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A Region Not Home

Reflections from Exile

by James Alan McPherson


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This collection of essays by a distinguished short-story writer includes his views on Disneyland, his relationship with his daughter, and his life in Iowa City, where he has taught writing at the Iowa Writer's Workshop.


Available editions of A Region Not Home

9780684870205 9780684870205, Paperback, Simon & Schuster, 2001

$2.85 (Good)

Other copies of 9780684870205
   
9780743249966 9780743249966, Paperback, Free Pr, 2009

None currently available
   
9780684834641 9780684834641, Hardcover, Simon & Schuster, 1999

$1.00 (Very Good )

Other copies of 9780684834641
   

Publisher Notes

The Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Elbow Room shares his observations on a wide range of topics, from the significance of Disneyland, to waiting in airports, to the cruel rituals of fraternity hazing.

Media Reviews

"The search for the self demanded that McPherson take a road out, beyond the available communities of consensus. But in the end the promise he has attempted to make to history has rewarded him with numerous roads in, to classical history, to his own past--depicted here in vividly crafted waves of narrative--to the wisdom of his own people. That this is such a profoundly moral book does not detract in any way from the great pleasures of its prose."

First Line

In 1974, during the last months of the Nixon administration, I lived in San Francisco, California. My public reason for leaving the East and going there was that my wife had been admitted to the San Francisco Medical Center School of Nursing, but my private reason for going was that San Francisco would be a very good place for working and for walking. Actually, during that time San Francisco was not that pleasant a place. We lived in a section of the city called the Sunset District, but it rained almost every day. During the late spring Patricia Hearst helped to rob a bank a few blocks from our apartment, a psychopath called "The Zebra Killer" was terrorizing the city, and the mayor seemed about to declare martial law. Periodically the FBI would come to my apartment with pictures of the suspected bank robbers. Agents came several times, until it began to dawn on me that they had become slightly interested in why, of all the people in a working-class neighborhood, I alone say at home every day. They never asked any questions on this point, and I never volunteered that I was trying to keep my sanity by working very hard on a book dealing with the relationship between folklore and technology in nineteenth-century America.

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