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No autumn in my country

No autumn in my country The Rosary whispers in the night. Age had made them companions so that the brass bedposts jingled with heartbeats as they prayed ; and purgatory roared in the lath and plaster by his head. Outside, a rising wind; objects in the night paddock lay free, gaining their new existence away from him: axle, hubcap, milk-can abandoned in the tussocks, in the rusty grass, glowed with moisture. These were his mystery, what w s left a when he unclosed his hands ; but the house itself cried, ‘Fire!’ the aspiring lost souls clambered in his brain : his father’s hands making a fist of the reins, his mother drooping in the chair, his gangrened brother ; he listened to them as to flames, bowing his muttering face before them ; there he was “the boy” still, still to go on his journeying. MEENA ALEXANDER No autumn in my country T Fu wrote ‘Clustered u chrysanthemums have opened twice in tears of other days.’ In his Autumn Meditation. 46 Critical Quarterly, vol. 20, no. 1 The air approaches a fitting austerity. Each evening on the hill at Mallapalli, washing blocks pound faster. Along coiled streets in tailor shops striped sherwanis http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Critical Quarterly Wiley

No autumn in my country

Critical Quarterly , Volume 20 (1) – Mar 1, 1978

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Publisher
Wiley
Copyright
Copyright © 1978 Wiley Subscription Services, Inc., A Wiley Company
ISSN
0011-1562
eISSN
1467-8705
DOI
10.1111/j.1467-8705.1978.tb01654.x
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

The Rosary whispers in the night. Age had made them companions so that the brass bedposts jingled with heartbeats as they prayed ; and purgatory roared in the lath and plaster by his head. Outside, a rising wind; objects in the night paddock lay free, gaining their new existence away from him: axle, hubcap, milk-can abandoned in the tussocks, in the rusty grass, glowed with moisture. These were his mystery, what w s left a when he unclosed his hands ; but the house itself cried, ‘Fire!’ the aspiring lost souls clambered in his brain : his father’s hands making a fist of the reins, his mother drooping in the chair, his gangrened brother ; he listened to them as to flames, bowing his muttering face before them ; there he was “the boy” still, still to go on his journeying. MEENA ALEXANDER No autumn in my country T Fu wrote ‘Clustered u chrysanthemums have opened twice in tears of other days.’ In his Autumn Meditation. 46 Critical Quarterly, vol. 20, no. 1 The air approaches a fitting austerity. Each evening on the hill at Mallapalli, washing blocks pound faster. Along coiled streets in tailor shops striped sherwanis

Journal

Critical QuarterlyWiley

Published: Mar 1, 1978

There are no references for this article.