I highly recommend this book, if it's the only work of his you read. I loooooved Andre Dubus' collection of essays, Broken Vessels So I feel like I'm cheating on him or talking behind his back to do anything but totally love this collection as well but the truth is I didn't. A writer of immense sensitivity, vulnerability, and thoughtfulness--a master at the height of his talent--whose work is suffused with grace, bathed in a kind of spiritual glow New York Times Book Review. I devoted a chapter in , my book on contemporary Catholic literature, to the fiction and non-fiction of Dubus. Manipulation, jealousy, and revenge: these fictive men are often terrible.
This is not the case with the work of Andre Dubus. Moves back and forth between memory and present experience until--in a neat slice-you are in the beating heart. It's not a collection that needs to be read quickly. Third-party sites are multimedia services that allow you to read and download e-books. Especially if you are already a fan of the author's fiction.
She receives Communion every morning, wears a gold Sacred Heart medal on a gold chain around her neck. It was one of those nights when we were both supremely thankful for ramen. This is not to say that essays serve an ancillary function, but rather that essays contain the inevitable need to require a point — either one orchestrated by the writer, or one imbued by the reader. His message is raw and truthful just as Hemingway. But the essays were not sentimental in any way. Reading this his last before he died , makes me wish I knew him personally.
Then I must write, with the most intense concentration I can muster. To read him otherwise is to ignore his moral and cultural center. Those who can need to assign them for courses. I had known about the separation, but I had revised Dubus in my mind. Since losing one leg and the use of the other in a 1986 accident, Dubus has experienced despair, learned acceptance, and, finally, found joy in the sacramental magic of even the most quotidian tasks. I am raw with loveliness. In such circumstances how would we view our past bipedal lives? The outside work was tough, but inside there were strawberry-printed tablecloths and shiny urns of coffee.
His is an unapologetically sacramental vision of life in which ordinary things participate in the miraculous, the miraculous in ordinary things. I rode a Steiner tractor, one used to trim minor-league ballfields, and listened to Bad Company while cutting rows of light and dark. Some are great, some are less than great, some are not even near great. Dubus takes a microscope to his own life, his own mental states, his own failings and insecurities and shares the results of those inspections with the reader. It is good to be baptized, to confess and be reconciled, to receive Communion, to be confirmed, to be ordained a priest, to marry, or to be anointed with the sacrament of healing.
Chapter Four Digging That hot June in Lafayette, Louisiana, I was sixteen, I would be seventeen in August, I weighed one hundred and five pounds, and my ruddy, broad-chested father wanted me to have a summer job. He loved to talk, and he did this at parties I listened to from my bedroom, and with his friends on the golf course, and drinking in the clubhouse after playing eighteen holes. While reading Townie, I cringed when Dubus left his wife and four children for the affections of a college student. He lives in Haverhill, Massachusetts. This is not the case with the work of Andre Dubus. I am receiving sacraments with each breath, as I did while I slept; with each movement of my body as I exercise my lower abdomen to ease the pain in my back caused by sitting for fifteen hours. This guy makes a lot of God references which to me is a little over the top.
I think my shyness had very little to do with my fear. It is the honesty of this book that is at times breathtaking. I had an aunt who passed away recently who required a wheel-chair to be mobile. . Dubus considers being cripple was one of the good things that happened to him. One of the best parts of this book is him describing making sandwiches in his small kitchen. I never doubted for a second the anguish Dubus related in his struggle with depression, and I am sure thoughts of ending his life entered his consciousness often though he did not ever speak of it except for saying he struggled mightily those first five years after the accident that took his legs from him.
It is written in a very detailed, almost stoic way. So wrote Tobias Wolff seven years ago, about Andre Dubus's Broken Vessels, and that insight describes perfectly the twenty-five pieces in this powerfully moving new collection, a continuation of Dubus's candid, intensely personal exploration into matters of morality, religion, and creativity. He was more pleased about my free lunch at work: chicken stuffed with apples and cheddar cheese, sweet potatoes, and freshly baked cornbread, squared and buttered. His style in these essays matches the rhythms of his excellent prose, but slice a little deeper as a result of these insights. His legs were crushed and he eventually lost his right leg as well as the use of his left.
I get to meet him in two weeks and spend several hours each day in a writing workshop with this lovely human. Very surprising to me was something Debus said in one essay, almost as an aside, that in his dreams he was never in a wheelchair, this despite his many years of keenly-felt confinement to a wheelchair. My father eats, glances at me. A appreciate his honesty, and I appreciate the little kick the book has given me any time I feel too lazy to go for a walk or ride my bike or stroll the beach. I did not want to work. This was a place for people to gain independence by placing complete trust in others.
The title of the book references how after having been crippled in an accident Dubus writes from a wheel chair. I did not want to work. I enjoyed this book greatly, Dubus has an extremely smooth narrative voice. Here is Dubus on the rape of his beloved sister, his first real job, a gay naval officer, Hemingway, the blessing of his first marriage, his dear friend Richard Yates, his own crippling, lost autumnal pleasures, having sons and grandsons, his first books, meeting a woman who witnessed his accident, the Catholic church, and, of course, his faith. This collection of short stories acts as part of the extensive memoirs of Andre Dubus. His son is also a writer.