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Quote by Kate Braverman

“This southern city which seems only peripherally and accidentally America. This city which was once an outpost of Spain and once a region of Mexico. This city webbed with boulevards bearing the names of Spanish psychotics and saints. This incomplete city which seems to have no recognizable past, no ground that could be called unassailably sacred. This incomplete city that speaks of an impending terror.”

Book:Palm Latitudes

Work

Palm Latitudes

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Author

Kate Braverman

Kate Braverman, born in 1950, is an American novelist known for her works set in the American Midwest, which explore profound themes of family, identity, and the human condition. more

“Now the wind begins to stir. They call this a Santa Ana, this wind which comes from the desert beyond the city, unpredictable and fierce, scenting the irradiated night with sagebrush and sand. She takes pleasure in the way it howls through its broken Spanish mouth, shattering leaves, breaking the branches of trees, etching its insistent southern story in a braille of twisted fronds. She enjoys the stillness in the mornings after the winds have passed, after the winds have ripped the palms, made confetti of the pale listless fronds, dragged their anemic sun-drained fronds to the ground. Then the city has been purified. A sense of salt lingers. The calligraphy is obvious. At such moments she understands exactly what God is saying. His voice rises with the clarity of church bells above the debris. And God is saying the party is over.”

Californiana

Book:Palm Latitudes

Source: Palm Latitudes

“I had a stack of books of fabulous contemporary writers who'd left their roots and who seemed invigorated thereby. Isabel Allende from Chile to California, Clarice Lispector from Russian to Brazil, Haruki Murakami from Japan to Italy, Kazuo Ishiguro from Japan to England. I knew I wasn't going back to New England, that I'd found my real homeland. North California was where my characters wanted to be.”

Place Californiana

Author:Susan Trott

“What happened in New York and Washington and abroad seemed to impinge not at all upon the Sacramento min. I remember being taken to call upon a very old woman, a rancher's widow, who was reminiscing (the favored conversational mode in Sacramento) about the son of some contemporaries of hers. 'That Johnston boy never did amount to much,' she said. Desultorily, my mother protested: Alva Johnston, she said, had won the Pulitzer Prize, when he was working for The New York Times. Our hostess looked at us impassively. 'He never amounted to anything in Sacramento,' she said.”

New York Times Sacramento

Book:Slouching towards Bethlehem

Source: Slouching towards Bethlehem

“In these days of living in a dry land that wants fire, we need to find words, or burn. 'I dreamt of rain last night.' Mai stood near my skin, on the bank of the American River, her flesh wet with simplicity. The scent of star thistle mixed with river mud. ' I met people in my dreams who had never known the inside of a lotus flower. Ever.' In the center of each word another word unfolded. Our ankles cold from the river. Her hands trembled. Bewildered fingers. Be careful around those who claim to know the history of fire and yet remain unafraid of rain.”