By Brock Clarke
The tales during this assortment occupy an international right now as prevalent as a suburban yard or a southern college’s hallowed soccer box and as unusual as a guy who buys Savannah, Georgia, and attempts to show it into the precise Southern urban as a part of his try to win again his estranged spouse. the fictitious territory of wearing the Torch, is briefly, Brock Clarke’s, one during which the surreal and the hilarious proportion a local with the painfully genuine and the sweetly ironic. right here readers will stumble upon characters dislocated by means of paintings and love, by means of large losses and life’s small dramas, women and men who've migrated South looking for redemption—or not less than within the desire of leaving the worst behind. In those stories approximately what humans attempt to depart and locate they can’t, concerning the lies we inform the folks we adore and the myths we create to make lifestyles livable, Marly Swick cites an “exceptional originality” in addition to an “amazing emotional resonance, a haunting quality.” “Notable for his or her stability of sentiment and reticence, the track in their language, and the haunting human longing that coexists with the irony and the humor,” as Lee Martin comments, those extraordinary tales hold ahead a convention attaining from Flannery O’Connor to John Cheever and Donald Barthelme—and arrive at a brilliance all their very own. (27000410)
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Additional info for Carrying the Torch: Stories (Prairie Schooner Book Prize in Fiction)
We both said how sorry we were, how very wrong it had been. ‘‘Poor Lily,’’ Amy The Reason Was Us 43 said, because they knew each other, had had several friendly conversations at Christmas parties and sta√ picnics. ‘‘I know,’’ I said. ‘‘I know you love her,’’ she said. ’’ ‘‘It’s true,’’ I said, because it was, and the fact that I hadn’t acted like I loved them seemed worse to me at that moment than not loving them at all, not loving them ever. ‘‘I’m not a bad person,’’ she said, and I nodded, because she wasn’t.
42 The Reason Was Us Martin didn’t do any of this. He didn’t drink more than one commemorative plastic battle of Gettysburg tumbler of Kentucky Gentleman bourbon and laughed politely when people joked about Johnny Reb this and minié ball that, and was perfectly agreeable to his hosts—he didn’t make any drunk driving jokes, for instance, which was good because Bill had once gotten tanked and plowed into the side of a school bus back in Cherry Hill, and a couple of the kids were in icu for weeks because of it and he’d lost most of his family’s deodorant soap fortune in the lawsuits that followed.
They reasoned that if their wives were there to make the old literary society ladies feel comfortable, then it was only fair that the husbands be allowed to make the old literary society ladies feel uncomfortable. ’’ I asked. ’’ ‘‘Paper bags,’’ I repeated, thinking about it, letting the idea soak in. ’’ I asked, because I’m not afraid of a little innovation now and then, and because these men were very good at setting the scene. I could envision the whole thing already. ‘‘We might,’’ the men said.
Carrying the Torch: Stories (Prairie Schooner Book Prize in Fiction) by Brock Clarke