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Summary
Summary
When a billionaire hotelier and political operator attempts to pit his three daughters against one another, a brutal struggle for primacy begins in this modern-day take on Shakespeare's King Lear . Set in contemporary India, where rich men are gods while farmers starve and water is fast running out, We That Are Young is a story about power, status, and the love of a megalomaniac father. A searing exploration of human fallibility, Preti Taneja's remarkable novel reveals the fragility of the human heart--and its inevitable breaking point.
Author Notes
Preti Taneja was born in England. As a child, she spent most of her holidays in New Delhi. Her career has included human rights reporter, filmmaker in Iraq, Jordan, Rwanda, and Kosovo, and editor of Visual Verse, an online anthology of art and words. She is a research fellow in global Shakespeare at Queen Mary, University of London, and Warwick University. She is an author who writes about human rights, contemporary India, literature and culture. She was named an AHRC/BBC New Generation Thinker 2014.
Her books include Assimilation, Exodus, Eradication: Iraq's Minority, and her first novel, We That are Young for which she won the 2018 Desmond Elliott Prize for first-time novelists.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (6)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Taneja's impressive debut uses King Lear as a template but fearlessly carves a territory of its own. While remaining close to Shakespeare's plot points, she offers a portrait of modern India both panoramic and complex, through the eyes of six main characters. The story begins in 2012 with Jivan Singh returning to his native New Delhi after 15 years in the United States. The illegitimate son of towering Indian magnate Devraj Bapuji, Jivan has come home as his elderly father prepares to hand off his business empire, but to whom? There are three daughters-Gargi, Radha, and Sita-as well as Jeet, a surrogate son and offspring of Devraj's right hand, Ranjit. Jeet's case for succession is weakened because he's gay (given the conservative nature of the business establishment), a fact he's loath to admit. Jivan, as a semi-outsider, is the ideal opening guide for the reader. The perspective shifts to Gargi, "custodian of her father's office." Business gives Gargi an adrenaline rush like nothing else. From Gargi, focus travels to Radhi (Regan to Gargi's Goneril), who's as "feminine" and sensual as her older sister is "masculine." Sections devoted to Jeet and Sita follow. Short chapters of Devraj speaking directly to the reader are interspersed throughout, and the plot follows his rapid mental and physical decline while Radhi and Gargi battle for control of his empire. Taneja's intricate, literary prose is heavy in both detail and reflection. This is a work of epic scope and depth that's bracingly of the current moment. (Aug.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Booklist Review
A powerful man in decline, with three daughters to take over his kingdom. Murder, betrayal, a cataclysmic storm yes, it's King Lear, but this Shakespeare reboot takes place in modern-day India, not England, and the kingdom at stake is the all-powerful Company, which has interests in just about anything one can imagine, from bricks, steel, and cars to malls and consumer products. When Jivan, the illegitimate son of one of the executives of the company, returns to India after living in the U.S. for most of his life, he finds a web of intrigue surrounding the future of the business. While the two eldest daughters jockey for position in the midst of their own personal unhappiness, the youngest and favorite remains mostly offstage, creating uncertainty about what will become of both the Company and the family. Taneja deftly exposes the stark contrast between the Twitter-saturated media narrative surrounding the rich and powerful, and the reality of their actions. Multilayered and densely structured, We That Are Young offers a fresh take on a timeless tale.--Bridget Thoreson Copyright 2018 Booklist
New York Review of Books Review
QUICK, SUMMARIZE "KING LEAR." You can probably come up with the gist - aging monarch, three daughters, a fool, a storm. But there's more: political jostling, the threat of war, descent into madness, suicide. Writers crib from Shakespeare because the stories are lodged in our collective recall, but so full of subplot and nuance they can be remade. Revisiting "Lear," as Preti Taneja does in her debut, "We That Are Young," is a familiar trick (it won Jane Smiley a Pulitzer). Still, with Shakespeare, fresh interpretation is always welcome. If Smiley's "A Thousand Acres" was an act of transposition, "We That Are Young" is an embodiment. The register is dramatic and the language poetic, but the novel (like the play, I think) tries the patience. By the fourth act, you're fidgeting, waiting for the characters to start dying. Taneja's Lear is Devraj, and the kingdom he's dividing is the Company, which is in the business of business: manufacturing, government contracting, hotels, real estate, you name it. His heirs are Gargi, Radha and the youngest, disowned Sita. Taneja also gives us Lear's hundred knights, his fool, his hangers-on (Kent, Gloucester and his bastard son), his subpar sons-in-law. The book shouldn't be evaluated on its fidelity to the source material, but Taneja's attentiveness deserves credit. Devraj is a magnate, not a monarch; that old but still salient point about the root of all evil. Gargi, on her first date with the man she'll marry, listens to his catalog of the things he loves and comes up with her own: "The beautiful horizon of the production possibility frontier. The maximum possible output combinations of two goods or services an economy can achieve, when all resources are fully and efficiently employed." Goneril is a monster; Gargi is a capitalist. Taneja's characters eat and drink a lot, fret over their hair and their clothes. It's sometimes more Bret Easton Ellis than the Bard. But Taneja also has fun toying with the exuberance of Indian English. Here's Radha, rhapsodizing over macarons: "Really excellent, different-different flavors, licorice and lychee, masala chai even." Radha's appetites (including, crucially, for sex) are a symptom of the division in the family, as well as all of India. Devraj, furious with his heirs, becomes a populist hero. Addressing a crowd, he says: "We are living through a time of crooked despair. 0! Our unfortunate country is being overrun by my daughters: A hundredcrore house is more important than your struggles. I understand that you want: everything you see." Whether he is insane, as Lear was, is open to interpretation. What their father comes to hate in ambitious Gargi, flighty Radha and the sanctimonious Sita, who is given less to do in these pages (understandably; Cordelia is a bore), is mostly their youth. Hence, presumably, the novel's opaque title. But it's also their womanhood. Kurosawa, toying with Lear for "Ran," made the three heirs sons. Taneja is faithful to Shakespeare because she gets to skewer not only capitalism (here, as ridiculous as monarchy) but also groping uncles, leering men and what Radha recalls as "the responsibility of her own beauty against violence in the streets." The author has a point to make, but Shakespeare's tragedies have inevitable conclusions. The novel has flaws. It is far too long, often repetitive and discursive, with a pitch that sometimes approaches the manic (some readers may find this appropriate). Still, it's marvelous to watch Taneja, a woman, play with a text in which the women are atrocious. She's no easier on these characters than Shakespeare was, redeeming none, so the last laugh is hers. And it's as gratifying to watch Preti Taneja take on William Shakespeare as it is to watch India trounce Britain at cricket. The Raj is long over; every kingdom falls. RUMAAN alam is the special projects editor for the Books desk at The Times. His most recent novel, "That Kind of Mother," was published in the spring.
Guardian Review
With Kashmir under lockdown, Preti Taneja chooses books that explore the history of the most militarised region in the world Seventy years after partition, the annexation of Kashmir by India is the endgame of Devraj, the Hindu nationalist businessman protagonist of my 2017 novel We That Are Young . His tactic is settler-colonialism: he is opening a seven-star hotel in Srinagar. But according to Article 370 of the Indian constitution, which among other protections prohibited non-Kashmiris from owning property there, he should never have been allowed to build it. In real life, Article 370 was last week unilaterally abolished by the Indian government. The Kashmiri population were placed under lockdown; there was a shortage of medicines and baby food, people were not able to speak to family members outside the state. Reports emerged that police used tear gas and pellet guns to break up peaceful protest. The international community was caught off guard. But Kashmir has long been known as the most militarised region in the world. Trapped between India and Pakistan, the people have suffered decades of human rights abuses and state-sanctioned violence. The mass of papers in the UN archives since 1947 reveal much international diplomacy, but a lack of political will to intervene. Curfewed Night is the Kashmiri writer Basharat Peer's moving memoir. He was just 13 years old in 1989, when the separatist movement turned violent. He writes of the desire for self-determination, the brutal Indian response. Of the friends who left their villages to train as fighters in Pakistan; of those who "disappeared", possibly to Indian torture centres run off-grid; and the "half widows" left behind. In Do You Remember Kunan Poshpora? five Kashmiri women piece together the evidence of a mass rape perpetrated by Indian security forces in 1991, and its cover-up. Though the authors were barely born then, they have lived with that violence for decades. This is an extraordinary book about their determination to uncover the truth. Freny Manecksha's Behold, I Shine , also pays tribute to the resilience of Kashmiri women, and includes her interview with Parveena Ahangar, founder of the Association of Parents of Disappeared Persons (ADPD). In the 1990s National Security Guard forces picked up her son; she has not seen him since. She heard he was "stripped [...] he desperately wanted a glass of water"; she is now one of Kashmir's leading activists for justice. In his novel The Collaborator , Mirza Waheed gives us a boy whose friends vanish. He then gets a job counting corpses for the Indian army and is terrified he will discover his own missing friends. The prose is visceral, the tone dark and absurd. Malik Sajad captures the same desperation in his striking graphic novel, Munnu , about a boy from Kashmir and the shame and compromises Kashmiri artists must make to survive in war. His book damns a world that cares little for people whose land is so strategically placed between India, Pakistan and China, while Feroz Rather's fierce and lyrical new book of linked stories The Night of Broken Glass , with its evocation of Kristallnacht, tells of those everyday lives, forgotten by the west. Even as these writers document pain, they also reclaim Kashmiri spiritual traditions fractured by different rulers over centuries. As in poet Agha Shahid Ali's blazing collection The Country without a Post Office , their work is woven with the words of the 14th-century female mystic Lal Ded and the 16th-century Muslim poet-queen Habba Kahtoun. The poets also haunt Salman Rushdie's Kashmir novel, Shalimar the Clown , and appear in Kashmir: The Case for Freedom , by writers including Arundhati Roy. Her essential novel The Ministry of Utmost Happiness tracks the rise of Hindu nationalism over decades and brings us almost up to date in Kashmir. As for Indian culpability, two novels stand out. The Far Field by Madhuri Vijay and Jaspreet Singh's elegiac Chef bear witness to decades of denial and silencing. With the 72nd anniversary of partition falling this week, these works entreat us to hear what the people of Kashmir have to say.
Kirkus Review
Shakespeare's supreme tragedy, King Lear, is transposed to contemporary India and recast as a family drama of financial power-brokering within a transforming, culturally complex nation."Don't we have the youngest population, the fastest growing democracy' in the world?This Company doesn't need old men, still living in the glory days of the '80s and '90s. It's now, guys. Our time." Issues of gender and generation spearhead the conflict in this mammoth drama of money, succession, and control, British-born Taneja's impressive first work of fiction. Pulsing with vitality, it ranges widely across the subcontinent, delivering the familiar bones of the story mainly from the perspective of the younger generation. Patriarch Devraj Bapujian aging tycoon whose business empire, the Company, makes its wealth principally from hotelsand his second-in-command, Ranjit Singh, have sired the five children whose perspectives shape the storytelling. First comes Jivan, Ranjit's illegitimate son, arriving back in India after 15 years in the U.S. to witness the day of Bapuji's sudden announcement that he's quitting his own company and transferring power to his daughters, Gargi and Radha. (Sita, the favorite, has disappeared.) Capable Gargi steps into the CEO role, eventually confronting her father and banning half of the Hundred, his rowdy cohort of favored employees, from the family compound. Radha, unlike Gargi, luxuriates in the trappings of wealth, but there's a dark history behind her sensual indulgences. And then there's Jeet, Jivan's gay half brother, who forsakes his wealth for a pilgrimage that will plunge him to the bottom of the social ladder to witness some of Bapuji's comeback campaign. Sita's section comes last, as the key players assemble for the glamorous opening of a new hotel in Srinagar and Taneja's dreamy synthesis of language, place, food, clashing views and values, seeping Westernization, and post-colonial flux reaches its climax.A long, challenging, but inspired modernization of a classicengaging, relevant, and very dark. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Library Journal Review
DEBUT Every now and then, a writer grabs you in the first paragraph and doesn't let go. Such is the case with Taneja, whose stunning debut brims with familial jealousy, sexual tension, political turmoil, and shocking violence. Set in India during the anticorruption riots of the current decade, it hews closely to the tragic story line of Shakespeare's King Lear. Three sisters, Gargi, Radha, and Sita, have been raised under the iron rule of their father, Bapu Devraj, a developer with tentacles in every area of Indian business. At 75, Bapu is preparing to divide the company among his two older daughters and their spouses just as two prodigals return to the fold. Jivan, illegitimate son of Bapu's right-hand man, Ranjit Singh, exiled to the States as a youngster, now boasts a Harvard degree and a yen for money. Sita, an environmentalist, educated in London, opposes the expansion of the company's ostentatious luxury hotel line into politically fraught Kashmir. This stance divides the family and sets in motion a series of events that force readers to rethink the motivations and loyalties of every character. VERDICT Taneja writes with a passion and verve that reflects her human rights reporter and filmmaker background. Highly recommended for socially conscious readers. [See Prepub Alert, 3/26/18.]-Sally Bissell, formerly with Lee Cty. Lib. Syst., Fort Myers, FL © Copyright 2018. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
i It's not about land, it's about money. He whispers his mantra as the world drops away, swinging like a pendulum around the plane. The glittering ribbon of the Thames, the official stamps of the Royal parks, a bald white dome spiked with a yellow crown, are swallowed by summer's deep twilight. The plane lifts, the clouds quilt beneath it, tucking England into bed to dream of better times. It is still yesterday, according to his watch. He winds the dial forward. Now it is tomorrow, only eight hours to go. He's landed the window seat with the broken touchscreen: it's either in-flight information or Slumdog Millionaire , the last movie he ever took Ma to. They went on release weekend. The entire line of people had been brown, so for once Ma didn't hunch in his shadow as if his jeans and camel coat would protect her, explain her. Instead they had the same old fight about Iris, and as he bought toffee popcorn she began to sniff: she said she was catching a chill. She kept up the sniffing as the credits rolled over the entire cast line-dancing on the set of an Indian train station. When they got outside, he thought she'd been crying. He put his arms around her: her head was the perfect place for his chin to rest. He asked her if she liked the movie, she said she didn't at all. It was not real India, except for the songs. It's been a long haul from JFK to the LHR stopover. He's half shot with the comfort of Johnnie Walker, knows it's not the best but he appreciates the label. It feels bespoke to him, like a child in a gift shop who finds a mug with his own name on it. No gift shop in America has a JIVAN mug so he borrowed JON, and that's been it since he did this trip the other way. Thirteen years old: sold on leaving India by the promise of his first time in the air. Forward, forward, he wills the plane, drumming his hands on the tray-table, earning himself the side eye from the woman wedged into the seat next to him. She's using her iPhone 4 to photograph the back page of the in-flight magazine: Ambika Gupta: offering you the miracle of advanced Numerology: a digit for your future . She pokes the man on her other side: Sardarji in a blue turban, matching jersey stretched over his belly, stitched with a white number 5. Dude looks like he's birthing quintuplets under there. She smiles at him, sits back in her seat. There are thin red lines traced all over her hands in fading bridal henna as if she's been turned inside out, painful, beautiful, the pattern of her is all paisleys. Her ring is a platinum band with a square-cut white diamond and her bag is Longchamps like all the pretty-pretty girls have; navy waterproof with brown leather trim, but small, the cheapest. Don't you know, pretty girl, that no bag is better than trying too hard? She's flicking through the magazine: ads for Marc Jacobs, Charlize Theron, flicks to the gadgets, flicks to the movies, clink-chime-clink go the red glass bangles stacked up her wrists. It sounds like the overture to Ma's practice music. Played for her to dance Kathak, with precision, while Jivan kept time. Fist thumping into palm, Dha-din-din-dha . His memories are coloured by her last months--Ma, fading from brown to yellow, a bruise that would not heal against the hospital white. Dha-din-din-dha became her fingers beating lightly on his temples--blurring into the rattle of her breath toward the end--the background hum of the plane's engine in his ears. They are cruising high over the mountains of who knows where. He pulls out his own magazine. The cover is a cartoon illustration--a tiny brown body topped with an oversized head. Under a halo of white hair, two puffed cheeks blow out candles on a vast birthday cake the shape of an udder. India, sprouting with the turrets of heritage hotels, factory chimneys. Cars race off its surface, bolts of cloth unfurl, tigers hunt goats through spurting oil rigs. The orange headline shouts: Happy 75th Birthday Devraj Bapuji! The spotlight falls on the wily old face. This man, on this cover, on this flight--this is what Ma would have called a sign. --Sir, beverage? The airhostess is white bread, plum jam lickable; her smile promises drinks, upgrades, a hand to hold if the plane goes down. Jon wants to show-and-tell the magazine to her, Hey, my real name is Jivan! When I was a kid, I knew this guy! He is Bapuji, my half brother's Godfather. He's like my uncle, not blood, but you know. I grew up with his daughters Gargi and Radha. I remember when Sita, his youngest, was born. He might even speak the verboten words: Have you heard of Ranjit Singh, Bapuji's second in command? He's my actual, like, Pa! He should just draw her a cast list complete with family trees. --Nothing, he says. For me. The plane turns east. On screen its tiny replica inches forward, crossing out half the world. He shifts again, trying to keep his shirt from creasing, his suit from getting crumpled. His tie has a stripe that confirms a certain university (Harvard); his shoes are handmade English (Lobbs). These are the spoils he is returning with. After fifteen years. To Delhi, city of his childhood, a diamond inside a diamond on the map. *** The cabin lights fade. The passengers recline, stiff like store dummies, eyes masked against each other. He opens the magazine. Birthday Greetings , by Barun J. Bharat. J.J.J. Maybe, Jivan thinks, Barun's one of those guys who needs that extra initial, like some men need a tie-pin, to make him feel safe. Or maybe he has a more famous brother. The Age of Devraj , writes Barun. We salute him, founder of The Devraj Company, one of India's most loved tycoons, who has just achieved his Seventy Fifth year. Devraj. Grinning from a double-page spread, dressed in a safari suit and hat. Up to his knees in the watery, fragile Sunderbans, a tiger cub cradled in his arms. Visionary Businessman, Guru to millions, employer of thousands, head of the hundred-hotel Company, father of three lovely daughters, Gargi, Radha and Sita, the caption says. Adoptive father to Tipu Sultan, a two-year-old tiger cub, who was raised by Devraj Bapuji, Animal Lover and Environmental Hero, in the Company private zoo. And also--also--Godfather to one lucky bro called Jeet. How could Barun J. Bharat, in-flight journalist, miss that? What about the textile mills from Punjab to Trivandrum, busy spinning silk into gold? Or the cement and brickworks in some serious backwaters? Huff and puff, said the big, bad wolf, aré, of course the house won't blow down. Don't forget the transport industry that runs on parts made in Company factories, from steel, mined and smelted in Company concerns--Barun needs a lesson in proper research: the kind of deep Googling a person might do if they were banished to a galaxy far, far away, surviving in exile, waiting. There is some news. The Company is moving into cars. It will produce, in the name of Devraj's youngest, most precious daughter, Sita, and in recognition of her commitment to many causes, but particularly to Mother Nature, India's first hybrid, the world's smallest vehicle, aimed at the common man. The Company reach is only growing in these times when India, Barun writes, is claiming her rightful place on the global stage. All has been brought into being by Devraj Bapuji's sheer determination, his far-reaching gaze. One of our most venerated business leaders, his spirituality ever feeding his superlative business ethos, his work for the girl-child in education recognised by a special Businesses in Charitable Endeavours Award given to him by the honourable Minister of Human Resource Development and the President of India. A close personal friend of left and right and an adviser on fiscal policy, his skill with a skillet at family barbecues is most appreciated by his friends. He is a man whose fearlessness in business has grown from grassroots to luxury hotels into one of India's leading brands yet he remains humble. Wow, could Barun use a class in white writing. His prose is cloying like Diwali sweets, clogging the throat. Jalebi language, full of twists and turns, slick with the street oil it's fried in. Yet Jon can taste his longed-for Delhi in the words. Could he speak Barun, if he tried? He has the core skills. Before he was sent to America, his father would task him to take the daily national newspapers, to search and cut and read out loud any coverage that mentioned Devraj, Ranjit or the Company concerns. He was an obedient nine years old: he only told the good stories. In those days it seemed that was all there was: it looks as if nothing has changed. He smiles. Who would guess from this report that Devraj used to wear specially dyed, saffron-coloured Y-fronts every day? That some Guru told the old man he would live past a hundred if he did? Those are true facts. Once when he was still called Jivan, and only about ten, he was playing The Bold and the Beautiful with Radha (it was her idea), somewhere they should not have been (Devraj's walk-in closet). In a drawer under the kurta pyjama, the handloom shawls, the ties hanging flaccid from a rack, he saw the stacks of orange underwear for himself. Radha told him what the Guru had said for longevity of body and name: saffron must be worn each day, next to the most precious skin. Was that the first time Radha showed Jivan her own panties? Pink they were, with frills. Then, she cried because he would not show his. He skims the pages until a smaller headline stops his eye. Devraj Celebrates as Company forays to Kashmir. This, he did not know. Soon , according to Barun J. Bharat, the discerning tourist will be able to holiday courtesy of the Company in seven-star luxury in the coolest (literally!) new destination for domestic and international travellers, reclaiming the world's most beautiful memory of love. Where the latest iteration of the iconic Company Mukti Spa , the article says, will make you say "Ahh." New car launching, new hotel opening. Domestic tourist market growing in a city ripe for takeover. The whole world in recession except at Devraj Company, Main Street, New India. He sits back, the magazine a baton in his hands. It's not about land, it's about money. The article ends with a love letter to Sita. One of Delhi's top young beauties-with-brains: elegant, accomplished, so devoted to Bapuji that since she returned from UK she is at his side for every public engagement. Still single aged 22, she is India's most eligible Bachelorette , writes Barun. There is a picture of Devraj in a white kurta pyjama and brown shawl. He is looking down at Sita, her back is to the camera--her sari blouse is laced like an old-school corset, pinching her skin to diamonds. One of Delhi's top young beauties-with-brains: elegant, accomplished, so devoted to Bapuji that since she returned from UK she is at his side for every public engagement. Still single aged 22, she is India's most eligible Bachelorette, writes Barun. In the final shot they are under a banner: Green Delhi Clean Delhi! with the Minister for Tourism, he's having a great trip with his arm around Sita's shoulder. She is holding a hand over her mouth as if yawning or laughing, it's hard to tell which. Jivan examines the picture. There it is, on her third finger--Gargi, Radha and Jeet all have a ring like this--Devraj's initial twinned with theirs carved out in the flat-faced gold. The caption says Devrajji, Sita Devrajkumari. Special VVIP guests at the Annual Convention of Indian Tourism and Heritage dinner function, hosted at The Company Delhi Grand Hotel and Mukti Spa. Mukti again, mukti. Jivan cannot remember what it means. He closes his eyes. Liberation . Sita was tiny when Jivan left. All he remembers is a little princess, attached to her Lottie, who was never allowed to play out. Held in the sky and the world is turning. Perhaps he has always been here, ageing on this plane. Perhaps the last years in America are no more than Disney dreams. Outside: nothing. He calls for another whisky. --Sorry, sir, we only serve unlimited drinks in First Class. The flight attendant walks away, her hair so neat, her makeup so pat she could be Company-made, remote-controlled. She sweeps behind the red curtain that divides the rich from the not-so-much. Beyond that curtain is wonderland. Drinks and legroom; stewardesses who never say 'no'. The captives of economy surround each other. A tangle of saris, plaits, cardigans, high-heeled sandals slung into empty Dunkin' Donuts boxes, torn-up Glamour magazines. The men stretch across the seats, the women clutch the children; the children won't let go of their Nintendo DSis even as they sleep. Dinner is given, not served: brown plastic lumps in a makhani sauce, rice and pickles. Or white plastic lumps with herb sauce instead. He chooses Indian, then Western, cannot stomach anything. Next to him, the newlyweds try to keep food, sachets, cutlery on the tray, to eat without elbowing each other. The smells are of rehydrated flesh, the toilets, feet. Jon's face is reflected in the touchscreen. It looks warped, as if he has become his own old man. Ranjit Kumar Singh, the Company's Head of New Business, a taste for bright socks and matching breast-pocket handkerchiefs. Suits bespoke from Heritage, fabrics fresh from Company supplies. The bride beside him is finishing her food. Her fork breaks; she wipes the plastic tub with her fingers. He shifts to avoid any falling grains of rice. On this journey, it will be impossible to keep clean. Excerpted from We That Are Young: A Novel by Preti Taneja All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.