Publisher Description

A quintessentially American epic, Sunnyside stars the one and only Little Tramp, Charlie Chaplin.  It's 1916 and, after an extraordinary mass delusion where Chaplin is spotted in more than eight hundred places simultaneously, his fame is at its peak but his inspiration is at a low.  As he struggles to find a film project as worthy as himself, we are introduced to a dazzling cast of characters that take us from the battlefields of France to the Russian Revolution and from the budding glamour of Hollywood to madcap Wild West shows.  The result is a spellbinding novel about dreams, ambition, and the birth of modern America.

Author Biography

Glen David Gold's first novel, Carter Beats the Devil, has been translated into fourteen languages. His short stories and essays have appeared in McSweeney's, Playboy, and The New York Times Magazine. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, Alice Sebold.

Review

"Brilliant . . . Sunnyside offers a wealth of wit and pathos and insight, and who better to guide us through this transformational moment in history than the Little Tramp? . . . Gold's dexterous voice can swing from the exuberant melodrama of silent film to the terror of doomed soldiers to the quiet despair of the world's most beloved man." —Washington Post
 
"Sunnyside always intrigues and often soars . . . [It has] wonderful Dickensian qualities, namely, the capacity to startle, to thrill, to evoke laughter and, ultimately, to bring tears to the eyes." —Los Angeles Times Book Review
 
"Ingenious. . . . A thoughtful commentary on the creation of celebrity in modern America." —The New Yorker
 
"Glen David Gold's Doctorow-esque Sunnyside brings young America to vivid life as he weaves together European battlefields and the backlots of Hollywood . . . Gold is a masterful, even heart-stopping storyteller." —Entertainment Weekly
 
"An insanely ambitious novel . . . Gold's prose is both decorative and tensile, like art deco steel turned into English language . . . [One] scene is such a gorgeous evocation of movieland glamour, night air and heartache that it calls to mind the finest of Hollywood novels, F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Last Tycoon." —Aravind Adiga, Financial Times
 
"A rich concoction of a novel, a melange of historical fact, biographical speculation and outright fantasy . . . Sunnyside pops and crackles with cleverness." —San Francisco Chronicle
 
"Sunnyside moves in grand arcs. . . . Like all the best historical novels, this one is as much about the present as anything else." —ComicCritique.com
 
"Gold's Chaplin will fascinate readers for any number of reasons. . . . With protean, smart, and appropriately Chaplinesque writing." —The New York Times Book Review
 
"Unflaggingly entertaining . . . Sunnyside flaunts a dizzying ambition. . . . Gold is a prodigally gifted storyteller." —Newsweek
 
"Sunnyside is the best kind of summer reading, a beautifully lavish, intelligent novel that begs to be read slowly and closely, from first line to last. . . . Warmhearted and enveloping." —Portland Mercury
 
"Sunnyside is a big book crammed with big ideas and ambitions, and, with its multiple plots and mix of history and fiction, it's easy to see why many reviews have compared it to the work of E.L. Doctorow . . . [It's] full of intelligence, ambition, and generosity." —Christian Science Monitor
 
"A historical novel full of comedic pleasures. . . . [It] has a rampant sense of fun." —Arizona Republic
 
"Witty and often as funny as it is insightful. . . . Sunnyside plays out much like Chaplin's career, initially funny but moving on to something that is deeper, that plumbs the human condition without necessarily providing definitive answers . . . Grandly imagined." —Denver Post
 
"A gloriously enjoyable read, with pleasures on almost every page: a novel of which Chaplin, the supreme entertainer, would have been proud." —Daily Telegraph (London)
 
"Sunnyside is a cane-twirling, bowler-doffing triumph." —Independent on Sunday (London)
 
"Sunnyside is a riot, as Gold displays a prodigious gift for storytelling, with a succession of scintillating set pieces and audacious one-liners . . . Fantastic." —Time Out London
 
"A breathless stupendous novel that recreates both a young brash America on the verge of becoming itself, and Chaplin, one of its most bewitching quixotic citizens. From lighthouse to Hollywood to starlets to war to stardom to madness to genius Gold's startling narrative carries us across the world and back. Gold proves himself yet again to be the hungriest craftiest funniest and most humane novelist we have." —Junot Díaz

Review Quote

"Unflaggingly entertaining . . .Sunnysideflaunts a dizzying ambition. Thematically it's no less modest . . . Gold is a prodigally gifted storyteller." Newsweek "Brilliant . . .Sunnysideoffers a wealth of wit and pathos and insight, and who better to guide us through this transformational moment in history than the Little Tramp? . . . Gold's dexterous voice can swing from the exuberant melodrama of silent film to the terror of doomed soldiers to the quiet despair of the world's most beloved man . . . There are so many dazzling episodesin such a wide variety of settings in so many different styles and tonesthat I began to think there was nothing Gold couldn't do . . . Most important, he has figured out how to make Chaplin strut and feint and dance in print . . . Gold captures [Chaplin] in scenes of rich psychological acuity." Washington Post "Sunnysideis a rich concoction of a novel, a melange of historical fact, biographical speculation and outright fantasy . . . Gold is a wizard at making things up and mixing them in with things not made up . . . reinforcing the comparison to writers such as E.L. Doctorow that his first novel elicited . . .Sunnysidepops and crackles with cleverness . . . Undeniably entertaining." San Francisco Chronicle "A breathless stupendous novel that recreates both a young brash America on the verge of becoming itself, and Chaplin, one of its most bewitching quixotic citizens. From lighthouse to Hollywood to starlets to war to stardom to madness to genius Gold's startling narrative carries us across the world and back. Gold proves himself yet again to be the hungriest craftiest funniest and most humane novelist we have." Junot D

Excerpt from Book

At its northernmost limit, the California coastline suffered a winter of brutal winds pitched against iron- clad fog, and roiling seas whose whiplash could scar a man''s cheek as quickly as a cat- o''- nine- tails. Since the Gold Rush, mariners had run aground, and those who survived the splintering impact were often pulped when the tides tore them across the terrible strata of the volcanic landscape. For protection, the State had erected ascore of lighthouses staffed with teams of three or four families who rotated duties that lasted into the day and into the night. The changing of the guard, as it were, was especially treacherous in some locations, such as Crescent City, accessible only by a tombolo that was flooded in high tide, or Point Bonita, whose wooden walkway, even after the mildest storm, tended to faint dead away from the loose soil of its mountaintop and tumble into the sea. Until the advent of navigational radio, communication with the mainland was spotty. God help the man who broke his leg on the Farallon Islands between the weekly supply- ship visits. But the peril of the European War had meant Crosley crystal- receiver radio sets and quenched spark systems with an eight- hundred- mile range for all who lived and worked on the coastlines, and so, on Sunday, November 12, 1916, just below the Oregon border, at the St. George Reef Lighthouse, eight miles off the California coast, there began an explosion of radio, telephone, and telegraph operations unprecedented in American history.At high tide, roughly five o''clock in the morning, it was over an hour before dawn. The sweeping eighty- thousand- candlepower light from the third- order lens cast the frothing sea from shore to horizon into the high contrast of white against black for some moments, then back into full pitch- darkness. Two strong men in caps and slickers rowed the station boat toward the crown of stone upon which the lighthouse stood. Their passenger, her corpulent form bundled beneath a treated canvas sail, her arms crossed around her morning pitcher of coffee, was the Second Assistant Keeper, Emily Wheeler. As the light rotated, there was a stroboscopic effect which illuminated her progress cutting across the sea foam that lay like frosting above the crags and crevasses of the ancient reef. Emily Wheeler, in the third generation of a family of California lighthouse keepers, was a difficult woman, but, as with all difficult women who could demand such isolated work, her desire was immediately granted. Of course, send her to a rock miles off the coastline, go with the governor''s blessings.But, unlike other such women, she had thought to make her own uniform. She wore it under the sail and her layers of slickers and inflatable vests. It was navy wool, with simple gold braid at the throat, and there was a smart, matching cap under which she tucked the foundry- steel braid of her hair. After considerable thought about stripes--she didn''t want to seem conceited, yet she also wanted to acknowledge her duties--she hadgiven herself the rank of sergeant.Her lighthouse was the world''s most expensive, nine years in the making, a cylindrical housing hewn from living granite, a 115- foot caisson tower as sturdy as a medieval fortress, its imposing skin interrupted only by the balistrariac slits of loophole windows. And at the very top, capped with iron painted a brilliant red, was its lantern room, in which rotated the Fresnel lens, as faceted as a sultana''s engagement diamond, and which, like the eye of Argus, was chambered myriad ways, as close to omniscience as technology could dare. There was no better light in America.To be the sergeant sharing charge of such a great beast was an honor and a responsibility to which Emily Wheeler was equal, and to be a woman superior to men was a life she made no secret of enjoying. In fact, to gain their confidence, she was known to pander to their prejudices, in effect putting her own gender up for sale. ("Gentlemen," she said on her first day, "I do not give the orders. The sea gives the orders, and we are at the mercy of her unpredictable ways.")She was clearheaded in a crisis, and had organized the rescue of many a wayward sailor. However, it was her habit in the boring hours to engineer small crises herself. A twitching filament on the reserve lantern was occasion for much shouting; cleaning the fog signal''s air compressor meant at least three separate fits of panic. It was thus the curse of her men to wish on every shift for an actual disaster. Since no one could live comfortably at the station for more than a week, the four keeper families passed much of their lives in cottage- style duplexes on the coast, on the dunes justabove the shoreline. Husbands and wives and children were eternally, twice a day, with the waxing and waning tides, handing off hot meals and kissing each other goodbye. Eight miles from shore, the station boat now settled into place on the leeward side of the lighthouse, which made a wedge- shaped windscreen, a small pool of calm. The men in the boat flashed their tiny lantern, and in response there was a groan from the crane housing overhead, and a winch dropped down a cargo net, into which Sergeant Wheeler stepped. Another exchange of lights, and then the crane withdrew, bringing her aloft. It was during the long moments when she swung in the wind, and the spray of the sea managed to slap at her face and neck, that she most enjoyed her job at the very edge of the map. "I am the westernmost woman in the country"-- an idea she extinguished when the cargo net placed her on granite. Trouble.Leland, her assistant, helped her unbuckle the harness and step out of the cargo net. "We have a problem, Mom."Leland was always on duty at the same time she was, less a personal choice than a request of the other families. He was twenty- four years old, talk at the lighthouse had deemed him "unfairly handsome," and he had wrecked two surreys on the dunes near the cottages while impressing girls. Further, he had a propensity for mail- ordering sheet music from San Francisco, jazz rags, which he insisted on playing on the clarinet most afternoons, and he was known to visit the picture show three consecutive days to memorize the details of photoplays rather than stay at home and help his grandmother, who had the vapors. It was hoped Sergeant Wheeler would provide discipline."What''s wrong?""Craft adrift. About a mile west- northwest.""Anyone on it?"Leland hesitated. He was generally quick with a quip, which melted Emily''s heart too much and prevented any actual discipline from occurring. So now she looked at him not just as a sergeant, but as a worried mother. Finally, he said, "You should come see." They passed through the portico into the engine room and took the elevator to the cramped observation chamber just below the lantern room. It shared common glass with the lightbox one story above. There were two men already present, a father and a son of the Field family, pushing each other away from their only telescope worth a damn, the Alvan Clark with a two- inch lens. While Emily removed her slicker, and polished the wet from her glasses, two more assistants came into the room, having heard excitement was brewing. "Where''s the craft?" Emily asked."It''s ten o''clock, a mile out," answered the elder Field."And it''s manned?"Field looked to his son, who looked to Leland, who nodded."Is it the invasion?" For this had been a topic of discussion, at first hypothetically and of late a grim certainty."No, it''s just one man. Alone."Frowning, Emily pulled the phone from the wall and called to the lantern room, asking them to fix the lens so that it shone at ten o''clock, and to send up the code flags, prepare for a series of two- flag signals, and notify all surrounding vessels via radio telephony that a rescue was in progress. The engine ground down with the easing of a clock spring, and the white light went steady upon the churning seas. The fog, which most days was a woolen overcoat, this morning was but a beaded mist easily torn through, and even without the telescope, Emily could see a small boat bobbing in the swells."Lord! It''s just a skiff, an open skiff," she whispered. She made fluttering gestures to push back the group around the Alvan Clark, and they exchanged glances of anticipation. This was either a real crisis or one about to be shouted into existence. Emily applied her eye to the eyepiece, blinked, and ran her fingers along the reeded focus knob, making a blur, and then, in a perfectly circular iris, she saw, with a clarity that made her gasp, Charlie Chaplin.She jolted a step backward, looking to the window without the aid of magnification, as if the telescope might have somehow fabricated this vision. She could see the boat, now rocking on the crests of ever- increasing waves as it came closer, and there was indeed a solitary figure aboard. He was dressed in baggy black trousers, a tight morning coat. He had a mustache. A cane. A derby."Is that . . ." She swallowed."We were thinking it looks like Charlie Chaplin," Leland said, with the shame of a boy caught believing in fairies.Emily gulped coffee, searching for it to kick like gin, and then she looked again through the telescope. The lighthouse provided a brilliant spotlight that swept away all color in the flood of illumination, casting its view into glowing white or penumbral mystery; there was no missing the open skiff, its single sail patched and sagging, its occupant shuffling from stem to stern, toes out, gingerly leaping over each oarlock''s thwart. He was rubbing his chin, and waggling his mustache as if itched by a puzzling thought, and in the several seconds Emily watched speechlessly, a gust of wind swung the ruined sail so that it hit him in his rear end, causing him to jump in place. He realized what had hit him, he tipped his hat as if he and the sail were engaged in polite social discourse, and he returned to h

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