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Who Will Run the Frog Hospital? (eBook)

(Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB
2012 | 1. Auflage
160 Seiten
Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group (Verlag)
978-0-307-81690-0 (ISBN)
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13,25 inkl. MwSt
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The summer Berie was fifteen, she and her best friend Sils had jobs at Storyland in upstate New York, where Berie sold tickets to see the beautiful Sils portray Cinderella in a strapless evening gown. They spent their breaks smoking, joking, and gossiping. After work they followed their own reckless rules, teasing the fun out of small town life, sleeping in the family station wagon, and drinking borrowed liquor from old mayonnaise jars. But no matter how wild, they always managed to escape any real danger until the adoring Berie sees that Sils really does need her help and then everything changes.
"e;Touches and dazzles and entertains. An enchanting novel."e; --The New York TimesIn this moving, poignant novel by the bestselling author of Birds of America we share a grown woman’s bittersweet nostalgia for the wildness of her youth.   The summer Berie was fifteen, she and her best friend Sils had jobs at Storyland in upstate New York where Berie sold tickets to see the beautiful Sils portray Cinderella in a strapless evening gown. They spent their breaks smoking, joking, and gossiping. After work they followed their own reckless rules, teasing the fun out of small town life, sleeping in the family station wagon, and drinking borrowed liquor from old mayonnaise jars. But no matter how wild, they always managed to escape any real danger—until the adoring Berie sees that Sils really does need her help—and then everything changes.

IN PARIS we eat brains every night. My husband likes the vaporous, fishy mousse of them. They are a kind of seafood, he thinks, locked tightly in the skull, like shelled creatures in the dark caves of the ocean, sprung suddenly free and killed by light, they've grown clammy with shelter, fortressed vulnerability, dreamy nights. Me, I'm eating for a flashback.'The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence,' says Daniel, my husband, finger raised, as if the thought has just come to him via the cervelles. 'Remember the beast you eat. And it will remember you.' I'm hoping for something Proustian, all that forgotten childhood. I mash them against the roof of my mouth, melt them, waiting for something to be triggered in my head, in empathy or chemistry or some other rush of protein. The tempest in the teacup, the typhoon in the trout, there is wine, and we drink lots of it. We sit beside people who show us wallet pictures of their children. 'Sont-ils si mignons!' I say. My husband constructs remarks in his own patois. We, us, have no little ones. He doesn't know French. But he studied Spanish once, and now, with a sad robustness, speaks of our childlessness to the couple next to us. 'But,' he adds, thinking fondly of our cat, 'we do have a large gato at home.' 'Gteau means 'cake,'' I whisper. 'You've just told them we have a large cake at home.' I don't know why he always strikes up conversations with the people next to us. But he strikes them up, thinking it friendly and polite rather than oafish and irritating, which is what I think. Afterward we always go to the same chocolatier for whiskey truffles. One feels the captured storm in these, a warm storm under the tongue. 'What aggrandizement are we in again?' my husband asks. 'What 'aggrandizement'?' I say. 'I don't know, but I think we're in one of the biggies.' My husband pronounces tirez as if it were Spanish, pre as if it were pier. The affectionate farce I make of him ignores the ways I feel his lack of love for me. But we are managing. We touch each other's sleeves. We say, 'Look at that!,' wanting our eyes to merge, our minds to be one. We are in Paris, with its impeccable marzipan and light, its whiffs of sewage and police state. With my sore hip and his fallen arches ('fallen archness,' Daniel calls it), we walk the quais, stand on all the bridges in the misty rain, and look out on this pretty place, secretly imagining being married to other people--right here in River City!--and sometimes not, sometimes simply wondering, silently or aloud, what will become of the world. WHEN I WAS a child, I tried hard for a time to split my voice. I wanted to make chords, to splinter my throat into harmonies--floreted as a field, which is how I saw it. It seemed like something one should be able to do. With concentration and a muscular push of air, I felt, I might be able to people myself, unleash the crowd in my voice box, give birth, set free all the moods and nuances, all the lovely and mystical inhabitants of my mind's speech. Afternoons, by myself, I would go beyond the garden and the currant bushes, past the lavender-crowned chives and slender asparagus, past the sunflowers knocked bent by deer or an unseasonal frost, past the gully grass to the meadow far behind our house. Or I'd go down the road to the empty lot near the Naval Reserve where in winter the village plow and dump truck unloaded snow and where in summer sometimes the boys played ball. I would look out upon the wildflowers, the mulch of swamp and leaves, the spring moss greening on the rocks, or the boulderous...

Erscheint lt. Verlag 29.2.2012
Sprache englisch
Themenwelt Literatur Romane / Erzählungen
ISBN-10 0-307-81690-7 / 0307816907
ISBN-13 978-0-307-81690-0 / 9780307816900
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