The Prince of Tides: A Novel

The Prince of Tides: A Novel

Pat Conroy

Language: English

Pages: 704

ISBN: 0553381547

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


PAT CONROY has created a huge, brash thunderstorm of a novel, stinging with honesty and resounding with drama. Spanning forty years, this is the story of turbulent Tom Wingo, his gifted and troubled twin sister Savannah, and their struggle to triumph over the dark and tragic legacy of the extraordinary family into which they were born.

Filled with the vanishing beauty of the South Carolina low country as well as the dusty glitter of New York City, The Prince of Tides is PAT CONROY at his very best.

Les Liaisons dangereuses

Red ons, Maria Montanelli

Two Gentlemen of Lebowski: A Most Excellent Comedie and Tragical Romance

Girl Missing

The Prince Of Beers

27 Wagons Full of Cotton and Other Plays (The Theatre of Tennessee Williams, Book 6)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The clown was drunk and broke a dozen Coke bottles trying to juggle them on the back of our pickup truck. The mayor of Colleton, Boogie Weiters, at the ribbon-cutting ceremony, made a rather impassioned speech on the importance of attracting new industry to Colleton County. The drunk clown shouted that that should be easy since Colleton County had never attracted any old industry. The crowd applauded the clown, who responded with a spectacular handstand on the cab of the pickup. The Volunteer

again. “It’s a long story, Bernard. One I don’t usually tell to kids.” “False pretenses,” he said to his mother. “He’s coaching me under false pretenses.” “You apologize to Tom immediately, Bernard,” his mother said. “Why should I apologize? He’s been pretending he’s a coach and now I find out he’s not. He’s the one that owes me an apology.” “Then I apologize, Bernard,” I said, poking at my dessert with a spoon. “I didn’t realize you required an employed coach for your purposes.” “Adults

and good-natured and we followed a processional of Bermuda shorts and rubber-soled thongs toward the amphitheater where the killer whale, Dreadnought, would perform at noon. From our brief encounter, Florida seemed to be a place where amiable crowds met to display white shapeless arms and acres of sun-starved hairless legs. The sun had parched the grass to the palest of greens and automatic sprinkler systems worked the infields off the gravel paths and ruby-throated hummingbirds droned among the

scrupulous joy. Randy Thompson had defiled my image of the universe, had instructed me exceedingly well in the vanity of holding fast to faith in Eden. For fifteen minutes, we lay on the floor of the slaughterhouse that had always been our home and sanctuary. Luke was the first to speak. “I better call the sheriff, Mama.” “Don’t you dare,” I heard her say in a furious voice. “We’re Wingos. We have too much pride to tell what happened today.” “But we have to, Mama. We’ve got three dead men in

I think she probably did. She was irresistible to men and a threat to every woman who crossed her path. Her allure was offbeat, indefinable, and original. Now, I think she came back because she had done everything she wanted to do; I also believe that she came back to save her grandchildren from the fury of her son and the emotional coldness of her daughter-in-law. Whatever, she provided a voice, a conscience, a court of appeals we could fall back on during a crisis. She understood the nature of

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