The bigger light;

The bigger light;

Austin Clarke

Language: English

Pages: 288

ISBN: 0316146935

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


This is Austin Clarke's acclaimed trilogy about a group of West Indian domestics, their friends, lovers, spouses, and employers living in Toronto. In rich, exuberant language, Clarke illuminates a world inhabited by earthy, garrulous, but terribly isolated people, all living, working and struggling with the alien, White, Canadian culture. Dominated by warm, superbly drawn characters and capped by vibrant, unerring dialogue, The Toronto Trilogy is a devastating and brilliant commentary on the quest for success in North America, and it established Austin Clarke as a major Canadian writer.

Écume

Anne of Avonlea (Anne of Green Gables series, Book 2)

Kamouraska

La Commanderie (Alexandre Jobin, tome 2)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

you! A good-for-nothing bastard like you. You, a man who I sponsored into this country. Worked for. Slaved for. And now, good Jesus Christ, you have the gall! I stomached insult upon insult in your behalfs. And now, you come telling me what a canyon is. Boysie, let me tell you something. Let me axe you something, now. What in the name o’ bloody-hell is the worth of a canyon to me? What do I want to know the meaning of a canyon for?” She was holding the newspaper in her hand, all this time she was

actually tell himself he was not drunk. The diarrhoea this morning had addled that enjoyment. The buzzer was pressed again. He was rushing into the bathroom again and closing the door. And when he got his trousers down, and had seated himself in the most comfortable position on the toilet bowl which Dots had covered with some imitation fur material that was white; and when he had taken a deep breath to control the thunder and the brown geyser (“Shit! I hate to have these runnings! And with

only plays one record. One record. You would think that something was wrong with his head. Bernice, gal, my husband plays one, one record these days. And it isn’t no calypso, neither!” “Now, that’s strange! Very strange!” The young man sipped his Scotch, liked its strength, and continued. “Very often, I find myself listening to only one record out of all that I might have been listening to before. And I find, personally, that it depends upon a certain mood. I even gave away a box of classical

friends before Boysie were Americans. Americans talked big and smoked cigars and had lots of money, in big fifty-dollar bills, in their pockets. He remembered that about the Americans he knew. The biggest car he had ever seen parked in front of the Paramount Tavern years ago had a New York licence plate on it. And it was driven by a black American, who had a shiny head, and lots of rings on his fingers, and who laughed as if he was the happiest man in the world, and who was very kind. Perhaps, he

Why hadn’t he thought of doing that before? It was a good feeling. “A Rainy Day in Georgia,” a black American singer, rainwater, and pyjamas were just like a hot bath in his bathtub. My Dear Dots, I want to talk to you. Sometime. Your husband. He had written this letter to his wife some few weeks ago, he couldn’t remember how many weeks; and he had put it on the kitchen counter where she was sure to see it as she came in to make her cup of coffee, and bring up “some o’ this gas outta my

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