Ashes in My Mouth, Sand in My Shoes: Stories by Per Petterson

By Per Petterson

The heartwarming debut that introduced consistent with Petterson, the writer of the hugely acclaimed Out Stealing Horses, to prominence
Young Arvid Jansen lives at the outskirts of Oslo. It's the early sixties; his father works in a shoe manufacturing facility and his Danish mom works as a purifier. Arvid has nightmares approximately crocodiles and nonetheless wets his mattress at evening, yet slowly he starts off to appreciate the realm round him. vibrant photographs accompany each one new occasion: a photograph of his mom as a tender lady makes him cry as he realizes how time passes, and the black automobile that involves acquire his father at the day Arvid's grandfather dies reminds him of the passing of his bullfinch. after which, one morning, his instructor tells his classification to wish simply because a nuclear struggle is looming. Ashes in My Mouth, Sand in My Shoes, according to Petterson's debut, during which he introduces Arvid Jansen to the realm, is a fragile portrait of early life in all its complexity, ask yourself, and confusion that would pride enthusiasts of Out Stealing Horses and new readers alike.

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Additional resources for Ashes in My Mouth, Sand in My Shoes: Stories

Sample text

Just because you want a story you’ll have to wait for it. Meanwhile put the ad. ’ Damn me if I didn’t put an ad. in the Engineer’s Journal. That was Tuesday; it was due to appear the following Monday. On Saturday the fishmonger beckoned to me. ‘Your story is finished, everything’s all right, here, the whole thing in print. It was a little sooner than I had anticipated. He was an idiot, but this will get him out of it. ’ The fishmonger led me into the shop. It was getting dark. He didn’t light the gas, but he did light a candle.

At least he believed this during his bouts of guilty conscience. One of his strangest cases was the episode of Java Meier. One evening I was sitting with him in the brown wooden extension behind the shop, whose white curtained window opened to the yard, among old newspapers and the stink of blubber and fish. Kascher was drawing initials in his ledger and on the blotter as he recounted slowly, as was his wont, an event of the previous night in Well Lane (where his shop was) which he had heard from one of the cooks in the neighbourhood; for although he himself probably heard the shot, he had not thought it worth getting up for.

He knelt up in bed to do it and his hand skimmed the wall with shirtsleeves flying. Lit by five candles. Having caught it, he thought what a useful thing to do in your dying moments. Suppose I did die, he thought. I’d like to have a child. Perhaps I have got a child. If I die nobody will give a damn. If I stay alive nobody will give a damn either. I can do what I like, nobody gives a damn. Troubled, the man got up and put on an army greatcoat over his shirt. Thus clad, he went out into the street.

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