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If you can’t eat it, fuck it, or bust it up for stovewood, she’s got no use for it. Nothing that was not readily applicable to her life. ”She had no interest in anything that happened in a book, on the radio, in France or Washington, D.C. William Tell Oliver, who had observed Hardin’s business and personal practices from the shadows among the trees, described a typical person populating this region of Tennessee. Most people were pretty simple in this rural area of Tennessee in the 1940s. They took wide turns when they walked around Dallas Hardin. If he was having an issue with a neighbor, everyone was just happy he didn’t have an issue with them. He was a predator who took what he wanted just to see what someone else would do to keep it. And he went through life the way a shark feeds, taking into its belly anything that attracts its attention, sucking it into the hot maw of darkness and drawing nourishment from that which contained it, expelling what did not.” Or sharklike, perhaps, lifeless and blank save a perpetual look of avarice. ”Hardin’s vulpine face was leaner and more cunning than ever, the cold yellow eyes more reptilian. People talked, sure, but who was going to do anything about it? Hardin was rough cut, like a knot infested piece of yellow pine. Hardin also took over the moonshine business, as well. Hardin didn’t need a magical staff or the will of God to part the legs of Hovington’s wife, Pearl. He took over Thomas Hovington’s farm while he was stoved up with some illness that bent his spine like it was a piece of black licorice. Who did this skull belong to? You’ll have to read the book to find out.Įverybody was so busy trying to feed their families and keep a roof over their heads they could spare little time over worrying what a man like Dallas Hardin might be up to. He turned it again so that it seemed to mock him, its jaws locked in a mirthless grin, the two gold teeth fey and winsome among the slime and lichens.” A chunk of the occipital bone had been blown away seemingly by some internal force, the brain itself exploding and breaking the confines of the skull.
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Bright shards of moss clung to the cranium like perverse green hair. It was impacted with moss and mud, a salamander curled in an eyesocket, periwinkles clinging like leeches to the worn bone. He turned it again so that it seemed to mock him, its jaws locked in a mirthless grin, the t ”He held in his hands a human skull.
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Set in rural Tennessee in the 1940s, The Long Home will bring to mind once again the greatest Southern novelists and will haunt the reader with its sense of solitude, longing, and the deliverance that is always just out of reach.more And it is the story of William Tell Oliver, a solitary old man who watches the growing evil from the dark woods and adds to his own weathered guilt by failing to do anything about it. Gay's remarkable debut novel, The Long Home, is also the story of Amber Rose, a beautiful young woman forced to live beneath that evil who recognizes even as a child that Nathan is her first and last chance at escape. Gay's remarkable debut novel, The Long Home, is also the story of Amber In a literary voice that is both original and powerfully unsettling, William Gay tells the story of Nathan Winer, a young and headstrong Tennessee carpenter who lost his father years ago to a human evil that is greater and closer at hand than any the boy can imagine - until he learns of it first-hand. In a literary voice that is both original and powerfully unsettling, William Gay tells the story of Nathan Winer, a young and headstrong Tennessee carpenter who lost his father years ago to a human evil that is greater and closer at hand than any the boy can imagine - until he learns of it first-hand.