By Betty Smith
The cherished American vintage a few younger girl's coming-of-age on the flip of the century, Betty Smith's A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is a poignant and relocating story choked with compassion and cruelty, laughter and heartache, crowded with existence and folks and incident. the tale of younger, delicate, and idealistic Francie Nolan and her bittersweet early life within the slums of Williamsburg has enchanted and encouraged thousands of readers for greater than sixty years. through turns overwhelming, elegant, heartbreaking, and uplifting, the day-by-day studies of the unforgettable Nolans are uncooked with honesty and tenderly threaded with kinfolk connectedness -- in a piece of literary artwork that brilliantly captures a distinct time and position in addition to enormously wealthy moments of common experience.
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Extra info for A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
Shay had breakfast in tow: lobster omelettes, toast, hash browns, corn fritters, grapes, chocolate muffins, and Bloodies-more food than a whole packet of calorie purgers could erase. The overburdened tray shivered in the air, its lifters trembling like a littlie arriving at school, first day ever. “Um, Shay? ” Shay giggled. “No, but you sounded bad. And you have to be bubbly tonight. ” “Great, bubbly” Tally sighed, relieving the tray of a Bloody Mary. She frowned at the first sip. ” “No problem,” Shay said, scraping off the caviar decorating an omelette and stirring it in.
All they ever did in the ugly days was sneak out and maybe cross the river a few times. ” The song ended just then, and Tally’s last word fell into sudden silence. She tried to think of what to say, but the conversation just faded out, like fireworks in a dark sky. The next song seemed to take a long time to start. When it did, she was relieved and said, “Crim costumes should be easy, Shay-la. ” Shay and Tally tried for two hours, making the hole in the wall spit out costumes and trying them on.
FALL “Later, Tally,” Croy said, snatching back his mask. He yanked open the door, and the noise of the party rushed into the stairwell as he darted through, the gray silk of his costume disappearing into the crowd. Tally just stood there as the door swung closed again, too stunned to move. Like her old sweater, she’d remembered ugliness all wrong: Cray’s face was much worse than her mental image of the Smokies. His crooked smile, his dull eyes, the way his sweating skin carried angry red marks where the mask had pressed against it… But then the door slammed itself shut, and among the echoes Tally heard the footsteps still climbing toward her, real Specials on their way up, and for the first time all day, a clear thought went through her head.
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith