Download A Century of November by W. D. Wetherell PDF

By W. D. Wetherell

Winner of the 2004 Michigan Literary Fiction Award for novelA haunting tale of the ability of loss of life, the ache of loss, and the potential for 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 superbly written novel of battle and the wrenching grief and unanswerable questions it leaves in its wake. . . . A Century of November is stuffed with specific, startling imagery and stylish, richly poetic description---Wetherell turns out really incapable of writing a lazy sentence---and this final part of the unconventional is as surreal, hypnotic and harrowing as any literature in contemporary reminiscence. the whole lot, actually, is a jewel, an unforgettable historic novel that Wetherell has conscientiously (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 pain is deeply moving."---Publishers Weekly "A well timed reminder of the devastation of mortal wrestle. . . ."---Atlanta Journal-Constitution

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Here a moment before the explosion I didn't even know Nothing was a force in the world, let alone the most powerful force. It taught me a lesson I " was wrong to £rorget. Her lips tightened-around the rail, her delicate hands turned white-and yet he could see her trying to fight through it and understand. "You expect nothing? " "To expect nothing. I want to see the exact spot my son was killed to teach myself to expect nothing. If I don't, if I had stayed in Canada, I would go through what remains of my life with expectation.

He felt dull, stupid, badly in need of time to think. What puzzled him was this. What he saw out the window, the pastoral land­ scape, had some direct connection to the abstraction SI known as "England, " and the abstraction known as "England" had a direct connection to his son's death. What that connection consisted of, the direct causal links, he couldn't understand, or wouldn't understand; he wanted to avoid playing the old tired game, thinking in terms of treaties and entanglements and questions of ancient rights and wrongs.

The feeling his muscles were my muscles. Not in a proprietary way. No. But that strengthening, thickening, finding tautness, they would someday carry what I could no longer carry myself. A sign on a barn advertising codfish oil-my first glimpse of Nova Scotia. M. It was too late, he felt too tired, to do much search­ ing. There was a boardinghouse near the station and this was where he spent the night, in a room with religious pictures on the walls, rubber sheets on the bed, and, wafting down the corridor, the fake moans of whores.

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