{"id":7055,"date":"2007-09-21T06:01:13","date_gmt":"2007-09-21T10:01:13","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=7055"},"modified":"2015-05-11T11:27:20","modified_gmt":"2015-05-11T15:27:20","slug":"the-books-hunts-in-dreams-tom-drury","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=7055","title":{"rendered":"The Books: \u201cHunts in Dreams\u201d (Tom Drury)"},"content":{"rendered":"

Daily Book Excerpt: Adult fiction:<\/p>\n

\"HuntsInDreams.jpg\"Hunts in Dreams<\/a>\"\"<\/i> – by Tom Drury<\/p>\n

My sister Siobhan turned me on to this writer – she adores him – and she gave me this book for Christmas some years ago. It tells the story of a family, over a particularly intense 4 day period – and one of the cool things about the book is that it switches narrative points of view. We’re inside Charles – the father – or we’re inside Micah – the young son … Lyris, the daughter – or whatever. I read one of the Amazon reviews that said: “You could call this novel warm and funny and you wouldn’t be wrong, although wry and weirdly edgy is probably closer to the mark.” I like that. It’s not angst-ridden, but it’s certainly not without its bleakness either. And Drury knows how to write dialogue – it’s quite amazing, actually – you can hear the voices so clearly. It doesn’t feel like you’re reading when you read his dialogue – it feels like you’re eavesdropping.<\/p>\n

The excerpt below is a great example. This feels like a totally real conversation to me. And also: hmmm, how to put this. It feels like nothing is going on – at first – it’s just some banter in a tavern. But there’s an edge to it. Something is underneath. And Drury does this without saying a WORD of narration. It’s in the dialogue itself. You can FEEL it, rather than just read about it. I looooooove dialogue like that. It’s a rare rare writer who can pull it off.<\/p>\n

Like: “when the pickled egg was king” ????<\/p>\n

Funny!<\/p>\n


\nEXCERPT FROM Hunts in Dreams<\/a>\"\"<\/i> – by Tom Drury<\/b><\/p>\n

Earl the deputy stopped by the tavern a couple hours into his nightly rounds. A sign on the wall said that the maximum number of people allowed on the premises was ninety-five, but there were only seven in the tavern, counting the bartender. “How’s the old shillelagh?” he asked Earl.<\/p>\n

“No complaints,” said Earl. “Give me a Pepsi and a pickled egg.”<\/p>\n

The bartender uncapped a jar of brine and reached in with tongs. “I’m thinking of discontinuing these. We hardly sell any of them.”<\/p>\n

“Not like the old days,” said the deputy, “when the pickled egg was king.”<\/p>\n

The bartender put the egg on a sheet of wax paper and handed it over. “Why, the sidewalk would be jammed with people, each with their own egg.”<\/p>\n

“That was the heyday of the steam-powered adding machine.”<\/p>\n

“Now everything’s changed except the jokes.”<\/p>\n

“Old jokes for old men.”<\/p>\n

“All maintenance, here on out.”<\/p>\n

“How true.”<\/p>\n

Earl took the egg and the Pepsi to the back of the tavern and pressed coins into the metal sleeve of the pool table. The cast-resin balls rattled down the open shelf. He walked around the table, setting up trick shots. He ate the egg, which had the consistency of glue.<\/p>\n

The young man named Follard came over and put quarters on the rail for a game of last-pocket. Follard shot from a crouch, peering over the edge of the table.<\/p>\n

“You guys break up a party tonight?” he said.<\/p>\n

“Not me.”<\/p>\n

“Then who would it have been?”<\/p>\n

Earl shrugged and sank a bank shot he had no business making.<\/p>\n

“Well, I heard some kids got their keg taken from a party at the Elephant.”<\/p>\n

“Entirely possible, but it’s nothing I’ve heard of,” said Earl. “And these were cops that did it?”<\/p>\n

“So it was told to me,” said Follard.<\/p>\n

Earl took a five-dollar bill from his shirt pocket and folded it into a sleeve, which he slid down the cue, ferrule to joint. “What am I again?”<\/p>\n

“Little ones.”<\/p>\n

“I can’t even remember what I am. That’s where my head is at.”<\/p>\n

“I got a knife off them.”<\/p>\n

“Off who?”<\/p>\n

“The ones who told me about the party.”<\/p>\n

“They just offered it up. Out of generosity.”<\/p>\n

“Out of something. They don’t know where it went.”<\/p>\n

“Well, Follard, what’d you take it for? You see, this is how you get in trouble.”<\/p>\n

Follard reached under the table for the bridge.<\/p>\n

“The ladies’ aid,” commented Earl.<\/p>\n

Follard held the butt of the bridge in one hand and fitted the cue intently into the brass notch. “To tell you the truth, I don’t even know why I did it.”<\/p>\n

“Don’t think I won’t run you in.”<\/p>\n

“For a little jackknife? Put it this way: it would surprise me.”<\/p>\n

“Let me see it.”<\/p>\n

“I gave it to a girl.”<\/p>\n

Earl folded his arms with the cue against his badge. “I ought to rough you up or something.”<\/p>\n

“Why do you say that?”<\/p>\n

“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. Like it would be an ounce of prevention.”<\/p>\n

“Well, she’s more deserving than the one who lost it. In a sense, I did a good thing.”<\/p>\n

“I doubt it,” said Earl.<\/p>\n