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320 pages, Hardcover
First published July 7, 2015

Unlike her husband, she hadn't chosen to study English in school and so, while Radovan settled into his American life easily, following American news, chatting with his American colleagues, she spent her first years in isolation, daunted by her surroundings and kept at home with two small children. Once the children were of school age, Senka's situation only worsened; she watched her little girl and boy grow more and more independent and incomprehensible; they no longer needed her, and her own poor English barred her from pursuing any meaningful career. In Serbia she'd been an articulate student, as ambitious as her husband, but here she felt trapped, confined to menial housework, to stuttering stiff formulations, robbed of humor and grace. Only those who knew her in her native language knew her at all, she insisted; and if she must live in a nation of strangers, at least her own children should be made to understand her.
…she was her father's daughter, finally, and meant to live as he'd intended her to: American and free. Americans didn't abandon their lives to care for aging parents. They didn't yield their twenties, that precious, most selfish decade, that brief time in which her ambitious countrymen must accomplish so much: build a career, attract a successful and stimulating yet reliable spouse and, in the meantime, rack up experiences sufficient to console them through the next several decades of at least relative monogamy, part-time parental obligation, and whatever professional and personal stagnation would inevitably assault their impossibly high expectations. A satisfactory twenties was an inoculation against mid-life crisis, and if Uncle Vasily had the first clue about the particular perils of affluent, modern, Western life, he'd have understood that her years of immersion in superficiality were in fact the most responsible course of action she could take.
come to my blog!["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>Storrow had been too perfect a target, after all: too well dressed and too well spoken, with a high Virginia drawl and the sort of fair, delicate good looks that called to mind outdated notions like breeding.
Whatever his faults, Storrow was a good man, Charles believed. He might even turn out to be a great man … There was a tragic element to the man: in his outmoded brand of dignity.
A man like Storrow, so devoted to the perfection of his image; he wouldn’t allow himself to be remembered as a villain, or to be forgotten either.