Quakertown
Autor Lee Martinen Limba Engleză Paperback – 3 aug 2017
In Quakertown, Lee Martin travels back in time to 1920s Texas to tell the story of a flourishing black community that was segregated from its white brethren—and of the remarkable gardener who was asked to do the unimaginable.
Based on the true story of a shameful episode in north Texas history, Quakertown draws on the rich texture of the South—the Pecan Creek running along the edges of Quakertown, the remarkable and rare white lilac, and the rising tensions marking each nod and greeting. With strength and a deep wisdom of heart, Martin carves out the delicate story of two families—one white and one black—and the child whose birth brought a gift of forgiveness.
Suffused with Martin’s deep compassion and profound humanity, Quakertown is an unforgettable novel from a master of American prose.
Based on the true story of a shameful episode in north Texas history, Quakertown draws on the rich texture of the South—the Pecan Creek running along the edges of Quakertown, the remarkable and rare white lilac, and the rising tensions marking each nod and greeting. With strength and a deep wisdom of heart, Martin carves out the delicate story of two families—one white and one black—and the child whose birth brought a gift of forgiveness.
Suffused with Martin’s deep compassion and profound humanity, Quakertown is an unforgettable novel from a master of American prose.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9780814254394
ISBN-10: 081425439X
Pagini: 300
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 20 mm
Greutate: 0.39 kg
Ediția:1
Editura: Ohio State University Press
Colecția Mad Creek Books
ISBN-10: 081425439X
Pagini: 300
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 20 mm
Greutate: 0.39 kg
Ediția:1
Editura: Ohio State University Press
Colecția Mad Creek Books
Recenzii
“A consistently impressive and often dazzling new novel. Lee Martin has written one of the best books of the year.” —The Washington Post
“His gently melancholy style strikes a fine balance between literary fiction and accessible, emotion-driven storytelling.” —Publishers Weekly
“Quakertown is a page turner . . . a richly detailed portrait. Martin treats his characters with compassion.” —The Columbus Dispatch
Notă biografică
Lee Martin was a Pulitzer Prize Finalist for The Bright Forever and is author of the novels River of Heaven, Break the Skin, and Late One Night.
Extras
He wouldn't boast. No, sir. Not a speck. Not Mr. Little Washington Jones. But under the right conditions-perhaps on a May night in 1921, when the mimosa trees were pink, and the magnolia flowers had bloomed, and the catalpa trees were thick with blossoms, and he and his wife, Eugie, had just strolled through their front gate after a trip to RCO's Ice Cream Parlor-he might admit that yes, indeed, he truly did have the finest, most well kept lawn in the entire neighborhood of Quakertown, in all of Denton, maybe, and, though he hated to have to say it, but there it
was, slap in front of his eyes, perhaps the loveliest in all of Texas.
Consider, he might say, the American Sweetheart tea roses, and the verbena, and the periwinkle, not to mention-well, if he must-the rare white lilac bush.
And if he paused, then, at the low picket gate, and lifted his hand to one of the white blossoms, just for the sheer joy of letting the velvety petals skim his work-worn palm, who would fault him? Surely no one who knew how he had found the white lilac growing wild along Pecan Creek, showy and magnificent among the scrub of mesquite and bramble, how he had uprooted it, wrapped its ball in damp burlap, and hauled it in his wagon the two miles to Quakertown, hauled it first down Oak Street, past the grand homes and their green, green lawns where young men in white linen trousers played croquet, and ladies in ankle-length skirts batted feather shuttlecocks back and forth across badminton nets. Little sat up straight on the bench seat of his buck board, gave the reins a shake, and listened to the jingle of the mule's harness, the cloppety-clop of its shoes over the cobble street. He heard the pock-pock of the croquet games fall silent, a rocker squeak as someone leaned forward. "I swan," he heard a woman say, that single voice, a voice of amazement and admiration he would carry with him for years. And he knew that what his father had told him was true: a black man with a talent could always make white folks take notice. "Find something they prize," his father had said, "and do it better than they can. You'll always have a place with them. You'll make yourself an easier life."
And so it was true for Little. He had a talent with flowers and trees and shrubs, and people in North Texas treasured anything green or brilliant with color, determined as they were to make something grow from some of the worst soil in the world, a gummy mess of clay they called gumbo.
Each morning that summer, Little ate his breakfast on his front porch so he could watch his neighbors walk up the hill to the women's college where they worked as maids and cooks and janitors. As they passed, he called out to them. "Momin' Osceola, mornin' Miss Simms, mornin' Mr. Smoke." He sat on a cane-bottom chair, a red bandanna tucked into his shirt collar, and sipped his tea, his own blend of comfrey and sassafras, and waited for someone passing to compliment his lawn, to stop, perhaps, and admire the white lilac or the Chinese pistachio.
was, slap in front of his eyes, perhaps the loveliest in all of Texas.
Consider, he might say, the American Sweetheart tea roses, and the verbena, and the periwinkle, not to mention-well, if he must-the rare white lilac bush.
And if he paused, then, at the low picket gate, and lifted his hand to one of the white blossoms, just for the sheer joy of letting the velvety petals skim his work-worn palm, who would fault him? Surely no one who knew how he had found the white lilac growing wild along Pecan Creek, showy and magnificent among the scrub of mesquite and bramble, how he had uprooted it, wrapped its ball in damp burlap, and hauled it in his wagon the two miles to Quakertown, hauled it first down Oak Street, past the grand homes and their green, green lawns where young men in white linen trousers played croquet, and ladies in ankle-length skirts batted feather shuttlecocks back and forth across badminton nets. Little sat up straight on the bench seat of his buck board, gave the reins a shake, and listened to the jingle of the mule's harness, the cloppety-clop of its shoes over the cobble street. He heard the pock-pock of the croquet games fall silent, a rocker squeak as someone leaned forward. "I swan," he heard a woman say, that single voice, a voice of amazement and admiration he would carry with him for years. And he knew that what his father had told him was true: a black man with a talent could always make white folks take notice. "Find something they prize," his father had said, "and do it better than they can. You'll always have a place with them. You'll make yourself an easier life."
And so it was true for Little. He had a talent with flowers and trees and shrubs, and people in North Texas treasured anything green or brilliant with color, determined as they were to make something grow from some of the worst soil in the world, a gummy mess of clay they called gumbo.
Each morning that summer, Little ate his breakfast on his front porch so he could watch his neighbors walk up the hill to the women's college where they worked as maids and cooks and janitors. As they passed, he called out to them. "Momin' Osceola, mornin' Miss Simms, mornin' Mr. Smoke." He sat on a cane-bottom chair, a red bandanna tucked into his shirt collar, and sipped his tea, his own blend of comfrey and sassafras, and waited for someone passing to compliment his lawn, to stop, perhaps, and admire the white lilac or the Chinese pistachio.