Read more
Zusatztext “[James Salter] can suggest in a single sentence, an individual’s entire history, the complex interplay of longing and fear, hope and need, that has brought about the present. In doing so, these stories glimmer with the magic of fiction; they pull us, hungrily, into the mundane drama of their characters’ lives.”— New York Times “Salter’s prose is rare and stunning.”—John Irving “Salter inhabits the same rarified heights as Flannery O’Connor, Paul Bowles, Tennessee Williams, and John Cheever.”— Washington Post Book World “There is scarcely a writer alive who could not learn from his passion and precision of language.”—Peter Mathiessen “Admirers of James Salter’s fiction speak of it reverently, with delicacy, almost in awe, expressions of enthusiasm befitting the work.”—Elizabeth Benedict Informationen zum Autor James Salter is the author of the novels Light Years, A Sport and a Pastime, Solo Faces, The Arm of Flesh (revised as Cassada ), and The Hunters, the memoirs Gods of Tin and Burning the Days , and the collection Last Night. Philip Gourevitch ’s books have received numerous honors, including the National Book Critics Circle Award. He has served as editor of The Paris Review and is a longtime staff writer for T he New Yorker. Klappentext First published nearly a quarter-century ago and one of the very few short-story collections to win the PEN/Faulkner Award, this is American fiction at its most vital-each narrative a masterpiece of sustained power and seemingly effortless literary grace. Two New York attorneys newly flush with wealth embark on a dissolute tour of Italy; an ambitious young screenwriter unexpectedly discovers the true meaning of art and glory; a rider, far off in the fields, is involved in an horrific accident-night is falling, and she must face her destiny alone. These stories confirm James Salter as one of the finest writers of our time. Leseprobe Am Strande von Tanger Barcelona at dawn. The hotels are dark. All the great avenues are pointing to the sea. The city is empty. Nico is asleep. She is bound by twisted sheets, by her long hair, by a naked arm which falls from beneath her pillow. She lies still, she does not even breathe. In a cage outlined beneath a square of silk that is indigo blue and black, her bird sleeps, Kalil. The cage is in an empty fireplace which has been scrubbed clean. There are flowers beside it and a bowl of fruit. Kalil is asleep, his head beneath the softness of a wing. Malcolm is asleep. His steel-rimmed glasses which he does not need- there is no prescription in them-lie open on the table. He sleeps on his back and his nose rides the dream world like a keel. This nose, his mother's nose or at least a replica of his mother's, is like a theatrical device, a strange decoration that has been pasted on his face. It is the first thing one notices about him. It is the first thing one likes. The nose in a sense is a mark of commitment to life. It is a large nose which cannot be hidden. In addition, his teeth are bad. At the very top of the four stone spires which Gaudi left unfinished the light has just begun to bring forth gold inscriptions too pale to read. There is no sun. There is only a white silence. Sunday morning, the early morning of Spain. A mist covers all of the hills which surround the city. The stores are closed. Nico has come out on the terrace after her bath. The towel is wrapped around her, water still glistens on her skin. "It's cloudy," she says. "It's not a good day for the sea." Malcolm looks up. "It may clear," he says. Morning. Villa-Lobos is playing on the phonograph. The cage is on a stool in the doorway. Malcolm lies in a canvas chair eating an orange. He is in love with the city. He has a deep attachment to it bas...
