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215 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1962
Almost a week after the funeral, he visited Lon's room, quite bare of Lon – without even the apple box half filled with sawdust for spitting into. The pipes and their rack were missing; the room was quite unhaunted. David felt that in some way a person's room should hold a trace of them; something should linger. Deserted houses were generally stilled with nostalgia for those who had once lived there; there was usually a mason jar in the kitchen part – an old lady's shoe with a limp top – a rusted spoon – something.
- W.O. Mitchell, The Kite, p. 16, 17
'I did. She was a quite terrible woman. I hadn't realized she was - at first - when I was instrumental in getting her into Daddy's house as his housekeeper. She came to my congregation - a Mrs. Holloway - from somewhere in the north of the province, and she fooled me with the first impression she made - a hearty, jolly woman. Quite wicked. I believe in wickedness,' he said. 'She had planned and schemed it deliberately - used me to get into his house [...]'
- W.O. Mitchell, The Kite, p. 154
'I won't live to any hundred and eleven years,' Keith said.
'Jist keep outa draughts - keep reg'lar - lots buttermilk,' Daddy said. 'Don't give a whoop - be a dangerous acerobat - sail over the tops the circus crowds. Don't give a damn whether she rains or thaws or freezes - whether you live or die. Then you will.'
'Will what?' David said.
'Live to be a hunerd an' eleven. That's the way to do it. Like a drunk pitched off of a horse.'
'Huh?' Keith said.
'Live loose an' soople an' you'll come through without a scratch. Live careful an' you'll break your goddam neck. That's the secret - cuh-rock a day - keep reg'lar - don't give a damn an' you'l live an live an' live . . .' He sighed. '. . . to be the unluckiest man in the world.'
'Luckiest,' Keith corrected him.
'Unluckiest. You wouldn't like it - enough to give a gopher's ass the heartburn Twenty - last twenty ...'
'Twenty what?' David said.
'Years. Shaganappi years - hoverin' over you - flingin' shawls over your shoulders - shovin' seats under your - ask anybody a hunerd an' eleven an' they'll tell you. Don't go one step past ninety.'
'We won't,' promised David.
'Dyin' ain't hard, you know. It's what hey call universal - all sorts of folks do it without no practice ner no talent an' everyone of 'em does it right the first time.' Daddy laughed his dry-throat cackle.
- W.O. Mitchell, The Kite, p. 191,192