By Geoff Dyer
'In the race to be first in describing the misplaced new release of the Eighties, Geoff Dyer within the color OF reminiscence leads prior the profitable put up. "We're no longer lost" one in every of his hero's friend's says, "we're almost extinct". it's a small international in Brixton that Dyer commemorates, of council flat and rapid wilderness, of dwelling at the dole and the scrounge, of mugging, that's in basic terms begging through strength, and of hearing Callas and Coltrane. it's the nostalgia of the DHSS Bohemians, the kids of unsocial protection, in an city panorama of particles and wreckage. no longer considering the fact that Colin MacInnes's urban OF SPADES and ABSOLUTE novices thirty years in the past has a unique caught a flick-knife so competently into the younger and marginal urban. A low-keyed sort and laconic wit contact up the color OF MEMORY' THE TIMES
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Additional info for The Colour of Memory
Out came stored-away things and things got up on the spot: guitars and late melon, hazelnuts, rhubarb pies and a mouth organ, a washboard, roast lamb, pepper rice, Lil Green, “In the Dark,” Louis Jordan and His Tympany Five; homemade beer and groundhog meat fried and simmered in gravy. The women tied bright scarves over their hair; the children made themselves hats of wild poppies and river vine. Ossie owned a two-year-old and a four, both fast and pretty as brides. The other horses were simply company: Ace’s spotted horse, Miss Esther’s ancient featherweight, all four of Nathan’s plow horses plus his mare and a half-broke pony that, unclaimed, grazed the creekbank.
You’re all I have, now your brothers gone and got themselves shot up like—” Birdie slapped the table. ” “What? Do what? ” “They? Who? Frank? ” “All of them. ” “Kill you? ” Mavis nodded. Birdie Goodroe widened her eyes first, then looked into her lap as she held her forehead in the palm of her hand. ” Mavis stared at her mother. “No! Oh, no, Ma! Are you crazy? ” “All right. All right. Just asking. It’s unusual, you know, to think little children…” “Unusual? It’s—it’s evil! But they’ll do what he says.
That is why they are here in this Convent. To make sure it never happens again. That nothing inside or out rots the one all-black town worth the pain. All the others he knew about or heard tell of knuckled to or merged with white towns; otherwise, like Haven, they had shriveled into tracery: foundation outlines marked by the way grass grew there, wallpaper turned negative behind missing windowpanes, schoolhouse floors moved aside by elder trees growing toward the bell housing. One thousand citizens in 1905 becoming five hundred by 1934.
The Colour of Memory by Geoff Dyer