Hood: A Novel
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From the New York Times bestselling author of Room,Emma Donoghue, Hood is a graceful tale of a young woman who must come toterms with love and loss in the wake of her partner’s sudden passing. The NewYork Times Book Review calls Hood “utterly charming,” writing that,“Ms. Donoghue displays her confidence by avoiding the grandiose and the showy,and dipping into the ordinary with control and the occasional sustainingdescriptive flashes of a born writer.” For readers of Jeanette Winterson’s Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit and JoyceCarol Oates’s The Widow’s Story, Donoghue’s Hood is a masterfullycrafted narrative of relationships and a daring, deft exploration of the love’simperfection—and how it can nonetheless dominate our lives as we grow andchange.
standing up and lifting my feet on to the bed. I slid down until my head was half-buried under the pillow. I could feel Jo loosening my shoelaces and tugging on the shoes until they came off. I could have helped her by bracing my feet, but I was too tired. She took down another duvet and laid it over me. Then the light went off and the door shut. I decided I was probably too tired to sleep, but would have a little rest before going home and correcting some more copybooks. Then the dark came down
the two Kates blending together as she walked away from me, their angles merging. I supposed I knew her best from behind. There was a Yeats line I used to mouth in my head, watching her from three rows in a sleepy classroom: ‘high, and solitary, and most stern’. And now I found myself as angry with her as I ever felt, as I was the day I sat the Inter Cert for the first time. It is five minutes before the Maths exam and I am being calm. ‘6 June 1978’ I have printed unnecessarily at the top of the
said. ‘Besides, Ireland has nothing but a past tense. Did you know there are more Irish living in America than in Ireland?’ ‘Not real ones.’ She smiled guardedly. ‘Come on,’ I told her, hauling myself off the hammock, ‘the pizza will be getting cold. We forgotten primitives don’t know how to insulate a cardboard box. What are you doing buying fast food, anyway? I remember you upstaging us all in cookery class.’ ‘Did I?’ Kate said wonderingly. ‘Too busy to eat in nowadays. I do Thanksgiving
evening they told us they were splitting up. I hadn’t noticed a thing.’ ‘Mmm?’ I said after a few seconds, to bring her back. She jolted slightly. ‘Anyway. Can’t remember the euphemism they used, something like “Mum’s going to take a job in America for a while and Dad’s going to look after you two here till we decide where we’ll all live.”’ ‘That what they said?’ ‘They probably meant it at the time. But I should have known Dad would never have the guts to emigrate.’ Considering a retort, but
but laughing, and dance at her own funeral. Why the time lag, the metaphorical coma, the years of watching her through the dusty glass, waiting and hoping and despairing and knowing that by the time she woke up again you might be too tired to care? I also thought of the chance of rain, and the hundred and five or so minutes till lunch, and all this passed through my mind by the time the six men made it to the church porch. I would have thought of anything to keep myself from thinking of what was