A Tidewater Morning : Three Tales from Youth

A Tidewater Morning : Three Tales from Youth

William Styron

Language: English

Pages: 160

ISBN: 0330333291

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

A Tidewater Morning : Three Tales from Youth

William Styron

Language: English

Pages: 160

ISBN: 0330333291

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


The Girl on the Glider

Chasing the King of Hearts (Turning Point)

Mirror, Mirror (In Death, Book 37.5)

Grimoire of the Lamb (Prequel to The Iron Druid Chronicles)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The memories are of a single place—the Virginia Tidewater of the 1930s. This was a region occupied with preparations for war. It was not the drowsy Old Virginia of legend but part of a busy New South, where heavy industry and the presence of the military had begun to encroach on a pastoral way of life. Ironically, such an intrusion doubtless helped many of the people, white and black, to survive the worst of the Great Depression. —w. s. LOVE DAY On April Fool’s Day, 1945 (which was also

1831. All of these Dabneys, I thought, like Shadrach. “I’ll be goddamned if I believe there’s a square inch of space left,” Mr. Dabney observed to Trixie, and spat a russet gob of tobacco juice into the weeds. “They just crowded all the old dead uncles and mammies they could into this piece of land here. They must be shoulder to shoulder down there.” He paused and made his characteristic sound of anguish—a choked dirgelike groan. “Christ Almighty! I hate to think of diggin’ about half a ton of

chorus of men be accompanying my mother, as it was now, and an orchestra too? Hope evaporated, disappeared. I went into the house, passed through the living room and down the hallway to my mother’s sanctuary, from which the music was coming, and then heard the familiar tick-tick of the worn record, spinning on the turntable of the phonograph. I crept into the music room, trying to make no sound. There my father stood with a hand propped against the wall, brooding on the sun-drenched lawn and the

numb. You forgot your father’s voice on the ride homeward: “Someday planes will fly off that ship and bomb the Japanese.” You believed your father as you believed—then—in God, but did not believe this, believed only that it was a joke he was making about war. War was in the movies, war was not something that ever happened, not to Americans … “I had this pal in Shanghai then,” I heard Halloran say. “A Marine gunner named Willie Weldon. He was a little older than I was, an old China hand who’d

but I was not quite old enough to avoid being troubled by the fantasy—a 1930s version of spy thriller spiced up with a touch of futuristic horror. In the front seat my mother, her leg in a steel brace, gazed stolidly forward through the fading light of an October afternoon while my father labored over the steaming engine. I was the classic only child—snotty, self-absorbed—and I offered neither solace nor help, curled up in the back with my chronicle of the nightmare that engulfed America “in the

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