Genre Fiction
![Jodi Picoult - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_jodi_picoult.jpg)
Wish You Were Here: A Novel
#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • From the author of Small Great Things and The Book of Two Ways comes "a powerfully evocative story of resilience and the triumph of the human spirit" (Taylor Jenkins Reid, author of The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo and Daisy Jones & The Six)
Rights sold to Netflix for adaptation as a feature film • Named one of the best books of the year by She Reads
Diana O'Toole is perfectly on track. She will be married by thirty, done having kids by thirty-five, and move out to the New York City suburbs, all while climbing the professional ladder in the cutthroat art auction world. She's an associate specialist at Sotheby's now, but her boss has hinted at a promotion if she can close a deal with a high-profile client. She's not engaged just yet, but she knows her boyfriend, Finn, a surgical resident, is about to propose on their romantic getaway to the Galápagos-days before her thirtieth birthday. Right on time.
But then a virus that felt worlds away has appeared in the city, and on the eve of their departure, Finn breaks the news: It's all hands on deck at the hospital. He has to stay behind. You should still go, he assures her, since it would be a shame for all of their nonrefundable trip to go to waste. And so, reluctantly, she goes.
Almost immediately, Diana's dream vacation goes awry. Her luggage is lost, the Wi-Fi is nearly nonexistent, and the hotel they'd booked is shut down due to the pandemic. In fact, the whole island is now under quarantine, and she is stranded until the borders reopen. Completely isolated, she must venture beyond her comfort zone. Slowly, she carves out a connection with a local family when a teenager with a secret opens up to Diana, despite her father's suspicion of outsiders.
In the Galápagos Islands, where Darwin's theory of evolution by natural selection was formed, Diana finds herself examining her relationships, her choices, and herself-and wondering if when she goes home, she too will have evolved into someone completely different.
This edition contains a short story, discussion questions, and an excerpt from Jodi Picoult's next novel.
Rights sold to Netflix for adaptation as a feature film • Named one of the best books of the year by She Reads
Diana O'Toole is perfectly on track. She will be married by thirty, done having kids by thirty-five, and move out to the New York City suburbs, all while climbing the professional ladder in the cutthroat art auction world. She's an associate specialist at Sotheby's now, but her boss has hinted at a promotion if she can close a deal with a high-profile client. She's not engaged just yet, but she knows her boyfriend, Finn, a surgical resident, is about to propose on their romantic getaway to the Galápagos-days before her thirtieth birthday. Right on time.
But then a virus that felt worlds away has appeared in the city, and on the eve of their departure, Finn breaks the news: It's all hands on deck at the hospital. He has to stay behind. You should still go, he assures her, since it would be a shame for all of their nonrefundable trip to go to waste. And so, reluctantly, she goes.
Almost immediately, Diana's dream vacation goes awry. Her luggage is lost, the Wi-Fi is nearly nonexistent, and the hotel they'd booked is shut down due to the pandemic. In fact, the whole island is now under quarantine, and she is stranded until the borders reopen. Completely isolated, she must venture beyond her comfort zone. Slowly, she carves out a connection with a local family when a teenager with a secret opens up to Diana, despite her father's suspicion of outsiders.
In the Galápagos Islands, where Darwin's theory of evolution by natural selection was formed, Diana finds herself examining her relationships, her choices, and herself-and wondering if when she goes home, she too will have evolved into someone completely different.
This edition contains a short story, discussion questions, and an excerpt from Jodi Picoult's next novel.
Editorial Reviews
"Stealthily surprising and very moving . . . absolutely a must-read."-Booklist (starred review)
"A satisfying and thought-provoking narrative."-Minneapolis Star Tribune
"Jodi Picoult once again proves she is the master of wading through the darkness to find the light."-Taylor Jenkins Reid, New York Times bestselling author of Malibu Rising
"Wish You Were Here is a transporting and transcendent novel about seeking out glimmers of light in the darkness, and following them wherever they lead. Jodi Picoult is that rare, one-in-a-million writer whose books both squeeze your heart and expand your mind. Her latest is wise, surprising, and utterly extraordinary."-Emily Henry, #1 New York Times bestselling author of People We Meet on Vacation and Beach Read
"In Wish You Were Here, Jodi Picoult does something brilliant, cracking open something extraordinary. I am just overwhelmed by this book. I actually finished it at three in the morning and started reading it again."-Caroline Leavitt, New York Times bestselling author of With or Without You
"A satisfying and thought-provoking narrative."-Minneapolis Star Tribune
"Jodi Picoult once again proves she is the master of wading through the darkness to find the light."-Taylor Jenkins Reid, New York Times bestselling author of Malibu Rising
"Wish You Were Here is a transporting and transcendent novel about seeking out glimmers of light in the darkness, and following them wherever they lead. Jodi Picoult is that rare, one-in-a-million writer whose books both squeeze your heart and expand your mind. Her latest is wise, surprising, and utterly extraordinary."-Emily Henry, #1 New York Times bestselling author of People We Meet on Vacation and Beach Read
"In Wish You Were Here, Jodi Picoult does something brilliant, cracking open something extraordinary. I am just overwhelmed by this book. I actually finished it at three in the morning and started reading it again."-Caroline Leavitt, New York Times bestselling author of With or Without You
Readers Top Reviews
Awill
I used to read a lot of books by Jodi until they reached a stage of: Part 1 (background setting); Part 2 (the detailed Court Case); Part 3 (the Happy Ever After). This one was obviously not going to be one of these so I decided to give it a go. Ignoring the perhaps possible coma induced life/images/dreams/neurological factors this is totally non-believable. No way, even in the widest sense, would the 'heroine' know all the medical facts of ongoing Covid treatment in the mails/messages from her boyfriend. Never again a book by this author
Kindle Awill
Read Jodie Picoult, 'Wish you were here,' her latest book. I enjoyed this book, it took time to gather pace; and really felt I knew the characters well as the book progressed through the first half. Set during the covid pandemic, Diana, is the main character in the book. She is a woman who has a life plan, her boyfriend Finn is a part of that plan. Together they know where they are headed and what they want to achieve,including must see places to visit. They have a paid for, much anticipated holiday booked to the Galapagos Islands just as the pandemic starts. Finn is a Dr in the hospital, he stays, she goes. Time on one of the islands makes Diana find her inner resources, whilst also trying to keep in contact with Finn despite lack of phone signal and dire Internet service. Part two of the book has given me a great deal to ponder.
Pat MZarlaKindle
I usually love Jodi Picoult books but this one was a huge dissapointment. A character based almost entirely on Yoko Ono seemesd lazy. The first half of the book was OK but slow, with some good descriptions of the Galapogos. Lots of description of the pandemic from a medical point of view, seemed unnecesary as we are all living it! The 2nd half was far fetched, Not at all like her usual work.
T.K.V. O'ReganPat
I have read all of Jodi Picoult’s books and considered her to be one of my favorite authors. The last 3 books have been so disappointing. She used to write in a way that showed multiple sides and aspects to a situation, and characters you became attached to. Now her writing is just so blatantly political and voices her personal opinion. It’s like she can’t even hide what she clearly thinks about everything going on. Also, the characters are dull and stories are becoming more and more predictable. Sadly, I won’t be wasting my money anymore on her books.
Carol A. GoetzT.K
From a medical professional working during the pandemic, and a COVID survivor, the details/accuracy is phenomenal. Once again Ms. Piccoult has struck gold with an amazing story of survival, love and the possibility of life experiences we had never imagined existing. I was hooked from page one! I found myself reading at work in between patients, and late at night when I should have been sleeping. And this is why she’s one of my favorite authors!
Short Excerpt Teaser
One
March 13, 2020
When I was six years old, I painted a corner of the sky. My father was working as a conservator, one of a handful restoring the zodiac ceiling on the main hall of Grand Central Terminal-an aqua sky strung with shimmering constellations. It was late, way past my bedtime, but my father took me to work because my mother-as usual-was not home.
He helped me carefully climb the scaffolding, where I watched him working on a cleaned patch of the turquoise paint. I looked at the stars representing the smear of the Milky Way, the golden wings of Pegasus, Orion's raised club, the twisted fish of Pisces. The original mural had been painted in 1913, my father told me. Roof leaks damaged the plaster, and in 1944, it had been replicated on panels that were attached to the arched ceiling. The original plan had been to remove the boards for restoration, but they contained asbestos, and so the conservators left them in place, and went to work with cotton swabs and cleaning solution, erasing decades of pollutants.
They uncovered history. Signatures and inside jokes and notes left behind by the original artists were revealed, tucked in among the constellations. There were dates commemorating weddings, and the end of World War II. There were names of soldiers. The birth of twins was recorded near Gemini.
An error had been made by the original artists, so that the painted zodiac was reversed from the way it would appear in the night sky. Instead of correcting it, though, my father was diligently reinforcing the error. That night, he was working on a small square of space, gilding stars. He had already painted over the tiny yellow dots with adhesive. He covered these with a piece of gold leaf, light as breath. Then he turned to me. "Diana," he said, holding out his hand, and I climbed up in front of him, caged by the safety of his body. He handed me a brush to sweep over the foil, fixing it in place. He showed me how to gently rub at it with my thumb, so that the galaxy he'd created was all that remained.
When all the work was finished, the conservators kept a small dark spot in the northwest corner of Grand Central Terminal, where the pale blue ceiling meets the marble wall. This nine-by-five-inch section was left that way intentionally. My father told me that conservators do that, in case historians need to study the original composition. The only way you can tell how far you've come is to know where you started.
Every time I'm in Grand Central Terminal, I think about my father. Of how we left that night, hand in hand, our palms glittering like we had stolen the stars.
It is Friday the thirteenth, so I should know better. Getting from Sotheby's, on the Upper East Side, to the Ansonia, on the Upper West Side, means taking the Q train to Times Square and then the 1 uptown, so I have to travel in the wrong direction before I start going in the right one.
I hate going backward.
Normally I would walk across Central Park, but I am wearing a new pair of shoes that are rubbing a blister on my heel, shoes I never would have worn if I'd known that I was going to be summoned by Kitomi Ito. So instead, I find myself on public transit. But something's off, and it takes me a moment to figure out what.
It's quiet. Usually, I have to fight my way through tourists who are listening to someone singing for coins, or a violin quartet. Today, though, the atrium is empty.
Last night Broadway theaters had shut down performances for a month, after an usher tested positive for Covid, out of an abundance of caution. That's what Finn said, anyway-New York–Presbyterian, where he is a resident, has not seen the influx of coronavirus cases that are appearing in Washington State and Italy and France. There were only nineteen cases in the city, Finn told me last night as we watched the news, when I wondered out loud if we should start panicking yet. "Wash your hands and don't touch your face," he told me. "It's going to be fine."
The uptown subway is nearly empty, too. I get off at Seventy-second and emerge aboveground, blinking like a mole, walking at a brisk New Yorker clip. The Ansonia, in all its glory, rises up like an angry djinn, defiantly jutting its Beaux Arts chin at the sky. For a moment, I just stand on the sidewalk, looking up at its mansard roof and its lazy sprawl from Seventy-third to Seventy-fourth Street. There's a North Face and an American Apparel at ground level, but it wasn't always this bougie. Kitomi told me that when she and Sam Pride moved in in the seventies, the building was overrun with psychics and mediums, and housed a swingers' club with an orgy room and an open bar and buffet. Sam and I, she said, would stop in at least once a ...
March 13, 2020
When I was six years old, I painted a corner of the sky. My father was working as a conservator, one of a handful restoring the zodiac ceiling on the main hall of Grand Central Terminal-an aqua sky strung with shimmering constellations. It was late, way past my bedtime, but my father took me to work because my mother-as usual-was not home.
He helped me carefully climb the scaffolding, where I watched him working on a cleaned patch of the turquoise paint. I looked at the stars representing the smear of the Milky Way, the golden wings of Pegasus, Orion's raised club, the twisted fish of Pisces. The original mural had been painted in 1913, my father told me. Roof leaks damaged the plaster, and in 1944, it had been replicated on panels that were attached to the arched ceiling. The original plan had been to remove the boards for restoration, but they contained asbestos, and so the conservators left them in place, and went to work with cotton swabs and cleaning solution, erasing decades of pollutants.
They uncovered history. Signatures and inside jokes and notes left behind by the original artists were revealed, tucked in among the constellations. There were dates commemorating weddings, and the end of World War II. There were names of soldiers. The birth of twins was recorded near Gemini.
An error had been made by the original artists, so that the painted zodiac was reversed from the way it would appear in the night sky. Instead of correcting it, though, my father was diligently reinforcing the error. That night, he was working on a small square of space, gilding stars. He had already painted over the tiny yellow dots with adhesive. He covered these with a piece of gold leaf, light as breath. Then he turned to me. "Diana," he said, holding out his hand, and I climbed up in front of him, caged by the safety of his body. He handed me a brush to sweep over the foil, fixing it in place. He showed me how to gently rub at it with my thumb, so that the galaxy he'd created was all that remained.
When all the work was finished, the conservators kept a small dark spot in the northwest corner of Grand Central Terminal, where the pale blue ceiling meets the marble wall. This nine-by-five-inch section was left that way intentionally. My father told me that conservators do that, in case historians need to study the original composition. The only way you can tell how far you've come is to know where you started.
Every time I'm in Grand Central Terminal, I think about my father. Of how we left that night, hand in hand, our palms glittering like we had stolen the stars.
It is Friday the thirteenth, so I should know better. Getting from Sotheby's, on the Upper East Side, to the Ansonia, on the Upper West Side, means taking the Q train to Times Square and then the 1 uptown, so I have to travel in the wrong direction before I start going in the right one.
I hate going backward.
Normally I would walk across Central Park, but I am wearing a new pair of shoes that are rubbing a blister on my heel, shoes I never would have worn if I'd known that I was going to be summoned by Kitomi Ito. So instead, I find myself on public transit. But something's off, and it takes me a moment to figure out what.
It's quiet. Usually, I have to fight my way through tourists who are listening to someone singing for coins, or a violin quartet. Today, though, the atrium is empty.
Last night Broadway theaters had shut down performances for a month, after an usher tested positive for Covid, out of an abundance of caution. That's what Finn said, anyway-New York–Presbyterian, where he is a resident, has not seen the influx of coronavirus cases that are appearing in Washington State and Italy and France. There were only nineteen cases in the city, Finn told me last night as we watched the news, when I wondered out loud if we should start panicking yet. "Wash your hands and don't touch your face," he told me. "It's going to be fine."
The uptown subway is nearly empty, too. I get off at Seventy-second and emerge aboveground, blinking like a mole, walking at a brisk New Yorker clip. The Ansonia, in all its glory, rises up like an angry djinn, defiantly jutting its Beaux Arts chin at the sky. For a moment, I just stand on the sidewalk, looking up at its mansard roof and its lazy sprawl from Seventy-third to Seventy-fourth Street. There's a North Face and an American Apparel at ground level, but it wasn't always this bougie. Kitomi told me that when she and Sam Pride moved in in the seventies, the building was overrun with psychics and mediums, and housed a swingers' club with an orgy room and an open bar and buffet. Sam and I, she said, would stop in at least once a ...
