By Allan Seager
A Frieze of ladies speaks with a clean voice from an American period gone. this is often greater than Allan Seager's tale of what occurred; it's also approximately how "the suppose of fact is especially just like the suppose of fiction, specifically while 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 sizeable Horn mountains to a primary activity at seventeen coping with an antiquated manufacturing facility in Memphis to a hard-drinking scholarship yr in Oxford, lower brief by means of tuberculosis. instantaneously humorous with an undercurrent of soreness, the tales in A Frieze of women remind us of the realities we create to stand the realm and the earlier, 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 should have a self we will reside with and the operation of reminiscence is artistic---selecting, suppressing, bending, touching up, turning our activities within out in order that we will be able to haven't inevitably a likable, purely a believable identity." A Frieze of ladies is Allan Seager on the best of his shape, and a reminder that groovy writing constantly transcends mere fashion.Allan Seager used to be Professor of English on the college 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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Extra resources for A Frieze of Girls: Memoirs as Fiction
I felt changed. The mirror had CHEW MAIL POUCH across it in frosted script, and, peering between the letters, I saw that my forehead and nose were dead white under the dust but my cheeks and the sides of my neck were a deep, sore red. We went over to the hotel. Pat and Jimmy ate a couple of pounds of the local beef. I ate only a quart of vanilla ice cream, and went straight to bed. It got cold there at night, so there were plenty of blankets. Draped over an armchair in my room was a ratty old Paisley shawl with a hole in it, and there was a large piece of Brussels carpet on the floor.
Against one wall stood an old-fashioned high stand-up desk. There was also a battered oak :flat-top desk with a swivel chair, a rickety adding machine, a huge black safe with a rustic scene on the door, and a rusty little base-burner stove. Two rush bottomed chairs with wire between the rungs stood in corners. George knelt at once in front of the safe, and spun the knob around the dial forward and back. I could hear the tun1blers clank faintly. "This is a hell of a safe," George said as he swung the door open.
He shouted, "What in hell're you doing with them goddam cows? Bring 'em on down! " "I can't," I said. Hargraves yelled at them once, and they all lifted their heads and started down the coulee. I thought: They know him; but I doubted it even as I thought it. There was some trick to it. I didn't find out what it was, though. Hargraves sent me A FRIEZE OF GIRLS out again the next morning. I found my cows grazing in a swale. I rode around behind them and began to holler, and they all threw up their heads and started out of the swale at a trot.