After The Plague by T. C. Boyle
By T. C. Boyle
About the book
Hailed as the best brief tale writers of his iteration, T.C. Boyle provides 16 stories–nine of which seemed in The New Yorker–that spotlight the evolving excellence of his creative, sleek, and wickedly witty style.
In After the Plague, Boyle indicates his maturing topics via an awesome array of matters in quite a number emotional keys. He faucets today's headlines, from air rage ("Friendly Skies") to abortion medical professionals ("Killing Babies"), and delves into extra naturalistic issues of quiet strength and keenness, from a story of old flame ("The Love of My Life") to a narrative approximately confronting outdated age ("Rust").
Combining pleasure and humor with the darkish, severe eventualities that Boyle's viewers has come to like, After the Plague unearths a author on the most sensible of his shape.
About the author
T.C. Boyle’s novels contain World’s End, winner of the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction, The Tortilla Curtain, Riven Rock, a pal of the Earth, Drop City (which was once a finalist for the nationwide booklet Awards), The internal Circle and, such a lot lately, When the Killing’s Done.
His brief tale collections contain Tooth and Claw and Wild Child, and his tales look frequently in such a lot significant magazines, together with the New Yorker, Esquire, Harper’s, Granta and the Paris Review.
His paintings has been translated into twenty-five languages. T.C. Boyle was once lately inducted into the Academy of Arts and Letters. He lives in California.
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Extra info for After The Plague
I never saw that before. I picked him up hitchhiking north. He had on dark cotton pants and a light jacket and lace shoes. With a brown canvas bag and a hat pulled down over his ears and his hands in his pockets. I pulled over right away. He looked sorry as hell. I took him all the way up north, to my place. He had some antelope meat with him and we ate good. That was the best meat I ever had. We talked. He wanted to know what I was doing for work. I was cutting wood. He was going to go up to British Columbia, Nanaimo, in there, in spring to look for work.
He cut wood with me that winter. He worked hard. When the trillium bloomed and the varied thrushes came he went north. I did not see him again for ten years. I was in North Dakota harvesting wheat, sleeping in the back of my truck (parked under cottonwoods for the cool air that ran down their trunks at night like water). One night I heard my name. He was by the tailgate. the falls “You got a good spot,” he said. “Yeah. ” “Good. ” He sounded tired, like he’d been riding all day. Next morning someone left, too much drinking, and he got that job, and so we worked three weeks together, clear up into Saskatchewan, before we turned around and drove home.
He told no one. He spoke with no one. While he was up there the dog, Leaves, slept out on some rocks in the Sweetgrass River, where he would not be bothered, and fasted. I came at dawn and then at dusk to look. I could not tell from a distance if he was asleep or dead. Or about the dog. I would only know it was all right because each morning he was in a different position. The fourth morning——I remember this one the best, the sun like ﬁre on the October trees, so many spider webs sunken under the load of dew, the wind in them, as though the trees were breathing——he was gone.