I Curse the River of Time: A Novel

I Curse the River of Time: A Novel

Per Petterson

Language: English

Pages: 240

ISBN: 0312429533

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


A NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW NOTABLE BOOK OF THE YEAR

It's 1989 and "three monumental events twine around one another in Arvid Jansen's penumbral soul. His fifteen-year marriage is dissolving, his mother is dying of cancer, and the Berlin Wall is tumbling down. The parallels are obviousworlds are ending, internally and externallybut the analogies Petterson draws among these dramatic endings are not....I Curse the River of Time is a little like the starker reaches of the West, a little like the stonier shores of Maine, a little like Edward Hopper, a little like Raymond Carver....There is a quality that I can only call charm, or something like charm, to Petterson's essentially dark and lonely sensibility....It exerts a gravitational pull on the reader" (Stacey D'Erasmo, The New York Times Book Review).

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The Communists and Peace with A Reply to Claude Lefort

Herdsman to Statesman: The Autobiography of Jamsrangiin Sambuu of Mongolia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

student loans and stereo and late nights with pints of beer and everything that went with it, because the Communist Party I was a member of had launched a campaign to persuade as many of its members as possible to become industrial workers. Not by force or anything, but a man from the central committee had come to my small flat and had spoken passionately for a good while and explained how the new Great War would soon be upon us, maybe even early in the New Year when you considered how the Soviet

home and had it framed and gave it to my mother for her birthday. ‘Hang that above your bed,’ he said, ‘then you can talk to him before you fall asleep. Like Arvid used to talk to Mao.’ And she did, for fun really, but it was not true that I used to speak to Mao. That would have been childish. I did have a picture of Mao above my sofa bed in the early Seventies, that is true, because that was the only place I had for it. But I had a picture of Bob Dylan there too and one of Joni Mitchell on a

cardboard. I lifted my cup and drank a mouthful of coffee. I had not tasted anything that good in a long time. She looked at my hands. ‘What’s wrong with your hand?’ she said. I put the cup on the saucer and looked at my right hand. My knuckles were red and slightly swollen. I opened my hand and closed it again, clenched it hard. It hurt. I told her what was wrong with it. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Arvid,’ she said. ‘When did you start getting caught up in that kind of thing?’ ‘I haven’t. He was

did not put him down, and he did not want me to. 14 The empty glasses were on the table, she rose with an effort and rolled up the duvet in her lap and was already on the way to her room. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, opened them, and I rose and blocked her path and said: ‘Are you feeling unwell?’ ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ I said, but she raised her hand and said: ‘If anything needs doing, I’ll do it myself. Get out of my way,’ she said and pushed me in

‘Yes, it was.’ ‘Perhaps you’re just tired,’ I said, ‘why don’t you sleep a little, it doesn’t matter if it’s still early, wouldn’t that be all right? Do you have homework?’ ‘I did it when I got here. There’s just a little bit left and I can do it behind the library tomorrow morning. It’s not very cold either.’ ‘There you go. So why don’t you sleep then?’ ‘I am a bit tired.’ ‘I will lie down here beside you. I don’t have to go to a meeting or anything.’ ‘Oh, that’s good,’ she said, and we

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