: James Carroll
: Mortal Friends A Novel
: Blackstone Publishing
: 9798200953769
: 1
: CHF 10.50
:
: Historische Romane und Erzählungen
: English
: 100
: Wasserzeichen
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB

Colman Brady, an Irish farmer, involves himself in the Irish rebellion of the early 1920s and later escapes to Boston where he rises to and falls from political power and seeks a second chance through the life of his son.



James Carroll is the author of twelve novels, most recentlyThe Cloister, which theNew York Times called 'incandescent,' and eight works of nonfiction. Other books include the National Book Award-winningAn American Requiem; theNew York Times bestsellingConstantine's Sword, now an acclaimed documentary;House of War, which won the first PEN/John Kenneth Galbraith Award; and Jerusalem, Jerusalem, which was named a 2011 Best Book byPublishers Weekly. Carroll is a fellow of the American Academy of Arts& Sciences and an Associate of the Mahindras Humanities Center at Harvard University. For twenty-three years he wrote a weekly column for theBoston Globe and he contributes occasional essays to NewYorker.com. He lives in Boston with his wife, the writer Alexandra Marshall.

1

When his right arm went to sleep Colman Brady woke up. He was lying on it. He rolled over, held it over his head and shook. The tingling in his hand intensified momentarily, then subsided. What now? he thought. It had taken half the night for him to fall asleep, and here he was awake again. He put his culprit arm under his head and stared at the gray seams of the ceiling.

Colman Brady was atwenty-two-year-old farmer in a small village half a day’s horse ride from Clonmel, Tipperary. He never had trouble sleeping, but on this night he had his reason. He was getting married the next day to Nellie Deasy, and he was filled with an unsettling emotion he had never had before and which he could not identify. It was, he thought, the first phase either of panic or ecstasy.

“The hell with this,” he muttered, flinging back the blanket. He got up, dressed and went into the snug room where his sister Bea, aged twelve, and his brother Conor, aged fifteen, were asleep.

“Conor,” he whispered. “Conor!”

The lad rolled away from Colman.

“Conor! Come with me! Hey, old man! Wake up!”

“What, Colman?”

“I’m going up to the Dolmen. Come with!”

“Now?”

“We’ll watch the sun come up like a pair of Druids!” Colman was shaking Conor, trying to infuse him with his eccentric energy. “Come on, chap!”

“Never! Never!” Conor pulled his blanket over his head. It was November. The night air would be cold and wet. They would wreck their feet against loose stones climbing in the dark. “Go away, Colman!” Conor whispered.

“Come, you fearful little Druid Jesuit!”

Colman picked up his brother, a lump of blanket, and slung him on his shoulder like a sack. Conor yelped, “Put me down!”

“You’ll wake Bea! Shush!”

At that Bea woke, rubbed her eyes, asking, “What’s wrong?”

“We’re off, dearie, for a stroll,” Colman said, stooping through the low door, holding onto his brother easily. Colman was a large and strong man. Conor was a stately lad, but small for his age.

“Now?” Bea was mystified. “Shall I be left then, alone?”

There was no one else in the house. Their mother had been dead twelve years, since Bea’s birth. Their Pa was dead a year. Jim, the oldest of them, was two years dead in the war in France. Their oldest sister, Maeve, was living in the States.

Colman heard the worry in Bea’s voice. It ha