By W. D. Wetherell
Winner of the 2004 Michigan Literary Fiction Award for novelA haunting tale of the ability of dying, the ache of loss, and the potential of hope."Gripping, damning, and transfixing."---Entertainment Weekly" . . . possesses a time-bending gravity. . . . [A] small vintage of sleek language and earned emotion."---San Francisco Chronicle". . . a fantastically written novel of struggle and the wrenching grief and unanswerable questions it leaves in its wake. . . . A Century of November is stuffed with distinctive, startling imagery and stylish, richly poetic description---Wetherell turns out surely incapable of writing a lazy sentence---and this final component to the unconventional is as surreal, hypnotic and harrowing as any literature in fresh reminiscence. the whole lot, actually, is a jewel, an unforgettable ancient novel that Wetherell has rigorously (and artfully) seeded with a great deal of modern resonance." ---Star-Tribune (Minneapolis)"A poignant, probing tale. . . . Wetherell's prose and personality writing are unflinching . . . [and his] tackle a parent's soreness is deeply moving."---Publishers Weekly "A well timed reminder of the devastation of mortal wrestle. . . ."---Atlanta Journal-Constitution
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A pimp by the look of him-Marden readied himself for the sales pitch. For all his thinness, he had a boyish face that looked cut out of dough, his features pressed flat into the batter by his own thumb, a thumb which kept j erking up to swipe at his nose. What did they call themselves here? Haligonians? A spectral enough name for such a man. He smiled, seeing Marden grimace. His manner combined the maximum deference with the maximum contempt. "Lost a son, have we now? Going over to find com munion with the soul of a freshly departed?
Toward the end of the corridor the sound came back again. He heard a woman keening, keening in the old sense of the word, so he could picture her rocking back and forth on her bed, tearing wildly at the matted hair across her face. Another woman moaned as women do in love, only the sound mocked itself as it emerged, became far too tremulous and empty. Another woman cried as if she were cursing out her sadness, spitting it defiantly toward heaven-here, for the first time, he heard fists beating against the wall.
Perfectly valid, sir, as you'll find when you hand it over. I obtained the port side, and above the waterline, so I added in the extra tariff. All women booked besides you, that's what they tell me. War widows going over to the cemeteries. I'd be careful if I were you, sir. " VI he wrote, taking up the diary again, printing the word in the formal block letters it deserved. Cunarder. A decent enough ship. Camouflaged-vast sweeps of black, gray and white. En route from New York to Southampton via Halifax.
A Century of November by W. D. Wetherell