A Distant Shore by Caryl Phillips

By Caryl Phillips

Dorothy is a retired schoolteacher who has lately moved to a housing property in a small village. Solomon is a night-watchman, an immigrant from an unnamed state in Africa. each one is determined for romance. And but each one harbors secrets and techniques which can make achieving it impossible.

With breathtaking insurance and compassion, Caryl Phillips retraces the trails that lead Dorothy and Solomon to their assembly aspect: her failed marriage and ruinous obsession with a more youthful guy, the horrors he witnessed as a soldier in his disintegrating homeland, and the cruelty he encounters as a stranger in his new one. Intimate and panoramic, measured and shattering, Shore charts the oceanic expanses that separate humans from their houses, their hearts, and their selves.

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Ye’re dead and ye’re staying. ” Cabal looked at him for a long, long moment. Then he smiled, a cold, horrid rictus that travelled up his face like rising damp. The crowd went very quiet. Cabal leaned close to Trubshaw. “Listen, you pathetic little man … you pathetic little dead man. You’re making a fundamental error. I’m not dead. Tried it once, didn’t like it. Right now—right this instant, as I look into your rheumy little gimlet corpse eyes—I am alive. I have come here at great inconvenience, causing considerable disruption in my work, to talk to your seedy fallen angel of a boss.

No carnival? No carnival? This is it! Wagons roll! The Greatest Show on Earth! ” “Imagination? ” The Little Old Man got up from the crate and walked over to the back wall, shaking his head and muttering about young folk today. Leaning against the wall was a stack of broad wooden boards half covered by a tarpaulin. This he whipped off in possibly the weakest theatrical flourish Cabal had ever seen, to reveal that the boards were signs—battered and peeling, but signs nonetheless. “Here you go.

That ball of blood is my diabolical influence and power. Every time you call upon it, the ball will diminish. Use it wisely, Johannes Cabal. ” He snapped his fingers again and, abruptly, Cabal was elsewhere. IN WHICH CABAL PRACTICES HIS MAP-READING AND MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE The Flatlands rolled as far as the eye could see in any direction—remarkably flat, remarkably boring, and not nearly high enough above sea level for comfort. The fields all looked like marshes waiting to happen; in some cases, the wait was over.

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