This Thing Don't Lead to Heaven

This Thing Don't Lead to Heaven

Harry Crews

Language: English

Pages: 133

ISBN: B0006CZJHQ

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

This Thing Don't Lead to Heaven

Harry Crews

Language: English

Pages: 133

ISBN: B0006CZJHQ

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


From Kirkus Reviews

Mr. Crews' first two novels, The Gospel Singer and Naked In Garden Hills, established him as a superb writer of the absurd. This one has the same bizarre elements. It's set in the "Senior Club," an old people's home run by Axel, an enormous woman dominated by her midget masseur, Jefferson Davis, a dwarf who has convinced everyone that his hands hold the power of life. An accidental newcomer is Carlita, a Spanish-speaking Negro that no one can understand; particularly since her speech is punctuated with voodoo incantations. Jefferson Davis becomes convinced that she can "magic him" to full height. Another arrival is Junior Bledsoe, seller of cemetery plots who struck gold in St. Petersburg and is determined to do the same in the"Club." Every scene is both ridiculous and real, achingly funny and marvelously poignant. The author can make the loss of an old man's last tooth a cameo drama. Unfortunately the ending is abrupt and oddly disappointing. But Mr. Crews is a dazzling, lasting talent.

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and let her touch his foreshortened arms and pass her hands over the elongated trunk of his body. Behind them a rooster-tail of dust followed Junior Bledsoe’s Lincoln. Junior, leaning forward over the steering wheel, smiled and winked and waved to them. But Carlita ignored him. She was concentrating upon Jefferson Davis, who sat beside her stony-eyed, his face white and drawn. She had waited a long time for a midget and she intended now to enjoy him. She would not be rushed. And although there

through the door leading back to the kitchen, Carlita looked over her shoulder and winked at Jefferson Davis where he still stood rigid and trembling in the middle of the wide hall. His heart jumped in his chest and he spun on his heel and raced downstairs to his room behind the furnace. There was a tall mirror screwed into the wall at floor level just inside the door. He jerked out of his shirt and looked at himself in the mirror. His little chest swelled, tightened, held. Air hissed through his

old are you?” he asked. “Thirty,” she said, lying in spite of herself. She watched him write it not in the margin but in one of the blanks of the order pad. He looked up. “You don’t seem nearly that old. How long have you lived at this address, please?” “Always,” she said. “Here in this house?” “Yes.” “Now that’s one,” he said. She did not dare ask him one what. “Was it always—” “Yes, always. Seven hundred and ninety-two of them have died in this house.” He was ignoring the pad of order

the ground. And then that was gone, too. And with the machinery had gone the two thousand acres under mortgage to the Atlanta banker. But Jake Gates had managed to hold on to the house and the few acres of ground where the machinery had disappeared. And that was where he had had himself buried. Twelve years later Axel had sold the land to the Drive-A-Show Theatre chain on the single stipulation that she be allowed to say where the concession stand was to be built. She put it over her father’s

grind against. Carefully he set it down in front of him on the dresser and examined his face. He squinted to see his image reflected in the green wavy depths of the mirror. He couldn’t see that the collapsed tooth made any difference. But that it made no difference was not cause for happiness. It only depressed him. If he lost all his teeth, he would probably look just the same. His skull and the fragile workings at the hinge of his jaw were insistent under almost transparent skin. His hair was

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