Red Stag : A Novel

by de la Valdene, Guy

• ISBN13: 9781592286270
• ISBN10: 1592286275
• Edition: Reprint
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2011-03-15
• Publisher: Lyons Press

Summary

NOW IN PAPERBACK! "Red Stagis one of the best novels I have read in years: a story set in the beautifully evoked deep countryside of Normandy, a landscape that surrounds the characters the way a river does a trout." --Field & Stream "A compelling novel of the hunt for a stag, a lost love, and the murderer of the hero's uncle. Beautifully written, it is both a fine sporting novel and literature." --Jim Harrison, author ofDalvaandTrue North "This book offers many old-fashioned pleasures. . . . Highly recommended." --Library Journal "A gripping, deeply felt story embedded in a cherished and closely observed world still ruled by the laws of nature." --Thomas McGuane, author ofNothing But Blue Skies and Ninety-Two in the Shade "An absolutely beautiful book. . . . ReadingRed Stagis like walking outside on the most glorious October afternoon of your life--you are moved by grandeur." --Doug Stanton, author ofIn Harm's Way "A debut with the feel of a nineteenth-century novel. . . . De la Valdene's descriptions of the Norman forests and wildlife are rich and graceful." --Publishers Weekly Guy de la Valdenewas born and raised in France. His other books includeThe Fragrance of Grass(Lyons Press), as well asFor a Handful of FeathersandMaking Game: An Essay on Woodcock.His articles have appeared inSports Afieldand Field & Stream. He lives on an 800-acre farm near Tallahassee, Florida.

Author Biography

Guy de la Valene was born and raised in France. His earlier books include For a Handfulof Feathers, and Making Game: An Essay on Woodcock. He is the also the author of the forthcoming The Fragrance of Grass. His articles have appeared in Sports Afield, Field & Stream, among other publications. He lives on an 800-acre farm. Red Stag is his first novel.

Excerpts

Excerpt from pg. 109:
He looked at her and remembered that once she had been recognized as the fastest chicken-plucker in the valley. As a boy he had watched her hang fowl, four at a time, by their feet from a rafter in the stable and, one by one, cut out their tongues with a pair of scissors, bleeding them into a trough, the blood to be mixed later with gruel for the pigs. With fingers flying as fast as knitting needles, Mèmè had started at the legs and worked downward, turning the room into a whirlwind of feathers.
She used the same method to bleed and pluck ducks and geese. But rabbits were handled differently. Before skinning them she bled them by carving one eye from its socket with a sharpened spoon, saving the blood to thicken her soups and sauces.
Mèmè picked up an eclair off the plate, her fingers almost as wide as the pastry, and pushed it, end first, into her mouth. The expression of pleasure on her face momentarily softened the lines of pain etched there by time, the loss of a daugther, and now the loss of her only son. She looked at Vincent and smiled, her mouth a toothless hole. As she sat staring absentmindedly out the window she asked Vincent to help her dress Serge for church. She wanted her boy to look his best. The tears that fell from her eyes ran down a dozen wrinkled paths to the corners of her mouth and slipped over her chin.