Dodsworth

Dodsworth

Language: English

Pages: 370

ISBN: 1849023492

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Dodsworth is a satirical novel by American writer Sinclair Lewis, about a retired fellow and his wife who tour Europe together in the 1920's. On their extensive travels across Europe they are soon caught up in vastly different lifestyles, and as they following their own pursuits, their marriage is strained to the breaking point. Dodsworth's subject matter, namely the differences between US and European intellect, manners, and morals, is similar to that which appears in the writing of Henry James.

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England.” “Do you mean to say you did the cooking?” “Of course I did! I’m an excellent cook! I babble of Freud and Einstein, but I know nothing about psycho-analysis, nothing about mathematics. But I do know garlic and taragon vinegar! I really love housekeeping. I should have stayed in Michigan and married a small-town lawyer.” “Could you like a town like Zenith? After Venice?” “Yes if I had a place of my own there. Here, everything decays—lovely decay, but I’m tired of being autumnal. I’d

where the deck widened into an alcove—thick walls of steel, dotted with lines of rivets smeared with thick white paint—and the door of the stewards’ pantry from which, in the afternoon, came innumerable sandwiches and cakes and cups and pots of tea. The double door to the main stairway, where, somehow, a stewardess in uniform was always talking to a steward. The steel-gripped windows of the music room, with a glimpse of unhappy young-old women, accompanying their mothers abroad, sitting flapping

talking about, he never knew. They spoke of Sybil, who seemed to be an actress, and of politicians (he guessed they were politicians) to whom they referred as Nancy and F.E. and Jix and Winston and the p.m. One man mentioned something called the Grand National, and Sam was not sure whether this was the name of a bank, an insurance company, or a hotel. What could he do when a lady, entirely unidentified, asked, “Have you seen H. G.’s latest?” “Not yet,” he answered intelligently, but who or what

They were often a little silly, a little giggling, more than a little spiteful, but they found life more amusing than his business-driven friends at home. Couldn’t there be—weren’t there people in both England and America who were as enterprising and simple and hearty as Mr. A. B. Hurd, yet as gay as Fran or Jack Starling, as curiously learned as Lockert, who between pretenses of boredom gave glimpses of voodoo, of rajahs, of the eager and credulous boy he had been in public school and through

belligerence he felt—it was fear of something unholy. He saw that Fran was equally aghast; proudly he saw that she drew nearer his stalwartness. Kurt looked at the jocund bartender; quickly he looked at Fran and Sam; and he murmured, “This is a silly place. Come! Come! We go someplace else!” Already the manager was upon them, smirking, inviting them in two languages to give up their wraps. Kurt said something to him in a rapid, hissing German—something that made the manager sneer and back

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