By W. D. Wetherell
Winner of the 2004 Michigan Literary Fiction Award for novelA haunting tale of the ability of loss of life, the ache of loss, and the potential of hope."Gripping, damning, and transfixing."---Entertainment Weekly" . . . possesses a time-bending gravity. . . . [A] small vintage of swish 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 stuffed with distinct, startling imagery and chic, richly poetic description---Wetherell turns out certainly incapable of writing a lazy sentence---and this final portion of the radical is as surreal, hypnotic and harrowing as any literature in contemporary reminiscence. the whole lot, in reality, 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 soreness is deeply moving."---Publishers Weekly "A well timed reminder of the devastation of mortal strive against. . . ."---Atlanta Journal-Constitution
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Not whining, but something deeper, throatier, more essential. I would say from a storm, but the sea is calm, no rolling. Only present at night. Owls, terrified, might make such a sound. Unfathomable distress. What mechanism accounts for it? Grit in the turbines? The complaints of gears? Must remember to ask the second officer for an explanation. VIII Susan Marshall spent much of the next day with him, the third at sea. The weather continued fine, so much of this was on deck, leaning up against the rail, or sitting in deck chairs, her with a blanket around her shoulders, him braving it out with only his coat.
The nearest cabin had a little plaque, 15B. He moved against the door. This time it was plain enough. Crying. Inside the cabin someone was crying. A woman crying. It wasn't normal crying, sad crying, but something a hundred times more essential and desperate, as if the sadness, as it emerged from the woman's throat, was being tortured and flailed. He pushed on the door, but it was locked. He decided to go for the steward, had started up the corri dor, when he heard another sound coming from the next cabin down, 17B.
55 means going to the Dominions office in London and obtaining a travel voucher. They will not give you one, rest assured of that. A sightseeing civilian is the last thing anyone needs at the front. You would require passes all the way along your route, from division down to company level, and if anywhere a man didn't like the look of you, he could turn you back. I tell you this to save a lot of futile effort for all concerned. " It was Marden's cue to get up and leave, but he remained where he was.
A Century of November by W. D. Wetherell