The Devil's Larderby Jim Crace
THE DEVIL'S LARDER is a cumulative novel in sixty-four parts, all on the subject of food. Crace's readers might learn that little is to be trusted about food from these hilarious, delightful and subversive ingredients, but they will encounter a startling and touching patchwork portrait of a community where meals are served with lashings of passion and recipes come… See more details below
THE DEVIL'S LARDER is a cumulative novel in sixty-four parts, all on the subject of food. Crace's readers might learn that little is to be trusted about food from these hilarious, delightful and subversive ingredients, but they will encounter a startling and touching patchwork portrait of a community where meals are served with lashings of passion and recipes come spiced with unexpected challenges and hopes.
“The breadth and range of [Crace’s] inventiveness is astonishing.” —Chicago Tribune
“The writing is serenely, Nabokovianly accomplished; the imaginative range deeply impressive.” —The Washington Post Book World
“Crace creates in The Devil’s Larder an indelible sense of a living world, in which human culture is woven to its nonhuman surroundings through the strands of biological destiny and the texture of language itself.” —Boston Sunday Globe
“Cruel, lovely, full of passion and decay....With The Devil’s Larder, Crace has created a work where prose passes into poetry and back into prose, literature as both particle and wave.” —The Seattle Times
- Penguin UK
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Read an Excerpt
Excerpt from The Devil's Larder by Jim Crace. Copyright © 2003 by Jim Crace. To be published in October, 2001 by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, LLC. All rights reserved.
Someone has taken of--and lost--the label on the can. There are two glassy lines of glue with just a trace of stripped paper where the label was attached. The can's batch number--RG2JD 19547--is embossed on one of the ends. Top or bottom end? No one can tell what's up or down. The metal isn't very old.
They do not like to throw it out. It might be salmon--not cheap. Or tuna steaks. Or rings of syruped pineapple. Too good to waste. Guava halves. Lychees. Leek soup. Skinned Italian plum tomatoes. Of course, they ought to open up the can and have a look, and eat the contents there and then. Or plan a meal around it. It must be something that they like, or used to like. It's in their larder. It had a label once. They chose it in the shop.
They shake the can up against their ears. They sniff at it. They compare it with the other cans inside the larder to find a match in size and shape. But still they cannot tell if it is beans or fruit or fish. They are like children with unopened birthday gifts. Will they be disappointed when they open up the can? Will it be what they want? Sometimes their humour is macabre: the contents are beyond description--baby flesh, sliced fingers, dog waste, worms, the venom of a hundred mambas--and that is why there is no label.
One night when there are guests and all the wine has gone, they put the can into the candlelight amongst the debris of their meal and play the guessing game. An aphrodisiac, perhaps; "Let's try." A plague. Should they open up and spoonit out? A tune, canned music, something never heard before that would rise from the open can, evaporate, and not be heard again. The elixir of youth. The human soup of DNA. A devil or a god?
It's tempting just to stab it with a knife. Wound it. See how it bleeds. What is the colour of the blood? What is its taste?
We all should have a can like this. Let it rust. Let the rims turn rough and brown. Lift it up and shake it if you want. Shake its sweetness or its bitterness. Agitate the juicy heaviness within. The gravy heaviness. The brine, the soup, the oil, the sauce. The heaviness. The choice is wounding it with knives, or never touching it again.
"This is for the angel," Grandma used to say, tearing off a strip of dough for me to take into the yard. "Leave it somewhere he can see." Sometimes I left the strip on the street wall. Sometimes I draped it on the washing line. Sometimes I put it on the outside windowsill and hid behind the kitchen curtain beads to spot the angel in the yard.
Meet the Author
Jim Crace is the author of six novels, including BEING DEAD and before that QUARANTINE which was shortlisted for the Booker Prize and won the Whitbread Novel of the Year. He is also a past winner of the Whitbread First Novel Prize, the E.M. Forster Award and the Guardian Fiction Award. He lives in Birmingham with his wife and two children.
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I love Jim Crace - especially Quarantine, which is one of my favorite books. Devil's Larder, although a departure from Crace's novels, does not disappoint. The short (some very short)stories are inventive, entertaining, and deep all at once.