By Allan Seager
A Frieze of women speaks with a clean voice from an American period long gone. this is often greater than Allan Seager's tale of what occurred; it's also approximately how "the consider of fact is particularly just like the consider of fiction, specifically whilst 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 immense Horn mountains to a primary activity at seventeen handling an antiquated manufacturing facility in Memphis to a hard-drinking scholarship yr in Oxford, lower brief by way of tuberculosis. right away humorous with an undercurrent of discomfort, the tales in A Frieze of women 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 should have a self we will be able to stay 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 inevitably a likable, purely a believable identity." A Frieze of ladies is Allan Seager on the best of his shape, and a reminder that groovy writing continually transcends mere fashion.Allan Seager was once 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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Additional resources for A Frieze of Girls: Memoirs as Fiction
I can't," I said. Hargraves yelled at them once, and they all lifted their heads and started down the coulee. I thought: They know him; but I doubted it even as I thought it. There was some trick to it. I didn't find out what it was, though. Hargraves sent me A FRIEZE OF GIRLS out again the next morning. I found my cows grazing in a swale. I rode around behind them and began to holler, and they all threw up their heads and started out of the swale at a trot. I got them down to the corral promptly, and Hargraves sent me out for another bunch.
There was always a puddle under my elbows. I got through both books during the hot weather. I had picked them because they were good and thick and would last me a long time. I did not want to be lugging books back and forth on the streetcar from the library.
The fairy-tale beginning quiets them, and they find it plausible that I should have had a wicked uncle and never ask about him. They imagine him quite easily as the crooked-sheriff type with the broad-brimmed, flat-crowned hat, the string tie, the handlebar mustache. I know they do, because I asked them once, and I have never corrected this image, although it could hardly be more false. My real uncle wore Borsalino hats and used to send to Alexander & Oviatt's every six months for neckties and French lisle socks.