By Rick Bragg
A brand new York occasions impressive publication of the YearThis haunting, harrowing, gloriously relocating recollection of a lifestyles at the American margin is the tale of Rick Bragg, who grew up dirt-poor in northeastern Alabama, likely destined for both the cotton generators or the reformatory, and as an alternative grew to become a Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter for the hot York occasions. it's the tale of Bragg's father, a hard-drinking guy with a murderous mood and the behavior of working out at the those who wanted him most.But on the heart of this hovering memoir is Bragg's mom, who went eighteen years with no new costume in order that her sons can have university outfits and picked different people's cotton in order that her little ones would not have to continue to exist welfare by myself. Evoking those lives--and the rustic that formed and nourished them--with artistry, honesty, and compassion, Rick Bragg brings domestic the affection and affliction that lie on the center of each relatives. the result's unforgettable.
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Additional resources for All over but the shouting
He did not even know what he was giving me, did not recognize most of the writers. “Your momma said you still liked to read,” he said. There was Shakespeare. My father did not know who he was, exactly, but he had heard the name. He wanted them because they were pretty, because they were wrapped in fake leather, because they looked like rich folks’ books. I do not love Shakespeare, but I still have those books. I would not trade them for a gold monkey. “They’s maybe some dirty books in there, by mistake, but I know you ain’t interested in them, so just throw ’em away,” he said.
They would ght anyone who looked at them funny until the MPs came, then they’d ght them. He got a pure silver cigarette lighter, a gold-plated ink pen and a ve-dollar camera, so that he could take all his experiences back to Alabama after they vanquished the communist horde and defended democracy, or whatever it was they were supposed to do. He rode in a plane, the rst in his family to ever do that, and he rode on a boat on the ocean, far, far out on that ocean, the rst to ever do that. He had no problem with the notion of killing.
It was dark inside, but light enough to see what looked like a bundle of quilts on the corner of a sofa. Deep inside them was a ghost of a man, his hair and beard long and going dirty gray, his face pale and cut with deep grooves. I knew I was in the right house because my daddy’s only real possessions, a velvet-covered board pinned with medals, sat inside a glass cabinet on a table. But this couldn’t be him. He coughed again, spit into a can and struggled to his feet, but stopped somewhere short of standing straight up, as if a stoop was all he could manage.