A Flag for Sunrise
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An emotional, dramatic and philosophical novel about Americans drawn into a small Central American country on the brink of revolution.
mind,” Naftali said. “Now answer.” “I got no idea in hell.” “Try harder.” “I suppose I’d be a lifer in the Coast Guard.” “Harder.” “I’d do things different.” Then to his own surprise he said: “Maybe I’d be a better father.” “Ah,” Naftali said. “Now you’re talking. Father to whom?” “You want to know my story do you, mister?” “I do. In your own words.” “I got a little boy. Nine. I was just wishin’ he had a better father. It just come to me here.” “Then why do you have to be a thief?”
penance and to amend my life, amen. To struggle unceasingly in the name of history. Gimme a flag, gimme a drum roll, I’m gonna be there on that morning, yes I am. And it won’t be the me you think you see. It’ll be the worthy revolutionary twice-born me. The objective historical unceasingly struggling me. The good me. And if I’m not there on that morning, she thought, I won’t be anywhere at all. She walked a few steps into the mild surf, wetting her chino trousers to the knee, and cupped two
brought everything round full circle. He had been elected to awareness, and while awareness had its satisfactions, it was not easy to watch all the world’s deluded wandering across the battlefield of a long-ago lost war. One had to close the heart to pity—if one could. The truth was a fine thing, but it had to be its own reward. Much later the edges of the world came alight and Holliwell was relieved at first, but soon he realized that there was much to dread. Fearfully he looked eastward,
did? Never mind,” he told Oscar, cutting off an apology. “It’s comfortable. It’s different.” Oscar got behind the wheel. Holliwell gave the hotel lackey who opened the door for him a grenada. “Look, I’m mortified by this,” Oscar said. “My place is small and I’m not alone there.” “Come on, Oscar. It’s fine. And you have more important things on your mind.” It was strange, he thought. Laura Ocampo had put up with so much for so many years. Was there female consciousness raising even in
second reef, the bottom fell away abruptly; the water beneath his keel was hundreds of fathoms deep. Wide-eyed, Father Egan forced open the bag’s zipper and dropped both anchors inside, then looped the wire line around both ends of the bag, leaving the rest of the coil in snarled dangling confusion. A short distance from the boat, two bonito jumped, their bodies glinting silver, avoiding a shark. He put the light end over first, and then kneeling in the scuppers, with his hands as a scoop he