By T.M. McNally
". . . in his such a lot far-reaching and scorchingly appealing novel, [McNally] extends his acute insights into the workings of the brain to the traumas of a besieged urban. . . . In Stephen, an artist with a sense of right and wrong and a guy who has misplaced what's Most worthy, McNally has created an unflinching witness to humankind's skill for either evil and transcendent love. and each penetrating suggestion, harrowing drawback, vibrant feeling, and powerfully evoked environment exerts a profound fascination during this lacerating and delightful novel of crime and conflict, agony and sacrifice, revelation and redemption."
"With a delicate but razor-sharp imaginative and prescient, T. M. McNally probes the private and such a lot tough facets of existence in that groovy century of warring, the 20th. The Goat Bridge is a unique of affection, loss, dying, conflicts of the center in addition to among males who might kill within the nameof ideology. it is a poignant, masterful work."
---Bradford Morrow, writer of Ariel's Crossing
" . . . immediately an innovative engagement with the battle in Yugoslavia, and a relocating tale of human frailty, bewilderment, and grief. . . . The Goat Bridge is a powerful novel."
---Christopher Merrill, writer of Only the Nails stay: Scenes from the Balkan Wars
"The Goat Bridge reveals [McNally] at new heights. it truly is interesting, heartbreaking, illuminating, poetic, wrenching, and unflinching."
"An strange love tale, The Goat Bridge is an unforgettable tale of loss and redemption outfitted round a few very robust photos. Richly layered and emotionally compelling, this haunting story is not just deftly written but in addition positive aspects masterful characterization."
---Register-Pajaronian (Watsonville CA)
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Additional resources for The Goat Bridge: A Novel (Sweetwater Fiction: Originals)
You walk past the ‹shing boats, the nets smelling like ‹sh. After a while, you like that smell. You love it. Past all Tito’s luxe hotels, you come to the beach. In summer the water’s blue. Deep, deep blue. Azure. In the guest room, across the hall, the wind howled through the frame of the skylight. When their son had slept in the guest room, it had been his room. The candle ›ickered in the draft. Okay, R said, listening. Azure. The fancy blue. Go on. Details. So, he said. So I’m walking along this paved causeway, which bends beside the water.
Jesus, she said. This is ridiculous. What do you want me to say? She reached for his water, her own being empty. I don’t want to ‹ght. Do you want to break up? Like in college? Do you want to leave me? You’re the guy who keeps going away. Off to foreign wars. You say, Okay? Only one guy? Gee, R, I’m so glad to hear it’s only one guy— He said, I’m not going to talk about this. I don’t think I need a test. But you’re not certain, are you? I’m as certain I think as anybody should be. I don’t have sex with hookers.
He saw his wife, R, weeping on the marble ›oor of their hotel, her ‹sts bloodied from having beaten her ‹sts against the walls. He saw the blood on the walls and the white marble ›oor of their hotel and then he saw the National Library going up in ›ames on account of all the bombshells. He felt the bourbon in his belly warming him to his topic like a hot, wet coal. He felt a draft, descending from the staircase, and another, bleeding through the window. Sometimes, sometimes you have to bite the world right back.