• Пожаловаться

Cullin Mitch: The Post-War Dream

Здесь есть возможность читать онлайн «Cullin Mitch: The Post-War Dream» весь текст электронной книги совершенно бесплатно (целиком полную версию). В некоторых случаях присутствует краткое содержание. категория: Современная проза / на английском языке. Описание произведения, (предисловие) а так же отзывы посетителей доступны на портале. Библиотека «Либ Кат» — LibCat.ru создана для любителей полистать хорошую книжку и предлагает широкий выбор жанров:

любовные романы фантастика и фэнтези приключения детективы и триллеры эротика документальные научные юмористические анекдоты о бизнесе проза детские сказки о религиии новинки православные старинные про компьютеры программирование на английском домоводство поэзия

Выбрав категорию по душе Вы сможете найти действительно стоящие книги и насладиться погружением в мир воображения, прочувствовать переживания героев или узнать для себя что-то новое, совершить внутреннее открытие. Подробная информация для ознакомления по текущему запросу представлена ниже:

Cullin Mitch The Post-War Dream

The Post-War Dream: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

Предлагаем к чтению аннотацию, описание, краткое содержание или предисловие (зависит от того, что написал сам автор книги «The Post-War Dream»). Если вы не нашли необходимую информацию о книге — напишите в комментариях, мы постараемся отыскать её.

The Post-War Dream is the eighth book by American author Mitch Cullin and was published by Random House in March 2008. Initial reviews of the novel were mixed, with Kirkus calling it "a misstep in Cullin's unpredictable, adventurous and, alas, frustratingly uneven oeuvre," and Publishers Weekly dismissing the work as "sterile." But subsequent pre-publication reviews from Booklist, Library Journal, and The Denver Post were positive. In the March 16 edition of the Los Angeles Times Book Review and, simultaneously published, the Chicago Tribune, critic Donna Seaman praised the book, stating: "In this exacting, suspenseful, elegiac yet life-embracing novel, Cullin reminds us that no boundaries separate the personal and communal, the past and present, the false and true."

Cullin Mitch: другие книги автора


Кто написал The Post-War Dream? Узнайте фамилию, как зовут автора книги и список всех его произведений по сериям.

The Post-War Dream — читать онлайн бесплатно полную книгу (весь текст) целиком

Ниже представлен текст книги, разбитый по страницам. Система сохранения места последней прочитанной страницы, позволяет с удобством читать онлайн бесплатно книгу «The Post-War Dream», без необходимости каждый раз заново искать на чём Вы остановились. Поставьте закладку, и сможете в любой момент перейти на страницу, на которой закончили чтение.

Тёмная тема

Шрифт:

Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

Yet Max's proximity returned two years ago, startling Hollis twice within the week he and Debra had moved into their Nine Springs home (materializing in the garage, waiting in the kitchen). Thereafter, it limited itself to the golf course greens, emerging every so often among the group of men Hollis joined for organized tournaments or informal competitions. Regarding Max from a short distance, he remained calm, refusing to let it affect his game, never addressing it outright or feeling haunted anymore by its grim presence. Whereas before Max had remained unflinching, he had since noticed some faint movements — possibly a twitch of the hands, maybe a slight turn of the head. Moreover, his formerly perfect double had transformed into a mass of wrinkles, a haggard and pitiable creature, like a wax effigy of an elderly vagrant. Perhaps for that reason, he fostered a certain amount of empathy toward his old likeness; it looked as if it had traveled through hell just to stand near him again. Harboring a begrudging tenderness for his own body, he felt sad about what had ultimately become of Max.

• • •

Now parking the Suburban in a golf cart lane, the hazard lights blinking, Hollis went from the vehicle and started trudging forward. Between him and the ninth hole, a large black crow flitted about, shooting its beak into the snow with pistonlike speed, working its way slowly toward the fallen figure, but when Hollis approached — his boots breaching the frigid layer, his tracks fashioning a curving trail — it screamed once at him and promptly took flight; the bird circled high overhead, following as Hollis veered through a sodden sand trap and angled for the ninth hole. The dull ache in his left thigh sharpened, further hindering his progress. Up ahead, the struggling figure had become listless — legs, arms, and body inert — and by the time Hollis reached him, the individual seemed resigned to his plight.

“Hey, you all right? You okay there?”

Leaning over him, rubbing his bare hands together, Hollis recognized familiar green eyes darting inside the red hood, gazing first at the firmament above — scanning the heavens, giving a sidelong look at the sun — before fixing on Hollis while, at the same instant, a sigh of frustration was expressed.

“Goddamnit,” his buddy Lon said, both annoyed and heartened that someone had chanced upon his predicament. “Goddamn — ” Puffing with exasperation, Lon arched his big head back, closing his eyes for a few seconds. Digging his heels into the snow, he began rocking his massive chest back and forth, evidently trying to gain enough momentum to flip himself. “Son of a bitch — ” Lon's chubby, flushed face grimaced. His galoshes pounded the ground, throwing a spattering of slush into the air. “Oh, fuck — ”

“Just hold on,” Hollis said, the rotund sight of his friend bringing to mind some toppled snowman or, perhaps, a distressed Santa Claus. “Here — ”

Poor Lon, Hollis thought. Poor guy: cursing, sighing, bitching, but forcing a grin once Hollis proffered his hands and — fingers clutching Lon's black mitts, legs braced to keep himself from also falling (the ache in his left thigh contracted to a dime-size circle of pain and, all at once, briefly abated) — helped him sit up, then kneel, then stand on the spot where he had apparently slipped backward.

Not yet sure of his balance, Lon remained standing there for a while, his arms hanging straight at his sides. “Thanks,” he muttered, without sounding grateful. He glanced at Hollis with a bemused expression — his face was rosy and damp, thin strands of silver hair were plastered on his forehead.

“Could've sworn I was the last man on earth,” Hollis said, swatting clumps of snow off Lon's wet backside. “Guess I was wrong.”

“Yep,” Lon said, “you were wrong.” Then brushing the hair away from his forehead with a mitt, he asked, “So how's Debra holding up today?”

“Well, she's never liked snow, but she's doing okay, I guess.”

“That's good to hear.”

For a while they loitered there, the two of them staring at a ridge of cumulus which canvassed the Catalina Mountains’ summit, until Hollis said, “You know, I should've figured you'd wander into this mess.”

“Really?”

“Seems like you'd want to see it before it melts away.”

But unlike Hollis, Lon hadn't come to observe the transformed golf courses, the greens gone white. No, he insisted, doctor's orders had him walking at dawn, doing his usual route — from hole one to hole eighteen, hole eighteen to hole one, and home by the time his wife, Jane, finished cooking breakfast: “I couldn't care less about the snow. Doesn't mean a thing. It's just snow, you know.”

“Mm,” Hollis said, cupping his hands at his mouth and exhaling into them.

But Hollis knew the snow meant something more to Lon; he knew as much last evening when Lon had phoned, gleefully saying, “Hey, you and Debra go to your window and look. It's hell freezing over, it's the beginning of the end.” And soon Hollis was peering through parted kitchen curtains as he made chocolate pudding for Debra, surprised to discover the backyard had already become an otherworldly place; his cactus garden had grown fluffy, the swimming pool was a snowy lair.

“My goodness,” Debra had called from the living room, sounding tired and miserable, “have you seen what's going on outside?”

“Yes,” Hollis had replied, transfixed by what was raining into the backyard, altering the view which he had grown accustomed to enjoying. Even at night the cacti were apparent, the beds showcased in the broad beams of two floodlights, and he had always liked that his garden was visible from the kitchen and dining-room windows. For some reason, he found its nearness comforting. Often he would sit at the dining table for prolonged periods, drinking coffee while staring at the various things he had cultivated. Time evaporated during those meditative breaks, as it did last night when he had first glimpsed the snowfall. After a while he glanced at the stove clock, then he pivoted and walked from the kitchen, leaving the pudding to chill in the refrigerator, going to where Debra lingered wearily in front of the television (the TV Guide near her face, an index finger scanning a page, her body emitting a faint odor which hinted at sickness). Without acknowledging his presence, she shook her head, frowning: “Can you believe it? A week ago you were wearing shorts.” But he had assumed a smiling, sympathetic face, taking her into his arms from behind and holding her gently — the way one might handle something delicate and rare.

Later, while they watched a rerun of Law amp; Order , Debra had shivered and said, “Lord, I've always hated this kind of weather.” She was snuggled against him on the couch, draped in the same comforter she would eventually carry to their bed. “Pudding on a night like this,” she complained. “Doesn't seem quite right.”

Not right, Hollis had thought, when sun-washed vistas and mesas were promised in the sales brochure (astonishing views, sparkling air: The morning's dawn another perfect day ), when the panoramic splendor of the Catalina Mountains loomed beautifully beyond the aquamarine waters of outdoor hot tubs. Then this morning — standing beside Lon on the buried golf course, gazing at the white expanse ahead of him — he truly felt displaced from where he actually stood, somehow removed from this region of cacti, diamondback rattlesnakes, and desert.

An insubstantial breeze roamed around, whisking up crystalline particles and spiraling them into sunlight as a shimmering, refracted mist. Yet it was a dry onshore wind Hollis was suddenly sensing, blowing cold from Siberia and southward along the Sea of Japan. Hidden beneath the layer of snow, he imagined, were the artifacts of warfare, a scattering of personal and military-designated debris. Like memories best forgotten, he thought. Like blank spaces in an old photo album where once images had existed. But how many discarded objects had been left behind as the troops concluded their tours of duty? What else had remained in that country where a heavy snowfall persisted, covering the hills and the mountains, sedating the hard fighting until, eventually, the storm had ceased?

Читать дальше
Тёмная тема

Шрифт:

Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

Похожие книги на «The Post-War Dream»

Представляем Вашему вниманию похожие книги на «The Post-War Dream» списком для выбора. Мы отобрали схожую по названию и смыслу литературу в надежде предоставить читателям больше вариантов отыскать новые, интересные, ещё не прочитанные произведения.


Отзывы о книге «The Post-War Dream»

Обсуждение, отзывы о книге «The Post-War Dream» и просто собственные мнения читателей. Оставьте ваши комментарии, напишите, что Вы думаете о произведении, его смысле или главных героях. Укажите что конкретно понравилось, а что нет, и почему Вы так считаете.