A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway
In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains. In the bed of the river there were pebbles and boulders, dry and white in the sun, and the water was clear and swiftly moving and blue in the channels.
reco: it’s the one we haven’t done and it’s a novel v. Non-fiction.
The strange last voyage of Donald crowhurst by Nicholas Tomalin and Ron Hall
DONALD CROWHURST was born in India, in 1932. His mother was a schoolteacher, his father a superintendent on the railways, and they lived the uneasy life of second-generation colonials, slightly looked down upon by the military and administrative British, in their turn distinctly superior to the coloured Indians. A photograph of Donald survives, which shows him sitting upon a wicker table in his parents’ garden at Ghaziabad near Delhi; his face is pert and cherubic, his hair extraordinary: it hangs down over his shoulders. This style was decreed by Alice Crowhurst because she had hoped for a daughter rather than a son.
reco:It’s a weird tale of man that thought could fool the world.