By W. D. Wetherell
Winner of the 2004 Michigan Literary Fiction Award for novelA haunting tale of the facility of loss of life, the discomfort of loss, and the potential for hope."Gripping, damning, and transfixing."---Entertainment Weekly" . . . possesses a time-bending gravity. . . . [A] small vintage of sleek language and earned emotion."---San Francisco Chronicle". . . a superbly written novel of struggle and the wrenching grief and unanswerable questions it leaves in its wake. . . . A Century of November is filled with detailed, startling imagery and stylish, richly poetic description---Wetherell turns out certainly incapable of writing a lazy sentence---and this final component of the unconventional is as surreal, hypnotic and harrowing as any literature in fresh reminiscence. the whole lot, in truth, is a jewel, an unforgettable ancient novel that Wetherell has conscientiously (and artfully) seeded with a great deal of modern resonance." ---Star-Tribune (Minneapolis)"A poignant, probing tale. . . . Wetherell's prose and personality writing are unflinching . . . [and his] tackle a parent's pain is deeply moving."---Publishers Weekly "A well timed reminder of the devastation of mortal wrestle. . . ."---Atlanta Journal-Constitution
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An elderly couple who spoke with heavy German accents which would have gotten them into trouble if they weren't so obviously harmless. Promenading in ones and twos around the deck, tak ing up all the public room on the ship, was an entirely different category, one that, as the tout back on the pier had promised, was composed entirely of women. There were dozens of them-no, hundreds. A few were in their fifties or sixties, mothers who, having lost a son, had found the strength and the money to make the pas33 sage to fetch back their remains.
He felt dull, stupid, badly in need of time to think. What puzzled him was this. What he saw out the window, the pastoral land scape, had some direct connection to the abstraction SI known as "England, " and the abstraction known as "England" had a direct connection to his son's death. What that connection consisted of, the direct causal links, he couldn't understand, or wouldn't understand; he wanted to avoid playing the old tired game, thinking in terms of treaties and entanglements and questions of ancient rights and wrongs.
Marden saw this so clearly, with such force, that it was impossible not to speak. "I' m sorry. " The man looked sharply up at him, seemed startled, then dumbly nodded up and down. " Marden asked. "Vimy Ridge," the man said, his voice barely above a whisper. "A sniper's bullet. Quick. " "H ow o ld�" . "Eighteen. " He stared past Marden's shoulder toward the window, severing the momentary connection between their eyes. "Very quick. " The man raised his arm in a blocking motion, then hurried past Marden up the car.
A Century of November by W. D. Wetherell