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 consider of fact is especially just like the believe of fiction, specifically while both is in any respect strange."Seager offers us his coming-of-age tale, from a high-school summer season as a someday cowboy within the monstrous Horn mountains to a primary activity at seventeen dealing with an antiquated manufacturing facility in Memphis to a hard-drinking scholarship yr in Oxford, minimize brief through tuberculosis. instantly humorous with an undercurrent of soreness, the tales in A Frieze of ladies remind us of the realities we create to stand the area and the earlier, and in flip of the realities of the realm we needs to unavoidably additionally confront. "Time makes fiction out of our memories," writes Seager. "We all need to have a self we will dwell with and the operation of reminiscence is artistic---selecting, suppressing, bending, touching up, turning our activities within out in order that we will haven't unavoidably a likable, simply a believable identity." A Frieze of women is Allan Seager on the best of his shape, and a reminder that groovy writing consistently transcends mere fashion.Allan Seager used to be Professor of English on the collage 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 info for A Frieze of Girls: Memoirs as Fiction
George went into an adjoining room where the files and typewriter were, I learned later, and brought out, folded up and dusty, one of those crisscross things they put eggs in. Unfolded, it was a large square network of three dozen little squares. A case of eggs holds thirty dozen, hence there would be ten of these networks-fillers, in fact-five on each side. The wooden egg-case, made of % 6" gum or % 2 " cottonwood, was sold in a bundle, the sides, the ends, and the top and bottom all bound together, and the dealer had to make a box out of it himself.
The horse instinctively faced upstream, but, pushed by the current, we crossed on a long downstream slant. When the water reached my armpits, I could feel him swimming, and I tried to hold his head up with the reins. Then I felt him touch bottom; he had had to swim only eighteen or twenty feet. In a minute, I rode up the far bank, dripping. I turned and waved to Pat and Jimmy, and yelled, "Come on! You can make it! " I saw them talk a minute, and then they saddled up. They drove the tired mustangs into the river ahead of them, and the mustangs came out first and stood dripping and shudder ing with their heads hanging down.
Come on, old fellow," he murmured warmly. " The bull lifted his chin and breathed fast, but he did not move. "Gimme that pitchfork," Hargraves said. Pat handed it to him. Hargraves thrust it between the logs and jabbed the bull in the ham. "Now, git along there, you old bastard," he shouted. The bull blew all his breath out roughly, and we could hear his horns knock against the wood. "He ain't gonna move for that," Pat said. "I know he ain't. I know what he will move for, though," Hargraves said, and he went into the barn.