Barbary Shore: A Novel

Barbary Shore: A Novel

Norman Mailer

Language: English

Pages: 320

ISBN: 0812986148

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Published at the height of the McCarthy era, Norman Mailer’s audacious novel of socialism is at once an elegy and an indictment, a sinuous moral thriller and an intellectual slugfest. Wounded during World War II, Mike Lovett is an amnesiac, and much of his past is a secret to himself. But when Lovett rents a room in Brooklyn, he finds that his housemates have secrets of their own: One betrays a husband no one ever sees; another may have been a Communist executioner. Combining Kafkaesque unease with Orwellian paranoia, Barbary Shore plays havoc with our certainties and delivers its effects with a force that is pure Mailer.
 
Praise for Barbary Shore
 
“A work of remarkable power, of amazing penetration, both into people and the determining forces of American life.”The Atlantic Monthly
 
“Vibrant with life, abundant with real people . . . [Mailer has] a scintillating skill in observation, a mature sense of meaning.”The Philadelphia Inquirer
 
“This book is nothing short of amazing.”Newsweek
 
Barbary Shore [is] about the kind of country—and what you might call the psychic territory—that American war heroes were returning to.”The Guardian
 
Praise for Norman Mailer
 
“[Norman Mailer] loomed over American letters longer and larger than any other writer of his generation.”The New York Times
 
“A writer of the greatest and most reckless talent.”The New Yorker
 
“Mailer is indispensable, an American treasure.”The Washington Post
 
“A devastatingly alive and original creative mind.”Life
 
“Mailer is fierce, courageous, and reckless and nearly everything he writes has sections of headlong brilliance.”The New York Review of Books
 
“The largest mind and imagination [in modern] American literature . . . Unlike just about every American writer since Henry James, Mailer has managed to grow and become richer in wisdom with each new book.”Chicago Tribune
 
“Mailer is a master of his craft. His language carries you through the story like a leaf on a stream.”The Cincinnati Post

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

certificate cause she brought him in on it at the end, and then in prison, which’ll be the last chapter, they’re brought together for a final hour by the warden who’s a pretty good guy, and there in the cell behind the bars they have a last one that really makes it worth while being killed.” And Monina, resolving the chord, ran toward me on tiptoe, nude nymph, halted within the reach of my arm, and in a child’s counterfeit of a leer raised the fig leaf above her head, exposed and triumphant.

altered his face so that for an instant he could appear young and merry. He drawled out his next offering with a self-satisfied air as though he were sucking a candy-drop. “Well, now, that’s a thought, Lovett. It’s a thought.” And still chuckling, he examined the bathroom floor, found it to his satisfaction, and stowed the broom in a corner. “I’m across the hall. Drop by when you’re dressed,” he offered. I did, and we talked for an hour. I had thought he might be taciturn about himself, but he

for his mill, nonetheless I resented him for it. What glee the process gave him. Once I mentioned a girl with whom I had recently had an affair, and I shrugged and said, “But it didn’t mean much. We got a little bored with each other, and drifted out of it.” McLeod gave his sly grin, the side of his mouth sucking on the imaginary candy-drop. “You drifted out of it, eh?” Irritably, I snapped, “Yes, I drifted out of it. Didn’t you ever hear of anything like that?” “Yes, I’ve heard of it. I hear

swagger. Did Lannie bear defeat well, or did she sup on it with nearly all her heart? “All right, I’ll leave,” she said, a faint smile upon her face. She moved toward the door, Monina watching her with intense suspicion. Lannie halted, fumbled through her purse in characteristic distress, and came up at last with her hand crushing a few dollar bills. “Do you know what I shall do with this?” she asked of me. I made a meaningless motion in answer. “I’m going out to buy a can of dark dark paint,

to be the future, for it is only as ideas are transmitted to someone else that they attain existence.” Hollingsworth interrupted him. “You talk like a fellow who doesn’t think he’s going to live long.” “You misunderstand. I speak metaphorically.” “All I care about is that you concede,” Hollingsworth said sullenly. “I told you I would. Now, may I go ahead?” “Who are you making this speech for?” Hollingsworth asked peevishly. “Me? Miss Madison?” His eyes met mine, and he shrugged. “Well, if

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