By W. D. Wetherell

Winner of the 2004 Michigan Literary Fiction Award for novelA haunting tale of the ability of dying, the ache of loss, and the potential of hope."Gripping, damning, and transfixing."---Entertainment Weekly" . . . possesses a time-bending gravity. . . . [A] small vintage of sleek language and earned emotion."---San Francisco Chronicle". . . a fantastically written novel of struggle and the wrenching grief and unanswerable questions it leaves in its wake. . . . A Century of November is filled with certain, startling imagery and chic, richly poetic description---Wetherell turns out really incapable of writing a lazy sentence---and this final portion of the radical is as surreal, hypnotic and harrowing as any literature in fresh reminiscence. the whole lot, actually, is a jewel, an unforgettable historic novel that Wetherell has conscientiously (and artfully) seeded with a great deal of modern resonance." ---Star-Tribune (Minneapolis)"A poignant, probing tale. . . . Wetherell's prose and personality writing are unflinching . . . [and his] tackle a parent's pain is deeply moving."---Publishers Weekly "A well timed reminder of the devastation of mortal strive against. . . ."---Atlanta Journal-Constitution

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He was standing there, looking, surely, as hopeless as he felt, when a quick nar­ row blade of a man detached himself from the crowd and hurried over. "Morning, sir, " he said, tipping his cap. A pimp by the look of him-Marden readied himself for the sales pitch. For all his thinness, he had a boyish face that looked cut out of dough, his features pressed flat into the batter by his own thumb, a thumb which kept j erking up to swipe at his nose. What did they call themselves here? Haligonians? A spectral enough name for such a man.

Killed, then missing. " "A stretcher team sent to fetch his corpse. Shell finds them. The stretcher bearers all killed, maybe all four, maybe just three. The body blown off the stretcher and sunk in the mud. Red identity disc already gathered, green identity disc left in place on the body. An entry has to be made in company records. Killed-missing. What it means in practical terms is that there is no specific cemetery I can send you to even if I could send you. " Marden listened to this with difficulty.

Ah yes, a lovely striped one, let me reach back and-There, sir. All stamped and proper. Canadian, do you mind my asking? Thought so. A Yank would push right up to the head of the queue, knock aside the ladies. First time over? England's green and pleasant land we call it. That would be Blake, sir. En­ glish mystic? Then we have our local lad, Squire Hardy, who you could pop in on if you left the train at Dor­ chester. Kipling's been awfully silent these days-noth­ ing cheery to say. His son Jack fallen at Loos .

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