The Friends of Meager Fortune

The Friends of Meager Fortune

David Adams Richards

Language: English

Pages: 377

ISBN: 1596921897

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


In his major new novel, The Friends of Meager Fortune, Richards explores the dying days of the lumber industry in the mid-twentieth century. This is a transfixing love story of betrayal, envy, and sexual jealousy, which builds to a tragically inevitable climax. It is also a devastating portrait of a pre-mechanized time, and a brilliant commemoration of the passing of a world. Rich with all the passion, ambition and almost mythic vision that defines David Adams Richards' work, The Friends of Meager Fortune is a profound and important book about the hands and the heart; about true greatness and true weakness; about the relentlessness of fate and the evil that men and women do. Wise, stark, and without a false word in it, it cements David Adams Richards' claim to be the finest novelist at work in Canada today.

Enemy Women: A Novel

IdentitéS (Autoportrait IX)

Déluge

Belle journée pour tomber en amour...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

of men and streams and wood, and too many failed memories. So I turned away in the night. And going down through the graveyard found the place where my mother is buried, quite near Reggie. There would be no more famine for her now. Her famine is over. And the rest? All is cut out, muted, torn away. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I would like to thank my editor, Maya Mavjee, and her assistant, Martha Leonard. Special thanks to my agent, Anne McDermid, and my wife, Peggy. The author is indebted to

at the same time leaving Lula deserted. And the favorite line of the Steadfast Few, expostulated at times with tears? “You just can’t imagine how we feel.” FOUR Still it was the war and there came news of death. Reggie, Owen, and the other boys had been in a terrible fray. Eric Glidden, Reggie’s father, heard of it first, and on an August day in 1944 walked from the prip-prop leanings to the Leader newspaper and said that he had been informed that his son Reggie had tried his best to

brunt of his fist against the wall, and had spots of blood upon it. He braced himself in the pelting snow, to prove who he was, if only to himself. He had promised he would take care of Owen in the war. And he had not. He did not at this moment think that a million people had hoped to take care of theirs in the war, mothers and fathers helpless and desperate, and had not been able to. Taking a breath he walked straight up the tarred, blackened pole looking out over the great, dark river. If,

down the slope, Butch. No one can do it but you—you have to do it, boy.” Butch once more stood furious and rigid, as if his plan, caught in the sinew of his blood and brain, was to kill a man before he took himself. Of course, that was giving human emotion to a beast, and Meager knew them so well as not to. Then Missy dropped her head to the feed box, her breathing scattering a few cold oats before her. And this allowed little Meager a profound realization, that her years of work, years of

needs you now,” Reggie said. Later, after everyone had gone, and the trees tapped against the house, Owen felt pity for the memory of Will’s boyish, intemperate laughter. Will’s great matter-of-fact principles did not matter; everything the family held on to had been solid while now it was transported to the netherworld of prayer and the elusive shadow of metaphysics, even in the white mold of the dead boy’s face, that like all the dead held a warning and a meaning not comprehended by living

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