A Death in the Family

( 31 )

Overview

Forty years after its original publication, James Agee's last novel seems, more than ever, an American classic. For in his lyrical, sorrowful account of a man's death and its impact on his family, Agee painstakingly created a small world of domestic happiness and then showed how quickly and casually it could be destroyed.

On a sultry summer night in 1915, Jay Follet leaves his house in Knoxville, Tennessee, to tend to his father, whom he ...
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Overview

Forty years after its original publication, James Agee's last novel seems, more than ever, an American classic. For in his lyrical, sorrowful account of a man's death and its impact on his family, Agee painstakingly created a small world of domestic happiness and then showed how quickly and casually it could be destroyed.

On a sultry summer night in 1915, Jay Follet leaves his house in Knoxville, Tennessee, to tend to his father, whom he believes is dying. The summons turns out to be a false alarm, but on his way back to his family, Jay has a car accident and is killed instantly. Dancing back and forth in time and braiding the viewpoints of Jay's wife, brother, and young son, Rufus, Agee creates an overwhelmingly powerful novel of innocence, tenderness, and loss that should be read aloud for the sheer music of its prose.

"An utterly individual and original book...one of the most deeply worked out expressions of human feeling that I have ever read."—Alfred Kazin, New York Times Book Review

"It is, in the full sense, poetry....The language of the book, at once luminous and discreet...remains in the mind."—New Republic

"People I know who read A Death in the Family forty years ago still talk about it. So do I. It is a great book, and I'm happy to see it done anew."—Andre Dubus, author of Dancing After Hours and Meditations From A Moveable Chair
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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Agee's classic novel, posthumously published after his death at the age of 45, is considered one of the great American novels of childhood and domestic life, as well as a marvel of Southern literature. The book chronicles the effect of the un-expected death of Jay Follet-who is killed in a car accident after visiting his father-on his wife, son, and brother. Lloyd James narrates gently, kindly, as if wanting to not disturb the mourners in their grief. He tiptoes through the book, confident that his polite, soft reading best suits Agee's bittersweet story. James's words echo across the gaps between sentences and paragraph, and he uses pauses wisely, knowing that Agee's prose resonates in the steadily accumulating drizzle of emotion. There is no need to oversell; the book's rhythms dictate the tone of its narration. A Penguin Classics paperback.
(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780143115847
  • Publisher: Penguin Group (USA) Incorporated
  • Publication date: 9/28/2008
  • Pages: 320
  • Sales rank: 145,501
  • Product dimensions: 5.00 (w) x 7.70 (h) x 0.60 (d)

Meet the Author

James Agee (1909-1955) is the author of Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, the renowned study of Alabama sharecroppers during the Depression. Born in Tennessee, he died two years before the publication of A Death in the Family, his best-known work.

Steve Earle is an American singer-songwriter, political activist, and author of the short story collection Doghouse Roses. Born in Virginia, he lives with his wife in New York City.

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

At supper that night, as many times before, his father said, "Well, spose we go to the picture show."

"Oh, Jay!" his mother said. "That horrid little man!"

"What's wrong with him?" his father asked, not because he didn't know what she would say, but so she would say it.

"He's so nasty!"she said, as she always did. "So vulgar! With his nasty little cane; hooking up skirts and things, and that nasty little walk!"

His father laughed, as he always did, and Rufus felt that it had become rather an empty joke; but as always the laughter also cheered him; he felt that the laughter enclosed him with his father.

They walked downtown in the light of mother-of-pearl, to the Majestic, and found their way to seats by the light of the screen, in the exhilarating smell of stale tobacco, rank sweat, perfume and dirty drawers, while the piano played fast music and galloping horses raised a grandiose flag of dust. And there was William S. Hart with both guns blazing and his long, horse face and his long, hard lip, and the great country rode away behind him as wide as the world. Then he made a bashful face at a girl and his horse raised its upper lip and everybody laughed, and then the screen was filled with a city and with the sidewalk of a side street of a city, a long line of palms and there was Charlie; everyone laughed the minute they saw him squattily walking with his toes out and his knees wide apart, as if he were chafed; Rufus' father laughed, and Rufus laughed too. This time Charlie stole a whole bag of eggs and when a cop came along he hid them in the seat of his pants. Then he caught sight of a pretty woman and he began to squat and twirl his cane and make silly faces. She tossed her head and walked away with her chin up high and her dark mouth as small as she could make it and he followed her very busily, doing all sorts of things with his cane that made everybody laugh, but she paid no attention. Finally she stopped at a corner to wait for a streetcar, turning her back to him, and pretending he wasn't even there, and after trying to get her attention for a while, and not succeeding, he looked out at the audience, shrugged his shoulders, and acted as if she wasn't there. But after tapping his foot for a little, pretending he didn't care, he became interested again, and with a charming smile, tipped his derby; but she only stiffened, and tossed her head again, and everybody laughed. Then he walked back and forth behind her, looking at her and squatting a little while he walked very quietly, and everybody laughed again; then he flicked hold of the straight end of his cane and, with the crooked end, hooked up her skirt to the knee, in exactly the way that disgusted Mama, looking very eagerly at her legs, and everybody laughed loudly; but she pretended she had not noticed. Then he twirled his cane and suddenly squatted, bending the cane and hitching up his pants, and again hooked up her skirt so that you could see the panties she wore, ruffled almost like the edges of curtains, and everybody whooped with laughter, and she suddenly turned in rage and gave him a shove in the chest, and he sat down straight-legged, hard enough to hurt, and everybody whooped again; and she walked haughtily away up the street, forgetting about the streetcar, "mad as a hornet!" as his father exclaimed in delight; and there was Charlie, flat on his bottom on the sidewalk, and the way he looked, kind of sickly and disgusted, you could see that he suddenly remembered those eggs, and suddenly you remembered them too. The way his face looked, with the lip wrinkled off the teeth and the sickly little smile, it made you feel just the way those broken eggs must feel against your seat, as queer and awful as that time in the white pekay suit, when it ran down out of the pants-legs and showed all over your stockings and you had to walk home that way with people looking; and Rufus' father nearly tore his head off laughing and so did everybody else, and Rufus was sorry for Charlie, having been so recently in a similar predicament, but the contagion of laughter was too much for him, and he laughed too. And then it was even funnier when Charlie very carefully got himself up from the sidewalk, with that sickly look even worse on his face, and put his cane under one arm, and began to pick up his pants, front and back, very carefully, with his little fingers crooked, as if it were too dirty to touch, picking the sticky cloth away from his skin. Then he reached behind him and took out the wet bag of broken eggs and opened it and peered in; and took out a broken egg and pulled the shell disgustedly apart, letting the elastic yolk slump from one half shell into the other, and dropped it, shuddering. Then he peered in again and fished out a whole egg, all slimy with broken yolk, and polished it off carefully on his sleeve, and looked at it, and wrapped it in his dirty handkerchief, and put it carefully into the vest pocket of his little coat. Then he whipped out his cane from under his armpit and took command of it again, and with a final look at everybody, still sickly but at the same time cheerful, shrugged his shoulders and turned his back and scraped backward with his big shoes at the broken shells and the slimy bag, just like a dog, and looked back at the mess (everybody laughed again at that) and started to walk away, bending his cane deep with every shuffle, and squatting deeper, with his knees wider apart, than ever before, constantly picking at the seat of his pants with his left hand, and shaking one foot, then the other, and once gouging deep into his seat and then pausing and shaking his whole body, like a wet dog, and then walking on; while the screen shut over his small image a sudden circle of darkness: then the player-piano changed its tune, and the ads came in motionless color. They sat on into the William S. Hart feature to make sure why he had killed the man with the fancy vest--it was as they had expected by her frightened, pleased face after the killing; he had insulted a girl and cheated her father as well--and Rufus' father said, "Well, reckon this is where we came in," but they watched him kill the man all over again; then they walked out.

It was full dark now, but still early; Gay Street was full of absorbed faces; many of the store windows were still alight. Plaster people, in ennobled postures, stiffly wore untouchably new clothes; there was even a little boy, with short, straight pants, bare knees and high socks, obviously a sissy: but he wore a cap, all the same, not a hat like a baby. Rufus' whole insides lifted and sank as he looked at the cap and he looked up at his father; but his father did not notice; his face was wrapped in good humor, the memory of Charlie. Remembering his rebuff of a year ago, even though it had been his mother, Rufus was afraid to speak of it. His father wouldn't mind, but she wouldn't want him to have a cap, yet. If he asked his father now, his father would say no, Charlie Chaplin was enough. He watched the absorbed faces pushing past each other and the great bright letters of the signs: "Sterchi's." "George's." I can read them now, he reflected. I even know how to say "Sturkeys." But he thought it best not to say so; he remembered how his father had said, "Don't you brag," and he had been puzzled and rather stupid in school for several days, because of the stern tone in his voice.

What was bragging? It was bad.

They turned aside into a darker street, where the fewer faces looked more secret, and came into the odd, shaky light of Market Square. It was almost empty at this hour, but here and there, along the pavement streaked with horse urine, a wagon stayed still, and low firelight shone through the white cloth shell stretched tightly on its hickory hoops. A dark-faced man leaned against the white brick wall, gnawing a turnip; he looked at them low, with sad, pale eyes. When Rufus' father raised his hand in silent greeting, he raised his hand, but less, and Rufus, turning, saw how he looked sorrowfully, somehow dangerously, after them. They passed a wagon in which a lantern burned low orange; there lay a whole family, large and small, silent, asleep. In the tail of one wagon a woman sat, her face narrow beneath her flare of sunbonnet, her dark eyes in its shade, like smudges of soot. Rufus' father averted his eyes and touched his straw hat lightly; and Rufus, looking back, saw how her dead eyes kept looking gently ahead of her.

"Well," his father said, "reckon I'll hoist me a couple."

They turned through the swinging doors into a blast of odor and sound. There was no music: only the density of bodies and of the smell of a market bar, of beer, whiskey and country bodies, salt and leather; no clamor, only the thick quietude of crumpled talk. Rufus stood looking at the light on a damp spittoon and he heard his father ask for whiskey, and knew he was looking up and down the bar for men he might know. But they seldom came from so far away as the Powell River Valley; and Rufus soon realized that his father had found, tonight, no one he knew. He looked up his father's length and watched him bend backwards tossing one off in one jolt in a lordly manner, and a moment later heard him say to the man next him, "That's my boy"; and felt a warmth of love. Next moment he felt his father's hands under his armpits, and he was lifted, high, and seated on the bar, looking into a long row of huge bristling and bearded red faces. The eyes of the men nearest him were interested, and kind; some of them smiled; further away, the eyes were impersonal and questioning, but now even some of these began to smile. Somewhat timidly, but feeling assured that his father was proud of him and that he was liked, and liked these men, he smiled back; and suddenly many of the men laughed. He was disconcerted by their laughter and lost his smile a moment; then, realizing it was friendly, smiled again; and again they laughed. His father smiled at him. "That's my boy," he said warmly. "Six years old, and he can already read like I couldn't read when I was twice his age."

Rufus felt a sudden hollowness in his voice, and all along the bar, and in his own heart. But how does he fight, he thought. You don't brag about smartness if your son is brave. He felt the anguish of shame, but his father did not seem to notice, except that as suddenly as he had lifted him up to the bar, he gently lifted him down again. "Reckon I'll have another," he said, and drank it more slowly; then, with a few good nights, they went out.

His father proffered a Life Saver, courteously, man to man; he took it with a special sense of courtesy. It sealed their contract. Only once had his father felt it necessary to say to him, "I wouldn't tell your mama, if I were you"; he had known, from then on, that he could trust Rufus; and Rufus had felt gratitude in this silent trust. They walked away from Market Square, along a dark and nearly empty street, sucking their Life Savers; and Rufus' father reflected, without particular concern, that Life Savers were not quite life saver enough; he had better play very tired tonight, and turn away the minute they got in bed.

The deaf and dumb asylum was deaf and dumb, his father observed very quietly, as if he were careful not to wake it, as he always did on these evenings; its windows showed black in its pale brick, as the nursing woman's eyes, and it stood deep and silent among the light shadows of its trees. Ahead, Asylum Avenue lay bleak beneath its lamps. Latticed in pawnshop iron, an old saber caught the glint of a street lamp, a mandolin's belly glowed. In a closed drug store stood Venus de Milo, her golden body laced in elastic straps. The stained glass of the L&N Depot smoldered like an exhausted butterfly, and at the middle of the viaduct they paused to inhale the burst of smoke from a switch engine which passed under; Rufus, lifted, the cinders stinging his face, was grateful no longer to feel fear at this suspension over the tracks and the powerful locomotives. Far down the yard, a red light flicked to green; a moment later, they heard the thrilling click. It was ten-seven by the depot clock. They went on, more idly than before.

If I could fight, thought Rufus. If I were brave; he would never brag how I could read: Brag. Of course, "Don't you brag." That was it. What it meant. Don't brag you're smart if you're not brave. You've got nothing to brag about. Don't you brag.

The young leaves of Forest Avenue wavered against street lamps and they approached their corner.

It was a vacant lot, part rubbed bare clay, part over-grown with weeds, rising a little from the sidewalk. A few feet in from the sidewalk there was a medium-sized tree and, near enough to be within its shade in daytime, an outcrop of limestone like a great bundle of dirty laundry. If you sat on a certain part of it the trunk of the tree shut off the weak street lamp a block away, and it seemed very dark. Whenever they walked downtown and walked back home, in the evenings, they always began to walk more slowly, from about the middle of the viaduct, and as they came near this corner they walked more slowly still, but with purpose; and paused a moment, at the edge of the sidewalk; then, without speaking, stepped into the dark lot and sat down on the rock, looking out over the steep face of the hill and at the lights of North Knoxville. Deep in the valley an engine coughed and browsed; couplings settled their long chains, and the empty cars sounded like broken drums. A man came up the far side of the street, walking neither slow nor fast, not turning his head, as he paused, and quite surely not noticing them; they watched him until he was out of sight, and Rufus felt, and was sure that his father felt, that though there was no harm in the man and he had as good a right as they did to be there, minding his own business, their journey was interrupted from the moment they first saw him until they saw him out of sight. Once he was out of sight they realized more pleasure in their privacy than before; they really relaxed in it. They looked across the darkness of the lights of North Knoxville. They were aware of the quiet leaves above them, and looked into them and through them. They looked between the leaves into the stars. Usually on these evening waits, or a few minutes before going on home, Rufus' father smoked a cigarette through, and when it was finished, it was time to get up and go on home. But this time he did not smoke. Up to recently he had always said something about Rufus' being tired, when they were still about a block away from the corner; but lately he had not done so, and Rufus realized that his father stopped as much because he wanted to, as on Rufus' account. He was just not in a hurry to get home, Rufus realized; and, far more important, it was clear that he liked to spend these few minutes with Rufus. Rufus had come recently to feel a quiet kind of anticipation of the corner, from the moment they finished crossing the viaduct; and, during the ten to twenty minutes they sat on the rock, a particular kind of contentment, unlike any other that he knew. He did not know what this was, in words or ideas, or what the reason was; it was simply all that he saw and felt. It was, mainly, knowing that his father, too, felt a particular kind of contentment, here, unlike any other, and that their kinds of contentment were much alike, and depended on each other. Rufus seldom had at all sharply the feeling that he and his father were estranged, yet they must have been, and he must have felt it, for always during these quiet moments on the rock a part of his sense of complete contentment lay in the feeling that they were reconciled, that there was really no division, no estrangement, or none so strong, anyhow, that it could mean much, by comparison with the unity that was so firm and assured, here. He felt that although his father loved their home and loved all of them, he was more lonely than the contentment of this family love could help; that it even increased his loneliness, or made it hard for him not to be lonely. He felt that sitting out here, he was not lonely; or if he was, that he felt on good terms with the loneliness; that he was a homesick man, and that here on the rock, though he might be more homesick than ever, he was well. He knew that a very important part of his well-being came of staying a few minutes away from home, very quietly, in the dark, listening to the leaves if they moved, and looking at the stars; and that his own, Rufus' own presence, was fully as indispensable to this well-being. He knew that each of them knew of the other's well-being, and of the reasons for it, and knew how each depended on the other, how each meant more to the other, in this most important of all ways, than anyone or anything else in the world; and that the best of this well-being lay in this mutual knowledge, which was neither concealed nor revealed. He knew these things very distinctly, but not, of course, in any such way as we have of suggesting them in words. There were no words, or even ideas, or formed emotions, of the kind that have been suggested here, no more in the man than in the boy child. These realizations moved clearly through the senses, the memory, the feelings, the mere feeling of the place they paused at, about a quarter of a mile from home, on a rock under a stray tree that had grown in the city, their feet on undomesticated clay, facing north through the night over the Southern Railway tracks and over North Knoxville, towards the deeply folded small mountains and the Powell River Valley, and above them, the trembling lanterns of the universe, seeming so near, so intimate, that when air stirred the leaves and their hair, it seemed to be the breathing, the whispering of the stars. Sometimes on these evenings his father would hum a little and the humming would break open into a word or two, but he never finished even a part of a tune, for silence was even more pleasurable, and sometimes he would say a few words, of very little consequence, but would never seek to say much, or to finish what he was saying, or to listen for a reply; for silence again was even more pleasurable. Sometimes, Rufus had noticed, he would stroke the wrinkled rock and press his hand firmly against it; and sometimes he would put out his cigarette and tear and scatter it before it was half finished. But this time he was much quieter than ordinarily. They slackened their walking a little sooner than usual and walked a little more slowly, without a word, to the corner; and hesitated, before stepping off the sidewalk into the clay, purely for the luxury of hesitation; and took their place on the rock without breaking silence. As always, Rufus' father took off his hat and put it over the front of his bent knee, and as always, Rufus imitated him, but this time his father did not roll a cigarette. They waited while the man came by, intruding on their privacy, and disappeared, as someone nearly always did, and then relaxed sharply into the pleasure of their privacy; but this time Rufus' father did not hum, nor did he say anything, nor even touch the rock with his hand, but sat with his hands hung between his knees and looked out over North Knoxville, hearing the restive assemblage of the train; and after there had been silence for a while, raised his head and looked up into the leaves and between the leaves into the broad stars, not smiling, but with his eyes more calm and grave and his mouth strong and more quiet, than Rufus had ever seen his eyes and his mouth; and as he watched his father's face, Rufus felt his father's hand settle, without groping or clumsiness, on the top of his bare head; it took his forehead and smoothed it, and pushed the hair backward from his forehead, and held the back of his head while Rufus pressed his head backward against the firm hand, and, in reply to that pressure, clasped over his right ear and cheek, over the whole side of the head, and drew Rufus' head quietly and strongly against the sharp cloth that covered his father's body, through which Rufus could feel the breathing ribs; then relinquished him, and Rufus sat upright, while the hand lay strongly on his shoulder, and he saw that his father's eyes had become still more clear and grave and that the deep lines around his mouth were satisfied; and looked up at what his father was so steadily looking at, at the leaves which silently breathed and at the stars which beat like hearts. He heard a long, deep sigh break from his father, and then his father's abrupt voice: "Well . . ." and the hand lifted from him and they both stood up. The rest of the way home they did not speak, or put on their hats. When he was nearly asleep Rufus heard once more the crumpling of freight cars, and deep in the night he heard the crumpling of subdued voices and words, "Naw: I'll probably be back before they're asleep"; then quick feet creaking quietly downstairs. But by the time he heard the creaking and departure of the Ford, he was already so deeply asleep that it seemed only a part of a dream, and by next morning, when his mother explained to them why his father was not at breakfast, he had so forgotten the words and the noises that years later, when he remembered them, he could never be sure that he was not making them up.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 3.5
( 31 )
Rating Distribution

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(6)

4 Star

(8)

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(11)

2 Star

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 31 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 21, 2004

    He knows what he is talking about

    I lost my father when I was 7. Reading this book, I felt the author could not have written it without losing a parent as a child. I did a little research and found out this is the story of James Rufus Agee losing his father at the age of 6. For anyone wanting a persective of death in the age before pop psychology and counselors on every corner,this story is right on the money.

    5 out of 6 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 8, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    A Death in the Family

    I can't believe so many people gave this three or less stars. Although not my favorite book, I read until my eyes bled.

    The author creates wonderful characters who all have different perspectives regarding the deceased. Agee really captivated the confusion and thought process a child might endure when dealing with the death of a family member.

    Probably not in my top ten, but definitely worth reading. (no age limitation for this book)

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 4, 2006

    A Death In The Family

    ' A Death In The Family' is a profoundly moving book, that will captivate the heart of anyone who has ever lost someone dear.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted November 30, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    A Death in the Family

    Unfortunately, the old mean librarian wouldn't let me renew this book, so I didn't finish the last 100 pages. But I did enjoy what I read.

    A Death in the Family, first of all, is very well written. The prose is very beautiful and complex. The story is somewhat slow-moving, and the plot was more of a character study than anything else. It did take me a few chapters though, to get all the characters straight, especially Ralph and Rufus, whom I would often confuse. I didn't really have a particular problem with this book, but I wasn't compelled by it. Given the option of reading this and watching TV, I chose TV most of the time. This book was not bad, and I did enjoy what I read, but I was never excited or caught up in it.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 15, 2004

    great book!

    I would have to say that I enjoyed this book! It was sad, but it will also make you think and appreciate your family more. I think James Agee is a great author and his writing style is very easy to follow and understand. I want to read more books by him later on and i would read this book again in a couple of years because I enjoyed it.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 8, 2006

    The egg as symbol:

    There is an ineresting parallel between Agee's book and a book by Hermann Hesse, 'Demian', which explains a great deal about, 'Death in the Family'. In Demian, Sinclair finds a note, it reads: 'The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must first destroy a world. The bird flies to God. That God is Abraxas. Two pages later Sinclair's teacher says, 'Abraxas was the god who was both god and devil. Of interest is Sinclair's teachers name, it is Dr. Follen. Now in Death in the Family, Ralph, Mary's brother in law says of himself, 'He was just no good. He saw that. Just incomplete some way, like a chicken that comes out of the shell with a wry neck and grows up like that.' Ralph and Mary's husband, Jay are Follet's. The difference between the religious affiliations of the Follet family and Mary's extreme belief are obvious. The use of the 'egg' symbol in both books and the similiarity of the names, Follen and Follet seem to be more than coincidence. The idea of 'Abraxas' goes back to early Christianity if not before.

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 2, 2005

    Good Book

    In my opinion, this being my second book, A Death In the Family is an easy novel to follow. Agee uses good language to identify different characters. This book allows you to look into the life and time of the early 1900's. The only gripe I have about the book is the way it ends ensuing in the three stars. James Agee died before the book was finished and he probably would not have ended the way it did...

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 29, 2005

    Not Interesting

    'A Death in The Family' a book written by James Agee has a story to tell when it comes to this novel. It's well written and understandable and if you're a kind of a person who likes sad stories then this is the book for you. As for me this isn't my type of book. I like suspenseful and horror stories so I chose the wrong book when I this one. I disliked the story I couldn't really relate to the plot or the setting and it didn't seem to keep my interest at all. The story was a bit boring, it was basically telling a story of a family that went through some problems in the 1920's which didn't interest me at all.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 2, 2005

    A good tear jerker

    This was a good book,but in the beginning it is kind of hard to get interested in it. I liked the book because it showed me that I take my family members for granted. You should read this book if you if you do not feel that your family is important to you or if you have lost someone close to you. You will be glad that you took the time to read this book.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 20, 2004

    Not a bad book to read

    I enjoyed reading the book A Death in the Family. If you like a good book then this is the one for you. It seems like a lot to read at first,but it really goes by pretty quick. I would definitely read another book by James Agee.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 21, 2004

    Hard to read

    I personally didn't like this book. I didn't really follow the book, they kept jumping back and forth in the story and lost me. It is interesting to see how the young boy deals with the death of his father.

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 3, 2004

    Very emotional

    I would give this book four stars because it was a very interesting book but there were just a few dragged out spots. I still recommend every one to read this book because it was eye catching and it was very emotional. I would most definitly read this book again. It was a small paged book but it was extremely interesting. If you read this book you will probably read another book like this or by the same author, because I know I will. I also liked the writing style of this story. It was easy to follow along with. So to everyone who reads this, I recommend you read the book.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 2, 2004

    Not My Type Of Reading

    This book is not that bad, but you really have to be into the 1900's and KNoxville's history, I consider the book to be too old for my level, the type of setting in the book really did not get my attention and then there were some parts, where the italized parts were, that I would ask myself, What is going on? I would recommend this book to a History major, becaus they can get into things like this.

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 29, 2003

    Book turned out to be O.K.

    This book turned out to be an O.K. book. At first, while reading I thougth I would have a couple of difficulties. When the author jumped from character to character, he kind of lost me because I had no clue of which character was speaking. As the story begins, the author talks a boy named Rufus and and his parents. The author did not tell the names of the parents until you read on in the book. While spending more time reading and less playing I started to comprehend more. But don't get me wrong, the book was... O.K.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 25, 2003

    How TO Survive A Death In The Family

    I believe that this book 'A Death In The Family' would be very interesting to anyone who would like to see how life was in Knoxville, TN in 1915. You may be surprised to know how different races were treated in 1915. Times were different than today.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 25, 2003

    A Beautiful Account of Family in Mourning

    This novel is not action-packed, nor does it have sophisticated plot. Instead of those superficial attention-grabbers,Agree gives us a deep and tender account of the Follet family. I thought this book was descripitive and modesty enjoyable, but not its plot did not seem to go far. A good read it you having nothing else to do, but not for those in search of a timeless classics or an adventurous suspenseful thriller. A Death in the Family allows us to more fully understand something of the human condition. Agee's novel is the stuff our lives are made of

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 18, 2003

    A beautiful account of a family in mourning

    This novel is not action-packed, nor does it have a sophisticated plot. Instead of those superficial attention-grabbers, Agee gives us a deep and tender account of the Follet family. With his lyrical writing style, he gives us profound insight into the minds and hearts of each member of this family as they go through a terrible experience. A Death in the Family allows us to more fully understand something of the human condition. Agee's novel is the stuff our lives are made of.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 11, 2003

    Too old for my taste

    I did not enjoy the book at all. I choose it for a book report for my english class and needless to say, I had to force myself to read it 4 days before my critique was due. I was very disappointed. The night Jay died went on for what seemed like forever. I also did not like hearing about Rufus' name. I don't think that was appropriate.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 30, 2002

    Decent at best

    I thought this book was descriptive and modestly enjoyable, but its plot did not seem to go far. A good read if you have nothing else to do, but not for those in search of a timeless classic or an adventurous, suspenseful thriller.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 26, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

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