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- KurzbeschreibungFrom the author of the New York Times best seller Swamplandia! -a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize-a magical new collection of stories that showcases Karen Russell's gifts at their inimitable best.<br>A dejected teenager discovers that the universe is communicating with him through talismanic objects left behind in a seagull's nest. A community of girls held captive in a silk factory slowly transmute into human silkworms, spinning delicate threads from their own bellies, and escape by seizing the means of production for their own revolutionary ends. A massage therapist discovers she has the power to heal by manipulating the tattoos on a war veteran's lower torso. When a group of boys stumble upon a mutilated scarecrow bearing an uncanny resemblance to the missing classmate they used to torment, an ordinary tale of high school bullying becomes a sinister fantasy of guilt and atonement. In a family's disastrous quest for land in the American West, the monster is the human hunger for acquisition, and the victim is all we hold dear. And in the collection's marvelous title story-an unforgettable parable of addiction and appetite, mortal terror and mortal love-two vampires in a sun-drenched lemon grove try helplessly to slake their thirst for blood.<br>Karen Russell is one of today's most celebrated and vital writers-honored in The New Yorker 's list of the twenty best writers under the age of forty, Granta's Best of Young American Novelists, and the National Book Foundation's five best writers under the age of thirty-five. Her wondrous new work displays a young writer of superlative originality and invention coming into the full range and scale of her powers.
- AutorKaren Russell
- SerieAlfred A. Knopf
- VerlagRandom House Inc.
- Seiten256 Seiten
- Gewicht406 g
- LeseprobeVampires in the Lemon Grove<br>In October, the men and women of Sorrento harvest the primo fiore , or "first flowering fruit," the most succulent lemons; in March, the yellow bianchetti ripen, followed in June by the green verdelli . In every season you can find me sitting at my bench, watching them fall. Only one or two lemons tumble from the branches each hour, but I've been sitting here so long their falls seem contiguous, close as raindrops. My wife has no patience for this sort of meditation. "Jesus Christ, Clyde," she says. "You need a hobby."<br>Most people mistake me for a small, kindly Italian grand father, a nonno . I have an old nonno 's coloring, the dark walnut stain peculiar to southern Italians, a tan that won't fade until I die (which I never will). I wear a neat periwinkle shirt, a canvas sunhat, black suspenders that sag at my chest. My loafers are battered but always polished. The few visitors to the lemon grove who notice me smile blankly into my raisin face and catch the whiff of some sort of tragedy; they whisper that I am a widower, or an old man who has survived his children. They never guess that I am a vampire.<br>Santa Francesca's Lemon Grove, where I spend my days and nights, was part of a Jesuit convent in the 1800s. Today it's privately owned by the Alberti family, the prices are excessive, and the locals know to buy their lemons elsewhere. In summers a teenage girl named Fila mans a wooden stall at the back of the grove. She's painfully thin, with heavy black bangs. I can tell by the careful way she saves the best lemons for me, slyly kicking them under my bench, that she knows I am a monster. Sometimes she'll smile vacantly in my direction, but she never gives me any trouble. And because of her benevolent indifference to me, I feel a swell of love for the girl.<br>Fila makes the lemonade and monitors the hot dog machine, watching the meat rotate on wire spigots. I'm fascinated by this machine. The Italian name for it translates as "carousel of beef." Who would have guessed at such a device two hundred years ago? Back then we were all preoccupied with visions of apocalypse; Santa Francesca, the foundress of this very grove, gouged out her eyes while dictating premonitions of fire. What a shame, I often think, that she foresaw only the end times, never hot dogs.<br>A sign posted just outside the grove reads:<br>CIGERETTE PIE<br>HEAT DOGS<br>GRANITE DRINKS<br>Santa Francesca's Limonata -<br>THE MOST REFRISHING DRANK ON THE PLENET!!<br>Every day, tourists from Wales and Germany and America are ferried over from cruise ships to the base of these cliffs. They ride the funicular up here to visit the grove, to eat "heat dogs" with speckly brown mustard and sip lemon ices
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