Carry me, son. Do not leave me behind.
Are you listening to me?
Of course you're listening, you say, and add the F-word. Off you go to cope with a storm. Lucerne armfuls for horses. For cows, plain hay.
Alone in the paddocks of his grass hotel a man tends to his beloved horses, Socks and Boy. The voice of his mother-accusatory, fragmenting from dementia-haunts his every move, an excoriating reminder of his failures in the world of people.
The Grass Hotel is a story of damage and repair, of familial obligation and the resentments it can cause. It is also about the profound comfort that a connection with animals can offer.
With its extraordinary use of language, Craig Sherborne's novel is by turns savage and tender, raw and poetic- a small masterpiece.
Are you listening to me?
Of course you're listening, you say, and add the F-word. Off you go to cope with a storm. Lucerne armfuls for horses. For cows, plain hay.
Alone in the paddocks of his grass hotel a man tends to his beloved horses, Socks and Boy. The voice of his mother-accusatory, fragmenting from dementia-haunts his every move, an excoriating reminder of his failures in the world of people.
The Grass Hotel is a story of damage and repair, of familial obligation and the resentments it can cause. It is also about the profound comfort that a connection with animals can offer.
With its extraordinary use of language, Craig Sherborne's novel is by turns savage and tender, raw and poetic- a small masterpiece.
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