By John Banville, Aleksandar Hemon
2013 could be the top 12 months but for Best eu Fiction. The inimitable John Banvillejoins the checklist of unusual preface writers for Aleksandar Hemon’s series,and A. S. Byatt represents England between a luminous solid of ecu contributors.
2013 could be the most sensible 12 months but for Best eu Fiction. The inimitable John Banville joins the record of distinctive preface writers for Aleksandar Hemon’s sequence, and A. S. Byatt represents England between a luminous forged of eu individuals. lovers of the sequence will locate every little thing they’ve grown to like, whereas new readers will observe what they’ve been lacking!
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Extra resources for Best European Fiction 2013
I hurry inside, in terror—in terror hurry down the passage leading to the infirmary. The doctor is gone. The sickbeds are empty. ” I cry aloud. I must find the captain and wake him; for surely this is a dream, and whose dream is it if not his? 9. In an instant, I am standing outside the captain’s cabin. The captain’s mother sits before the door, her stony face inclined toward the wool in her lap. Click, click, click is all the sound there is: that which her steel needles make as they tease the wool into a lengthening cable.
She snarls. ” He studies the package as she walks away on the daggers of her heels. He cannot understand why the iconography of his desert country should appear in a city of skyscrapers, taxis, and potted palms. And suddenly, he feels rise up in him a powerful nostalgia—a terrible yearning—for Egypt. He puts money on the table, as he has seen other men do, and goes, wishing he were like Karloff ’s mummy, possessed of an irresistible will, an unappeasable wrath, so that he might slay them all—all who have humiliated him since he was awakened, roughly, from his dream.
Click, click, click. 10. There is in the captain’s cabin that same cold that would have stopped my blood and sealed the chambers The Captain Is Sleeping 51 of my heart if I had remained any longer out on deck. The cabin walls are sheathed in frost. The floor is ice. The sheet folds about the captain’s body like snow. His body, too, is cold; the limbs are possessed by rigor; the eyes, two stones beneath the lowered lids. His smooth cheeks bear traces of the lather the barber left there before he, too, disappeared.
Categories: Short Stories