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  • 35 of 36 copies available at Bibliomation.
Location Call Number / Copy Notes Barcode Shelving Location Status Due Date
Babcock Library - Ashford F Rot (Text to phone) 33110143464285 Adult Fiction Checked out 10/07/2020
Bethel Public Library F ROTH (Text to phone) 34030084843900 Adult Fiction Available -
Burnham Library - Bridgewater FIC ROTH (Text to phone) 36937002032572 Adult Fiction Available -
C.H. Booth Library - Newtown FIC ROTH (Text to phone) 34014083583105 Adult Fiction Available -
Chester Public Library ROT (Text to phone) 33210000111944 Adult Fiction Available -
Deep River Public Library F Roth (Text to phone) 36039000253779 Adult Fiction Available -
Derby Neck Library FIC ROT (Text to phone) 34046083620453 Adult Fiction Available -
Douglas Library - North Canaan F ROT (Text to phone) 33490000226070 Adult Fiction Available -
Douglas Library of Hebron FIC ROT (Text to phone) 33400000434058 Adult Fiction Available -
Easton Public Library FIC ROTH, PHILIP (Text to phone) 37777007002660 Adult Fiction Available -
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Content descriptions

Target Audience Note:
Adult
Subject: Passing (Identity) > Fiction.
African American men > Fiction.
Jewish men > Fiction.
College teachers > Fiction.
Newark (N.J.) > Fiction.
Genre: Psychological fiction.
Topic Heading: Connecticut author

Syndetic Solutions - Excerpt for ISBN Number 0618059458
The Human Stain
The Human Stain
by Roth, Philip
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Excerpt

The Human Stain

1 Everyone Knows It was in the summer of 1998 that my neighbor Coleman Silk-who, before retiring two years earlier, had been a classics professor at nearby Athena College for some twenty-odd years as well as serving for sixteen more as the dean of faculty-confided to me that, at the age of seventy-one, he was having an affair with a thirty-four-year- old cleaning woman who worked down at the college. Twice a week she also cleaned the rural post office, a small gray clapboard shack that looked as if it might have sheltered an Okie family from the winds of the Dust Bowl back in the 1930s and that, sitting alone and forlorn across from the gas station and the general store, flies its American flag at the junction of the two roads that mark the commercial center of this mountainside town. Coleman had first seen the woman mopping the post office floor when he went around late one day, a few minutes before closing time, to get his mail-a thin, tall, angular woman with graying blond hair yanked back into a ponytail and the kind of severely sculpted features customarily associated with the church-ruled, hardworking goodwives who suffered through New England's harsh beginnings, stern colonial women locked up within the reigning morality and obedient to it. Her name was Faunia Farley, and whatever miseries she endured she kept concealed behind one of those inexpressive bone faces that hide nothing and bespeak an immense loneliness. Faunia lived in a room at a local dairy farm where she helped with the milking in order to pay her rent. She'd had two years of high school education. The summer that Coleman took me into his confidence about Faunia Farley and their secret was the summer, fittingly enough, that Bill Clinton's secret emerged in every last mortifying detail-every last lifelike detail, the livingness, like the mortification, exuded by the pungency of the specific data. We hadn't had a season like it since somebody stumbled upon the new Miss America nude in an old issue of Penthouse, pictures of her elegantly posed on her knees and on her back that forced the shamed young woman to relinquish her crown and go on to become a huge pop star. Ninety-eight in New England was a summer of exquisite warmth and sunshine, in baseball a summer of mythical battle between a home-run god who was white and a home-run god who was brown, and in America the summer of an enormous piety binge, a purity binge, when terrorism-which had replaced communism as the prevailing threat to the country's security-was succeeded by cocksucking, and a virile, youthful middle-aged president and a brash, smitten twenty-one-year-old employee carrying on in the Oval Office like two teenage kids in a parking lot revived America's oldest communal passion, historically perhaps its most treacherous and subversive pleasure: the ecstasy of sanctimony. In the Congress, in the press, and on the networks, the righteous grandstanding creeps, crazy to blame, deplore, and punish, were eve Excerpted from The Human Stain: A Novel by Philip Roth All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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