"That dream again-the clanging, clattering donkey, the gypsy
peddler, the storm-then waking in a pool of sweat, panting,
panic-stricken, disoriented, still hearing the sound of his own
terror-filled voice shouting "Mama " as lightning flashed and cold
rain coursed down his tear-streaked face, soaking his hair, his
shirt, his shoes. He was lost His heart raced, his breath came in
spasmodic gulps. There was no Mama. Mama was dead And somehow it
was his fault "No, it was just a dream, just a terrible dream. He
was not that child, not anymore, not now as he peered through the
steamy summer darkness seeking reassurance. Where was he? His
sleep-saturated brain told him he was floating on a cloud
surrounded by fluttering, filmy waves, flickering lamps, twinkling
dots of distant light, and just there, almost directly overhead, a
great white beacon drawing him upwards. Was this heaven? Was that
beacon Mama? Don't be silly It was the moon, and there, her back
turned to him, lay Evie, and beyond her Papa and Mama Vera and the
girls, all sleeping soundly on the crowded fire escape."-from the
Prologue to "Sleepy Hollow." Plagued by feelings of guilt over the
death of his mother, intimidated by the foreignness and pace of
life in America, the young immigrant protagonist of this novel set
in New York City's Lower East Side at the turn of the last century,
finds unexpected redemption in the landscape and language of a
literary classic from his adopted home.
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