Darconville's Cat

Darconville's Cat

Alexander Theroux

Language: English

Pages: 728

ISBN: 0805043659

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Cover free of tears but shows light chipping at edges, Spine is uncreased, Light bump evident on top of spine, Pages are free of marks or highlighting, Not ex-library.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

directly given over by my father, a famous actor at the Khedivial Opera House who wouldn’t publicly acknowledge me, to his brother for an undisclosed sum of money. I never saw him again. My mother was buried alive: the local penalty for adultery. Good day, goodbye. So much for gaps in pedigree,” said Dr. Crucifer, his eyes remaining shut. He was talking. He was listening. “Understand, right away, we were not Mohammedans but Christians. I am a Nasrani, of Lower Egyptian Copts, the most civilized

understanding. “Tell me, tell me you love me!” But they had reached the front of the terminal and stopped. Isabel, dreading this moment, wasn’t sure what to do; she didn’t move. He fumbled for her hand and took the white, spatulate, always slightly cold fingers. He waited in agony, but he had no more words, and overcome with the pity of it all, he kissed her with what almost seemed a question—one she alone, in returning, might have answered. But she did nothing. They false and fearful did their

sound—”is for nuns! If one continually forbids oneself the expression of the passions as being rude and bourgeois, the result can only bring about precisely what is not desired: the weakening of them, the degeneration of power into shallow and hypocritical etiquette! Truth? A logical or mathematical proposition such as 1+1=2 we say is true not because of prior ‘meanings’ or rules, conventional or otherwise, much less because of some necessary correspondence with reality. Such a proposition we

along his wicks and nose, and then dropped dead as a stone. Fires were lighted. The harbor was sealed. But it was too late. Ships, laden with produce, had already set sail in the pestiferous winds and headed out along the trades to Constantinople, to Cyprus, to Sardinia, to Avignon, and points beyond— Sleutel, among them: a town that, recently, had expanded and grown to the clink of gold in the guilds, the crackle of flames in the tile-kilns, and the mercantile sermons in the new

Isabel’s mother, lighting a cigarette and covering with that commodious housecoat most of the kitchen chair upon which she perched. She was a comic but slightly nervous woman, a mudsill whose English was a queer gumbo of mispronounced words and faulty grammar. Suddenly, the filter of her cigarette, to her great amusement, burst into flames: she’d lit the wrong end. Her face lost its modest attractiveness when she laughed, less for the grin that was too wide than for the myocardial ischemia one

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