Posts filed under “reading”.
Winged with Death – The Audio Cover
Proposed cover image for the audio version of Winged with Death.
Unabridged audio by Isis Audio Books, read by Michael Tudor Barnes.
Publication details when available.
Eleven Kinds of Loneliness by Richard Yates
He writes like this:
For a little while when Walter Henderson was nine years old he thought falling dead was the very zenith of romance, and so did a number of his friends. Having found that the only truly rewarding part of any cops-and-robbers game was the moment when you pretended to be shot, clutched your [...]
Clock without Hands by Carson McCullers
‘How would you like to see a hulking Nigra boy sharing a desk with a delicate little white girl?’
The Judge could not believe in the possibility of this; he wanted to shock Jester to the gravity of the situation. His eyes challenged his grandson to react in the spirit of Southern gentlemen.
‘How about a hulking white girl sharing a desk with a delicate little Negro boy?’
‘What?’
Jester did not repeat his words, nor did the old Judge want to hear again the words that so alarmed him. It was as though his grandson had committed some act of incipient lunacy, and it is fearful to acknowledge the approach of madness in a beloved. It is so fearful that the old Judge preferred to distrust his own hearing, although the sound of Jester’s voice still throbbed against his eardrums. He tried to twist the words to his own reason.
Reading and Signing in Manchester
I’ll be at Manchester Central Library tomorrow today (Wednesday 3rd June) at 6.30pm. I’ll be talking about the writing process and reading from my latest novel Winged with Death.
I’ll be with Andrew Duggan who will also read from his novel, Scars Beneath the Skin.
We shall also sign books and be available for questions.
Winged with Death – a reader’s impression
Before I’d started the book, I’d been expecting the theme to be of motion, but of course time’s impossible to disentangle from the dance of movement. It all tied in so wonderfully well with the central metaphor of the tango, a dance like so many others I’d only known performed by folk with painted shark grins and eyes dazzling like splintered marbles on COME DANCING. The sense of leading a dance and being led in one was a wonderful metaphor for the whole of the book. It’s a fleet narrative, the steps falling into place seemingly effortlessly; and the descriptions of the dance moves, all so wonderful — at times I’d to read them twice, forcing myself away from the narrative, just so I could enjoy the felicity and economy in the writing.
