Brad Kessler
Born
The United States
Genre
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Goat Song: A Seasonal Life, A Short History of Herding, and the Art of Making Cheese
7 editions
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published
2009
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Birds in Fall
5 editions
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published
2006
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North
2 editions
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published
2021
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Lick Creek
8 editions
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published
2001
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Brer Rabbit and Boss Lion
10 editions
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published
1991
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John Henry
10 editions
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published
1995
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The Woodcutter's Christmas
3 editions
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published
2001
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The Firebird
by
5 editions
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published
1996
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Moses in Egypt
5 editions
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published
1997
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Hôtel Des Adieux: Roman
by
2 editions
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published
2011
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“A book is like a key that fits into the tumbler of the soul. The two parts have to match in order for each to unlock. Then—click—a world opens.”
― Goat Song: A Seasonal Life, A Short History of Herding, and the Art of Making Cheese
― Goat Song: A Seasonal Life, A Short History of Herding, and the Art of Making Cheese
“She'd observed this before: how -- ironically -- it took death to make one feel momentarily alive, truly present, minute to minute.”
― Birds in Fall
― Birds in Fall
“In April, he perched on a witch hazel branch, shivering, one eye closed, waiting for the sun to warm his wings. The night had been particularly cold, the winter long, the fishing scarce.
He'd been alone all the time.
When the sun appeared, the warmth felt good on his wings. he lifted from his perch, wheeled, then cackled over the river, studying the surface for the slightest flash: a trout, a small shad, a frog. He lit on a willow snag downriver and sunned himself, raised his tail, shat, and called again. The days were growing longer now, the alewives ascending the streams. The year before, he'd built his nest near the estuary in a seam of clay, and soon - if she returned - the time would come for a new nest along the bank.
The kingfisher fished all morning. He returned to the willow snag at noon; slept, then woke shortly after, startled by the call. Was it she? They hadn't seen each other since the summer before.
He dropped from the branch, called, winged downriver, his image doubled in the water. He heard the call again, closer now. If she returned, he'd dive into the river, greet her with a fish, fly around her, feed her beak to beak. If she returned, he'd begin to exxcavate a new nest, claw clay out of the earth, arrange the perfect pile of fish bones to lay their eggs upon.
He pumped his wings harder now. He heard the cackle closer, louder more insistent. he recognized her voice. She was hurling her way upriver.
Any moment now: she'd fly into his vision.”
― Birds in Fall
He'd been alone all the time.
When the sun appeared, the warmth felt good on his wings. he lifted from his perch, wheeled, then cackled over the river, studying the surface for the slightest flash: a trout, a small shad, a frog. He lit on a willow snag downriver and sunned himself, raised his tail, shat, and called again. The days were growing longer now, the alewives ascending the streams. The year before, he'd built his nest near the estuary in a seam of clay, and soon - if she returned - the time would come for a new nest along the bank.
The kingfisher fished all morning. He returned to the willow snag at noon; slept, then woke shortly after, startled by the call. Was it she? They hadn't seen each other since the summer before.
He dropped from the branch, called, winged downriver, his image doubled in the water. He heard the call again, closer now. If she returned, he'd dive into the river, greet her with a fish, fly around her, feed her beak to beak. If she returned, he'd begin to exxcavate a new nest, claw clay out of the earth, arrange the perfect pile of fish bones to lay their eggs upon.
He pumped his wings harder now. He heard the cackle closer, louder more insistent. he recognized her voice. She was hurling her way upriver.
Any moment now: she'd fly into his vision.”
― Birds in Fall
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