By Malcolm Lowry
Malcolm Lowry's gorgeous debut novel a few younger man's advent to existence at sea one of the hard-living crewmembers of a freighter certain for South Asia
In this relocating, coming-of-age precursor to less than the Volcano, protagonist Dana Hilliot seeks absolution from his upper-class British upbringing. He escapes the bourgeois provincialism of his origins through getting down to sea as a messboy amid a staff of weathered, world-weary sailors. misplaced someplace among Singapore and Bombay, Hilliot has fled his oppressive life—and his first love—for an international that has little interest in his difficulties. half Moby Dick, half A Portrait of the Artist as a tender guy, Malcolm Lowry's debut novel attracts on his personal early event at sea. the radical monitors the aptitude for personality and stunning prose that distinguish Lowry as one in all English literature's maximum smooth skills.
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How wonderful to be in the country! How cool it must feel, in the beech wood! And, his nostrils wide, he would take deep breaths, hoping to smell those good country smells that never ever reached his window. He grew thinner, he grew taller, and his face took on a kind of plaintive expression that made it almost interesting. Inevitably, out of apathy, he gradually came to abandon all the good resolutions he had made. The ﬁrst time, he missed hospital rounds, the next, his lecture, and then, ﬁnding idleness to his taste, little by little he gave up his studies entirely.
Cried the master. ’* The ensuing hullabaloo began instantaneously and grew louder and louder, punctuated by shrill shrieks. They howled, they bayed, they stamped, repeating ‘Charbovari! ’ again and again. The din rumbled along, with occasional isolated bursts of sound, dying away only with extreme reluctance and occasionally starting up afresh along one of the benches where, like a half-spent squib, a smothered laugh would suddenly erupt. Little by little, however, a deluge of penalties restored order in the classroom, and the master, ﬁnally grasping the name of Charles Bovary after having it dictated and spelled out and then rereading it Madame Bovary himself, promptly ordered the poor devil to go and sit on the dunce’s seat at the foot of the rostrum.
Père Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. They put oﬀ any discussion of money matters, there was plenty of time for that, since the marriage could not decently take place before the end of Charles’s mourning, that is to say, not until the following spring. The winter passed in waiting. Mademoiselle Rouault busied herself with her trousseau. Part of it was ordered from Rouen, and she made herself nightgowns and nightcaps with the help of fashionplates which she borrowed. During the visits Charles made to the Madame Bovary farm they talked about the preparations for the wedding, wondering which room they’d use for the wedding feast, how many courses they’d have, and what particular dishes they’d serve.
Ultramarine by Malcolm Lowry