A Whistling Woman portrays the antic, thrilling, and dangerous period of the late ‘60s as seen through the eyes of a woman whose life is forever changed by her times.
Frederica Potter, a smart, spirited 33-year-old single mother, lucks into a job hosting a groundbreaking television talk show based in London. Meanwhile, in her native Yorkshire where her lover is involved in academic research, the university is planning a prestigious conference on body and mind, and a group of students and agitators is establishing an “anti-university.” And nearby a therapeutic community is beginning to take the shape of a religious cult under the influence of its charismatic religious leader.
A Whistling Woman is a brilliant and thought-provoking meditation on psychology, science, religion, ethics, and radicalism, and their effects on ordinary lives.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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|Title of History eBook: A Whistling Woman|
|Release Date: 12-18-2007|
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|Publisher: Random House, Inc.|
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A Whistling Woman
Chapter One... "This is the last tree," said the thrush. The last tree was a dwarf thorn, its black branches shaped one way by the wind, pointing back the way they had come. "Formerly," said the thrush, "there was a last tree further out. And in earlier times there was a stunted wood, the Krumholz. The waste is advancing."
They looked into iron twilight. They could barely make out the bluff where the wood had once been rooted.
"No one goes out there," said the thrush. "In former days, there were travellers, until winter set in. But now they are afraid of the Whistlers. The winters have lengthened. And in the light days the land is infested by the Whistlers."
"The place we seek is on the other side," said Artegall. "According to the maps and the histories. We must go, and quickly, before winter sets in."
"And before the hunters catch up with us," said Mark.
"No one has set out, or come from there, in my life-time," said the thrush, fluffing out his spotted feathers. His life-time was not very long, and his territory was small. He was a wiry, thick-quilted thrush.
"What is the land like?" asked Artegall.
"Scrub and stones, mosses, and lichens, deep pools with ice-covers, frozen rivers. There are white creatures there, I've been told, that scutter in the snow and hide in holes. And slick, grey efts, in the pools. They used to say the lichens were edible, if not palatable. All hearsay. I haven't been there."
"And the Whistlers?"
"No one has seen them and lived," said the thrush. "Indeed, to hear them is mostly fatal. They fly or glide like grey shadows and make a sound-a sound-"
"So it is said, a high, whistli...