Caught

Caught

Lisa Moore

Language: English

Pages: 336

ISBN: 0802122957

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


“Moore combines the propulsive storytelling of a beach-book thriller with the skilled use of language and penetrating insights of literary fiction. She pulls it off seamlessly, creating a vivid, compulsively readable tale.”—Penthouse

Shortlisted for the 2013 Rogers Writers' Trust Fiction Prize and the Scotiabank Giller Prize, Caught is a “propulsive, adrenalin-drenched” (Globe and Mail) novel from 2013 Writers’ Trust Engel/Findley Award winner Lisa Moore, which brilliantly captures a moment in the late 1970s before the almost folkloric glamour surrounding pot smuggling turned violent. Moore’s protagonist, David Slaney, is a modern Billy the Kid, a swaggering folk-hero-in-the making who busts out of prison to embark on one last great heist and win back the woman he loves. As Slaney makes his fugitive journey across Canada—tailed closely by a detective hell-bent on making an arrest—Slaney reignites passions with his old flame; tracks down his former drug smuggling partner; and adopts numerous guises to outpace authorities: hitchhiker, houseguest, student, and lover. Thrumming with energy and suspense, Caught is a thrillingly charged escapade from one of Canada’s most acclaimed writers.

“Outstanding . . . Surprising and superb . . . A literary adventure story . . . Gripping, detailed, and wholly convincing . . . A supremely human book . . . combining the complexity of the best literary fiction with the page-turning compulsive readability of a thriller.”—National Post

“A new kind of legend for a new Newfoundland.”—Reader's Digest

“Exhilarating… a memorably oddball and alluring novel that’s simultaneously breezy, taut, funny, and insightful.” —The Vancouver Sun

The Dog Who Wouldn't Be

Cette année s'envole ma jeunesse

De l'enfermement à l'envol: rencontres littéraires

EspaceS (Autoportrait II)

Anne, la de los tejados verdes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Virgin Mary, in whom he half believed. Mosquitoes touched him all over. They settled on his skin and put their fine things into him and they were lulled and bloated and thought themselves sexy and near death. They got in his mouth and he spit and they dotted his saliva. They were in the crease of his left eyelid. He wiped one out of his eye and found he was weeping. He was snot-smeared and tears dropped off his eyelashes. He could hear the whine of just one mosquito above the rest. It was

pushed it away from her and he swung it back right away, nuzzled her shoulder. Carter was a slum landlord, amateur actor, father of four, loving husband, philanderer, and sailor. He produced the British farces and annual Shakespeare productions at the Arts and Culture Centre in St. John’s. Lunatic. He’s a good laugh, Hearn had said. Slaney had been in Carter’s Jaguar once when they were going to pick up a stash and Carter had stopped to get the rent from a three-storey hole he owned

in her head. Figuring the speed and miles they had to cover. They hit rough water around the coast of Costa Rica and they had winds of twenty knots and once the waves were ten feet. Slaney went up every fifteen minutes to check the rigging and he had Ada go and check it while he slept. But he hardly slept. A half-hour, here and there. Carter was drunk for the two rough days, and Ada was exhilarated. Her hair stood out like a flag and she’d had a straw hat she’d tied down with a scarf

yes. If Slaney had a reason for going on this trip in the first place, maybe it was this: so he could be on a Colombian beach playing all his sadness out under the stars, stoned out of his mind. He was there for the sense of abandon he felt. That’s why, he said out loud when he stopped playing. Ada had stood up and brushed the sand away from her elbow and dropped into the empty chair next to him. She was wearing army fatigues someone had loaned her, the fabric faded from washing. She

tiles. He could see Slaney at the party and he thought of himself talking about Clarice Connors. The print of her dress, a sailor motif, anchors and rope and brass buttons. A nest of the oily white papers she used with her hair curlers. How they fell out of her curls, how they rustled on her little vanity table when the wind blew, toppling them end over end. A particular afternoon when the affair had first begun. He hadn’t thought about Clarice in years. The gentle force she had been in his

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