The Art of Racing in the Rain: A Novel
Garth Stein
Language: English
Pages: 321
ISBN: 0061537969
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A heart-wrenching but deeply funny and ultimately uplifting story of family, love, loyalty, and hope--a captivating look at the wonders and absurdities of human life . . . as only a dog could tell it.
fantasizing about a big bowl of my kibble, scooping up the occasional errant dust-covered Cheerio Zoë had dropped in a corner somewhere. And I urinated and defecated on the mat by the back door, next to the laundry machines. I did not panic. During the second night, approximately forty hours into my solitude, I think I began to hallucinate. Licking at the legs of Zoë’s high chair where I had discovered some remnants of yogurt spilled long ago, I inadvertently sparked my stomach’s digestive
told them she wanted Zoë to be raised by them.” “I don’t care about that,” the man said. “Sometimes she was on so many drugs, she would have said anything,” Denny said desperately. “She may have said it, but she couldn’t have meant it.” “I don’t care what anyone said or why they said it,” the man said sharply. “Children are not chattel. They cannot be given away or traded in the marketplace. Everything that happens will be done in the best interest of the child.” “That’s what they said,”
after school and deliver her before eight o’clock, right?” “Right,” Denny said. Mark Fein looked at Denny for a long time without speaking. “I’m fucking proud of you,” he said, finally. “I don’t know what goes on in that head of yours, but you’re a fucking competitor.” Denny breathed in deeply. “That’s what I am,” he agreed. And Mark Fein took Zoë away. She had just returned and she was going away again. It took me some time to fully grasp the situation, but I understood, ultimately, that
drive.” 47 Ayrton Senna did not have to die. This came to me in a flash as I lay, whimpering in pain, in the backseat of Denny’s car on the way to the animal hospital that night. It came to me: on the Grand Prix circuit in the town of Imola. In the Tamburello corner. Senna did not have to die. He could have walked away. Saturday, the day before the race, Senna’s friend and protégé Rubens Barrichello was seriously injured in an accident. Another driver, Roland Ratzenberger, was killed
was quite tall and very thin; his clothes draped on him like clothes on a scarecrow. “Dad—” Denny started, but his eyes filled with tears and he could only shake his head. His father reached for him and embraced him, held him close and stroked his hair with long fingers and fingernails that had large, pale half-moons near the quick. “We never did right by you,” his father said. “We never did right. This makes it right.” They left the next morning. Like the last strong autumn wind that rattles