Lost in a Good Book (Thursday Next 2) [Paperback]

'Don't ask, just read it. Fforde is a true original' (Sunday Express 20020801)

'Let yourself be entertained by a witty romp' (Sunday Telegraph )

'This year's grown up J K Rowling' (Sunday Times )

'Douglas Adams would be proud' (Scotsman )

'The reader is catapulted in and out of truth and imagination on a hectic, humorous and neatly constructed chase that finishes by tying up every loose end in the most satisfying, novelistic way' (The Times )

'Jasper Fforde's fascinating first novel reads like a Jules Verne story told by Lewis Carroll...Forget all the rules of time, space, and reality; just sit back and enjoy the adventure as Thursday, with the help of Jane Eyre's Mr Rochester, fights a desperate battle in which Jane herself is in jeopardy.' (Sunday Telegraph )

'Ingenious - I'll watch Jasper Fforde nervously' (Terry Pratchett )

'A stroke of fantasy genius . . . Unashamedly silly, but also marvellously intelligent . . . Hilarious' (SFX )

'An absolute joy to read. Is it a crime novel? I couldn't really tell, I was laughing too much.' (Birmingham Post )

'What Fforde is pulling is a variation on the classic Monty Python gambit: the incongruous juxtaposition og low comedy and high erudition - this scam has not been pulled off with such off-hand finesse and manic verve since the Pythons shut up shop. 'The Eyre Affair' is a silly book for smart people: postmodernism played as raw, howling farce' (Independent )

'Compulsively readable ... catnip to book lovers ... totally absorbing' (Time Out New York )

'It is always a privilege to watch the birth of a cult, and Hodder has just cut the umbilical cord. Always ridiculous, often hilarious ... blink and you miss a vital narrative leap. There are shades of Douglas Adams, Lewis Carroll, 'Clockwork Orange' and '1984'. And that's just for starters' (Time Out )

'Dark, funny, complex and inventive, The Eyre Affair is a breath of fresh air, and is easily one of the strongest debuts in years.' (Locus )

'A decidedly quirky and strangely thought-provoking debut novel' (Scotland on Sunday )

'The eccentric epic - A read that'll leave you breathless' (Elle )

'Engaging and captivating . . . not just one of the best sequels I've ever read, but one of the best damn books to come out of the UK in some time.' (Engima )

'Compulsively readable ... catnip to book lovers ... totally absorbing'

'This year's grown up J K Rowling'

'Don't ask, just read it. Fforde is a true original'

'An absolute joy to read. Is it a crime novel? I couldn't really tell, I was laughing too much.'

'Douglas Adams would be proud'

'A stroke of fantasy genius . . . Unashamedly silly, but also marvellously intelligent . . . Hilarious'

'A decidedly quirky and strangely thought-provoking debut novel'

'Let yourself be entertained by a witty romp'

'The eccentric epic - A read that'll leave you breathless'

Thursday Next, literary detective and newlywed is back to embark on an adventure that begins, quite literally on her own doorstep. It seems that Landen, her husband of four weeks, actually drowned in an accident when he was two years old. Someone, somewhere, sometime, is responsible. The sinister Goliath Corporation wants its operative Jack Schitt out of the poem in which Thursday trapped him, and it will do almost anything to achieve this - but bribing the ChronoGuard? Is that possible?



Having barely caught her breath after The Eyre Affair, Thursday must battle corrupt politicians, try to save the world from extinction, and help the Neanderthals to species self-determination. Mastadon migrations, journeys into Just William, a chance meeting with the Flopsy Bunnies, and violent life-and-death struggles in the summer sales are all part of a greater plan.



But whose? and why? (20021001)

Jasper Fforde is the author of three hit Thursday Next novels. After a varied career in the film industry, he now lives and works in Wales and has a passion for aviation. (20030327)

I didn’t ask to be a celebrity. I never wanted to appear on The Adrian Lush Show. And let’s get one thing straight right now – the world would have to be hurtling towards imminent destruction before I’d agree to anything as dopey as The Thursday Next Workout Video. The publicity surrounding the successful rebookment of Jane Eyre was fun to begin with but rapidly grew wearisome. I happily posed for photocalls, agreed to newspaper interviews, hesitantly appeared on Desert Island Smells and was thankfully excused the embarrassment of Celebrity Name That Fruit! The public, ever fascinated by celebrity, had wanted to know everything about me following my excursion within the pages of Jane Eyre, and since the Special Operations Network have a PR record on a par with that of Vlad the Impaler, the top brass thought it would be a good wheeze to use me to boost their flagging popularity. I dutifully toured all points of the globe doing signings, library openings, talks and interviews. The same questions, the same SpecOps-approved answers. Supermarket openings, literary dinners, offers of book deals. I even met the actress Lola Vavoom, who said that she would simply adore to play me if there were a film. It was tiring, but more than that – it was dull. For the first time in my career at the Literary Detectives I actually missed authenticating Milton. I’d taken a week’s leave as soon my tour ended so Landen and I could devote some time to married life. I moved all my stuff to his house, rearranged his furniture, added my books to his and introduced my dodo, Pickwick, to his new home. Landen and I ceremoniously partitioned the bedroom closet space, decided to share the sock drawer, then had an argument over who was to sleep on the wall side of the bed. We had long and wonderfully pointless conversations about nothing in particular, walked Pickwick in the park, went out to dinner, stayed in for dinner, stared at each other a lot and slept in late every morning. It was wonderful. On the fourth day of my leave, just between lunch with Landen’s mum and Pickwick’s notable first fight with the neighbour’s cat, I got a call from Cordelia Flakk. She was the senior SpecOps PR agent here in Swindon and she told me that Adrian Lush wanted me on his show. I wasn’t mad keen on the idea – or the show. But there was an upside. The Adrian Lush Show went out live and Flakk assured me that this would be a ‘no holds barred’ interview, something that held a great deal of appeal. Despite my many appearances, the true story about Jane Eyre was yet to be told – and I had been wanting to drop the Goliath Corporation in it for quite a while. Flakk’s assurance that this would finally be the end of the press junket clinched my decision. Adrian Lush it would be.
I travelled up to the Network Toad studios a few days later on my own; Landen had a deadline looming and needed to get his head down. But I wasn’t alone for long. As soon as I stepped into the large entrance lobby a milk-curdling shade of green strode purposefully towards me.
‘Thursday, darling!’ cried Cordelia, beads rattling. ‘So glad you could make it!’
The SpecOps dress code stated that our apparel should be ‘dignified’ but in Cordelia’s case they had obviously stretched a point. Anyone looking less like a serving officer was impossible to imagine. Looks, in her case, were highly deceptive. She was SpecOps all the way from her high heels to the pink-and-yellow scarf tied in her hair.
She air-kissed me affectionately.
‘How was New Zealand?’
‘Green and full of sheep,’ I replied. ‘I brought you this.’
I handed her a fluffy toy lamb that bleated realistically when you turned it upside down.
‘How adorable! How’s married life treating you?’
‘Very well.’
‘Excellent, my dear, I wish you both the best. Love what you’ve done with your hair!’
‘My hair? I haven’t done anything with my hair!’
‘Exactly!’ replied Flakk quickly. ‘It’s so incredibly you.’
She did a twirl.
‘What do you think of the outfit?’
‘One’s attention is drawn straight to it,’ I replied ambiguously.
‘This is 1985,’ she explained, ‘bright colours are the future. I’ll let you loose in my wardrobe one day.’
‘I think I’ve got some pink socks of my own somewhere.’
‘It’s a start, my dear. Listen, you’ve been a star about all this publicity work; I’m very grateful – and so is SpecOps.’
‘Grateful enough to post me somewhere other than the Literary Detectives?’
‘Well,’ murmured Cordelia reflectively, ‘first things first. As soon as you’ve done the Lush interview your transfer application will be aggressively considered, you have my word on that.’
It didn’t sound terribly promising. Despite the successes at work, I still wanted to move up within the Network. Cordelia took my arm and steered me towards the waiting area.
‘Coffee?’
‘Thank you.’
‘Spot of bother in Auckland?’
‘Bronte¨ Federation offshoot caused a bit of trouble,’ I explained.
‘They didn’t like the new ending of Jane Eyre.’

‘There’ll always be a few malcontents,’ observed Flakk. ‘Milk?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Oh,’ she said, staring at the milk jug, ‘this milk’s off. No matter. Listen,’ she went on quietly, ‘I’d love to stay and watch but some SpecOps 17 clot in Penzance staked a Goth by mistake; it’s going to be PR hell on earth down there.’
SO-17 were the vampire and werewolf disposal squad. Despite a new ‘three-point’ confirmation procedure, a jumpy cadet with a sharpened stake could still spell big trouble.