Leslie in California / by Andre Dubus. Dubus, Andre, (Author). General Note: “This copy of Leslie in California is number 87 in an edition limited to. mar Leslie in California Introduction The short story “Leslie in California”, is written by Andre Dubus in The short story “Leslie in California” is. ANDRE DUBUS’S fourth collection of short stories derives its title from a In ” Leslie in California” a young wife broods over the fact that her.

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They provide counsel for the heart. Dubus lost his left leg below the knee and his right leg was crushed to the point of uselessness.

The best of his work leaves us feeling uneasy and vulnerable from the shock of recognition—nervous that this man not only knows our secrets, but that he might understand them better than we do. Joshua Bodwell is a Maine-based journalist and fiction writer. I sit in the bathroom where it is darkest, and the seat is cold. His arm is over mine, and I bump it as I work the spatula. While many writers have written about the American family, few have written as well as Dubus from every point of view within the American family.

Dad was happy about us going to California; he talked about sourdough bread and fresh fruit and vegetables all year. I clear my throat and grip the duus closer around it. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use.

You are commenting using your Twitter account. I get up shivering in my nightgown and put on my robe and go by flashlight to the kitchen, where there is some light from the sky. Drawing conclusions is up to the jury, that is, the readers.

The Art of Reading Andre Dubus: We Don’t Have to Live Great Lives

They are always dry, but at night everything is wet. My only job is to be talented, that is, to know how to distinguish important testimony andee unimportant, to place my characters in the proper light and speak their language.


Page 1 Page 2. About a year after I discovered Dancing After HoursI sleuthed out a mailing address for Dubus and californoa him a letter of gratitude. Soon the road will warm, and I think of rattlesnakes sleeping on it, and I shut the screen and look around the lawn where nothing moves. I know his mouth and throat are dry, and probably he has a headache.

I hold my hand up at the car as they back into the road, then are gone downhill past the house. I heard two Russians in a muddled conversation about pessimism, a conversation that solved nothing; all I am bound to do is reproduce that conversation exactly as I heard it.

The coffee makes me pee, and I leave the flashlight and walk through the living room that smells of beer and ashtrays and is grey now, so I can see a beer can on the arm of a chair.

Such a plot could easily become soap opera, but with his plain language and astute characterization Dubus weaves a tale that leaves the reader feeling, if not affection, then at least empathy for every member of the family. He was the deer camp duty officer one Sunday, and Mom and I brought him lunch.

It is a chilling califodnia. Each of his women is particular and unexpected, her moral and physical nature without a shadow of male fantasy or condescension. His stories search deeper into the human soul than many writers dare reach.

While Dubus struggled to communicate with the Santiagos, usher the pair off the road, and flag down more help, an oncoming car traveling nearly sixty miles an hour struck Dubus and Luis.

Yesterday some men went hunting a bobcat in the hills. Blue is spreading across the sky. I lay the bacon on the paper towel and open the door to pour out some of the grease; I look at the steps before I go out. This expresses so well everything I’ve thought and felt when I read Dubus.


The Art of Reading Andre Dubus: We Don’t Have to Live Great Lives | Poets & Writers

I could count them, know how many it takes. Leave a Reply Cancel reply Enter your comment here Jump to navigation Skip to content. We had twenty-five friends and the two families and open-faced sandwiches and deviled eggs, and beer and wine. He pours two cups, takes his to the table, and sits with a cigarette. They are going out for sharks. My first words of the day, and my voice sounds like dry crying. Dubus trusted his characters so much that he gave his stories over to them. His blond beard is damp, his eyes are bloodshot, and his mouth opens as he looks.

I put my arms around him, but just touching his back.

Leslie in California – NOBLE (All Libraries)

I go to his plate and scoop all the beans on his egg yellow. I break them into the skillet and he stands behind me, holding the ice on my eye. He is naked and dressing fast. They just watched me, and Dad called me back. You are commenting using your Facebook account. The house has a shadow now, on the grass and dew. Let me do something for that eye. He waves and grins and gets in. I turn around and look up caoifornia him, and he steps back.