November 24, 2014 / by admin / American Literature / No Comments

The People: And Other Uncollected Fiction

The People: And Other Uncollected Fiction

Bernard Malamud

Language: English

Pages: 288

ISBN: 0374230676

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Includes Malamud's novel, The People, which was left unfinished at the time of his death in 1986, with the text presented as the author left it, as well as fourteen previously uncollected stories. Set in the nineteenth century, The People has as its hero a Jewish peddler who is adopted as chief by an Indian tribe in the Pacific Northwest.

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settlers,” said the colonel. “But where will we go, where?” Jozip said. “How can you take away overnight where we live and also our property? We are human beings, not animals.” “I intend to refer this matter for additional adjudication by the proper authorities in the War Department. They will inform you where your tribe will have to go. I will telegraph Washington and at the same time put this tribe on strict notice that it must prepare itself for a major move of departure out of this valley

asked One Blossom why she looked as if she had been crying. “I haven’t been,” she said. She glanced at Jozip but he wouldn’t look at her. One Blossom went off into the deep grass to the wagon where some of the young women slept. Jozip, in his tent, pulled off his buckskin pants, untied his leggings, then found he was too wide awake to sleep. The next morning, after the tribe was moving, One Blossom rode forward to talk to Jozip and confessed her fear of dying young. In the morning the

his role well. Tragedy in the twisting of a key, he thought. “Who’s there?” said a voice from inside the apartment. Surprised, Rosenfeld pushed open the door and saw that it was his daughter who had called out. Sophie was lying in her bed, which became the couch when it was folded together, and her bedroom became the living room. There was one other room, a small one, where Rosenfeld and his wife slept, and an alcove for the kitchen. When her father was working and came home late after the

the desk writing. He was a bald-headed man with a bulbous nose, which he frequently scratched with his little finger. His second and third fingers had ink stains on them from a leaky fountain pen. The sergeant glanced up in surprise, and Farr did not care for his face. “What’s yours?” he said. Farr’s tongue was like a sash weight. Unable to speak, he hung his head. “Remove your hat.” Farr took it off. “Come to the point,” said the sergeant, scratching his nose. Farr at last confessed to a

outside in a nightgown at this time of night, Zora?” Dworkin asked in a loud whisper. “Listening,” she said vaguely. “At least why don’t you put on a robe after your hot shower? The night air is chilly.” “Dworkin, do you hear the awful whining that I do? That’s what made me puke.” “It’s not whining I hear, Zora. What I hear is more like a rumble that could be originating in the paint factory. Sometimes it throbs, or whomps, or clanks a little. Maybe there’s a kind of a hum, but I can’t make

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