Olive Kitteridge. By Elizabeth Strout. About the Book New York Times bestselling author Elizabeth Strout binds together thirteen narratives through the . Winner of the Pulitzer Prize, Olive Kitteridge offers profound insights into the human condition its conflicts, its tragedies and joys, and the endurance it requires . eBooks Download Olive Kitteridge [PDF] by Elizabeth Strout Books Online for Read "Click Visit button" to access full FREE ebook.
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On Friday night the couple followed him home, and the young Henry shook Olive's hand. “Nice place here,” he said. “With that view of the water. Mr. Kitteridge. Olive Kitteridge. Home · Olive Kitteridge Olive Processing Waste Management · Read more Olive Propagation Manual (Landlinks Press). Read more. Olive Kitteridge [electronic resource (PDF eBook)]: Fiction / Elizabeth Strout. In a voice more powerful and compassionate than ever before, New York Times.
Retired now, he still wakes early and remembers how mornings used to be his favorite, as though the world were his secret, tires rumbling softly beneath him and the light emerging through the early fog, the brief sight of the bay off to his right, then the pines, tall and slender, and almost always he rode with the window partly open because he loved the smell of the pines and the heavy salt air, and in the winter he loved the smell of the cold. The pharmacy was a small two-story building attached to another building that housed separately a hardware store and a small grocery. He would open the safe, put money in the register, unlock the front door, wash his hands, put on his white lab coat. The ritual was pleasing, as though the old store—with its shelves of toothpaste, vitamins, cosmetics, hair adornments, even sewing needles and greeting cards, as well as red rubber hot water bottles, enema pumps—was a person altogether steady and steadfast. Standing in the back, with the drawers and rows of pills, Henry was cheerful when the phone began to ring, cheerful when Mrs.
Lying carefully on the bed so as not to wrinkle the dress she made for herself from a gauzy green muslin with big reddish-pink geraniums all over it, Olive worries that the guests will stamp the gladiola bed and that the smokers will set fire to the place.
She and her husband, Henry, designed the house for their son, Christopher, a thirty-eight-year-old podiatrist. She's relieved that she got through the ceremony; she had pictured herself having another heart attack.
Although Christopher had dates other women, the relationships had never lasted long. Then, six weeks ago, he met Suzanne Hagelin, M. Olive is annoyed that Suzanne thinks she actually knows Christopher.
Still, Olive has worried about Christopher's being lonely. She knows that loneliness can kill people.
Her private view is that life depends on what she thinks of as "big bursts," like marriage or children, and "little bursts," a friendly clerk or a waitress who knows how you like your coffee. As Olive lies on the bed, she overhears her new daughter-in-law talking to a friend.
The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall.
It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of fig - 4 ures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron.
The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguish - able. The instrument the telescreen, it was called could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off complete - ly. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party.
His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the win - ter that had just ended.
Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere.
The blackmoustachiod face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite.
Down at street level an - other poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word IN - GSOC.
In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the po - lice patrol, snooping into peoples windows.
The patrols did Free eBooks at Planet eBook. Only the Thought Police mattered.
Behind Winstons back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously.
Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vi - sion which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment.
How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time.