Dust Jacket Condition: Near Fine. This novel by the author of "The Newton Letter", "Mefisto" and "Kepler" is a blend of thriller and black comedy. It is the first-person prison testimony of Freddie Montgomery, a monologue reflecting on forty years of aimless drifting and a crime that has destroyed his life. Some toning to page edges, else a very good copy. Visit Seller's Storefront. Full refund if not satisfied with your purchase. Please notify us of any return of goods within three days of receipt. Books may be returned within 14 days of purchase for any reason.
Mounting Evidence for the Book of Mormon
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The Book of Evidence - Persée
View the Study Pack. View the Lesson Plans. Plot Summary. Part 1, Section 1 pages Part 1, Section 2 pages Part 1, Section 3 pages Part 1, Section 4 pages Part 1, Section 5 pages Part 1, Section 6 pages Part 1, Section 7 pages Part 2, Section 1 pages Part 2, Section 2 pages Part 2, Section 3 pages Part 2, Section 4 pages We can seldom let bygones be bygones, seldom anywhere, never it seems in Ireland, where sorrows ancient and modern go down the generations like christening spoons.
We know this without quite understanding it.
Our view from over the water is all bombings and balaclavas and faces righteously agawp with warlike rant; the native eye is better-trained to see how intemperate passions are rooted in a heavy loam of the commonplace and the customary. Carn is a small town situated half a mile from the Irish border, a town honoured in Republican annals for the heroism of Commandant Matt Dolan, shot dead in during a raid on the railway.
Dolan has his memorial plaque, but Carn has lost its railway and might have sunk into dereliction had not James Cooney returned to his native place in the Fifties, to revive its fortunes with a meat-processing plant, a dance hall and a select tavern-cum-roadhouse. Thereafter Carn has done well enough. The lawn-mowers whirr regularly like gossips, the regular gossips loiter in the streets and shop doorways, Republican sentiments are regularly voiced, the church clock chimes regularly, it is all very regular, even the drunks are regular in their drunkenness.
The young people regularly long for London or hanker after Hollywood, finding reality in soap operas, perhaps not seeing the soap opera in their own realities. In the reality of Josie Keenan, abused by her father, raised in a clay-cold, loveless, nun-fusty orphanage, escaping to England to win her bread not by the sweat of her brow alone , and returning to Carn as the town tramp who specialises in catering for the elderly and inexerienced.
In the reality of Sadie Rooney, packer of poultry products, who reads True Romances , has Elvis pinned to the wall, dreams of rocking round the clock in fabulous London, and is made pregnant by young Benny Dolan, grandson of the illustrious Commandant.
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The stories are skilfully entwined and their narration analyses, without superfluous comment from the author, the dangerous energies of rumour, romanticism, spoilt religion, and a sexuality not so much repressed as viciously re-routed. The gunmen are visitors among people whose lives have failed to assuage their griefs and satisfy their cravings.zobyfygyfy.gq
Again, Yeats comes to mind:. All we can do is to try and forget and think about today and tomorrow instead. Ironically, no one is less entitled than Aileen to say that the past is over and done with. Her story is chambered or whorled within other stories that spiral in time. All the actors in the scrolling fable die: Aileen dies, Steven dies, Mr Matthews dies, Maurice Jeffries dies — and it is as if their deaths occur by the compulsion of some inaccessible, incomprehensible, controlling myth.
Crimes determined to take place engender all they need: victims, circumstances, pretexts, opportunities.
I think the labour of construction is too apparent; that some narrative lines are projected, only to be left in awkward suspension; that in places the text shows signs of haste, or at least of impatience in furnishing the narrative with its necessary transitions and cross-connections. But I would not deny other readers their due of gooseflesh, nor would I ignore the working of something less comfortable, a sombre perception that as long as we are spelling out our life-sentences we are beyond help or amnesty.
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A stone-tongued poet is a dismal thought.