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In this magnificent collection of stories, Rush produces indelible portraits of Euro-American ex-patriates at loose ends in the black African republic of Botswana. The author's characters are unforgettable, while their predicaments are funny, improbably logical, and almost affecting as Africa itself. Powerful and original.--New York Times.
tiro, she said, over again. So I went at the front to find this man. He was there. I knocked. He rejoiced at once, with those posters in his hands. He said I must come in. He said we must see them, both together. That floor was in disorder. We pushed articles aside. That place was heaped on every hand with books, journals, all kind of papers and photographs widespread, tumblers, photographs in boxes. He praised those posters endlessly. He must have his wife to see. That place was in great
thing was sad. There was no one she could tell about her life. She had managed to have a remarkable life. She was ethical. She never brought Frank up or implied that Frank was the cause in any way of what she chose to do. Nor would she ever seduce a man who could conceivably be a recurrent part of Frank’s life or sphere. She assumed feminists would hate her life if they knew. She would like to talk to feminists about vocation, about goal-setting, about using one’s mind, about nerve and strength.
hairs on his wrist with the tip of his cigarillo. Ione said, “I learned hypnosis from a fairly sinister woman—a religious charlatan, really. Classes in hypnotism were a sideline for her. Her main business was a little sect she ran in her garage, the Church of the Supreme Master.” She was moving her hands in a smoothing pattern above him as he lay in a lounge chair. He was supposed to relax, but her insistence on meeting in the motel was still bothering him. She was sitting to his right, leaning
watch in it, all the interior doors. They had pounds of keys to deal with. He was holding the wine in his mouth for longer than usual before swallowing it, for no particular reason. Our suffering is so trivial, he thought. His thought surprised him. He wondered what suffering he was talking about, aside from being in need sexually, thanks to Ione, a minor thing and natural under the circumstances. He was in favor of her vacation. He swallowed his Riesling. Africa was suffering, but that wasn’t
week, blazing rage. For what? First, you know all the beef this country sends abroad. All right, they don’t eat much beef. Certainly the poor hardly see it unless the chief has something to celebrate. No, the beef is kept to multiply, and then, when they need cash, it goes straight to the abattoir and then straightaway into tins and to Europe—England. Because grass-fed beef makes up perfectly into baby food, Tess. Now, what drove him to rage was this mad idea of mine: Why can’t government just