By A. Manette Ansay
In a stark, troubling, but eventually successful social gathering of self-determination, award-winning writer A. Manette Ansay re-creates a stifling global of to blame and ache, and the tormented souls who inhabit it. it really is 1972 whilst condition includes Ellen Grier and her relatives again to Holly's box, Wisconsin. Dutifully accompanying her newly unemployed husband, Ellen has introduced her youngsters into the house of her in-laws on Vinegar Hill -- a loveless condo suffused with the settling dirt of bitterness and regimen -- the place calculated cruelty is a lifestyle preserved and perpetuated within the provider of a inflexible, exacting and offended God. at the back of a facade of fake piety, there are sins and secrets and techniques during this position that can weigh down a colourful younger woman's passionate spirit. And the following Ellen needs to locate the immediately to undergo, switch, and develop within the all-pervading darkness that threatens to smash every little thing she is and everybody she loves.
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Example text
Parecia inquieto; em algum momento pareceu exasperado. Abriu a sacola de couro, apalpou-a por dentro, até a mão direita trêmula encontrar um cartão-postal. No rosto sério os lábios sumiram de sua boca, quem sabe um cacoete ou o gesto ansioso. Por favor, me acompanhe até essa casa, ele pediu, apontando a fotografia do cartão-postal. O tom da voz era quase de súplica; chegou a ser patético ao repetir o pedido em francês, e só não o fez em alemão porque dispensei mais salamaleques. Eu conhecia de vista a casa ilhada: u m bangalô atraente 70 e misterioso, que só parecia dar sinal de vida depois do anoitecer, quando as luzes iluminavam a fachada e o jardim.
Ela apareceu ao anoitecer. Notou o jeito esquivo dos convidados e perguntou logo de cara: Vocês ainda estão falando de política? Tirou os sapatos, mal cumprimentou Francine e Laure, disse: Ça vai a Gerardo, Gabriela e Jérôme, foi menos fria com Fabiana e Marcelo, beijando-lhes o rosto e perguntando a todos: Pelo menos me esperaram pra cantar parabéns? Lázaro apontou para Jean-Paul, sozinho e de pernas abertas no canto da sala, o rosto com ar entorpecido e blasé. Mas Bárbara o ignorou. Só ela estava de pé, observando a bagunça de copos, garrafas, pratos e talheres, então Fabiana disse que só estavam esperando por Bárbara para cantar parabéns e pediu a Marcelo que acendesse as velas do bolo.
Soube que deixara a Bretanha havia muitos anos; seu desejo era partir em busca do desconhecido. Para ele, viajar era uma forma de viver em tempos distintos. Um dia lhe perguntei se conhecia o dialeto bretão ou uma das tantas línguas indígenas do Amazonas. Vi seu rosto branco ruborizar: um rosto sem rugas, imberbe, os olhos azulados pareciam expressar dúvida ou indagação; de repente se levantou, foi até a varanda e, de costas para o rio, disse: Emilie me confundiu com Armand Verne. Ele, sim, é u m linguista aplicado e tutor dos nativos.