The Law of Dreams tells the story of a young man's epic passage from innocence to experience during The Great Famine in Ireland of 1847.
On his odyssey through Ireland and Britain, and across the Atlantic to “the Boston states,” Fergus is initiated to violence, sexual heat, and the glories and dangers of the industrial revolution. Along the way, he meets an unforgettable generation of boy soldiers, brigands, street toughs and charming, willful girls – all struggling for survival in the aftermath of natural catastrophe magnified by political callousness and brutal neglect.
Peter Behrens transports the reader to another time and place for a deeply-moving and resonant experience. The Law of Dreams is gorgeously written in incandescent language that unleashes the sexual and psychological energies of a lost world while plunging the reader directly into a vein of history that haunts the ancestral memory of millions in a new millennium.
From the Hardcover edition.
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|Title of History eBook: The Law of Dreams|
|Release Date: 07-21-2009|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Steerforth Press|
This eBook download is available in the following formats:
|Parent title||The Law of Dreams|
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|Note||ePub, short for electronic publication is one of our favorites and should be yours for a couple of reasons. ePub offers reflowable text giving you flexibility to manipulate how the content is presented. Moreover, lots of cool features are now being developed for the reader like advanced video and audio. ePub is now an industry standard, so all of the "non-propreitary" hardware manufacturers are now supporting it.|
The Law of Dreams
Chapter OneEating Pain
HE WOULD SLIP FROM THE CABIN before the rest of them were awake and come down the mountain, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. With his dog, he'd course the slick, foggy slope, then down along the river and across Carmichael's meadows. Feet brushing cold wet silver grass. Slipping the straw rope off the fanatic dog, freeing her to nose under hedges, at dry burrows, her tail swinging.
Approaching the farm, they'd pass Carmichael's rich black mountain of manure and the stone haggard, crowded with hay.
The Carmichael farmyard was flanked by stone walls six feet high, built to withstand - built for war. The only entrance an iron gate.
The yard was paved with blue stone. He had always distrusted the alien firmness of the stone on his heels. And the gaunt, whitewashed farmhouse eyeing him so bitterly: the whitewashed face of disregard.
He had always felt deficient here. He had tried convincing himself he did not but why else the constant self-argument, the tingle of thoughts inside his head rising up like doves off a perch, fluttering and billing, all confusion?
He would come hoping to catch a glimpse of Phoebe Carmichael in the steel light of morning, milk pail in her hand.
His old playmate. He had known her all his life, as he knew everyone.
Seeing him waiting at the gate, she'd offer him a drink.
- You wouldn't get it any fresher.
- No, miss.
He loved Phoebe's narrow pink feet on the blue stones. Her bare forearms, and the clean fabric of her gown and apron.
She was the only female of the Carmichaels...