucked him into boarding school during a messy divorce, gazed past him as if he never existed while she was practising for a new role. I guessed he was not a child who was encouraged to complain, a child who learnt to search for comfort away from her.

He turned to me. ‘Did you see the sword? It belonged to Imam Shamil.’

‘We can’t be a hundred per cent sure.’ Malak ran her finger through her hair.

‘It could have belonged to someone else.’

‘You haven’t told her yet, have you?’ He was excited or just flushed from his walk in the cold. He drew out a chair but didn’t sit down. He looked straight into my eyes and later, I would remember that focused look, the youthful energy in the voice. ‘Imam Shamil is my . . . is our,’ a quick glance at his mother to include her, ‘great, great, great – not exactly sure how many greats I should say – grandfather! We are descended through his son, Ghazi.’

My delight was muted by my mobile which, now on silent, buzzed again. It was Tony, who since my mother’s death has been plaguing me with his sadness. Every other evening tears and long-winded confessions of guilt – he had not looked after her enough, he had not urged her to see a specialist soon enough. It was earlier than usual for him; on most days he only started to unravel after six. I rejected his call. I would not act as his grief counsellor today.

I said to Malak, ‘Did you know that Queen Victoria supported Imam Shamil? His picture was on the front page of the London Times with a call for the English to be,’ I made quotation marks with my fingers, ‘“the generous defenders of liberty against the brutal forces of the Russian Empire.”’

Malak made a face at her son. ‘Queen Victoria championed a jihad.’
Oz sat down. ‘Don’t be naive, Malak. If Russia took over the Caucasus, it would have threatened India. Besides, the word “jihad” then didn’t have the same connotation it has now.’

‘Ever since 9/11, jihad has become synonymous with terrorism,’ she said. ‘I blame the Wahabis and Salafists for this. Jihad is an internal and spiritual struggle.’

‘But this is not entirely true. If someone hits us, we need to hit back.’
‘It’s better to forgive.’

‘No it’s not. Limiting jihad to an internal struggle has become a bandwagon for every pacifist Muslim to climb on. You Sufis . . . ’ he wagged his finger at his mother.

‘Am I a Sufi? Do you see me as such? Then you are doing me a great honour.’

‘You’re a wannabe, Malak. Besides, what choice do you have? Actresses aren’t exactly welcome in mosques.’ He gave a little laugh but I could tell that he was having a dig at his mother.

‘I couldn’t care less what conservative Muslims think of me, but a wannabe Sufi? Really!’ she looked at me and rolled her eyes. I smiled.

‘Yes, of course with your chants and spiritual retreats,’ he continued. ‘Plus you’re interrupting. I was saying that you Sufis play down your historical role in jihad. Most fighters against European Imperialism were Sufis. And Imam Shamil is a prime example. He was the head of a Sufi order.’

This was not new to me. But this stress on Sufism was not an angle I had previously considered to be important. I needed to reconsider. Shamil’s Sufism might well be what I needed to refine my research direction.

Malak replied, ‘Every fight Shamil fought was on the defence. He was protecting his villages against Russian attack. And surrender to the Russians would have meant the end of their traditional way of life, the end of Islam in Dagestan. The Russians were so brutal they often didn’t take prisoners of war. By comparison Shamil’s generals were scholarly and disciplined. This type of jihad is different from the horrible crimes of al-Qaeda.’

‘I agree, but still it was guerrilla warfare . . . ’ reiterated her son.

‘No it wasn’t.’

He grinned. ‘Malak, you think guerrilla warfare is what you see in the movies! Shamil understood that he couldn’t pitch a direct battle against the tsar’s large and well-equipped army so he lured sections of them up the mountains. He tricked them into dividing and then launched attacks at them.’

‘Well that is a clever thing to do.’

‘That cleverness is guerrilla tactics.’

But Malak wasn’t going to be shaken. ‘Listen Oz, the door of jihad is closed. Jihad needs an imam and there is no imam now. Jihad is for upholding the values of Allah; it’s not for scoring political points, it’s not for land, it’s not for rights, it’s not for autonomy.’

‘It’s for getting us power over our enemies. Jihad is not something we should be ashamed of.’

‘What we are ashamed of is what is done in its name. Not every Muslim war is a jihad. Not suicide bombers or attacking civilians.’

I said, ‘The mufti of Bosnia said that Muslims shouldn’t use the word “jihad” and Christians shouldn’t use the word “crusade”.’

‘See,’ said Malak with a sharp look at her son.

‘Well, I shall use it,’ Oz glared back at her. He sounded bitter. ‘If Shamil were here today he wouldn’t have sat back and let Muslim countries be invaded. He wouldn’t have given up on Palestine and he wouldn’t have accepted the two-faced wimps we have as leaders.’

His voice was unnecessarily loud. The slight tension that followed made me conscious of the time. ‘I really should be going. If the snow is going to get worse, then I might make it if I leave now.’ I stood up but not without reluctance.

And it was perhaps because of this desire to stay that I succumbed to the following sequence of events. Their drive was thick with snow and I was unable to get my car to the main road. Phone calls to local cab companies elicited the same response – they were unwilling to venture that far out into the countryside on a night like this. Around nine in the evening, I accepted Malak’s repeated invitation to stay the night. It seemed the sensible thing to do.

Most helpful customer reviews

10 of 11 people found the following review helpful.
Beautifully Written
By PIA
In this beautifully written book by Leila Aboulela there are two stories: One is the story of Natasha, half Sudanese-half Russian, who has grown up in Scotland and lost all of her roots. The other is the story of Imam Shamil, a Muslim warrior battling the Russians in the 19th century and of Princess Anna of Georgia, whom he takes hostage in exchange for the return of his son Jamaleldin, who in turn has been a hostage of the Tsar since he was a young boy.

This is a book in which most of characters have a feeling that they don't belong: Natasha because of her mixed heritage, Oz the descendant of Imam Shamil, Princess Anna who has to consider herself Russian, and Jamaleldin who has lived as a Russian since he was a young boy.

There is also another very important element in this book, and it is to show how complicated it is to be a Muslim in the 21st century. How anything you do might be misinterpreted and investigated.

Through all the despair this characters feel, is there some hope for them? That is what Leila Aboulela writes about, of finding yourself (or trying to) amidst the despair and the sadness.
And though not all her characters manage to reach a happy ending (the book is more serious than just wishing for happy endings), they do achieve a sense of peace that made me, as a reader, completely enjoy this book.

I received an ARC of this book in exchange for an honest review.

3 of 3 people found the following review helpful.
Unintended Consequences of Having Children
By David Island
“The Kindness of Enemies”, a novel by Leila Aboulela, is actually 2 books in one, with more than 160 years separating the 2 story lines. The stories are connected only loosely (and inconsequentially) by the 2010 story-teller of Book 1 and her research interest in an enduring leader from the never-ending battle of resistance in the 1850s in the Caucasus Mountains in the small Asian country we know as Georgia. Book 1 is told in first person. Book 2 is narrated. There is a strong theme of praise for Islam throughout the book, with many key players being Muslim.

Book 2 is a far better book. It is more interesting, better written, and far more engrossing -- from beginning to end. The characters are more fascinating than the modern day persons in Book 1, (which takes place in Scotland and The Sudan), especially the primary players. The first-person story-teller of Book 1 is, unfortunately, not very likable and suffers from over-self-indulgence, spending too much time in her head, and with serious identity confusion, whereas the 3 or 4 primary characters in Book 2 are each and collectively sympathetic, likable and almost regal.

How this writing, plotting, and literary dichotomy between the modern day and 1850’s stories occurred is a mystery. It’s almost as if the writing itself reflects a possible decline of elegance and sophistication implicit in modern society. But its divisive effect dimmed my appreciation for the author’s skill and imagination. A reader really needs Book 2 to endure the much less appealing story in Book 1, despite the unsuccessful attempt to insert a Muslim “terrorist” sub-plot at one point. Luckily the episodes in each book are relatively short, and so one is switched back and forth quickly between the stories, thus preserving an overall sense of interest in the whole.

The really good aspect of both stories is that each is populated by numerous characters of differing genetic and cultural backgrounds. Thus, their sociological and ethnic identities are either mixed or centered in specific cultural certainties and ethos. Russian, Chechen, and Sudanese cultural backgrounds are central. In Book 2, the story revolves around the then-led Russian Tsar Nicholas’ long battle to annex Georgia from the fiercely independent (and today we might say “backward”) Islamic Chechens from their mountainous villages and their indomitable leader Shamil. In Book 1, the main character Natasha Wilson (having changed her family name from its original Sudanese Hussein) fights for her own identity. She is � black Sudanese and � white Russian. In Book 2, Alexander, the son of Shamil, loses his fight to re-integrate himself back into Muslim Chechen society after 15 years as a not unwilling hostage growing up in St. Petersburg. There is no denouement for either story or the book as a single entity. The story just stops at the end, similar to many episodes throughout the book, with nothing to bring closure to events. The end of both stories is disappointing.

What struck me (as a parent and as a citizen of the world) is the primary statement made by the book about how, when children are made by parents who have moved widely in the world to find their mates, little attention is given to their ultimate identity when they grow up and just how they, as adults, will successfully form their own sense of belonging to wherever it is they settle. Thus, an unintended consequence of having children with mixed cultural backgrounds often imposes on those children stress, anxiety and identity confusion despite the positive aspect of an immensely rich cultural life, with the additional joys of multilingualism. In this book, some of the main characters who were held as hostages (as either children or adults) adopt the values and sensibilities of their captors, just as do those also who are not held hostage but rather make conscious, deliberate decisions about where to live. It seems a natural, if unintended, consequence of having multicultural children.

The best part of the book occurs when a hostage exchange is made by the Russians and Chechens. In a strong way, neither of the exchanged adults really wants to return to their former life.

All in all, the book as a whole is a 3.55, with Book 1 (modern day) at 2.40 and Book 2 (1850s Russia) at 4.75.

2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
Life for a Muslim is not always easy nowadays. I did not receive any type of ...
By Tony Parsons
Dr. Natasha Wilson (PhD, Islamic studies, 1/2 Russian, 1/2 Sudanese) is researching the life of Imam Shamil (Muslim leader, Sufi order) who had once led an anti-Russian resistance during the Caucasian ruling (1854, Crimean War).

Where will the research take Natasha & her graduate students?

What about Osama “Oz” Raja (aka Ossie, student)?

Life for a Muslim is not always easy nowadays.

I did not receive any type of compensation for reading & reviewing this book. While I receive free books from publishers & authors, I am under no obligation to write a positive review. Only an honest one.

A very awesome book cover, great font & writing style. A very well written a flip back/forth in time historical fiction book. It was very easy for me to read/follow from start/finish & never a dull moment. There were no grammar/typo errors, nor any repetitive or out of line sequence sentences. Lots of exciting scenarios, with several twists/turns & a great set of unique characters to keep track of. This could also make another great Western culture historical fiction movie, or a mini TV series. There is no doubt in my mind this is a very easy rating of 5 stars.

Thank you for the free Goodreads; MakingConnections; Grove Press; UCP; paperback book
Tony Parsons MSW (Washburn)

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[M891.Ebook] Free Ebook Finding Ultra: Rejecting Middle Age, Becoming One of the World's Fittest Men, and Discovering Myself, by Rich Roll

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Finding Ultra is Rich Roll's incredible but true account of achieving one of the most awe-inspiring midlife physical transformations ever.

One cool evening in October 2006, the night before he was to turn forty, Rich experienced a chilling glimpse of his future. Nearly fifty pounds overweight at the time and unable to climb the stairs without stopping, he could see where his current sedentary lifestyle was taking him. Most of us look the other way when granted such a moment of clarity, but not Rich. Plunging into a new way of eating that made processed foods off limits and prioritized plant nutrition and daily training, Rich morphed -- in a matter of mere months -- from out-of-shape midlifer to endurance machine. One morning, ninety days into his physical overhaul, Rich left the house to embark on a light jog and found himself running a near marathon. It was time to scale up his goals.

How many of us take up a sport at age forty and compete for the title of the world's best within two years? Finding Ultra recounts Rich's remarkable journey to the starting line of the elite Ultraman World Championship competition, which pits the world's fittest humans against each other in a 320-mile ordeal of swimming, biking, and running. Following that test, Rich conquered an even greater one: the Epic5 Challenge -- five Ironman-distance triathlons, each on a different Hawaiian island, all completed in less than a week.

But this is much more than an edge-of-the-seat look at a series of jaw-dropping athletic feats and much more than a practical training manual for those who would attempt a similar transformation. Yes, Rich's account rivets, and yes, it instructs, providing information that will be invaluable to anyone who wants to change their physique; but this book is most notable as a powerful testament to human resiliency, for as we learn early on, Rich's childhood posed numerous physical and social challenges, and his early adulthood featured a fierce battle with alcoholism.

Ultimately, Finding Ultra is a beautifully written portrait of what willpower can accomplish. It challenges all of us to rethink what we're capable of and urges us, implicitly and explicitly, to ''go for it.''

• Sales Rank: #1755452 in Books
• Published on: 2012-05-22
• Formats: Audiobook, Unabridged
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 8
• Dimensions: 5.80" h x 1.00" w x 5.10" l, .50 pounds
• Running time: 36000 seconds
• Binding: Audio CD

Review
''Rich Roll's Finding Ultra is a testament to the power of the human spirit to overcome any obstacle, break down walls, and redefine what's possible.'' --John Brenkus, creator and host of ESPN's Sport Science and New York Times bestselling author

''You walk away from reading this book knowing you have the total power to transform your life on every level . . . Roll is immensely likeable, a most compelling storyteller, and a true shaman of health and fitness!'' --Kathy Freston, New York Times bestselling author

''If you liked Born to Run, you'll love Finding Ultra . . . one of the best books about health and fitness that I've ever read.'' --Neal D. Barnard, MD, president, Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine

''Finding Ultra is the ultimate story of hope, perseverance, and endurance against life's biggest challenges.'' --William Cope Moyers, New York Times bestselling author

''I loved this. A rare book, unusual for its honesty and willingness to bare all, that really does deserve such superlatives as 'riveting' and 'compelling.' I was moved by watching Roll conquer his demons and felt privileged to share in his eventual enlightenment. By laying it on the line, Roll absolutely wins us over.'' --Rip Esselstyn, New York Times bestselling author

''Finding Ultra'' is about a journey we all take as human beings, when we decide to pursue the impossible and live a life of mission. When I need to dig deeper, push harder, and find a little boost, Rich Roll is the guy who comes to mind. He is inspiration embodied.'' --Sanjay Gupta, MD, Emmy Award-winning chief medical correspondent for CNN and New York Times bestselling author

''This awesome piece of writing -- one part memoir, one part how-to, and one part megadose of gut truth -- reminds us to wake up and live our best life. Prepare to be entertained, but most of all, prepare to be inspired.'' -- Mel Stewart, fourteen-time national champion, former world record holder, and winner of two Olympic gold medals in swimming

''An incredibly inspirational book about achieving greatness at any age through self-belief and a positive attitude. Rich Roll is a true champion of life and sport.'' --Levi Leipheimer, two-time stage winner of the Tour de France and Olympic time-trial bronze medalist

''A tribute to the fortitude of the human spirit and the power each of us has to grab hold of our life and achieve the unexpected. For anyone who feels stuck, Rich offers sage advice on everything from relationships to lifestyle to diet to spiritual well-being.'' --Dave Zabriskie, five-time national time-trial champion in cycling

''An inspiring story of a man whose life took a tragic turn but then rebounded spectacularly. Down but not out, Rich Roll rose like a phoenix, taking the commitment to his own health to a new level and achieving a remarkable transformation. I believe everyone will be able to relate to this plant-powered athlete's riveting story and perhaps garner some inspiration for their own journey. A top read!'' --Luke McKenzie, five-time Ironman champion

''Roll has accomplished amazing things, but it is his ability to draw inspiring and uniquely insightful lessons from his experiences that sets him apart from other extreme athletes. Finding Ultra is a fascinating read full of practical tips.'' --Dean Karnazes, nationally bestselling author of Ultramarathon Man

''Finding Ultra is an inspired first-person account of fast living and even faster swimming, biking, and running that will leave you convinced of the power of your own will.'' --Brendan Brazier, Ironman triathlete, Ultra Marathon Champion, and bestselling author

About the Author
RICH ROLL has been featured on CNN and has been named one of the world's twenty-five fittest men by Men's Fitness magazine. He is a graduate of Stanford University and Cornell Law School. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and four children and, when he isn't training or competing, manages the entertainment boutique Independent Law Group.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One

A Line in the Sand

It was the night before I turned forty. That cool, late-October evening in 2006, Julie and our three kids were sound asleep as I tried to enjoy some peaceful moments in our otherwise rowdy household. My nightly routine involved losing myself in the comfort of my giant flat-screen cranked to maximum volume. While basking in the haze of Law & Order reruns, I’d put away a plate of cheeseburgers and followed that welcome head-rush with a mouthful of nicotine gum. This was just my way of relaxing, I’d convinced myself. After a hard day, I felt I deserved it, and that it was harmless.

After all, I knew about harm. Eight years earlier, I’d awoken from a multiday, blackout binge to find myself in a drug and alcohol treatment center in rural Oregon. Since then I’d miraculously gotten sober, and one day at a time was staying that way. I no longer drank. I didn’t do drugs. I figured I had the right to pig out on a little junk food.

But something happened on this birthday eve. At almost 2 a.m., I was well into my third hour of doltish television and approaching sodium toxicity with a calorie count in the thousands. With my belly full and nicotine buzz fading, I decided to call it a night. I performed a quick check on my stepsons, Tyler and Trapper, in their room off the kitchen. I loved watching them sleep. Aged eleven and ten, respectively, they’d soon be teenagers, grasping for independence. But for now, they were still pajama-clad boys in their bunk beds, dreaming of skateboarding and Harry Potter.

With the lights already out, I had begun hauling my 208-pound frame upstairs when midway I had to pause—my legs were heavy, my breathing labored. My face felt hot and I had to bend over just to catch my breath, my belly folding over jeans that no longer fit. Nauseous, I looked down at the steps I’d climbed. There were eight. About that many remained to be mounted. Eight steps. I was thirty-nine years-old and I was winded by eight steps. Man, I thought, is this what I’ve become?

Slowly, I made it to the top and entered our bedroom, careful not to wake Julie or our two-year-old daughter, Mathis, snuggled up against her mom in our bed—my two angels, illuminated by the moonlight coming through the window. Holding still, I paused to watch them sleep, waiting for my pulse to slow. Tears began to trickle down my face as I was overcome by a confusing mix of emotions—love, certainly, but also guilt, shame, and a sudden and acute fear. In my mind, a crystal-clear image flashed of Mathis on her wedding day, smiling, flanked by her proud groomsmen brothers and beaming mother. But in this waking dream, I knew something was profoundly amiss. I wasn’t there. I was dead.

A tingling sensation surfaced at the base of my neck and quickly spread down my spine as a sense of panic set in. A drop of sweat fell to the dark wood floor, and I became transfixed by the droplet, as if it were the only thing keeping me from collapsing. The tiny crystal ball foretold my grim future—that I wouldn’t live to see my daughter’s wedding day.

Snap out of it. A shake of the head, a deep inhale. I labored to the bathroom sink and splashed my face with cold water. As I lifted my head, I caught my reflection in the mirror. And froze. Gone was that long-held image of myself as the handsome young swimming champion I’d once been. And in that moment, denial was shattered; reality set in for the first time. I was a fat, out-of-shape, and very unhealthy man hurtling into middle age—a depressed, self-destructive person utterly disconnected from who I was and what I wanted to be.

To the outside observer, everything appeared to be perfect. It had been more than eight years since my last drink, and during that time I’d repaired what was a broken and desperate life, reshaping it into the very model of modern American success. After snagging degrees from Stanford and Cornell and spending years as a corporate lawyer—an alcohol-fueled decade of mind-numbing eighty-hour workweeks, dictatorial bosses, and late-night partying—I’d finally escaped into sobriety and even launched my own successful boutique entertainment law firm. I had a beautiful, loving, and supportive wife and three healthy children who adored me. And together, we’d built the house of our dreams.

So what was wrong with me? Why did I feel this way? I’d done everything I was supposed to do and then some. I wasn’t just confused. I was in free fall.

Yet in that precise moment, I was overcome with the profound knowledge not just that I needed to change, but that I was willing to change. From my adventures in the subculture of addiction recovery, I’d learned that the trajectory of one’s life often boils down to a few identifiable moments—decisions that change everything. I knew all too well that moments like these were not to be squandered. Rather, they were to be respected and seized at all costs, for they just didn’t come around that often, if ever. Even if you experienced only one powerful moment like this one, you were lucky. Blink or look away for even an instant and the door didn’t just close, it literally vanished. In my case, this was the second time I’d been blessed with such an opportunity, the first being that precious moment of clarity that precipitated my sobriety in rehab. Looking into the mirror that night, I could feel that portal opening again. I needed to act.

But how?

Here’s the thing: I’m a man of extremes. I can’t just have one drink. I’m either bone dry or I binge until I wake up naked in a hotel room in Vegas without any idea how I got there. I’m crawling out of bed at 4:45 a.m. to swim laps in a pool—as I did throughout my teens—or I’m pounding Big Macs on the couch. I can’t just have one cup of coffee. It has to be a Venti, laced with two to five extra shots of espresso, just for fun. To this day “balance” remains my final frontier, a fickle lover I continue to pursue despite her lack of interest. Knowing this about myself, and harnessing the tools I’d developed in recovery, I understood that any true or lasting lifestyle change would require rigor, specificity, and accountability. Vague notions of “eating better” or maybe “going to the gym more often” just weren’t going to work. I needed an urgent and stringent plan. I needed to draw a firm line in the sand.

The next morning, the first thing I did was turn to my wife Julie for help.

As long as I’ve known her, Julie has been deeply into yoga and alternative healing methods, with some (to put it mildly) “progressive” notions about nutrition and wellness. Always an early riser, Julie greeted each day with meditation and a series of Sun Salutations, followed by a breakfast of odoriferous herbs and teas. Seeking personal growth and counsel, Julie has sat at the feet of many a guru—from Eckhart Tolle, to Annette, a blue-eyed clairvoyant, to Chief Golden Eagle of the South Dakota Lakota tribe, to Paramhansa Nithyananda, a youthful and handsome Indian sage. Just last year, in fact, Julie traveled by herself to southern India to visit Arunachala, a sacred holy mountain revered in yogic culture as a “spiritual incubator.” I’d always admired her for her willingness to explore; it sure seemed to work for her. But this kind of “alternative thinking” was strictly her territory, never mine.

Particularly when it came to food. To open our refrigerator was to see an invisible but obvious line running down the middle. On one side were the typical American heart attack–inducing items: hot dogs, mayonnaise, blocks of cheese, processed snack foods, soda, and ice cream. On the other side—Julie’s—were mysterious Baggies filled with herbal preparations and an unmarked Mason jar or two filled with putrid-smelling medicinal pastes of unknown origins. There was something she patiently told me was called “ghee,” and also chyawanprash, a pungent, brown-colored sticky jam made from an Indian gooseberry known as the “elixir of life” in Ayurveda, a form of ancient Indian alternative medicine. I never tired of poking fun at Julie’s ritualistic preparations of these strange foods. Though I’d grown accustomed to her attempting to get me to eat things like sprouted mung beans or seitan burgers, to say it “never took” is an understatement. “Cardboard,” I’d announce, shaking my head and reaching instead for my juicy beef burger.

That kind of food was fine for Julie, and certainly fine for our kids, but I needed my food. My real food. To her immense credit, Julie had never nagged me to change my ways. Frankly, I assumed she’d simply given up on me. But in truth she understood a crucial spiritual principle I’d yet to grasp. You can stand in the light. And you can set a positive example. But you simply cannot make someone change.

But today was different. The previous night had given me a gift: a profound sense not just that I needed to change, but that I wanted to change—really change. As I poured a massive cup of very strong coffee, I nervously raised the issue across the breakfast table.

“So, uh,” I began, “you know that detox, juice-cleanse thing you did last year?”

From a bite of hemp bread spread with chyawanprash jam, Julie peered up at me, a small smile of curiosity playing at her lips. “Yes. The cleanse.”

“Well, I think I might, well, uh, maybe I should, you know, give it a shot?” I couldn’t believe the words were coming out of my mouth. Even though Julie was one of the healthiest people I knew, and I’d seen how her diet and use of alternative medicine had helped her through so much—even miraculously, at one point—just twenty-four hours before, I would have argued till I was blue in the face that a “cleanse” was useless, even harmful. I’d never found any evidence to support the idea that a cleanse was healthy or that it somehow removed “toxins” from the body. Ask any traditional Western medicine doctor and he’ll agree: “These cleanses are not just innocuous, they’re downright unhealthy.” And by the way, what are these mysterious toxins, anyway, and how would a cleanse possibly remove them? It was all nonsense, I’d thought, pure fabrication, the babbling of snake oil salesmen.

But today, I was desperate. I could still feel the previous night’s panic, still feel my temples pounding. The drop of sweat and its dark portent, flashing before my eyes, were all too real. Clearly, my way was not working.

“Sure,” Julie said softly. She didn’t ask what had prompted this curious request, and I didn’t offer an explanation. As clichéd as it sounds, Julie was my soul mate and best friend—the one person who knew me better than anyone. Yet for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about what I’d experienced the night before. Maybe it was embarrassment. Or more likely, the fear I’d felt was simply too acute for words. Julie is too intuitive not to have noticed that something was clearly up, but she didn’t ask a single question; she just let it unfold, without expectation.

In fact, Julie’s expectations were so low that I had to ask her three more times before she actually returned from the alternative pharmacist with the goods needed to begin the cleanse—a journey that would soon change everything.

Together we embarked on a seven-day progressive regime that involved a variety of herbs, teas, and fruit and vegetable juices (for more information on my recommended cleansing program, see Appendix III, Resources, Jai Renew Detox and Cleansing Program). It’s important to understand that this was not a “starvation” protocol. Each and every day I made certain to fortify my body with essential nutrients in liquid form. I cast aside my doubts and threw myself into the process with everything I had. We cleared the fridge of my Reddi-Wip, Go-Gurts, and salami, filling the empty shelves with large vats of tea boiled from a potpourri of what looked like leaves raked from our lawn. I juiced with vigor, downing liquid concoctions of spinach and carrots laced with garlic, followed by herbal remedies in capsule form chased by gagging on a tea with a distinct manure aftertaste.

A day later I was curled up in a ball on the couch, sweating. Try quitting caffeine, nicotine, and food all at once. I looked horrible. And felt worse. I couldn’t move. But I couldn’t sleep either. Everything was upside down. Julie remarked that I looked like I was detoxing heroin. Indeed, I felt like I was back in rehab.

But Julie urged me to hang tough; she said that the hardest part was soon to pass. I trusted her, and true to her word, each day proved easier than the day before. The gagging subsided, replaced by gratitude just to put something—anything—down my throat. By day three, the fog began to clear. My taste buds adapted and I actually began enjoying the regime. And despite so few calories, I began feeling a surge of energy, followed by a profound sense of renewal. I was sold. Day four was better, and by day five, I felt like an entirely new person. I was able to sleep well, and I only needed a few hours of sleep. My mind was clear and my body felt light, infused with a sense of vibrancy and exhilaration that I hadn’t known was possible. Suddenly I was jogging up the staircase with Mathis on my back, my heart rate barely elevated. I even went out for a short “run” and felt great, despite the fact that I hadn’t laced up a pair of running shoes in years and was on my fifth day without any real food! It was astounding. Like a person with poor eyesight donning a pair of glasses for the first time, I was amazed to discover that a person could feel this good. Until then a hopeless and lifelong coffee addict, I entered into a momentous collaboration with Julie on day two of the cleanse when we unplugged our beloved coffeepot and together walked it out to the garbage bin—an act neither of us would have thought possible in a million years.

At the conclusion of the seven-day protocol, it was time to return to eating real food. Julie prepared a nutritious breakfast for me—granola with berries, some toast with butter, and my favorite, poached eggs. After going seven days with no solid food, I might have been excused for inhaling the meal in seconds flat. But instead, I just stared at it. I turned to Julie. “I think I’m just going to keep going.”

Most helpful customer reviews

20 of 20 people found the following review helpful.
Felt like a marketing book
By Kevin Sine
The book was easy to read and is full of inspiring stories to get you motivated. His story is truly amazing and gives us people over 40 hope that our best is still out there. However as the book comes to about the halfway point, the product placing was a bit ridiculous. Mentioning every supplement by name, the names of blenders, and sunglasses brands and pushing his diet on many pages made this a bit laborious and annoying , but if you can get passed that, it was an enjoyable book

7 of 7 people found the following review helpful.
A good read, but missing something
By Jon S.
This is an entertaining read, if for no other reason than to learn the story of a couch potato turned triathlete. This is not a book to read to learn how to become a triathlete or an ultra athlete, as few details on training regimen are discussed. This IS a book to read if you're fascinated with addictive conditions, human nature or to confirm that a plant-based vegan diet is in fact a positive & healthy contributor to one's overall well-being.

I will also note that it's a bit difficult to empathize with a successful attorney who lives in Malibu, yet the book often seems to go in this direction. And, the athletic accomplishments are at times difficult to believe as they are described. It's not that Rich Roll didn't complete 5 Ultra triathlons in a week, but he never once mentions the injuries, aches, pains, etc. that come with training for such feats as a 40+ year-old (in fact, even if you're 18 years old your body will experience tremendous discomfort under such training). At one point I even wondered if he used "supplements" because he failed to ever mention any stress to his body. Despite these skepticisms, the book is a tremendous inspiration for individuals who thought they could never effect change in their lives. And while the book is partly an advertisement for the foods and supplements used by the author, it's never overdone to the point that the reader feels that their own version of a plant-based diet can't work a similar transformation.

22 of 23 people found the following review helpful.
Rediscovering previous elite fitness, but now with a better diet
By Kevin Doran
I think the book should be titled: 'Rediscovering previous elite fitness, but now with a better diet'. I found it hard to relate to Rich while reading the book. At times he would come across as pretentious, such as when he would list off someone's prestigious college connections. Anyone who sees a women and later tells their friends "I'm going to marry that woman", before having a decent conversation with them is not someone I can relate to easily. Rich is someone who struggles with moderation: its all or nothing. So many of his practices will be most effective only to those who share the same behavior. His ability to excel is, to a degree, grounded in his experience in rehab for alcoholism. So the reader is left searching for their own paradigm shifting experience in an attempt to 'discover oneself' and find 'ultra'. And most readers wont have a long previous experience of competitive sports to fall back on when they do get this change in mentality.

The Good
Having said all of this, this book raises many useful questions for the reader and educates them on a number of topics. You might just get your 'ah-ha' moment (the realization that you are old and unfit) a few years earlier and in the comfort of your reading chair. And you might be spurred to cut down on meat in exchange for plants.

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Finding Ultra: Rejecting Middle Age, Becoming One of the World's Fittest Men, and Discovering Myself, by Rich Roll PDF
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[B748.Ebook] Download Citizenship Now! Teacher's Edition: A Complete Guide for Naturalization, by Kristin Sherman

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Citizenship Now, Third Edition is a citizenship preparation textbook appropriate for either classroom use or self-study. A comprehensive audio program is included with each student book and the interactive DVD showcases three complete interviews, interview skills, and quiz preparation for the 100 questions. Interview skills featured in each chapter ensure students develop the English and non-verbal skills necessary for passing the interview. Civics sections provide students with opportunities to become involved in their local communities.

• Sales Rank: #333917 in Books
• Brand: Brand: McGraw-Hill
• Published on: 2008-12-12
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 10.75" h x .39" w x 8.50" l, .95 pounds
• Binding: Paperback
• 182 pages

Features

• Step by Step Procedural Notes
• Expansion Activities
• Culture, Grammar, Reading, Vocabulary, and Interviews Notes
• Reproducible Worksheets
• Chapter Tests

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1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
Great addition to my collection
By Judy Yublosky
The teacher's edition is the ideal companion to the student edition of the Citizenship Now book. It gives added activities to do and pages for handouts. It is very helpful in teaching to a large or small class.

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[F332.Ebook] Download Ebook Learning Visual Basic .Net by Jesse Liberty (2002) PaperbackFrom O'Reilly Media

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Will be shipped from US. Brand new copy.

• Published on: 1900
• Binding: Paperback

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