ShopSpell

A Soldier of the Great War [Paperback]

$19.99       (Free Shipping)
25 available
  • Category: Books (Fiction)
  • Author:  Helprin, Mark
  • Author:  Helprin, Mark
  • ISBN-10:  0156031132
  • ISBN-10:  0156031132
  • ISBN-13:  9780156031134
  • ISBN-13:  9780156031134
  • Publisher:  Mariner Books
  • Publisher:  Mariner Books
  • Pages:  880
  • Pages:  880
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Pub Date:  01-Jun-2005
  • Pub Date:  01-Jun-2005
  • SKU:  0156031132-11-MING
  • SKU:  0156031132-11-MING
  • Item ID: 100385634
  • Seller: ShopSpell
  • Ships in: 2 business days
  • Transit time: Up to 5 business days
  • Delivery by: Nov 27 to Nov 29
  • Notes: Brand New Book. Order Now.

From acclaimed novelist Mark Helprin, a lush, literary epic about love, beauty, and the world at war

 

Alessandro Giuliani, the young son of a prosperous Roman lawyer, enjoys an idyllic life full of privilege: he races horses across the country to the sea, he climbs mountains in the Alps, and, while a student of painting at the ancient university in Bologna, he falls in love. Then the Great War intervenes. Half a century later, in August of 1964, Alessandro, a white-haired professor, tall and proud, meets an illiterate young factory worker on the road. As they walk toward Monte Prato, a village seventy kilometers away, the old man—a soldier and a hero who became a prisoner and then a deserter, wandering in the hell that claimed Europe—tells him how he tragically lost one family and gained another. The boy, envying the richness and drama of Alessandro's experiences, realizes that this magnificent tale is not merely a story: it's a recapitulation of his life, his reckoning with mortality, and above all, a love song for his family.

ROME, AUGUST

ON THE ninth of August, 1964, Rome lay asleep in afternoon light as the sun swirled in a blinding pinwheel above its roofs, its low hills, and its gilded domes. The city was quiet and all was still except the crowns of a few slightly swaying pines, one lost and tentative cloud, and an old man who rushed through the Villa Borghese, alone. Limping along paths of crushed stone and tapping his cane as he took each step, he raced across intricacies of sunlight and shadow spread before him on the dark garden floor like golden lace.

Alessandro Giuliani was tall and unbent, and his buoyant white hair fell and floated about his head like the white water in the curl of a wave. Perhaps because he had been without his family, solitary for so long, the deer in deer preserves and even in the wild sometimes allowed him to stroke their cloud-spotted flanks and touch their faces. And on thl#,