Fingerprints of Previous Owners

Fingerprints of Previous Owners
Автор книги: id книги: 1622395     Оценка: 0.0     Голосов: 0     Отзывы, комментарии: 0 1788,1 руб.     (20,36$) Читать книгу Купить и скачать книгу Купить бумажную книгу Электронная книга Жанр: Зарубежная классика Правообладатель и/или издательство: Ingram Дата добавления в каталог КнигаЛит: ISBN: 9781944700430 Скачать фрагмент в формате   fb2   fb2.zip Возрастное ограничение: 0+ Оглавление Отрывок из книги

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At a Caribbean resort built atop a former slave plantation, Myrna works as a maid by day; by night she trespasses on the resort’s overgrown inland property, secretly excavating the plantation ruins the locals refuse to acknowledge. Myrna's mother has stopped speaking and her friends are focused on surviving the present, but Myrna is drawn to Cruffey Island's violent past. With the arrival of Mrs. Manion, a wealthy African-American, also comes new information about the history of the slave-owner’s estate and tensions finally erupt between the resort and the local island community. Suffused with the sun-drenched beauty of the Caribbean, Fingerprints of Previous Owners is a powerful novel of hope and recovery in the wake of devastating trauma. In her soulful and timely debut, Entel explores what it means to colonize and be colonized, to trespass and be trespassed upon, to be wounded and to heal.

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Rebecca Entel. Fingerprints of Previous Owners

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Praise for Fingerprints of Previous Owners

“Entel’s delicately crafted debut explores the relationships between the resort, an economic center that distorts the island’s history for its own purposes, and the local people and the ways the past infuses the present, no matter how hard one tries to forget. Entel gives Myrna a distinctive voice and creates a rich history for the island and its residents.”

.....

When we got to the entrance, the door hung crooked like always so you could see a slice of the room before you went in. I didn’t bother looking, knew there wasn’t anyone I particularly wanted to see. We could hear voices of all the men hanging out on what had been the bar’s back porch. All the slats gone, now just a piece of floor jutting toward the brush like a pier without water. I didn’t know how long it’d been since I’d seen my dad on that porch, talking it up with his friends. My memory of coming to find him there—so long ago—was only of legs at my eye level.

“Wanna go on the porch or inside?” Lionel asked.

.....

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