{"product_id":"still-life-a-gma-book-club-pick-isbn-9780593330760","title":"Still Life: A GMA Book Club Pick","description":"\u003cb\u003eA Good Morning America Book Club Pick\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA captivating, bighearted, richly tapestried story of people brought together by love, war, art, flood, and the ghost of E. M. Forster, by the celebrated author of \u003ci\u003eTin Man.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Tuscany, 1944: As Allied troops advance and bombs sink villages, a young English soldier, Ulysses Temper, finds himself in the wine cellar of a deserted villa. There, he has a chance encounter with Evelyn Skinner, a middle-aged art historian intent on salvaging paintings from the ruins. In each other, Ulysses and Evelyn find a kindred spirit amidst the rubble of war-torn Italy, and paint a course of events that will shape Ulysses’s life for the next four decades.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e    Returning home to London, Ulysses reimmerses himself in his crew at The Stoat and Parot—a motley mix of pub crawlers and eccentrics—all the while carrying with him his Italian evocations. So, when an unexpected inheritance brings him back to where it all began, Ulysses knows better than to tempt fate: he must return to the Tuscan hills.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e    With beautiful prose, extraordinary tenderness, and bursts of humor and light, \u003ci\u003eStill Life\u003c\/i\u003e is a sweeping portrait of unforgettable individuals who come together to make a family, and a deeply drawn celebration of beauty and love in all its forms.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eWinner of the InWords Literary Award\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA Good Morning America Book Club Pick\u003cbr\u003eA Veranda Magazine Book      Club Pick\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eParade \u003c\/i\u003eBest      Book of the Year\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne of:\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Millions\u003c\/i\u003e's Most Anticipated Books of 2021\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBookbub\u003c\/i\u003e's The Best Historical Fiction to Read This Fall\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eParade\u003c\/i\u003e’s 25 Books We’ve Loved Reading This Fall\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eParade's\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book of the Year\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eVeranda\u003c\/i\u003e's 25 Best New Books for Fall 2021\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eLit Hub\u003c\/i\u003e’s Best Books of the Week November\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"A tonic for wanderlust and a cure for loneliness. It’s that rare, affectionate novel that makes one feel grateful to have been carried along. Unfurling with no more hurry than a Saturday night among old friends, the story celebrates the myriad ways love is expressed and families are formed….Endlessly charming...The novel never feels anything less than captivating because Winman creates such a flawless illusion of spontaneity, an atmosphere capable of sustaining these characters’ macabre wit, comedy of manners and poignant longing.\" \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The incredible storytelling, lovable characters, and sweeping settings make this novel an absolute delight, proving that serious fiction does not have to be only dark and depressing.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Real Simple\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003c\/i\u003e[A] winsome, large-hearted novel . . . [\u003ci\u003eStill Life\u003c\/i\u003e] pulses from the page.” \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A World War II novel that feels fresh is a rare commodity. . . . Constant literary surprises abound.”\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Entertainment Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Sarah Winman’s sweeping \u003ci\u003eStill Life\u003c\/i\u003e is a parade of small stories, intimate connections and complex characters whose lives illuminate the tedium and cataclysms of the 20th century. . . . The real magic of \u003ci\u003eStill Life\u003c\/i\u003e is the elevation of the ordinary, the unabashed consecration of human experiences. . . . Sentence after sentence, character by character, \u003ci\u003eStill Life\u003c\/i\u003e becomes poetry.” \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“In a novel as rich and alluring as a glass of Chianti—and there’s a lot of Chianti in this novel—Evelyn, a middle-aged art historian, and Ulysses, a soldier, hunker down in Tuscany near the end of World War II, crossing paths with E.M. Forster and other Italophiles. The legacy of their unexpected friendship highlights Winman’s grand theme: Art is the torch we carry in darkness.”\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eOprah Daily\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“This sweeping, historical tale brings together an unlikely group of friends – a young English soldier, an aging art historian, a pub owner, a pianist and more – in an epic set against the backdrop of mid-to-late-20th-century Florence.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e –\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“In this thoroughly warm, witty, entertaining, and character-driven novel spanning decades, Winman shares bighearted ideas about friendship, love, art, and community….It is hard to envision a reader who won’t be smitten by Winman’s characters and their banter, like old Cressy, who takes his advice from a tree, and Claude, the blue parrot who may be Shakespeare reincarnated. These lives may not be the stuff of legend, but they are still life.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An epic about a family of friends who make the city of Florence their home in the mid-to-late 20th century . . . [The] narrative feels almost breathless at times . . . which makes it feel as if the unknown narrator is relating a long story deep into the night....An unexpected treatise on the many forms love and beauty can take, set against the backdrop of Florence.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e“\u003ci\u003eStill Life\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e is, ultimately, a celebration of Italy, with loving descriptions of its buildings and countryside, of old women gossiping on stone benches. . . . Light yet satisfying.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e —BookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Lush. . . Many rich sections about art, relationships and the transcendent beauty of Tuscany. . . Readers will enjoy this paean to the power of love and art.” \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Publishers Weekly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Spanning decades and bringing readers from London to Italy, \u003ci\u003eStill Life\u003c\/i\u003e is a moving look at love and friendship as well as the power of art.” \u003ci\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBookbub\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eStill Life\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e is a lot of things—a history of Italy in the post-war years, an ode to chosen families, a homage to A Room with a View by E.M. Forster, a reminder of the importance of art and art history—but most of all, it’s just a really good story.” \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003cb\u003eHey Alma\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"[A] book full of wonder and love and terrific writing. . .The writing in this book is so vivid that you laugh on one page and cry on the next. The characters offer insights that resonate in all of us.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eFredericksburg Free Lance-Star\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"\u003c\/i\u003eThe kind of story that makes your heart full.  I fell so in love with these characters that it felt as if they were my dearest friends, and that's the best sort of book to fall into.\" \u003cb\u003e–Jenny Lawson, author of\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBroken\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eLet’s Pretend This Never Happened\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Still Life\u003c\/i\u003e is simultaneously expansive and intimate, a heady brew of disasters, both natural and manmade, of death and life, of the power of great art and, most especially, the resonance of those loves we carry for a lifetime. A truly spectacular achievement. I've never read anything quite like it.” \u003cb\u003e—Karen Joy Fowler, author of \u003ci\u003eWe Are All Completely Beside Ourselves\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “From its opening pages \u003ci\u003eStill Life\u003c\/i\u003e embodies the full generosity of the human spirit. This vast, ambitious, galloping bear-hug of a book unashamedly celebrates love in all its many forms. Love of art, love of strangers, love of a good glass of Italian wine and a bowl of pasta cooked with enough salt to taste like the sea. Love of stories. Love of love.” \u003cb\u003e—Rachel Joyce, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “The sheer joy in [Winman’s] storytelling is completely infectious. I’ve loved spending time with this unforgettable cast of characters in extraordinary times and places.” \u003cb\u003e—Graham Norton\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eStill Life\u003c\/i\u003e is a playful, Maupinesque exploration of the elective family and its possibilities. Four-course nourishment for all Winman fans, it harnesses big-hearted storytelling to a dizzying historical sweep to celebrate love in all the available colors.” \u003cb\u003e—Patrick Gale, author of \u003ci\u003eTake Nothing With You\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I loved this extraordinary, astonishing, and exquisite novel. The story of damaged characters restored and repaired by the truth and beauty of Tuscany, as Florence itself is restored and repaired post-war and post-flood, is beautifully told. A joy and a pleasure, my book of the year.” \u003cb\u003e—Liz Nugent, author of \u003ci\u003eLittle Cruelties\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “An utterly beautiful story, so generous, rich, deeply moving, and filled with hope. Sarah Winman is a genius and one of the greatest storytellers of our time.” \u003cb\u003e—Joanna Cannon, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Trouble with Goats and Sheep\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “This book saved my soul during these very strange times. I loved every word, every sentence, every beat. It’s about love and our defining moments, and it is utterly beautiful. The characters and places now live in my own memory—to be cherished forever.” \u003cb\u003e—Favel Parrett, author of \u003ci\u003ePast the Shallows\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Readers will want to prolong the pleasure of Sarah Winman’s beautiful novel \u003ci\u003eStill Life\u003c\/i\u003e for as long as possible. It is a book to get lost in, the kind of story that bolsters the heart and soul. I loved it.” \u003cb\u003e—Donal Ryan, author of \u003ci\u003eFrom a Low and Quiet Sea\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eSarah Winman\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of three previous novels, \u003ci\u003eTin Man\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eA Year of Marvelous Ways\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eWhen God Was a Rabbit\u003c\/i\u003e. She lives in London. \u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eMan as the Measure of All Things\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e1944\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomewhere in the Tuscan hills, two English spinsters, Evelyn Skinner and a Margaret someone, were eating a late lunch on the terrace of a modest \u003ci\u003ealbergo\u003c\/i\u003e. It was the second of August. A beautiful summer's day, if only you could forget there was a war on. One sat in shade, the other in light, due to the angle of the sun and the vine-strewn trellis overhead. They were served a reduced menu but celebrated the Allied advance with large glasses of Chianti. Overhead, a low-flying bomber cast them momentarily in shadow. They picked up their binoculars and studied the markings. Ours, they said, and waved.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis rabbit's delicious, said Evelyn, and she caught the eye of the proprietor, who was smoking by the doorway. She said, \u003ci\u003eConiglio buonissimo, signore!\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe signore put his cigarette in his mouth and raised his arm-part salute, part wave, one couldn't be sure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDo you think he's a Fascist? said Margaret quietly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo, I don't think so, said Evelyn. Although Italians are quite indecisive politically. Always have been.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI heard they're shooting them now, the Fascists.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEveryone's shooting everyone, said Evelyn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA shell screamed to their right and exploded on a distant hill, uprooting a cluster of small cypress trees.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne of theirs, said Margaret, and she held on to the table to protect her camera and wineglass from the shock waves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI heard they found the Botticelli, said Evelyn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich one? said Margaret.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePrimavera\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, thank God, said Margaret.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd Giotto's \u003ci\u003eMadonna \u003c\/i\u003efrom the Uffizi. Rubens's \u003ci\u003eNymphs and Satyrs\u003c\/i\u003e and one more-Evelyn thought hard-ah, yes, she said. \u003ci\u003eSupper at Emmaus.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Pontormo! Any news about his Deposition?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo, not yet, said Evelyn, pulling a small bone from her mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the distance, the sky suddenly flared with artillery fire. Evelyn looked up and said, I never thought I'd see this again at my age.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAren't we the same age?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo. Older.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou are?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes. Eight years. Approaching sixty-four.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAre you \u003ci\u003ereally\u003c\/i\u003e?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, she said, and poured out more wine. I pity the swallows, though, she added.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey're swifts, said Margaret.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAre you sure?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, said Margaret. The squealers are swifts, and she sat back and made an awful sound that was nothing like a swift.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSwift\u003c\/i\u003e, said Margaret, emphasizing her point. The swallow is, of course, the Florentine bird, she said. It's a Passeriform, a perching bird, but the swift is not. Because of its legs. Weak feet, long wingspan. It belongs to the order of Apodiformes. Apodiformes meaning \"footless\" in Greek. The house martin, however, \u003ci\u003eis\u003c\/i\u003e a Passeriform.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDear God, thought Evelyn. Will this not end?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSwallows, continued Margaret, have a forked tail and a red head. And about an eight-year life expectancy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat's depressing. Not even double digits. Do you think swallow years are like dog years? said Evelyn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo, I don't think so. Never heard as much. Swifts are dark brown but appear blackish in flight. There they are again! screamed Margaret. Over there!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere! You have to keep up, they're very nippy. They do everything on the wing!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSuddenly, out from the clouds, two falcons swooped in and ripped a swift violently in half.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMargaret gasped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDid\u003c\/i\u003e everything on the wing, said Evelyn as she watched the falcons disappear behind the trees. This is a lovely drop of Classico, she said. Have I said that already?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou have actually, said Margaret tersely.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh. Well, I'm saying it again. A year of occupation has not diminished the quality. And she caught the proprietor's eye and pointed to her glass. \u003ci\u003eBuonissimo, signore!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe signore took the cigarette out of his mouth, smiled and again raised his arm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvelyn sat back and placed her napkin on the table. The two women had known one another for seven years. They'd been lovers briefly in the beginning, after which desire had given way to a shared interest in the Tuscan proto-Renaissance-a satisfactory turn of events for Evelyn, less so for Margaret someone. She'd thrown herself into ornithology. Luckily, for Evelyn, the advent of war prevented further pursuit, until Rome that is. Two weeks after the Allies had entered the city, she'd opened the front door of her aunt's villa on Via Magento only to be confronted by the unexpected. Surprise! said Margaret. You can't get away from me that easily!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSurprise wasn't the word that had come to Evelyn's mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvelyn stood up and stretched her legs. Been sitting too long, she said, brushing crumbs off her linen slacks. She was a striking presence at full height, with intelligent eyes, as quick to the conundrum as they were to the joke. Ten years before, she had committed her graying thatch to blond and had never looked back. She walked over to the signore and in perfect Italian asked for a cigarette. She placed it between her lips and steadied his hand as she leaned toward the flame. \u003ci\u003eGrazie\u003c\/i\u003e, she whispered, and he pressed the packet firmly into her palm and motioned for her to take it. She thanked him again and moved back to the table.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStop, said Margaret.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe light on your face. How green your eyes are! Turn a little to me. Stay like that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMargaret, for God's sake.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDo it. Don't move. And Margaret picked up her camera and fiddled with the aperture setting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvelyn drew on the cigarette theatrically (click) and blew smoke into the late-afternoon sky (click), noticing the shift of color, the lowering of the sun, a lone swift nervously circling. She moved a curl of hair away from her frown (click).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat's eating you, dear chum?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMosquitoes, probably.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hear a touch of Maud Lin, said Margaret. Thoughts?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat is old, d'you think?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCabin fever talking, said Margaret. We can't advance, we can only retreat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat's old, said Evelyn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd German mines, silly!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI just want to get into Florence. Do something. Be useful.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe proprietor came over and cleared their plates from the table. He asked them in Italian if they would like a coffee and grappa and they said, How lovely, and he told them not to go wandering again, and he told them his wife would go up to their room later and close the shutters. Oh, and would they like some figs?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh \u003ci\u003esì, sì. Grazie.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvelyn watched him depart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMargaret said, I've been meaning to ask you. Robin Metcalfe told me you met Forster.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHim with a View.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvelyn smiled. Oh, very good.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe way Robin Metcalfe tells it, you and Forster were best friends.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow ridiculous! I met him across a dining table, if you must know, over dinners of boiled beef, at the ghastly \u003ci\u003ePensione Simi\u003c\/i\u003e. We were an impoverished little ship on the banks of the Arno, desperately seeking the real Italy. And yet at the helm was a cockney landlady, bless her soul.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCockney?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy a cockney?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don't know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI mean, why in Florence?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI never asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow you would, said Margaret.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow I certainly would, said Evelyn, and she took a cigarette and placed it between her lips.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eProbably came over as a nanny, said Margaret.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes. Probably, said Evelyn, opening the matchbox.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr a governess. That'll be it, said Margaret.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvelyn struck a match and inhaled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDid you know he was writing a book? asked Margaret.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGood Lord no. He was a recent scholar, if I remember rightly. Covered in the afterbirth of graduation-shy, awkward, you know the type. Entering the world with no experience at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWeren't we all like that?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, I suppose we were, said Evelyn, and she picked up a fig and pressed her thumbs against the soft, yielding skin. I suppose we were, she repeated quietly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe tore the fruit in half and glanced down at the erotic sight of its vivid flesh. She blushed and would blame it on the shift to evening light, on the effect of the wine and the grappa and the cigarettes, but in her heart, in the unseen, most guarded part of her, a memory undid her, slowly-very slowly-like a zip.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStrangely charismatic, though, she said, surfacing into the present.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eForster was? said Margaret.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen he was alone, yes. But his mother's presence suffocated him. Every reprimand was pressure applied to the pillow. Odd relationship. That's what I remember most. Her with a parasol and smelling salts, and him with a well-thumbed Baedeker and an ill-fitting suit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMargaret reached for Evelyn's cigarette.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI remember he'd appear in quiet moments. You wouldn't hear him, just see him. Tall and lanky in the corner. Or in the drawing room with a notebook. Scribbling away. Simply observing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIsn't that how it starts? said Margaret, handing back the cigarette.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA book.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"G.P. 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