On the Calculation of Volume I

** A NEW YORKER, OBSERVER AND PARIS REVIEW BOOK OF THE YEAR ** 'Absolutely, absolutely incredible.' Karl Ove Knausgård 'A total explosion.' Nicole Krauss 'Unforgettable.' Hernan Díaz 'Breathtaking.' Chetna Maroo 'Brilliant.' Jon McGregor 'Absolutely marvellous.' Lauren Groff Shortlisted for the International Booker Prize this is the first volume of the poetic, page-turning European masterpiece about one woman's fall through the cracks of time. Tara Selter has slipped out of time. It was clear that the day always returned to its starting point, but that there were also variations. It was not mechanical, there was more to it. It was the same day which kept recurring, but it was not set in stone. Every morning, she wakes up to the 18th of November. She no longer expects to wake up to the 19th of November, and she no longer remembers the 17th of November as if it were yesterday. She comes to know the shape of the day like the back of her hand - the grey morning light in her Paris hotel; the moment a blackbird breaks into song; her husband's surprise at seeing her return home unannounced. But for everyone around her, this day is lived for the first and only time. They do not remember the other 18ths of November, and they do not believe her when she tries to explain. As Tara approaches her 365th 18th of November, she can't shake the feeling that somewhere underneath the surface of this day, there's a way to escape.

** A NEW YORKER, OBSERVER AND PARIS REVIEW BOOK OF THE YEAR ** 'Absolutely, absolutely incredible.' Karl Ove Knausgård 'A total explosion.' Nicole Krauss 'Unforgettable.' Hernan Díaz 'Breathtaking.' Chetna Maroo 'Brilliant.' Jon McGregor 'Absolutely marvellous.' Lauren Groff Shortlisted for the International Booker Prize this is the first volume of the poetic, page-turning European masterpiece about one woman's fall through the cracks of time. Tara Selter has slipped out of time. It was clear that the day always returned to its starting point, but that there were also variations. It was not mechanical, there was more to it. It was the same day which kept recurring, but it was not set in stone. Every morning, she wakes up to the 18th of November. She no longer expects to wake up to the 19th of November, and she no longer remembers the 17th of November as if it were yesterday. She comes to know the shape of the day like the back of her hand - the grey morning light in her Paris hotel; the moment a blackbird breaks into song; her husband's surprise at seeing her return home unannounced. But for everyone around her, this day is lived for the first and only time. They do not remember the other 18ths of November, and they do not believe her when she tries to explain. As Tara approaches her 365th 18th of November, she can't shake the feeling that somewhere underneath the surface of this day, there's a way to escape.