By Peter S. Beagle
Even lifelong friendships cannot live longer than death...or can they?
Award-winning writer Peter S. Beagle provides a deeply own tale of goals deserted and recovered, buddies enjoyed and misplaced, and the power it takes to permit go....
Praise for Peter S. Beagle's novels:
"Peter S. Beagle has either opulence of mind's eye and mastery of style."-New York Times
"Stunning...Fantasy hardly ever dances during the mind's eye in additional radiant apparel than this." -Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"Peter S. Beagle illuminates along with his personal specific magic."-Ursula okay. LeGuin
"Beagle is the category act of fable writing."-Booklist
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Additional info for A Dance for Emilia
Those two, they're a couple of alte kockers already! " I remember everything about that visit, when he holed up in my house for a full week, trying so determinedly to quit smoking. The walks got longer, to keep his mind off cigarettes; he managed quite well during the daytime, but the nights were hard, as I could tell from the smell in the bathroom most mornings. Even so, he cut down steadily until, a couple of days before he left, he got by on two half-smoked cigarettes, and we went out to my favorite Caribbean restaurant to celebrate.
We talked about Sam, and about her work for the Bergen County newspaper—she'd recently won a state journalism award for a series on day-care facilities—and I went into serious detail regarding the technical and social inadequacies of the Pacific Rep's new artistic director. We didn't discuss Millamant at all. The evening was warm, and there was one of those glossy, perfect half-moons that seem too brilliant for their size. We walked home the long way, so that I could show Emilia the little park where Sam had told me about her.
I never did. The rabbi looked like a basketball player, and he hadn't known Sam. It was a generic eulogy, no worse for the most part than many I've sat through, until he fixed his shiny blue gaze on Mike and Sarah and started in about the tragedy of living to bury an only son. I turned away, eyeing the exits. Damn, Sam, if you hadn't stuck us with these damn ringside seats, we could slide out of here right now, and be on the second beer before anyone noticed. But he had to stay, so I did too. That was when I saw the small dark woman standing alone.
A Dance for Emilia by Peter S. Beagle