Adultery & Other Choices: Nine Short Stories and a Novella
Andre Dubus
Language: English
Pages: 192
ISBN: B00BBPVX3Q
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
This ebook features an illustrated biography of Andre Dubus including rare photos and never-before-seen documents from the author’s estate.
of water—He was falling back. He wasn’t abreast of Whalen anymore, he was next to the man behind Whalen and then back to the third man, and he moaned and strove and achieved a semblance of a jog, a tottering climb away from the third man and past the second and up with Whalen again, then from behind people were yelling at him, or trying to, their voices diminished, choked off by their own demanding lungs: they were cursing him for lagging and then running to catch up, causing a gap which they had
steady, and that is what finally did him in: the endlessness of that sound. Hands were still holding his arms; he was held up and pulled forward, his head lolled, he felt his legs giving way, his arms, his shoulders, he was sinking, they were pulling him forward but he was sinking, his eyes closed, he saw red-laced black and then it was over, he was falling forward to the gravel, and then he struck it but not with his face: with his knees and arms and hands. Then his face settled forward onto the
not a state of the soul. Simone Weil, Waiting on God to Gina Berriault WHEN THEY have finished eating Edith tells Sharon to clear the table then brush her teeth and put on her pajamas; she brings Hank his coffee, then decides she can have a cup too, that it won’t keep her awake because there is a long evening ahead, and she pours a cup for herself and returns to the table. When Sharon has gone upstairs Edith says: ‘I’m going to see Joe.’ Hank nods, sips his coffee, and looks at his watch. They
kitchen with less and less caution, the cracking sound of the ice tray in his hands nothing compared to the sound that only he could hear: his monologue with himself; and it was so intense that he felt anyone who passed the kitchen door would hear the voice that resounded in his skull. In the morning he did not recall what he talked about while he drank. He woke dehydrated and remorseful, his mind so dissipated that he had to talk himself through each step of his preparation for the day, for if
he good for? Not a Goddamn thing. He doesn’t do one Goddamn thing but mope around the house, he’s not good for one Goddamn thing but to go to cowboy shows and shoot Japs and Indians in the back yard. What the hell else does he do? Huh? What else?—’ Paul would not remember the rest. In the explosion of his father’s voice he stood with the tears he would not wipe. Once he felt he was kneeling with his head bowed. Finally the sound ended and he left the room and his father’s face. He went to his