#91:
Lavender Lies by Susan Wittig Albert:We settled ourselves in the wicker chairs, and I glanced around. The porch might have been a set for a 1930s movie, with an old oak icebox standing against one wall and a bench with a white enameled bucket and wash basin on the other, an embroidered hopsacking towel hanging above it. The painted floor was
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bounce!
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One thing I found truly tasty, when reading Melville's «Moby Dick», was his fabulous capacity to digressions. A writer able to open entire whole chapters dedicated to digressions. Like, eg., such a one about 'Free fishes and tied fishes'. Never flinching, nevertheless, off the main line of his dramatic route. I don't know why, I got an impression of freedom, as a reader, regarding the 'landscape of imagination' displayed, for being enabled by the author himself to play hooky. Not being in bondage of a straight iron collar of a plot, if I may say.
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Back in 2001, in the next county (County Tipperary) a man shot his six year old daughter and then himself. He did this because he'd been on the run for two years since collecting his daughter on an arranged visit from her mother, his separated wife, and going on the run.
The police had tracked him down and went to question him. No more than ten minutes later, while they had left to make further enquiries, he killed his child and himself.
So - big town meeting about kidnapped child? No, China. No. More than a slap needed here.
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The story you mention is tragic and horrible and pretty much exactly the type of thing I expected to happen when China started running her mouth. Double argh.
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Pretty much, yeah.
Best result? Guy grabs kid and heads off into the wild blue yonder, and mom has the whole tracking him down to do again from scratch.
Worst result? Well, we know what that is.
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