Whose Food, When, and Why? By the s, they had moved up into the North Carolina mountains to a series of communities in Transylvania and Henderson counties—Quebec, Toxaway, Brevard, Hendersonville.
The window sashes rattled, the beams which supported the roof creaked and groaned, the oil lamps by which alone the place was lit swung perilously in their chains. In the street without we heard the crash of a fallen chimneypot. My audience of four rose timorously to its feet, and I, glad of the excuse, folded my notes and stepped from the slightly raised platform on to the floor.
One of my little audience, however, was of a different mind. Rising quickly from one of the back seats, she barred the way. Her broad comely face was full of mingled contrition and sympathy. With one less in the audience I think I should have ventured to suggest that we all went round to hear Colonel Ray.
I should like to have gone myself immensely. Old Pegg, who had been there to sell and collect tickets, shouted to us. We had to battle the way step by step. We were drenched with spray and the driving rain. The wind kept us breathless, mocking any attempt at speech.
We passed the village hall, brilliantly lit; the shadowy forms of a closely packed crowd of people were dimly visible through the uncurtained windows. We reached a large grey stone house fronting the street. Miss Moyat laid her hand upon the handle of the door and motioned to me to enter.
I shook my head. Father is expecting you to supper.
At the corner of the street I looked behind. She was holding on to the door handle, still watching me, her skirts blowing about her in strange confusion.
For a moment I had half a mind to turn back. The dead loneliness before me seemed imbued with fresh horrors—the loneliness, my fireless grate and empty larder. Moyat was at least hospitable. There would be a big fire, plenty to eat and drink. The man was within his rights. He was the rich man of the neighbourhood, corn dealer, farmer, and horse breeder.
I was an unknown and practically destitute stranger, come from Heaven knew where, and staying on—because it took a little less to keep body and soul together here than in the town. But my nerves were all raw that night, and the thought of John Moyat with his hearty voice and slap on the shoulder was unbearable.
I set my face homewards. From the village to my cottage stretched a perfectly straight road, with dykes on either side. No sooner had I passed the last house, and set my foot upon the road, than I saw strange things. The marshland, which on the right reached to the sea, was hung here and there with sheets of mist driven along the ground like clouds before an April tempest.The Washington Post – May 16, код для вставки ).
The idea of the novel as art means that novel studies, and literary histories of the novel, come to privilege the novel's "form." Claims for the novel's formal coherence are not fatal to the idea of the novel's realistic imitation of social or psychic life.
Though his books sold reasonably well, Dark Laughter (), a novel inspired by Anderson's time in New Orleans during the s, was the only bestseller of his career. He may be most remembered for his influential effect on the next generation of young writers, as he inspired William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, John Steinbeck, and Thomas Wolfe.
Free essys, homework help, flashcards, research papers, book report, term papers, history, science, politics. Indeed, many of the earliest religious novels are essentially sermons in prose. But over time, it was conceded that the power of the novel lay in its ability to engage the imagination and the emotions; that soapbox shouting defeated its own purpose.
The book includes a vivid description of the fall of Atlanta in and the devastation of war (some of that aspect was missing from the film). The novel showed considerable historical research. Mitchell's sources were almost exclusively Southern writers and historians.