Ashes in My Mouth, Sand in My Shoes: Stories by Per Petterson
By Per Petterson
The heartwarming debut that introduced consistent with Petterson, the writer of the hugely acclaimed Out Stealing Horses, to prominence
Young Arvid Jansen lives at the outskirts of Oslo. It's the early sixties; his father works in a shoe manufacturing unit and his Danish mom works as a cleanser. Arvid has nightmares approximately crocodiles and nonetheless wets his mattress at evening, yet slowly he starts off to appreciate the area round him. shiny pictures accompany every one new occasion: a photograph of his mom as a tender girl makes him cry as he realizes how time passes, and the black automobile that involves gather his father at the day Arvid's grandfather dies reminds him of the passing of his bullfinch. after which, one morning, his instructor tells his category to wish simply because a nuclear battle is looming. Ashes in My Mouth, Sand in My Shoes, consistent with Petterson's debut, during which he introduces Arvid Jansen to the area, is a fragile portrait of formative years in all its complexity, ask yourself, and confusion that may pride enthusiasts of Out Stealing Horses and new readers alike.
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Additional info for Ashes in My Mouth, Sand in My Shoes: Stories
Her face, when she looks up, blinds me for a moment. Or maybe my tears do. She radiates no happiness-somegreat grief is bred too deeply into this girl's ffne bones-but there is a change which permits hands to be remembered and a mouth to live again. It cnuld have been fear and its removal, an excisionwhich works wonders with dogs and humans, and *ight, I imaging even with nations. And so she may turn her head away from sorrow, and when she does,the breath catches in my throat; in the nocturnal texture of her hair }ies a single streak of silver, a hue of just the dead- w Sturgeon ls Nioe and,Well .
Not unlessyou want to, and then not for me. Giles, maybe you cant paint because you want to do other things. Well, do them. Do them all; finish thom until they're all done and there's only one tbing left. " -Then the money'sfor paintingt" Oh, she is so patient; oh, how I hate anyone as patient as that. 'No. ltt just for you. Do whatever you want. -I care about that now. oAnd now she has the door open. *Come to the bank. Come get your money. " llhe bank, yes, and then what? " But no, this doesnt hurt her, and no, she is not anryt there's only one thing that touches her, and that one thing reaches through the closed door as we walk in the corridor, stretches down the stairs and past the lintels and the newels and the curb's Strngean Is Akoe and' WeH , .
Door? the gato of gold . . but no, it is no longer a meadow, but a room where I keep my easeland my . . and now I see them both, the room and the meadow, as if one were painted upon glassand through it I saw the other; and which? which the painting? Aiee! my brains are mixed and muddled again, I arn one, the otheg,both, neither. f seea curtain of sky with mountains for its ragged hegt . . a dirry wall, with one small bright spatter of my blood whero I struck it, and the dazed dun maiden raising her stafi, which is a small blue book with gold letters on it.