By Robert Olen Butler
Publish 12 months note: First released in 1992
Robert Olen Butler's lyrical and poignant choice of tales in regards to the aftermath of the Vietnam conflict and its effect at the Vietnamese used to be acclaimed by way of critics around the country and received the Pulitzer Prize in 1993. Now Grove Press is proud to reissue this modern vintage by way of one among America's most vital residing writers, in a brand new variation of an excellent odor from a wierd Mountain that comes with to that end released tales -- "Salem" and "Missing" -- that brilliantly whole the collection's narrative trip, returning to the jungles of Vietnam.
Pulitzer Prize for Fiction (1993)
PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction Nominee (1993)
Rosenthal relatives beginning Award (1993)
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Additional resources for A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain
What he heard was the ticking of his watch. He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. "If I could free my hands," he thought, "I might throw off the noose and spring into the stream. By diving I could evade the bullets and, swimming vigorously, reach the bank, take to the woods and get away home. " As these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed into the doomed man's brain rather than evolved from it the captain nodded to the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside.
Suddenly he felt himself whirled round and round—spinning like a top. The water, the banks, the forests, the now distant bridge, fort and men, all were commingled and blurred. Objects were represented by their colors only; circular horizontal streaks of color—that was all he saw. He had been caught in a vortex and was being whirled on with a velocity of advance and gyration that made him giddy and sick. In few moments he was flung upon the gravel at the foot of the left bank of the stream—the southern bank—and behind a projecting point which concealed him from his enemies.
He was now in full possession of his physical senses. They were, indeed, preternaturally keen and alert. Something in the awful disturbance of his organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record of things never before perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and heard their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on the bank of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the veining of each leaf—he saw the very insects upon them: the locusts, the brilliant bodied flies, the gray spiders stretching their webs from twig to twig.