After she’s taken to the hospital and suffers through days of pain and fever dreams, Miranda wakes up, finds out he’s dead, and feels profoundly alienated from her body and her life. This short novel, published in 1939, is a story of two doomed lovers caught up in the gears of world war and a deadly virus somehow, it manages to be romantic and bitter, all at once.Īt a restaurant after the play, she passes out when she comes to, Adam is nursing her in her boardinghouse room.
If you’re one of those who finds consuming pandemic stories to be palliative for your anxiety, I recommend the addition of one of the only pieces of American fiction about the 1918–19 flu pandemic that was written by a survivor: Katherine Anne Porter’s Pale Horse, Pale Rider. Maybe It Should Be.Ĭounterintuitive as it may sound, people fearing the coronavirus are buying up copies of Albert Camus’ The Plague, Stephen King’s The Stand, and Dean Koontz’s The Eyes of Darkness. The Royal Family Is Freaked Out by Prince Harry’s Court Testimony. There’s a Perfect New Term for What Women Have Known About Their Hair for Years I Finally Asked My Second-Grader What Happens in Her Lockdown Drills. Miranda said, “Please open the window, please, I smell death in here.The Kennedys Really Hate Robert F. “The war is over,” said Miss Tanner, her underlap held firmly, her eyes blurred. “Oh, say, can you see?” their hopeless voices were asking next, the hammer strokes of metal tongues drowning them out. Sweet land… oh terrible land of this bitter world where the sound of rejoicing was a clamour of pain, where ragged tuneless old women, sitting up waiting for their evening bowl of cocoa, were singing, “Sweet land of Liberty-” From the ward for old bedridden women down the hall floated a ragged chorus of cracked voices singing, “My country, ’tis of thee…”
She rattled a spoon in a cup, stopped to listen, held the cup out to Miranda. The war is over, my dear.” Her hands trembled. The light came on, and Miss Tanner said in a furry voice, “Hear that? They’re celebrating. Miranda waking from a dreamless sleep asked without expecting an answer, “What is happening?” for there was a bustle of voices and footsteps in the corridor, and a sharpness in the air the far clamour went on, a furious exasperated shrieking like a mob in revolt. “Bells Screamed all off key, wrangling together as they collided in midair, horns and whistles mingled shrilly with cries of human distress sulphur-colored light ex-ploded through the black windowpane and flashed away in darkness.
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