By Allan Seager
A Frieze of women speaks with a clean voice from an American period long gone. this is often greater than Allan Seager's tale of what occurred; it's also approximately how "the consider of fact is especially just like the suppose of fiction, specially whilst both is in any respect strange."Seager offers us his coming-of-age tale, from a high-school summer time as a someday cowboy within the massive Horn mountains to a primary activity at seventeen dealing with an antiquated manufacturing facility in Memphis to a hard-drinking scholarship yr in Oxford, reduce brief via tuberculosis. straight away humorous with an undercurrent of discomfort, the tales in A Frieze of women remind us of the realities we create to stand the realm and the previous, and in flip of the realities of the area we needs to necessarily additionally confront. "Time makes fiction out of our memories," writes Seager. "We all must have a self we will stay with and the operation of reminiscence is artistic---selecting, suppressing, bending, touching up, turning our activities inside of out in order that we will haven't unavoidably a likable, in simple terms a believable identity." A Frieze of women is Allan Seager on the most sensible of his shape, and a reminder that groovy writing regularly transcends mere fashion.Allan Seager used to be Professor of English on the collage of Michigan and writer of many hugely praised brief tales and novels, together with Amos Berry. He died in Tecumseh, Michigan, in 1968. Novelist Charles Baxter is the writer of Saul and Patsy.
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And to me, "Go straight up that coulee. " We rode a quarter of a mile down the lane together be fore we split up. I asked, "How do you drive cows? " "Just get in behind 'em and holler," Pat said. I rode up the coulee. I didn't know how far I'd have to go, but in ten minutes I saw my quarry-a couple of hun dred whiteface cows grazing peacefully. I rode slowly through them, and when I had got behind them, I called, "Come on! Get up ! Let's go! " in a quiet, coaxing voice. Then I shouted. Then I swore at them, riding nervously back and forth.
Immedi ately around us were vast plains of sagebrush, with no trees except a few aspens and cottonwoods in the creek bottoms, and in the distance the long suave lines of the hills. It began to get hot, and we didn't talk much. When we did, Jimmy and Pat were very civil. They knew they had a dude, but they didn't refer to my costume or my horsemanship. When the sun had passed over our heads, they both took out bandanna handkerchiefs and tied them to shield the backs of their necks. I did the same with a clean white handker chief.
She said. "Tear the top of the paper," I commanded, holding onto the bottom, the stems, myself. She tore away the newspaper wrapping and folded it down. No roses. Only two dozen bare stamens. All the petals had fallen off. That was why they were selling for fifty cents a dozen. The petals were a jumble of red at the bottom of the paper cornucopia I was holding. Before she had a chance to say anything, I dropped the whole mess on the floor and ran. God knows what she thought. During the following winter Pavlova came to Memphis.