New Orleans Noir: The Classics (Akashic Noir)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
--Publishers Weekly, Starred review
"Ten years after the publication of the original New Orleans Noir, Akashic's 'Noir' series returns with a follow-up....Each entry is strong, but the collection is worth reading alone for Poppy Z. Brite's 'Mussolini and the Axeman's Jazz,' a delirious and brutal ghost story....Strongly recommended for fans of the Akashic anthologies and Hard Case Crime mysteries and lovers of New Orleans fiction. Devotees of Southern gothic fiction (e.g., the works of Flannery O'Connor and Tom Franklin.) will also find much to enjoy."
--Library Journal, Starred review
"Smith, who edited Akashic's original New Orleans Noir (2007), goes back for a second trip to the Big Easy."
"A riveting read."
--Back to Books
"Eighteen diverse stories...capture the feeling of this fascinating city. New Orleans Noir: The Classics embraces the city's rich literature and spans two centuries, from the pre–Civil War era to post-Katrina."
"This anthology really has the feel of New Orleans....I enjoyed this batch of stories. Good ones all the way through. Give it a try."
--Journey of a Bookseller
Akashic Books continues its award-winning series of original noir anthologies, launched in 2004 with Brooklyn Noir. Each volume comprises stories set in a distinct neighborhood or location within the respective city.
Classic reprints from: James Lee Burke, Armand Lanusse, Grace King, Kate Chopin, O. Henry, Eudora Welty, Tennessee Williams, Shirley Ann Grau, John William Corrington, Tom Dent, Ellen Gilchrist, Valerie Martin, O’Neil De Noux, John Biguenet, Poppy Z. Brite, Nevada Barr, Ace Atkins, and Maurice Carlos Ruffin.
From the introduction by Julie Smith:
"A glittering constellation of writers has passed through New Orleans--including Mark Twain, Sherwood Anderson, O. Henry, and even Walt Whitman, to name some of the not-so-usual suspects. Then there are the ones whose sojourns here are better known, the ones on whom we pride ourselves, such as Tennessee Williams, William Faulkner, Eudora Welty, Ellen Gilchrist, and James Lee Burke.
It was an anthologist's feast--just about everybody who came to New Orleans wrote about it. But there were surprises as well...
If you're from New Orleans, the neighborhood theme will resonate like Tibetan temple bells. And yet, surely every city has similar hoods, similar behavior patterns, similar travails--and has had them forever. 'Indeed,' wrote Voltaire, 'history is nothing more than a tableau of crimes and misfortunes.'"
with round pockets; the same suitcase too, but this time in it was a letter of recommendation and a roll of bills she’d saved, all hidden in the fancy organdy aprons they’d given her. She said: “He wanted me to stay on through the winter, but she got scared for their boy.” And she held her chin stiff and straight when she said that. I understood why that woman wanted my sister Lena out of the house. There wasn’t any boy or man either that wouldn’t look at her twice. White or colored, it didn’t
moving. Chris, who was always moving. Chris, who was so handsome. I stood and looked at the yellow telegram and tried to think what it would be like. Now, for Chris. I thought of things I had seen dead: dogs and mice and cats. They were born dead, or they died because they were old. Or they died because they were killed. I had seen them with their heads pulled aside and their insides spilled out red on the ground. It wouldn’t be so different for a man. But Chris . . . “Even if you black,” Pete
few hours before you have it. Won’t you do that for me?” “Can I hold the baby for a while?” Helen asked, and Letty allowed her to sit in the rocker and hold the baby and rock it furiously back and forth crooning to it. “Is Jennifer beautiful, Mother?” Helen asked. “She’s okay, but she doesn’t have curly black hair like you. She just has plain brown hair. Don’t you see, Helen, that’s why we want you to stop eating between meals, because you’re so pretty and we don’t want you to get too fat. Why
about me? she thought. What about my day? But she never said that; instead she turned away, biting back her anger and confusion, for she couldn’t admit that she was jealous of a dog. Spats is asleep immediately, his jaws slack and his tongue lolling out over his black lips. As Lydia looks at him she has an unexpected thought: she could kill him. It is certainly in her power. No one would do anything about it, and it would hurt Ivan as nothing else could. She could poison him, or shoot him, or
steadfast wife, an exemplary mother. For this reason he had brought her on the trip to Sarajevo. It was a routine army inspection for him, but for her it was a chance to be treated with the royal honors she deserved. On this anniversary of their blessed union, Sophie would endure no subtle slights, no calculated cruelties. The Archduke had never loved another human being. His parents were hazy memories, his uncle a shambling old man whose time had come and gone. Even his three children brought