By Amy Bloom
Love, in its many varieties and complexities, weaves via this assortment through Amy Bloom, the New York Times bestselling writer of Away. Bloom’s staggering and astute tales remove darkness from the mysteries of ardour, family members, and friendship. a tender girl is haunted through her roommate’s homicide; a guy and his daughter-in-law confess their sins within the unlikeliest of locations; middle-aged, married pals locate themselves strangely attracted to one another, risking involved in their love yet by no means underestimating the price. Propelled by way of Bloom’s amazing prose, unmistakable voice, and beneficiant wit, Where the God of affection Hangs Out takes us to the margins and the facilities of people’s emotional lives, exploring the alterations that include love and loss.
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Extra info for Where the God of Love Hangs Out
Example text
He said, and we both looked to the right and the left, to Isabel on one side and Charles on the other and the television in front of us. I shrugged and I felt William shrug, too. “Face me,” he said. ” I swung around and unbuttoned another button. “This is so terrible,” I said, and I think he wasn’t sure if I meant what we were watching or what we were doing. “We are not terrible people,” he said. He was so big, there was so much to him; it was a great comfort, to find warm flesh everywhere I turned, his big thighs beneath me, like ground.
Nelson jumps like crazy, bouncing his man two, then three times and pounding his fists on the floor. Clare claps. “Good God. Well. ” It is short work after that. Nelson’s men saunter around the board picking off Clare’s pieces and when she has trouble reaching to discard them, he scoops them up for her, tossing them in his palm once or twice and laying them on the side of the board in a neat line. They look good, one big red dot after another. Mrs. Slater honks the horn, which is not what she usually does, but she still has to set up the Jumble Sale and the Baked Goods Table today, and this stop for winter clothes is out of her way.
David shook his head. “I’m sure you do. ” Clare looked out the living room window and counted three women pushing strollers, four boys smoking cigarettes, seven bags of garbage. ” “I get it,” Clare said. ” “You’re not listening to me. ” William walked in to see Uncle David whispering in Clare’s ear and Clare pulling on her coat. William would rather have danced naked in a Greyhound bus station, he would rather have danced naked wearing a big pink party hat and matching pink boots, than stay another minute in Clare’s uncle’s apartment.