By Richard Russo
Louis Charles Lynch (also often called Lucy) is sixty years outdated and has lived in Thomaston, big apple, his whole existence. He and Sarah, his spouse of 40 years, are approximately to embark on a holiday to Italy. Lucy's oldest good friend, as soon as a rival for his wife's affection, leads a lifestyles in Venice a ways faraway from Thomaston. possibly hence Lucy is writing the tale of his city, his kinfolk, and his personal existence that makes up this wealthy and enthralling novel, interspersed with that of the local son who left goodbye in the past and hasn't ever appeared back.Bridge of Sighs, from the loved Pulitzer Prize-winning writer of Empire Falls, is a relocating novel approximately small-town the United States that expands Russo's commonly heralded success in methods either everyday and surprising.
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Additional info for Bridge of Sighs (Vintage Contemporaries)
Of late, obituaries. It troubles my wife that I read them with my morning coffee, going directly to that section of the newspaper, but turning sixty does that, does it not? Death isn’t an obsession, just a reality. Last month I read of the death—in yet another car accident—of a man whose life had been intertwined with mine since we were boys. I slipped it into the envelope that contained my wife’s letter, the one that announced our forthcoming travels, to our old friend Bobby, who will remember him well.
Laugh along with them,” she suggested. She must have suspected that this would be impossible for me, and my father must have known it, too, because when I told him the story that evening, his eyes were instantly full. “For heaven’s sake, Lou,” my mother said when she saw this. I don’t know whether he felt bad about the derision I’d endured my first day of school or guilty because in naming me he and my mother hadn’t anticipated what might happen or whether he’d understood what my mother did not—that my schoolmates would never forget, never tire of the joke, and that I’d be known for the rest of my life as Lucy.
There were only five houses on Berman, two on each side of the street and another—a three-story building—at the dead end where the land fell sharply away to the Cayoga Stream. I remember having a hard time understanding how this was the same river I could see from my grandparents’ house, which felt like a different world to me. My new bedroom window, in the back of the building, was impossibly high, and I remember being afraid of falling from it, down the steep bank and into the stream. Most of the houses in our new neighborhood were slapdash affairs that almost from the day of their construction began to slope and tilt dangerously, their chimneys sporting large fissures and sometimes toppling onto the roofs of their neighbors’ sloping porches.