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Couverture souple. A breathtaking literary debut, Love Letters of the Angels of Death begins as a young couple discover the remains of his mother in her mobile home.
Space is sculpted in silence, and the songs resemble gossamer webs, visible only at an angle, sunlight refracting through dew. Ward , among others. Sappho knows. You might bet against the notion of anyone other than Lana Del Rey calling an album Angels of Death and not drowning in her own pretentiousness. The action is all in the interstices between the melody and the cadence, the voice and the instrumentation.knotroberseeadif.cf
A Love Letter to Angels
The melody seems called up by the cadence, the instrumentation feels like a reflection of the voice, and you can find yourself listening for those tiny lifts, the suspensions in the songs replacing the songs themselves. It mourns and it celebrates, embracing the transformation of time, eternal constellation of growth and decay and growth again.
These deeply difficult and existential musings find Castle at the height of her artistic powers, both sonically and lyrically. No hyperbole, Jennifer Castle is a spectacular songwriter. Fine-boned, effortless. With an empathetic band featuring strings, keys, and pedal steel, Castle alternately pulls the songs into focus with her clear, honeyed voice and lets it drift free inside them.
Themes of loss, confusion, and frustration meet burning country and gospel-inspired anthems and sparse, piano-driven ballads. Throughout, she effortlessly conveys the conflicting emotions that accompany loss. I rolled my pants over my kneecaps, climbed onto the edge of the washing machine and stomped the clothes clean with my feet and legs.
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From half inside the machine, I realized that, just for a moment, I had become my grandmother — and I was grateful and astounded such a thing could happen. If my grandmother was still alive, she would have celebrated her one hundredth birthday yesterday.
My Books | Jennifer Quist
You guys go ahead. If I lived km closer, I would have joined my dad and my aunties yesterday at a big Thelma Day dinner.
Gram was loving but not always easy to feel close to. We were close anyway.
Love Letters of the Angels of Death by Jennifer Quist your marriage . . . your death . . . you
At size 5, she was one of the few adults I could trade shoes with — not that we ever did swap her hospital inspired Naturalizers for my chunky-heeled boots. We were both oldest daughters of large families who had to take on work as teenagers to help our parents. My load was lighter and I was able to stay in school but when Gram quit in the eighth grade, she quit for good.
When she was nearly dead and losing her hearing, many voices slipped out of the pitch where she could still hear. But I knew where to find the right range and she could always hear me, right to the end. I stood up to speak at a funeral for the first time when she died.
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I had eaten standing up while packing his gym bag. I had tried to phone my favourite schizophrenic loved one, found out his line was disconnected, and arranged to pay the bill to hook him back up. For our family, she was a Miriam without a Moses. Her Promised Land is a hard brilliant place without anywhere to sit.