In the Bedroom

Zusatztext Dubus is the sort of writer who instructs the heart. The Atlantic Monthy It is a rare thing to admire an artist from a distance and upon meeting him not be disillusioned. After meeting Andre my admiration for his courage! talent! and humanity grew tenfold. . . . If you have never read him! get readyyou will never be the same again. Todd Field! from the Preface The lives of his characters become part of any close reader's permanent bank of important memories. The Boston Globe Like Chekhov's! Dubus's best stories contain the arc of a whole life in the language of specific moments. The Village Voice Informationen zum Autor Andre Dubus Preface by Todd Field Klappentext The seven stories collected here-including "Killings! the basis for Todd Field's award-winning film In the Bedroom-showcase legendary writer Andre Dubus's sheer narrative mastery in a book of quietly staggering emotional power. A father in mourning contemplates the unthinkable as the only way to allay his grief. A boy must learn to care for his younger brother when their mother leaves the family. A young woman who has never lacked lovers despairs of ever finding love itself! and then makes an accidental discovery that brings her real joy. Culled from Dubus's treasured collections Selected Stories and Dancing After Hours! these beautiful stories of people at pivotal moments in their lives are some of the most bewitching and profound in American fiction. killings On the August morning when Matt Fowler buried his youngest son, Frank, who had lived for twenty-one years, eight months, and four days, Matt's older son, Steve, turned to him as the family left the grave and walked between their friends, and said: "I should kill him." He was twenty-eight, his brown hair starting to thin in front where he used to have a cowlick. He bit his lower lip, wiped his eyes, then said it again. Ruth's arm, linked with Matt's, tightened; he looked at her. Beneath her eyes there was swelling from the three days she had suffered. At the limousine Matt stopped and looked back at the grave, the casket, and the Congregationalist minister who he thought had probably had a difficult job with the eulogy though he hadn't seemed to, and the old funeral director who was saying something to the six young pallbearers. The grave was on a hill and overlooked the Merrimack, which he could not see from where he stood; he looked at the opposite bank, at the apple orchard with its symmetrically planted trees going up a hill. Next day Steve drove with his wife back to Baltimore where he managed the branch office of a bank, and Cathleen, the middle child, drove with her husband back to Syracuse. They had left the grandchildren with friends. A month after the funeral Matt played poker at Willis Trottier's because Ruth, who knew this was the second time he had been invited, told him to go, he couldn't sit home with her for the rest of her life, she was all right. After the game Willis went outside to tell everyone goodnight and, when the others had driven away, he walked with Matt to his car. Willis was a short, silver-haired man who had opened a diner after World War II, his trade then mostly very early breakfast, which he cooked, and then lunch for the men who worked at the leather and shoe factories. He now owned a large restaurant. "He walks the Goddamn streets," Matt said. "I know. He was in my place last night, at the bar. With a girl." "I don't see him. I'm in the store all the time. Ruth sees him. She sees him too much. She was at Sunnyhurst today getting cigarettes and aspirin, and there he was. She can't even go out for cigarettes and aspirin. It's killing her." "Come back in for a drink." Matt looked at his watch. Ruth would be asleep. He walked with Willis back into the house, pausing at the steps to look at the starlit sky. It was...

#8220;Dubus is the sort of writer who instructs the heart.” –The Atlantic Monthy

“It is a rare thing to admire an artist from a distance and upon meeting him not be disillusioned. After meeting Andre my admiration for his courage, talent, and humanity grew tenfold. . . . If you have never read him, get ready–you will never be the same again.” –Todd Field, from the Preface

“The lives of his characters become part of any close reader’s permanent bank of important memories.” –The Boston Globe

“Like Chekhov’s, Dubus’s best stories contain the arc of a whole life in the language of specific moments.” –The Village Voice

Autorentext
Andre Dubus Preface by Todd Field

Klappentext
The seven stories collected here-including "Killings,” the basis for Todd Field's award-winning film In the Bedroom-showcase legendary writer Andre Dubus's sheer narrative mastery in a book of quietly staggering emotional power.

A father in mourning contemplates the unthinkable as the only way to allay his grief. A boy must learn to care for his younger brother when their mother leaves the family. A young woman who has never lacked lovers despairs of ever finding love itself, and then makes an accidental discovery that brings her real joy. Culled from Dubus's treasured collections Selected Stories and Dancing After Hours, these beautiful stories of people at pivotal moments in their lives are some of the most bewitching and profound in American fiction.

Zusammenfassung
The seven stories collected here–including “Killings,” the basis for Todd Field’s award-winning film In the Bedroom–showcase legendary writer Andre Dubus’s sheer narrative mastery in a book of quietly staggering emotional power.

A father in mourning contemplates the unthinkable as the only way to allay his grief. A boy must learn to care for his younger brother when their mother leaves the family. A young woman who has never lacked lovers despairs of ever finding love itself, and then makes an accidental discovery that brings her real joy. Culled from Dubus’s treasured collections Selected Stories and Dancing After Hours, these beautiful stories of people at pivotal moments in their lives are some of the most bewitching and profound in American fiction.

Leseprobe
killings

On the August morning when Matt Fowler buried his youngest son, Frank, who had lived for twenty-one years, eight months, and four days, Matt's older son, Steve, turned to him as the family left the grave and walked between their friends, and said: "I should kill him." He was twenty-eight, his brown hair starting to thin in front where he used to have a cowlick. He bit his lower lip, wiped his eyes, then said it again. Ruth's arm, linked with Matt's, tightened; he looked at her. Beneath her eyes there was swelling from the three days she had suffered. At the limousine Matt stopped and looked back at the grave, the casket, and the Congregationalist minister who he thought had probably had a difficult job with the eulogy though he hadn't seemed to, and the old funeral director who was saying something to the six young pallbearers. The grave was on a hill and overlooked the Merrimack, which he could not see from where he stood; he looked at the opposite bank, at the apple orchard with its symmetrically planted trees going up a hill.

Next day Steve drove with his wife back to Baltimore where he managed the branch office of a bank, and Cathleen, the middle child, drove with her husband back to Syracuse. They had left the grandchildren with friends. A month after the funeral Matt played poker at Willis Trottier's because Ruth, who knew this was the second time he had been invited, told him to go, he couldn't sit home with her for the rest of her life, she was all right. After the game Willis went outside to tell everyone goodnight and, when the others had dr…

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