By Margaret Laurence
In The Stone Angel, Hagar Shipley, age 90, tells the tale of her existence, and in doing so attempts to return to phrases with how the very features which sustained her have disadvantaged her of pleasure. Mingling earlier and current, she continues satisfaction within the face of senility, whereas recalling the lifestyles she led as a rebellious younger bride, and later as a grieving mom. Laurence provides us in Hagar a girl who's humorous, infuriating, and heartbreakingly poignant.
"This is a revelation, no longer impersonation. The influence of such expert use of language is to guide the reader in the direction of the self-recognition that Hagar misses."—Robertson Davies, New York Times
"It is [Laurence's] admirable fulfillment to strike, with an both yes contact, the atypical word and the common; she supplies us a portrait of a striking personality and while the image of outdated age itself, with the ache, the weariness, the fear, the impotent angers and actual mishaps, the belief that others are ready and wishing for an end."—Honor Tracy, The New Republic
"Miss Laurence is the simplest fiction author within the Dominion and the best within the hemisphere."—Atlantic
"[Laurence] demonstrates in The Stone Angel that she has a real novelist's present for catching a personality in mid-passion and lifestyles at complete flood. . . . As [Hagar Shipley] daydreams and chatters and lurches during the novel, she lines some of the most convincing—and the main touching—portraits of an unregenerate sinner declining into senility given that Sara Monday went to her present in Joyce Cary's The Horse's Mouth."—Time
"Laurence's triumph is in her evocation of Hagar at 90. . . . We sympathize together with her in her resistance to being moved to a nursing domestic, in her preposterous flight, in her impatience within the health facility. Battered, depleted, soreness, she rages along with her final breath opposed to the demise of the sunshine. The Stone Angel is an outstanding novel, admirably written and sustained via unfailing insight."—Granville Hicks, Saturday Review
"The Stone Angel is an effective publication simply because Mrs. Laurence avoids sentimentality and condescension; Hagar Shipley continues to be passionately serious about the puzzle of her personal nature. . . . Laurence's imaginitive tact is strikingly at paintings, for definitely this can be what it appears like to be old."—Paul Pickrel, Harper's
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Extra info for The Stone Angel (Phoenix Fiction)
He’s getting what he wishes. ” “John—” I cried. “What’s occurred to you? ” “Hush. It’s okay. i do know what’s most sensible. ” “You do, eh? You’re definite of that, you're thinking that? ” “Were you? ” John stated, with anxious gentleness. “Were you? ” in simple terms John sorted Bram, washed him, led him to the outhouse, wiped clean up the messes that typically happened, appearing most of these rites with this type of zeal and burning laughter they appeared either sinister and absurd. Bram’s daughters, Jess and Gladys, nonetheless lived close to Manawaka. They by no means got here to work out him. He stayed in his perpetual nightfall throughout the sifting days. occasionally he talked, generally in snatches and damaged words, yet sometimes with a non permanent readability, similar to the single time he noted me. “That Hagar—I should still of licked the residing daylights out of her, might be, and she’d have noticeable i'll. What d’you imagine? imagine I should still of? ” i couldn't communicate for the salt that stuffed my throat, and for anger—not at an individual, at God, might be, for giving us eyes yet virtually by no means sight. Bram checked out me with acceptance someday. “You’ve come to assist out, ain’t you? ” he acknowledged. “Funny—you positioned me in brain of somebody. ” “Who? ” Perversely, i wouldn't inform him, or couldn't. He looked as if it would locate it so tricky to examine whatever. His face grayed in pressure. “I dunno. Maybe—Clara. Yeh, her. ” the girl I reminded him of was once his fats and cow-like first spouse. I drove into city with John to take the eggs. The damnable chickens have been a godsend now, for they appeared in a position to continue to exist virtually not anything. If humans may possibly do part in addition, we’d were prepared. at the steps of Currie’s normal shop we met a woman. She used to be approximately John’s age, a trifle too plump yet fair-haired and relatively lovely. She appeared a foolish factor, notwithstanding. this sort of fuss she remodeled John, laying her white arms on his brown furry arm, cooing like a pouter pigeon. Johns eyes narrowed and mocked her, and she or he throve on it. “What’re you doing with your self nowadays, John? ” “Nothing, on Saturday. Going to the dance? ” “I might—” “See you there, then,” he stated, and he or she seemed disconcerted, having was hoping he’d ask her to compliment him. How may possibly he? He had no funds to spare for that kind of factor. He and Bram have been residing generally at the cash I’d despatched, and that i bet he notion I wouldn’t take kindly to his spending it on women. He used to be really correct. I wouldn’t have. ultimately he deigned to introduce us. “Mother—this is Arlene Simmons. ” I scrutinized her with renewed curiosity. Telford and Lottie’s daughter? ” an analogous. ” Arlene. belief Lottie to choose a reputation like that, all ruffles, an analogous means she used to decorate the woman so fussily. John placed an arm round the girl’s shoulders, smearing her white pique gown. “See you round, eh? ” he acknowledged, and we left, he whistling and that i bewildered. “You might have been a bit extra polite,” I reproached him once we have been out of earshot. “Not that i used to be a lot inspired together with her. yet nonetheless and all—” “Polite! ” He snorted with laughter. “That’s now not what she wishes from me. ” “What does she want—to marry you? ” “Marry?