"Martin has a poetic sensibility . . . He gives a mesmerizing appeal to the setting of an alexandrite necklace and the delicate artistry involved in shaping a diamond."—The New Yorker
"Martin's firecracker of a first novel comes as such a welcome surprise . . . What makes the novel sing is the language—the fast, lavish, industry-specific lexicon of brilliant cuts and South Seas pearls. Not to mention the addictive staccatos of Martin's rhythmic sentences and his eye for sharp, eccentric details . . . How to Sell is a heady, heartfelt, speedy read. Though the title may refer to gold and stones, what's really being sold here is originality and brio—the fundamental tools of a true storyteller."—Time Out New Yorktheand
"A novel about the duplicity and shady connections that underlie the jewelry business—or at least one grubby sector of it, in Fort Worth, Texas—turns out to be just as much of a con as the games its coke-snorting salesmen play. The fun, flash, and fakery of Martin’s story are all on the surface, expertly hooking the most casual browser. But underneath it’s a timely capitalist satire (wide-eyed Canadian Bobby Clark’s unsentimental education in the dastardly business of American consumer culture) that stealthily creeps toward heartbreak: of Bobby and his nasty brother, Jim, liars and sinners both, but all too human; of their crazed and broken father; and of the women they don’t know what to do with after they’ve sold them a bill of goods."—Boris Kachka, New York magazine
"A gem of a debut novel . . . Martins short, direct sentences sometimes evoke Raymond Carver or Amy Hempel . . . His eye is cool and pitiless and unadorned."—The Village Voice
Clancy Martin worked for many years in the fine jewelry business. He is an associate professor of philosophy at the University of Missouri. He has translated works by Friedrich Nietzsche and Søren Kierkegaard and is currently at work on a translation of Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil.
Chapter One
Our father told it that Jim was caught dressing up in my grandmother’s black Mikimotos when he was scarcely two years old, but the first time I considered jewelry was the morning I stole my mother’s wedding ring. It was white gold. A hundred-year-old Art Nouveau band with eleven diamonds in two rows across the finger, garnets that were sold as rubies in the centers of tiny roses on both sides, and hand-engraved scrollwork on the underside where it held the skin.
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