The Big Rock Candy Mountain (Peguin Classics)
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Bo Mason, his wife, Elsa, and their two boys live a transient life of poverty and despair. Drifting from town to town and from state to state, the violent, ruthless Bo seeks out his fortune-in the hotel business, in new farmland, and, eventually, in illegal rum-running through the treacherous back roads of the American Northwest. In this affecting narrative, Wallace Stegner portrays over three decades in the life of the Mason family as they struggle to survive during the lean years of the early twentieth century.
For more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. With more than 1,700 titles, Penguin Classics represents a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.
them to still their trembling, but said nothing. “Got any coffee?” Ole’s eyes lifted to the stove. Bo took the top off the pot, saw that there was a good pint of black liquid inside, and shoved it onto the hot part of the stove. While he waited for it to boil he went out and got a bottle of bourbon. “Where’s your corkscrew?” he said. “Ay an’t got vun.” “Oh for ... !” Angrily Bo pawed through the half dozen knives and forks and spoons on the cupboard shelf. Nothing, not even a paring knife. He
she’ll be worth talking to.” “Well, I’ll see.” She went upstairs, and in a few minutes came down with an armful of clothes. “She’ll have to wear hand-me-downs,” she said. “I’m not giving away any of my good clothes to a girl no better than she should be.” “She’ll need an overcoat.” “I can fix that all right.” She dressed the dummy quickly, while he stood watching. “No underwear?” he said. He whistled, wagging his head. “How about the veil?” “I’ll have to cobble one.” She found a small
matter?” “I guess not,” he said seriously. “They only reproduce from seed, and a lot of old dames come up here and pick an armful and then there aren’t any more.” “I don’t want to be an old dame, then, I guess,” she said. “Here.” He picked her one of each color, and she folded them into her book, amused at his solemn air of being the personal care-taker of the whole mountain, and very fond of him. They came over a steep hump that had her warm and breathless, her legs tired, and before them
they had had for him in spite of their disapproval. There were other compulsions on him. Within an hour of the time Joe Mulder called, while the graduates were still listening to the Commencement Address, he was pushing the Ford down through the traffic toward Northfield, seeing his own frozen face in the windshield and thinking of nothing except drive, cut around that truck, unreel the miles, hit the trunk line west and push it. A body did not keep forever. He was going home to bury the last of
hundred. Furnishing bunks for two or three hundred stiffs isn’t chicken feed, even if you flopped ‘em for two bits a night. And when you’re all through, in a new country like that, you can sell your beds and chairs and even your bunkhouse to somebody for almost as much as you paid in the first place.” He was tapping with his finger’ on the counter, watching her. “There’s another angle, too. What do you suppose those stiffs do for amusement at night, after work? There’s no towns to go to. Suppose