You: A Novel, by Caroline Kepnes
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You: A Novel, by Caroline Kepnes
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Praise for Caroline Kepnes and You: “Hypnotic and scary.” —Stephen King “I am RIVETED, AGHAST, AROUSED, you name it. The rare instance when prose and plot are equally delicious.” —Lena Dunham From debut author Caroline Kepnes comes You, one of Suspense Magazine’s Best Books of 2014, and a brilliant and terrifying novel for the social media age.When a beautiful, aspiring writer strides into the East Village bookstore where Joe Goldberg works, he does what anyone would do: he Googles the name on her credit card. There is only one Guinevere Beck in New York City. She has a public Facebook account and Tweets incessantly, telling Joe everything he needs to know: she is simply Beck to her friends, she went to Brown University, she lives on Bank Street, and she’ll be at a bar in Brooklyn tonight—the perfect place for a “chance” meeting. As Joe invisibly and obsessively takes control of Beck’s life, he orchestrates a series of events to ensure Beck finds herself in his waiting arms. Moving from stalker to boyfriend, Joe transforms himself into Beck’s perfect man, all while quietly removing the obstacles that stand in their way—even if it means murder. A terrifying exploration of how vulnerable we all are to stalking and manipulation, debut author Caroline Kepnes delivers a razor-sharp novel for our hyper-connected digital age. You is a compulsively readable page-turner that’s being compared to Gone Girl, American Psycho, and Stephen King’s Misery.
You: A Novel, by Caroline Kepnes- Amazon Sales Rank: #3881 in Books
- Published on: 2015-06-16
- Released on: 2015-06-16
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.25" h x 1.10" w x 5.31" l, .0 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 448 pages
Review "Hypnotic and scary...never read anything quite like it." (Stephen King)“My most favorite thriller." (Lena Dunham)"YOU is superb. So funny, apart from anything else, and properly clever. It is: different, hot." (Sophie Hannah, New York Times bestselling author of The Monogram Murders and The Other Woman's House)"This is one of the most unsettling books I’ve read this year, but despite being thoroughly creeped out, I couldn’t put it down even for a second. It’s narrated by the villain, which makes for a rather unnerving read. I even found myself accidentally rooting for him as he was about to commit pretty heinous crimes. Whoops." (Bustle) "An impending sense of dread hangs over Kepnes' cleverly claustrophobic debut, in which love takes on a whole new meaning...Kepnes keeps the reader guessing." (Kirkus Reviews)“Intense and deeply disturbing, You is a dark story told in a fresh voice, and an addictive read from beginning to end. Being inside Joe Goldberg’s head was both a thrill and a nightmare, and yet I didn’t want to wake up. I look forward to more from the very talented Caroline Kepnes.” (Jennifer Hillier, author of THE BUTCHER)“Chilling...[Kepnes' YOU] will have readers looking over their shoulders.” (Publisher's Weekly)"Chilling...unrelenting." (USAToday.com)“A deeply dark yet mesmerizing first novel of two people caught in a romantic tangle with an ever-tightening knot.” (Booklist)"Is Caroline Kepnes’ 'You' the next GONE GIRL? It'll take you inside a psychopath’s head... and might even make you like him. A mad and macabre love story." (TimeOut Australia)"Could be the next GONE GIRL...a perverse suspense romance about obsession, sex, and secrets." (PopSugar.com)“All-consuming – a book that will not release its hold on you, even when you are not actively reading it.” (BoloBooks.com)“You…had the page-turning quality of classic (Stephen) King at his peak.” (The Devil's Advocate)“Kepnes’debut novel is gripping in both substance and style.” (Closer Magazine)“You is a deliciously terrifying stalker tale that grabbed hold of me on page one and kept me captivated right until the very end…Utterly unputdownable.” (Kathryn's Inbox)“If you like twisted psychological horror with a liberal dose of hip and more than a dollop of perversion, this one’s for you!” (Pages Podcast)“If you liked GONE GIRL’S portrayal of a marriage in decline, the demented love story at the heart of YOU will have you gripped….This book will give you Stockholm syndrome." (Harpers Bazaar (UK))“You by Caroline Kepnes completely blew me away…It’s an exceptional thriller that is chillingly passionate, dangerous, and quite often left me speechless.” (The Book Ramblings)"Both original and compelling. If you only read one new thriller this year, make it this one. It will stay with you long after you have put it down." (Geoffrey Wansell Daily Mail (UK))"A brilliant tale of obsessive love...it's GONE GIRL meets a sinister version of GIRLS." (Marie Claire (UK))"You think you know the story: girl meets boy, boy turns out to be a murderous stalker. US journalist Kepnes' debut is a fantastically creepy thriller...the kind of book you put your life on hold for." (Glamour)"A page turner...clever and chilling." (Elle (UK))"This book is dark, disturbing, twisted, erotic, psychotic...just try to put it down. Fans of...Gillian Flynn will love this book." (MomAdvice.com)“You is the kind of book you will read whenever you have a spare moment. It is the book you will not be able to put down, and once you finish, you will want to start over again.” (Huffpost Books)
About the Author Caroline Kepnes is a native of Cape Cod and the author of many published short stories. After graduating from Brown University, Caroline moved to New York where she covered pop culture for Entertainment Weekly and Tiger Beat. She also worked as a staff writer on the first season of ABC Family's The Secret Life of the American Teenager. Caroline’s second novel, Hidden Bodies, is the follow-up to her debut novel, You, which was optioned by Showtime. Caroline now lives in Los Angeles, where she writes fiction, drinks artificially sweetened caffeinated beverages, and avoids freeways. Follow @CarolineKepnes on Twitter or visit CarolineKepnes.com.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. You
1
YOU walk into the bookstore and you keep your hand on the door to make sure it doesn’t slam. You smile, embarrassed to be a nice girl, and your nails are bare and your V-neck sweater is beige and it’s impossible to know if you’re wearing a bra but I don’t think that you are. You’re so clean that you’re dirty and you murmur your first word to me—hello—when most people would just pass by, but not you, in your loose pink jeans, a pink spun from Charlotte’s Web and where did you come from? You are classic and compact, my own little Natalie Portman circa the end of the movie Closer, when she’s fresh-faced and done with the bad British guys and going home to America. You’ve come home to me, delivered at last, on a Tuesday, 10:06 A.M. Every day I commute to this shop on the Lower East Side from my place in Bed-Stuy. Every day I close up without finding anyone like you. Look at you, born into my world today. I’m shaking and I’d pop an Ativan but they’re downstairs and I don’t want to pop an Ativan. I don’t want to come down. I want to be here, fully, watching you bite your unpainted nails and turn your head to the left, no, bite that pinky, widen those eyes, to the right, no, reject biographies, self-help (thank God), and slow down when you make it to fiction. Yes. I let you disappear into the stacks—Fiction F–K—and you’re not the standard insecure nymph hunting for Faulkner you’ll never finish, never start; Faulkner that will harden and calcify, if books could calcify, on your nightstand; Faulkner meant only to convince one-night stands that you mean it when you swear you never do this kind of thing. No, you’re not like those girls. You don’t stage Faulkner and your jeans hang loose and you’re too sun-kissed for Stephen King and too untrendy for Heidi Julavits and who, who will you buy? You sneeze, loudly, and I imagine how loud you are when you climax. “God bless you!” I call out. You giggle and holler back, you horny girl, “You too, buddy.” Buddy. You’re flirting and if I was the kind of asshole who Instagrams, I would photograph the F–K placard and filter the shit out of that baby and caption it: F—K yes, I found her. Calm down, Joe. They don’t like it when a guy comes on too strong, I remind myself. Thank God for a customer and it’s hard to scan his predictable Salinger—then again, it’s always hard to do that. This guy is, what, thirty-six and he’s only now reading Franny and Zooey? And let’s get real. He’s not reading it. It’s just a front for the Dan Browns in the bottom of his basket. Work in a bookstore and learn that most people in this world feel guilty about being who they are. I bag the Dan Brown first like it’s kiddie porn and tell him Franny and Zooey is the shit and he nods and you’re still in F–K because I can see your beige sweater through the stacks, barely. If you reach any higher, I’ll see your belly. But you won’t. You grab a book and sit down in the aisle and maybe you’ll stay here all night. Maybe it’ll be like the Natalie Portman movie Where the Heart Is, adapted faithlessly from the Billie Letts book—above par for that kind of crud—and I’ll find you in the middle of the night. Only you won’t be pregnant and I won’t be the meek man in the movie. I’ll lean over and say, “Excuse me, miss, but we’re closed” and you’ll look up and smile. “Well, I’m not closed.” A breath. “I’m wide open. Buddy.” “Hey.” Salinger-Brown bites. He’s still here? He’s still here. “Can I get a receipt?” “Sorry about that.” He grabs it out of my hand. He doesn’t hate me. He hates himself. If people could handle their self-loathing, customer service would be smoother. “You know what, kid? You need to get over yourself. You work in a bookstore. You don’t make the books. You don’t write the books and if you were any good at reading the books, you probably wouldn’t work in a bookstore. So wipe that judgmental look off your face and tell me to have a nice day.” This man could say anything in the world to me and he’d still be the one shame-buying Dan Brown. You appear now with your intimate Portman smile, having heard the motherfucker. I look at you. You look at him and he’s still looking at me, waiting. “Have a nice day, sir,” I say and he knows I don’t mean it, hates that he craves platitudes from a stranger. When he’s gone, I call out again because you’re listening, “You enjoy that Dan Brown, motherfucker!” You walk over, laughing, and thank God it’s morning, and we’re dead in the morning and nobody is gonna get in our way. You put your basket of books down on the counter and you sass, “You gonna judge me too?” “What an asshole, right?” “Eh, probably just in a mood.” You’re a sweetheart. You see the best in people. You complement me. “Well,” I say and I should shut up and I want to shut up but you make me want to talk. “That guy is the reason that Blockbuster shouldn’t have gone under.” You look at me. You’re curious and I want to know about you but I can’t ask so I just keep talking. “Everybody is always striving to be better, lose five pounds, read five books, go to a museum, buy a classical record and listen to it and like it. What they really want to do is eat doughnuts, read magazines, buy pop albums. And books? Fuck books. Get a Kindle. You know why Kindles are so successful?” You laugh and you shake your head and you’re listening to me at the point when most people drift, go into their phone. And you’re pretty and you ask, “Why?” “I’ll tell you why. The Internet put porn in your home—” I just said porn, what a dummy, but you’re still listening, what a doll. “And you didn’t have to go out and get it. You didn’t have to make eye contact with the guy at the store who now knows you like watching girls get spanked. Eye contact is what keeps us civilized.” Your eyes are almonds and I go on. “Revealed.” You don’t wear a wedding ring and I go on. “Human.” You are patient and I need to shut up but I can’t. “And the Kindle, the Kindle takes all the integrity out of reading, which is exactly what the Internet did to porn. The checks and balances are gone. You can read your Dan Brown in public and in private all at once. It’s the end of civilization. But—” “There’s always a but,” you say and I bet you come from a big family of healthy, loving people who hug a lot and sing songs around a campfire. “But with no places to buy movies or albums, it’s come down to books. There are no more video stores so there are no more nerds who work in video stores and quote Tarantino and fight about Dario Argento and hate on people who rent Meg Ryan movies. That act, the interaction between seller and buyer, is the most important two-way street we got. And you can’t just eradicate two-way streets like that and not expect a fallout, you know?” I don’t know if you know but you don’t tell me to stop talking the way people sometimes do and you nod. “Hmm.” “See, the record store was the great equalizer. It gave the nerds power—‘You’re really buying Taylor Swift?’—even though all those nerds went home and jerked it to Taylor Swift.” Stop saying Taylor Swift. Are you laughing at me or with me? “Anyway,” I say, and I’ll stop if you tell me to. “Anyway,” you say, and you want me to finish. “The point is, buying stuff is one of the only honest things we do. That guy didn’t come in here for Dan Brown or Salinger. That guy came in here to confess.” “Are you a priest?” “No. I’m a church.” “Amen.” You look at your basket and I sound like a deranged loner and I look in your basket. Your phone. You don’t see it, but I do. It’s cracked. It’s in a yellow case. This means that you only take care of yourself when you’re beyond redemption. I bet you take zinc the third day of a cold. I pick up your phone and try to make a joke. “You steal this off that guy?” You take your phone and you redden. “Me and this phone . . .” you say. “I’m a bad mommy.” Mommy. You’re dirty, you are. “Nah.” You smile and you’re definitely not wearing a bra. You take the books out of the basket and put the basket on the floor and look at me like it wouldn’t be remotely possible for me to criticize anything you ever did. Your nipples pop. You don’t cover them. You notice the Twizzlers I keep by the register. You point, hungry. “Can I?” “Yes,” I say, and I am feeding you already. I pick up your first book, Impossible Vacation by Spalding Gray. “Interesting,” I say. “Most people get his monologues. This is a great book, but it’s not a book that people go around buying, particularly young women who don’t appear to be contemplating suicide, given the fate of the author.” “Well, sometimes you just want to go where it’s dark, you know?” “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah.” If we were teenagers, I could kiss you. But I’m on a platform behind a counter wearing a name tag and we’re too old to be young. Night moves don’t work in the morning, and the light pours in through the windows. Aren’t bookstores supposed to be dark? Note to self: Tell Mr. Mooney to get blinds. Curtains. Anything. I pick up your second book, Desperate Characters by one of my favorite authors, Paula Fox. This is a good sign, but you could be buying it because you read on some stupid blog that she’s Courtney Love’s biological grandmother. I can’t be sure that you’re buying Paula Fox because you came to her the right way, from a Jonathan Franzen essay. You reach into your wallet. “She’s the best, right? Kills me that she’s not more famous, even with Franzen gushing about her, you know?” Thank God. I smile. “The Western Coast.” You look away. “I haven’t gone there yet.” I look at you and you put your hands up, surrender. “Don’t shoot.” You giggle and I wish your nipples were still hard. “I’m gonna read The Western Coast someday and Desperate Characters I’ve read a zillion times. This one’s for a friend.” “Uh-huh,” I say and the red lights flash danger. For a friend. “It’s probably a waste of time. He won’t even read it. But at least she sells a book, right?” “True.” Maybe he’s your brother or your dad or a gay neighbor, but I know he’s a friend and I stab at the calculator. “It’s thirty-one fifty-one.” “Holy money. See, that’s why Kindles rule,” you say as you reach into your Zuckerman’s pig-pink wallet and hand me your credit card even though you have enough cash in there to cover it. You want me to know your name and I’m no nut job and I swipe your card and the quiet between us is getting louder and why didn’t I put on music today and I can’t think of anything to say. “Here we go.” And I offer you the receipt. “Thanks,” you murmur. “This is a great shop.” You’re signing and you are Guinevere Beck. Your name is a poem and your parents are assholes, probably, like most parents. Guinevere. Come on. “Thank you, Guinevere.” “I really just go by Beck. Guinevere’s kinda long and ridiculous, you know?” “Well, Beck, you look different in person. Also, Midnite Vultures is awesome.” You take your bag of books and you don’t break eye contact because you want me to see you seeing me. “Right on, Goldberg.” “Nah, I just go by Joe. Goldberg is kind of long and ridiculous, ya know?” We’re laughing and you wanted to know my name as much as I wanted to know yours or you wouldn’t have read my name tag. “Sure you don’t wanna grab The Western Coast while you’re here?” “This will sound crazy, but I’m saving it. For my nursing home list.” “You mean bucket list.” “Oh no, that’s totally different. A nursing home list is a list of things you plan on reading and watching in a nursing home. A bucket list is more like . . . visit Nigeria, jump out of an airplane. A nursing home list is like, read The Western Coast and watch Pulp Fiction and listen to the latest Daft Punk album.” “I can’t picture you in a nursing home.” You blush. You are Charlotte’s Web and I could love you. “Aren’t you gonna tell me to have a nice day?” “Have a nice day, Beck.” You smile. “Thanks, Joe.” You didn’t walk in here for books, Beck. You didn’t have to say my name. You didn’t have to smile or listen or take me in. But you did. Your signature is on the receipt. This wasn’t a cash transaction and it wasn’t a coded debit. This was real. I press my thumb into the wet ink on your receipt and the ink of Guinevere Beck stains my skin.
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40 of 42 people found the following review helpful. A good read, but could have been so much more By Leslie41 Kepnes is a talented author and she manages the second person singular present tense narration quite well. That's a feat in and of itself. Her narrator, Joe, is indelible, as is her depiction of a psychopath "in love". The scare factor incorporating modern tech stuff and the tendency for many people to narcissistically tweet and facebook everything about themselves is a nice twist.However there are a couple of things that keep the rating from being higher. One is that it is too long. Over four hundred pages. This is a problem from two angles. One is that the narrational perspective is wearying at that length. Two is that it just doesn't need to be that long. The narrator gets wearying too, as compelling as he is. I just felt like the narrative was belabored at times, and whole blocks could be cut out.The other is that if you're at all a thinking person, who ponders the logic of things, and especially the logic of certain crimes, the novel totally fails. It is not at all a successful crime novel, and if you're going to put crimes in your novel, you need to be creating a crime and an aftermath that is actually believable. You can't just put the crimes in there as plot points and expect the audience to nod along. This book has been compared to Gone, Girl but Flynn actually takes great pains there to legitimize everything, and make her story hold water. The only way the protagonist of You could accomplish his crimes and remain free is for basic police work as well as forensic science to cease to exist.SPOILER ALERT:1) Coroners can actually tell if a person was strangled to death before they were dumped in the ocean. It's not even hard. 2) The idea that you could just go out to Brighton Beach or some beach around NY, set a body on fire, and burn it to bone fragments and ashes is kind of ludicrous. 3) If a woman has been brutally strangled after a rough physical fight with someone she's also recently had sex with, forensic evidence will be found. When that evidence is matched to the current bf/spouse (who is also the most likely suspect anyway, as any rookie cop knows), I can tell you what will NOT happen. What will NOT happen is the conviction of the woman's other lover. That is also highly ludicrous. Obviously it's important for the author's main theme for the protagonist to get away with it. But if you can't make it believable, that's worthless. One other silly thing the author wants us to take for granted, which is even less believable: that a mother who pays for her daughter's phone bill won't ever figure out that her daughter's phone was stolen, and her daughter has gotten a new phone. WTF? I realize it's imperative for the author's purposes for the protagonist to have his victim's phone, but seriously! That requires we believe that this mother, who pays the phone bill, does not ring up or text or leave a phone message for her daughter for months on end! The daughter doesn't call her mother either! For months? You can't get a new phone and keep your old phone number unless that old phone is rendered unserviceable. Again, ludicrous.The author should not write any more books where anyone commits a serious crime and gets away with it, because obviously she can't handle that. If she sticks to just creating her characters and their non-criminal plotline, her next novel will be much better, because she's whizbang at that. We don't need the protagonist to get away with murder for him to be scary. We really don't. What would have been a much richer theme would have been to present Joe using technology to mold himself to the desires of his victim, knowing what she seems to want and to like, all the time remaining a hollow to himself and to her.Now that's REALLY scary.
72 of 81 people found the following review helpful. Love in the Age of Selfies. By Luan Gaines Is this a cautionary tale, a foray into the mind of a stalker? Or a reminder of the explosive nature of social media? The type of novel that becomes a guilty secret, You is compulsively readable until the great flood of voyeurism turns brackish and tainted, as irritating as a young woman’s careless neglect of her personal belongings or obliviousness to the smell of the garbage in the shoebox-sized apartment in which she lives, everything strewn with the detritus of a shamelessly narcissistic existence. This is the world of Guinevere Beck (who prefers to be called “Beck”), a college graduate living in school-sponsored housing while she pursues a writing program in New York City.It all begins when Beck walks into an East Village bookstore managed by Joe Goldberg, an attractive autodidact who has never gone to college, but easily holds his own in a literate, bantering conversation with Beck. Joe is an unapologetic sociopath who fixates on Beck, a flirt thriving on the attention of men that can’t help but flaunt her sexuality before a willing audience. Just another encounter with an attractive man becomes the catalyst of an obsession for Joe, whose interest, at first innocent, escalates into a pattern of behavior that grows from voyeurism to the infiltration of Beck’s social media, emails, tweets, Face Book posts, every aspect of her life available to the insatiably curious would-be lover. Joe knows they belong together, that it is just a matter of time, and carefully managed synchronicity, that will turn them into a couple.It is a sly and detailed seduction, a manipulation of people and circumstances to bring Beck and Joe together as lovers, Joe endlessly forgiving and understanding of Beck’s many flaws, the object of his passion yet to realize how perfectly suited they are for one another. Though Beck’s pursuit of an unworthy boyfriend tests the patience of her closest friends, Joe has contingency plans; when Beck’s wealthy, possessive girlfriend intrudes, Joe is prepared to wait for Beck to come to her senses. Joe can afford to be patient. He now has access to every minute detail of Beck’s life.In point of fact, the couple may be well matched, author Kepnes balancing Joe’s pathology with Beck’s overweening narcissism, social media the vehicle of their fated, albeit unhealthy love affair. As events accelerate and Beck moves closer to the circle of Joe’s arms, there are disturbing echoes of American Psycho, unburdened by the heavy-handed misogyny that marks that novel, Joe a predator strolling through a city of women enamored of technology, the land of “selfies” and self-obsession. This landscape is peopled with the young, no place for the elderly, save the retired owner of the bookstore Joe manages. Haunting, shocking or repellant, this is a tale for the times. In the words of T.S. Eliot in “The Hollow Men: “This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.” Luan Gaines/2014.
65 of 76 people found the following review helpful. A Beautiful psychological thriller with a twist of eroticism that leaves your mind reeling. By bethany f I’m not even sure where to begin. I have to say this book isn’t exactly what I thought it was going to be. I’m not upset, but I guess I’m not thrilled either. While half the time I didn’t know how I felt about this book, I couldn’t put it down. I had to know what was going to happen next, to whom it would happen to, and why. Everything about this book is intense. I honestly still think I’m a little shocked by the happenings inside the story. YOU was definitely a different kind of story, while being funny and absolutely bizarre, it was suspenseful and kept you yearning for more.The character development was phenomenal and I couldn’t help but route for the bad guy. Or was he the bad guy? I mean I guess he was… but was he really? I’m so conflicted about my feelings towards the main character of Joe. I wanted him to get his love. I thoroughly enjoyed his point of views on society, and life. The second person narration threw me off a little, since I’m not really into it. I found it hard to follow along a few times as I got confused as to who was speaking. Joe may have been psychotic, but he was adorable at the same time. I got a Dexter type vibe from him, and I LOVE me some Dexter. You just can’t help but get involved with the characters on a deeper level. While loving Joe and having a love/hate relationship with Beck, I pretty much disliked all of the supporting characters. Not because they were bad characters either, I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to like them. Although I did feel bad for Karen, and Ethan was adorable.Now, I have to admit… most of the time I didn’t like the character of Beck. While she was with Joe and making him happy, I adored her. When she wasn’t with Joe and just disappeared on him with no explanation I seriously loathed her. I think I just admitted to myself that I was totally team Joe. I found Beck to be pretentious and demanding. She sought out attention in any form, from anyone who would give it to her. She’s the type that uses sexuality to get what she wants, then throws it away. Beck is a slob, a complete hot mess. Her flaws make you wonder why Joe is so smitten with her, but in a way her flaws are her perfection.While there is a lot of dark humor in the book and social belittling, I couldn’t help but be on Joe’s side. Joe makes you feel that his actions are justifiable. I pretty much made an excuse for myself to relate to him and understand why he did what he did. The entire creep factor of this book kept me entranced in the lives of Joe and Beck. Every time Joe would relate his life to one of the books he read I would just smile, knowing how being a reader… that’s what we do.I loved the aspect of Beck being from Nantucket, RI. Living in RI myself I was enthralled while reading about how the characters were going to Little Compton, and how the author knew how far away Fall River, MA was. The one thing that bothered me (strictly because I live in RI) is the mention of Taylor Swift and where she lived. Little Compton isn’t anywhere near where Ms. Swift lives in Westerly. Don’t get me wrong, the reference was nice, but to any Rhode Islander… that’s just SO far. I mean people here don’t want to take a 15min drive to Providence, because it’s “too far”.All in all this was a great read. A psychological thriller with a twist of eroticism, that left my mind reeling in ten different directions all at once. I have to say the whole stalking thing is super creepy, but it totally works. I can’t lie, I kind of hoped that there would be a happily ever after. The ending definitely fit the novel, and fit Joe. This is one of those reads that you’ll never quite completely understand. The creep factor is off the charts, and the things that happen will just amaze you. I would definitely recommend this book to fans of Dexter. However, I’m not sure that everyone can stomach this read, since it’s very intense. It’s Different, Hot. An absolute conundrum.
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