Miguel street naipaul pdf download

There, homesick Moses Aloetta, who has already lived in the city for years, meets Henry 'Sir Galahad' Oliver and shows him the ropes. In this strange, cold and foggy city where the natives can be less than friendly at the sight of a black face, has Galahad met his Waterloo? But the irrepressible newcomer cannot be cast down. He and all the other lonely new Londoners - from shiftless Cap to Tolroy, whose family has descended on him from Jamaica - must try to create a new life for themselves.

As pessimistic 'old veteran' Moses watches their attempts, they gradually learn to survive and come to love the heady excitements of London. Sam Selvon b. Jaime is sitting on his bed drawing when he hears a scream. Instantly, he knows: Miguel, his cousin and best friend, is dead.

Anyone who refuses to work for them is hurt or killed—like Miguel. With Miguel gone, Jaime fears that he is next. Inspired by true events, The Only Road is an individual story of a boy who feels that leaving his home and risking everything is his only chance for a better life. The autobiographical novel of a journey from the British colony of Trinidad to the ancient countryside of England. The House on Mango Street is the remarkable story of Esperanza Cordero, a young Latina girl growing up in Chicago, inventing for herself who and what she will become.

Told in a series of vignettes-sometimes heartbreaking, sometimes deeply joyous-Sandra Cisneros' masterpiece is a classic story of childhood and self-discovery. Few other books in our time have touched so many readers. His young student, Miguel, sets out to investigate the author's fatal departure from his encroaching obscurity and the suspicious disappearance of an unfinished manuscript—a work that had been planned to not just return the once-great author to fame, but to expose the corruption behind rich families who have ruled the Philippines for generations.

To understand the death, Miguel scours the life, charting Salvador's trajectory via his poetry, stories, interviews, novels, polemics, and memoirs. The literary fragments become patterns become stories become epic: a family saga of four generations tracing years of a country's history forged under the Spanish, Americans, and Filipinos themselves.

In the end, the story twists, belonging to young Miguel as much as his lost mentor, and readers are treated to an unhindered view of a tropical Third World society caught between reckless decay and hopeful progress. In this astonishingly inventive and bold novel, Syjuco explores fatherhood, regret, revolution, and the mysteries of lives lived and abandoned. One of the finest living writers in the English language, V. Naipaul gives us a tale as wholly unexpected as it is affecting, his first novel since the exultantly acclaimed A Way in the World, published seven years ago.

Half a Life is the story of Willie Chandran, whose father, heeding the call of Mahatma Gandhi, turned his back on his brahmin heritage and married a woman of low caste—a disastrous union he would live to regret, as he would the children that issued from it. The dog was like Man-man in a way, too.

It was a curious dog. It never barked, never looked at you, and if you looked at it, it looked away. Man-man loved his dog, and the dog loved Man-man. One morning, several women got up to find that the clothes they had left to bleach overnight had been sullied by the droppings of a dog.

No one wanted to use the sheets and the shirts after that, and when Man- man called, everyone was willing to give him the dirty clothes. Man-man used to sell these clothes. We in Miguel Street became a little proud of him. Perhaps the death of his dog had something to do with it. The dog was run over by a car, and it gave, Hat said, just one short squeak, and then it was silent. Man-man wandered about for days, looking dazed and lost.

He no longer wrote words on the pavement; no longer spoke to me or to any of the other boys in the street. He began talking to himself, clasping his hands and shaking as though he had ague. Then one day he said he had seen God after having a bath. Seeing God was quite common in Port of Spain and, indeed, in Trinidad at that time.

Ganesh Pundit, the mystic masseur from Fuente Grove, had started it. Many rival mystics and not a few masseurs had announced the same thing, and I suppose it was natural that since God was in the area Man- man should see Him. He did this every Saturday night. He let his beard grow and he dressed in a long white robe.

He got a Bible and other holy things and stood in the white light of an acetylene lamp and preached. He was an impressive preacher, and he preached inanodd way. He made women cry, and he made people like Hat really worried. These days you hear all the politicians and them talking about making the island self-sufficient. Last night self, just after I finish eating? He show me father eating son and mother eating daughter. He show me brother eating sister and sister eating brother.

That is what these politicians and them mean by saying that the island going to become self-sufficient. But, brethren, it not too late now to turn to God. But the odd thing was that the more he frightened people the more they came to hear him preach. And when the collection was made they gave him more than ever. In the week-days he just walked about, in his white robe, and he begged for food. He said he had done what Jesus ordered and he had given away all his goods. Man-man announced that he was a new Messiah.

He say he going to be crucified one of these days. He going to crucify hisself. One of these Fridays he going to Blue Basin and tie hisself to a cross and let people stone him.

But on top of our wonder and worry, we had this great pride in knowing that Man-man came from Miguel Street.

There were lots of men dressed in black and even more women dressed in white. They were singing hymns. There were also about twenty policemen, but they were not singing hymns. When Man-man appeared, looking very thin and very holy, women cried and rushed to touch his gown. The police stood by, prepared to handle anything. A van came with a great wooden cross.

It light light. Is the heart and the spirit that matter. His English accent sounded impressive in the early morning. Leave it for Blue Basin. We walked to Blue Basin, the waterfall in the mountains to the northwest of Port of Spain, and we got there in two hours. Man-man began carrying the cross from the road, up the rocky path and then down to the Basin.

Some men put up the cross, and tied Man-man to it. I forgive you. Man-man looked hurt and surprised. What the hell you people think you doing? Look, get me down from this thing quick, let me down quick, and I go settle with that son of a bitch who pelt a stone at me.

A bigger stone struck Man-man; the women flung the sand and gravel at him. Cut it out, I tell you. I finish with this arseness, you hear. The police took away Man-man. The authorities kept him for observation. Then for good.

At about ten an Indian came in his dhoti and white jacket, and we poured a tin of rice into the sack he carried on his back. At twelve an old woman smoking a clay pipe came and she got a cent. At two a blind man led by a boy called for his penny.

Sometimes we had a rogue. One day a man called and said he was hungry. We gave him a meal. That man never came again. I had come back from school and was in my home-clothes. He wore a hat, a white shirt and black trousers. He say he want to watch the bees. You have done a good deed today. We watched the bees, this man and I, for about an hour, squatting near the palm trees. Sonny, do you like watching bees? I can watch ants for days. Have you ever watched ants?

And scorpions, and centipedes, and congorees-have you watched those? Black Wordsworth. White Wordsworth was my brother. We share one heart. I can watch a small flower like the morning glory and cry. You will know when you grow up. For four cents. Only calypsonians do that sort of thing. A lot of people does buy? And when B. Wordsworth left, I prayed I would see him again.

About a week later, coming back from school one afternoon, I met him at the corner of Miguel Street. And now the mangoes are ripe and red and very sweet and juicy.

I have waited here for you to tell you this and to invite you to come and eat some of my mangoes. The yard seemed all green. There was the big mango tree. There was a coconut tree and there was a plum tree. He was right. The mangoes were sweet and juicy. I ate about six, and the yellow mango juice ran down my arms to my elbows and down my mouth to my chin and my shirt was stained.

You think you is a man now and could go all over the place? Go cut a whip for me. I went to B. I was so angry, my nose was bleeding. We went for a walk. We walked down St Clair Avenue to the Savannah and we walked to the race-course. I felt like nothing, and at the same time I had never felt so big and great in all my life. I forgot all my anger and all my tears and all the blows. I can spot Orion even today, but I have forgotten the rest. Then a light was flashed into our faces, and we saw a policeman.

We got up from the grass. Wordsworth and I. You must keep that a secret. If you tell anybody, I will know, because I am a poet. I liked his little room. But it also looked lonely. Once upon a time a boy and girl met each other and they fell in love. They loved each other so much they got married. They were both poets. He loved words. She loved grass and flowers and trees. And so the garden remained, and grew high and wild.

Wordsworth, and as he told me this lovely story, he seemed to grow older. I understood his story. We went for long walks together. We went to the Botanical Gardens and the Rock Gardens. We climbed Chancellor Hill in the late afternoon and watched the darkness fall on Port of Spain, and watched the lights go on in the city and on the ships in the harbour. He did everything as though he were doing it for the first time in his life. He did everything as though he were doing some church rite.

I am writing a poem. This is the greatest poem in the world. I will finish it in about twenty-two years from now, that is, if I keep on writing at the present rate. I just write one line a month. But I make sure it is a good line. So, in twenty-two years, I shall have written a poem that will sing to all humanity. Our walks continued. Drop your pin, and let us see what will happen. It comes. But of the greatest poem in the world I heard no more.

I felt he was growing older. One day when I went to see him in his little house I found him lying on his little bed. He looked so old and so weak that I found myself wanting to cry. I could see it clearly on his face. It was there for everyone to see. Death on the shrinking face.

He looked at me, and saw my tears and sat up. Do you promise? Well, listen. That story I told you about the boy poet and the girl poet, do you remember that? It was something I just made up.

I left the house and ran home crying, like a poet, for everything I saw. It had been pulled down, and a big, two-storied building had taken its place. The mango tree and the plum tree and the coconut tree had all been cut down, and there was brick and concrete everywhere. It was just as though B.

Wordsworth had never existed. People were afraid of him because he was so silent and sulky; he looked dangerous, like those terrible dogs that never bark but just look at you from the corner of their eyes. We is bosom pals, man.

We grow up together. I know him good good, and if any one of all you touch me, I go tell Big Foot. We in Miguel Street were proud to claim him because he was something of a character in Port of Spain, and had quite a reputation.

It was Big Foot who flung the stone at the Radio Trinidad building one day and broke a window. Then there was the time he got a job driving one of the diesel-buses. He stood by to see that they did. They found him at Dock-site, with the bag half full of letters, soaking his big feet in the Gulf of Paria. You come like a postage stamp, man.

It was people like Big Foot who gave the steel-bands a bad name. Big Foot was always ready to start a fight with another band, but he looked so big and dangerous that he himself was never involved in any fight, and he never went to jail for more than three months or so at a time.

Hat, especially, was afraid of Big Foot. But no. It was on occasions like this that he prepared his sulkiest and grimmest face; and when you saw him beating a pan, you felt, to judge by his earnestness, that he was doing some sacred act. We were sitting in a row, laughing and talking all during the film, having a good time. He lazily pulled out a knife from his trouser pocket, flicked the blade open, and stuck it in the back of my chair. Policeman son and priest son.

Priests and them does have children? It seemed he was as much a terror as Big Foot. That is how he get so big, you know. I meet a boy from Belmont the other day in the savannah, and this boy tell me that blows does make you grow. How you does let people give you stupidness like that? Like medicine. Three times a day after meals.

And hear Big Foot talk afterwards. She used to beat him too? That woulda kill him. Hat began working a small racket. He had five of us going all over the district begging for chewing gum and chocolate.

For every packet of chewing gum we gave him we got a cent. Sometimes I made as much as twelve cents in a day. One afternoon, standing on the pavement outside my house, I saw an American soldier down the street, coming towards me. I think he was drunk. He set his mouth. Not another word was said. The American, suddenly humble, walked away, making a great pretence of not being in a hurry. I was, I believe, a little more afraid of him.

I told Hat about the American and Big Foot. It was a famous thing. A crowd of black people beat him up and kill him in when they was having the riots in the oilfields. Big Foot father was playing hero, just like Big Foot playing hero now. It just funny. The rest of we boys use to give Big Foot hell too. He was thin thin when he was small, you know, and we use to have a helluva time chasing him all over the place. You know the upshot? Big Foot come the best runner out of all of we.

In the school sports he run the hundred yards in ten point four seconds. Anyway, then we all want to come friendly with him. Big Foot became a carpenter for a while, and actually built two or three enormous wardrobes, rough, ugly things. But he sold them. And then he became a mason. There is no stupid pride among Trinidad craftsmen. No one is a specialist. He came to our yard one day to do a job.

I stood by and watched him. I noticed that he used his feet as a trowel. His feet were not big for nothing. I hot and I want to cool off.

We went to the sea-wall at Docksite and watched the sea. Soon it began to grow dark. The lights came on in the harbour.

The world seemed very big, dark, and silent. We stood up without speaking a word. Then a sudden sharp yap very near us tore the silence. The suddenness and strangeness of the noise paralysed me for a moment. It was only a dog; a small white and black dog with large flapping ears. It was dripping wet, and was wagging its tail out of pure friendliness. I had forgotten Big Foot, and when I looked for him I saw him about twenty yards away running for all he was worth. A big big bottle cut up my foot.

But when the dog came to him he seemed to forget his foot which was bleeding badly. He began hugging and stroking the wet dog, and laughing in a crazy way.

I felt like one of those small men in gangster films who know too much and get killed. And thereafter I was always conscious that Big Foot knew what I was thinking. I felt his fear that I would tell. I would have liked to reassure him but there was no means. His presence in the street became something that haunted me.

The Germans strong like hell, you know. A boy was telling me that these Germans and them could eat a nail with their teeth alone. Look, he coming. He was looking at me, and there was a curious look in his eyes. I just saying that the Germans brave as Big Foot.

I looked away. If he think that boxing is just throwing yourself around, he go find out his mistake. But I had no need. His eyes no longer sought mine whenever we met, and he no longer stopped to talk to me. He was the terror of the street. I, like everybody else, was frightened of him. As before, I preferred it that way. He even began showing off more. We used to see him running up and down Miguel Street in stupid-looking maroon shorts and he resolutely refused to notice anybody.

Hat was terrified. The man said he was a boxer and a champion of the Royal Air Force. Next morning his picture appeared. Two days later another picture of him appeared. This time he was dressed only in black shorts, and he had squared up towards the cameraman with his boxing gloves on.

Miguel Street was in the news, and even Hat was pleased. We turned up in strength at the stadium on the night. And, in truth, when Big Foot came out to the ring, dancing disdainfully in the ring, without looking at anybody in the crowd, we felt pleased. I looked all the time at the only woman in the crowd. I will definitely recommend this book to fiction, short stories lovers. Your Rating:. Your Comment:. Naipaul Free Download pages Author V. Naipaul Submitted by: Jane Kivik.

Read Online Download. A critical overview of V. Naipaul's major fictional and non-fictional publications to date. For the first time the Dutch-speaking regions of the Caribbean and Suriname are brought into fruitful dialogue with another major American literature, that of the anglophone Caribbean.

The results are as stimulating as they are unexpected. The editors have coordinated the work of a distinguished international team of specialists. Read separately or as a set of three volumes, the History of Literature in the Caribbean is designed to serve as the primary reference book in this area. The reader can follow the comparative evolution of a literary genre or plot the development of a set of historical problems under the appropriate heading for the English- or Dutch-speaking region.

An extensive index to names and dates of authors and significant historical figures completes the volume. The subeditors bring to their respective specialty areas a wealth of Caribbeanist experience.

Vera M. Ineke Phaf-Rheinberger has been very active in Latin American and Caribbean literary criticism for two decades, first at the Free University in Berlin and later at the University of Maryland. The Mystic Masseur tells the story of Ganesh and his journey from failed primary school teacher and masseur to author, revered mystic and MBE.