By William Browning Spencer
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AGE OF REitfSON half I it's been my goal, for a number of years earlier, to submit my concepts upon faith. i'm good conscious of the problems that attend the topic, and from that attention, had reserved it to a extra complex interval of lifestyles. T meant it to be the final delivering I may still make to my fellow-citizens of all countries, and that at a time whilst the purity of the cause that triggered me to it, couldn't admit of a question, even by means of those that may perhaps disapprove the paintings.
A riotous, bitingly humorous, and supremely shrewdpermanent novel from certainly one of our such a lot exact voices within the English language. The 12 months is 1970, and Keith Nearing, a twenty-year-old literature pupil, is spending his summer time holiday in a citadel on a mountainside in Italy. The Sexual Revolution is in full-swing—a old second of exceptional opportunity—and Keith and his neighbors are instantly stuck up in its chaotic, ecstatic throes.
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So you followed her to Austin," Lily said. Philip nodded his head. "Yes. And at first she wouldn't talk to me. I mean, she wanted to put it all behind her, and I was part of it. I understand that. She doesn't want to believe that the Old Ones exist, even though she was right there, even though—" Lily interrupted. " "Well, not exactly. " Lily waved a blue-veined hand. " "She's confused. She doesn't want to look at—" "Philip. " Philip rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. This therapy was hot work.
It was such a wonderful, bell ¬like voice, although these days it contained a certain wary edge. She had rationed him to one call a week, and this was it. She had been unhappy when he followed her to Austin, and she had refused to talk to him at first, letting her sister, Rita, take the calls. But she had relented under his persistence. C. They had both worked at MicroMeg, where they had met and fallen in love, and where, finally, the ancient, implacable curse that his father had called the System or sometimes, Yog-Sothoth or simply the Great Old Ones, had torn them asunder.
He realized that he needed help, someone who could aid him in sorting the clutter of his thoughts. The next day, Philip perused the ads in the back pages of the Austin Chronicle, a free weekly newspaper. As Philip scanned fine-print blandishments for massage, Tai Chi, psychic healing and self-esteem counseling, he had to battle a growing sense of hopelessness. Was there really anyone who could help him? He paused before an ad entitled GREEN COUNSEL, How to seek solace and wisdom from common houseplants and he saw himself sitting in a room confiding his troubles to an indifferent cactus or a coolly aloof African violet.