By Keith Donohue
Keith Donohue has been praised for his shiny mind's eye and for evoking “the otherworldly with humor and the normal with ask yourself” (Audrey Niffenegger). His first novel, The Stolen baby, used to be a countrywide bestseller, and his moment novel, Angels of Destruction, was once hailed as “a magical story of affection and redemption that's as splendidly written because it is eye-catching” (Pittsburgh Post-Gazette). Centuries of June is a daring departure, a piece of unbelievable breadth and technical virtuosity.Set within the rest room of an previous condominium previous to sunrise on an evening in June, Centuries of June is a black comedy a couple of guy who's trying to inform the tale of ways he ended up at the flooring with a gap in his head. yet he retains getting interrupted by way of a chain of suspects—eight girls mendacity within the bed room simply down the corridor. each one girl tells a narrative drawn from 5 centuries of yank fantasy and legend in a wild medley of types and voices.Centuries of June is a romp via historical past, a madcap homicide secret, an existential ghost tale, and a gorgeous travel de strength right away inventive, attractive, inspiring, and finally deeply relocating.
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Extra resources for Centuries of June
The women, of course, show up, arriving perhaps on bicycles. “Today was an ordinary day in June, the kind that seems to exist permanently, coming around each year for centuries. Not too hot, not too cold. Harbinger of summer, last sweet fling of spring. ” The thin man appeared to have ceased listening to my story just at the twist in the plot. Instead he focused on a spot just above my right shoulder, and at the same second, the light behind me changed ever so slightly and the room cooled by one degree.
I’ll take that whiskey neat,” the old man bellowed from behind me. Cinching my belt, I moved ahead through a house as quiet as a grave. At the top of the stairs, I stopped and listened, and faraway came a sigh from someone asleep, so delicate it may not have been a sound at all, but only the thought or memory of a whisper from some other point in time and some space beyond the walls or perhaps within the walls themselves. I could not tell whence it came, so I delayed my trip downstairs and sought its source.
He brought her squirrel and ptarmigans and wild berries, salmon fat with eggs, and fixed a home away from the other bears in a den dug into the southern face of a hill. Her back and shoulders were hatched by his nails. His loins ached with the frequency of their wild couplings. That first winter, as he hibernated, she lived on teas sweetened with sap and the moles and mice that blundered into their cave, and she did her best to fend off boredom by imagining his dreams. Her compensation was that he held the warmth of the world in his chest, and from the time of the first frost to the thaw, she hunkered through the winter beneath a coat of fur.