By Elizabeth Berg
Read Online or Download What We Keep PDF
Similar british & irish books
Coleridge's poetry usually overshadows the brilliance of the opposite different types of writing he selected to pursue. His serious paintings unearths a wealth of profoundly delicate observations and a prophetic imaginative and prescient of compelling authenticity. research a few of his works and poetry, together with Kubla Kahn, and his thought of secondary mind's eye.
Having confirmed herself a talented and interesting novelist along with her portrayals of Queen Elizabeth I within the woman Elizabeth and girl Jane gray in blameless Traitor, big apple instances bestselling writer Alison Weir now harks again to the 12th century with a sensuous and tempestuous story that brings vividly to lifestyles England’s so much passionate—and destructive—royal couple: Eleanor of Aquitaine and King Henry II.
Comprises demanding new readings of Coleridge's significant works.
- A Reader's Guide to James Joyce
- Essays on Conrad
- Pen for a Party: Dryden's Tory Propaganda in Its Contexts
- London Fog: The Biography
Additional resources for What We Keep
Mrs. O’Donnell was my first customer. She bought a couple of the rose-and-green ones—my favorite, as well—and then invited me in for Rice Krispies treats. After she’d given me an impromptu tour of her house, we sat down together at the kitchen table. Then we both seemed to realize we had nothing whatsoever to say. I noticed faint brown stains on her tablecloth, next to an embroidered picture of three gray kittens in a basket, whose blue eyes seemed sad to me, lost and pleading. “Oh, well,” Mrs.
My house? My house? All of it—a kitchen, a bathroom, two bedrooms, a back-porch stoop, a front door with a mail slot? “I don’t know,” I said. ” We sighed, exactly together, it seemed to me, and this was deeply comforting. I had a thought to take Sharla’s hand, but I knew she’d frown and lightly slap me away. We were deeply connected, Sharla and I, but very different. I was a cuddler; Sharla looked at an embrace as imprisonment. I could not touch her except to brush her hair, she liked that. In fact, she would pay me to do it.
Just before dawn, when the sky lit up at the bottom with its hopeful shade of gray/pink, we would sneak back into the house. Now our beds were acceptable, and we would pull down the shades and sleep until around ten, then come tousle-headed and blinking into the kitchen for a breakfast of peanut-butter toast and orange juice. Except for those rare times when our mother wasn’t home—when she put on her gloves and hat and took the bus to the dentist’s, say. At those times, we would have miniature Coke floats, served in the thin, light-refracting champagne flutes our parents kept in the high cupboard over the refrigerator.