By Michael Katakis
A visceral and eviscerating lament for america, the rustic Katakis enjoyed yet can now not undergo to dwell in.
Once upon a time, Michael Katakis lived in a spot of huge goals, shiny colors and sleight of hand. That position used to be America.
One evening, vacationing the place those that reside inside illusions shouldn't ever pass, he stared into the darkness and glimpsed a light flag the place shadows amassed, revealing one other the United States. It used to be a damaged position, bred from worry and mistrust - one thousand shards of glass - choked with a those that in the past had given away all that used to be helpful; a those who were offered, for thus lengthy, a overseas betrayal that eventually got here from inside of, and for not anything greater than a handful of silver.
These essays, letters and magazine entries have been written as a farewell to the rustic Michael loves nonetheless, and to the spouse he knew as his 'True North'. a robust and private polemic, one thousand Shards of Glass is Michael's entice his fellow electorate to alter their path; a cautionary story to these all over the world who idealise an the USA that by no means was once; and, crucially, a glimpse past the parable, to a rustic whose top days may perhaps nonetheless lie forward.
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Extra info for A Thousand Shards of Glass: There Is Another America
You say, “All right,” and close the door. A moment later there’s a scrape of claws. Your cat has chosen to come in. The sleeping places listed above are located in different houses F. and I have lived in during our time together. The fireplace was in our old house on Parsonage Street, the first house we shared as a couple; it was one of the reasons we rented it, along with the pattern of blue and white diamonds painted on the living room floor. ’s and predated me by eight or nine years. But when I picture Biscuit sleeping on it, it’s in the living room of the house on Avondale Road, with its sinking toilet and rippling floors that were too thin to be sanded; I had to settle for waxing them, and F.
Afterward the yard was crunchy with tiny, desiccated corpses. I worried that Biscuit would eat them and be poisoned, but she steered clear of them. She may have been repelled by the stench of whatever it was that had come out of that unmarked canister or simply been uninterested in something that was already dead. Unlike dogs, cats have no taste for carrion. I have stated my problem with the term “forbidden fruit”—I mean its association with the apple of the Tree of Knowledge, which probably wasn’t an apple at all.
I wanted to throttle him through N 19 0738215266-text_Layout 1 8/24/12 10:06 AM Page 20 P ETER T RACHTENBERG 20 the phone. ” Two and a half days. Back when we’d lived in the village, she’d stayed away for as long as three, sustained by the generosity of our neighbors and an abundance of slow-moving mice and voles. I told him to go out and call her. ” I showed him how F. and I did it; I used a falsetto. ” in a mortified falsetto on the back porch of our house, within earshot of a women’s college dorm.