Hill Towns
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Hill Towns

3.3 9
by Anne Rivers Siddons
     
 

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Hill Towns is a classic novel of remarkable emotional power, insight, and sensitivity from Anne Rivers Siddons, whose books live on the New York Times bestseller list and in the hearts of millions of her adoring fans. One of the acknowledged masters of contemporary Southern fiction—the author of such phenomenally popular works as Nora, Nora;

Overview

Hill Towns is a classic novel of remarkable emotional power, insight, and sensitivity from Anne Rivers Siddons, whose books live on the New York Times bestseller list and in the hearts of millions of her adoring fans. One of the acknowledged masters of contemporary Southern fiction—the author of such phenomenally popular works as Nora, Nora; Outer Banks, Islands; and Sweetwater Creek—Siddons carries the reader from the mountains of Tennessee to the breathtaking Tuscany countryside as she brilliantly chronicles the unraveling of a marriage. Pat Conroy (The Prince of Tides) says, “She ranks among the best of us,” and Hill Towns is the proof.

Editorial Reviews

Kirkus Reviews
Siddons' last big commercial outing (Colony, 1992) was built along a New England-Southern axis. This time, she creates a passel of characters her fans will find reassuringly familiar, and then sends them far out of their ken—to Italy. Catherine Compton—a true Siddons woman in that she can whine engagingly—is from a tiny college town in Tennessee and has a macabre background: her mom and dad died while making love on a bridge. As a result, Cat grows up agoraphobic, refusing to leave the safe, idyllic little world of Trinity College, where her handsome Yankee husband, Joe Gaillard, teaches English. But when Joe's prot‚g‚, Colin Gerard, plans to get married in Italy, Cat faces her fears, books a flight, and—under the light of an Italian sun—finds everything different. Above all, Joe has a midlife crisis, sparked by the loss of his luggage and fanned by Ada Forrest, the wife of famous painter whom the Gaillards meet in Rome. Meanwhile, Sam Forrest takes a shine to Cat; her "snub, narrow Renaissance look" inspires him artistically, not to mention romantically. The two couples join the newlyweds on a honeymoon stomp across the boot, slurping bellinis at Florian's in Venice, marveling over Michelangelo's David in Florence, and finally holing up at a villa outside Siena. There, Sam reveals the portrait of Cat he's been working on, which portrays her as St. Theresa—though in sexual, not religious ecstasy. Joe is not amused, but the Gaillards will work things out before they head back to Tennessee, with their horizons expanded. Siddons's theme is the moral and psychological ambiguity that arises from American contact with the European other. Henry James did itbetter—with a whole lot more subtlety—but, still, Siddons's tried-and-true fans will be pleased. (First printing of 200,000; Literary Guild Dual Selection for September)

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780061715730
Publisher:
HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date:
08/18/2009
Pages:
387
Sales rank:
736,391
Product dimensions:
5.34(w) x 8.08(h) x 1.02(d)

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

When I Was Five Years Old I Made A Coldly Desperate decision to live forever in a town on a hill, and so I have, from that terrible night in June until this one, thirty-seven years and one month later. If it has been bad for me, as many people these days seem to be telling me, I can only consider that anything else at all would have been worse.

"They never saw it coming; they didn't know what hit them," everybody said after my parents were struck and killed by a speeding truck on the old chain bridge over Tolliver's Creek. After that, I knew as simply and unalterably as a child knows anything that staying alive meant always being able to see what was coming. Always knowing what might hit you. So when my father's parents, kind and substantial Virginians from the Tidewater who might have given me every advantage, made to take me home with them after the funeral, I simply screamed and screamed until, in despair, they left me behind with my mother's eccentric people, who lived on the top of the mountain where my parents had died. I had great affection for my Virginia grandparents and little for the erratic, reclusive Cashes, who were strange even in that hill country, where strangeness is king, but the ramshackle, overgrown Cash house commanded the Blue Ridge foothills in all directions. From there I would always know what was coming. From there I would see it long before it saw me.

I could not have explained this at age five, of course; I have only recently become fully aware of it. Then, I only knew that on the mountain I was safe and off it I was not. Everything in my small being strained after mygrandmother and grandfather Compton as they drove away from the sly, sunless home of my Cash grandparents in their sedate old Chrysler that sunny afternoon; I felt as if sunlight and laughter and gentleness and childhood itself were rolling away with them. But the new flatland fear was stronger. When I turned my face into the sagging lap of my grandmother Cash, she thought I wept in sorrow for my parents and said for the first of a thousand times, "That's all right. You done right. You stay here with your own kind. Your mama wouldn't be lyin' there in her grave if she'd of stayed with her own kind."

But I'm not your kind, I remember thinking as clearly as spring water. I don't need you. It's your house I need. It's this mountain.

It was, I realize, an extraordinary insight for a small child. And it did not surface again for more than thirty years. Still, the power of it served. It held me on the Mountain through everything that came afterward, all those years that seem in retrospect to have been lived in a kind of green darkness, until I met Joe Gaillard in my senior year at Trinity College and the last lingering darkness took fire into light.

When I told him about my parents' death — and I remember it was long after I met him, only days before he proposed to me — he cried. I stared at him doubtfully; no one had ever cried upon hearing the manner of their deaths, and some few laughed outright, nervous, swiftly stifled laughter. Even I had not cried after that first obliterating grief. I was not too young to perceive that they had somehow simply died of ludicrousness. I learned early to parrot laughter along with the children at Montview Day School, where my Compton grandparents' absentee largesse sent me, when they taunted me with it: "Cat's mama and daddy fucked themselves to death!" "Hey, Cat! Wanna go out and hump on the bridge?"

Later, when I began to perceive the dim shape of their meaning, I stopped laughing and began fighting. By the time I was ten, I was on the brink of being expelled for aggression. Time and Cora Pierce's influence put a stop to that, but I still hear the laughter sometimes, in the long nights on the Mountain.

"I'm lucky you weren't a serial murderer or a Republican," I told Joe later. "I'd have married you anyway. It's pretty obvious I would have married the first man who didn't wince and grin a shit-faced grin and say, 'Well, at least they died happy.'"

"I wasn't crying for them; they probably did die happy, at that," he said. "I was crying for you. Nobody should laugh at a child's grief. Nobody. Ever."

"Well, it wasn't at my grief, exactly," I said. "It's just — you can see why it's funny, in an awful sort of way, can't you? I mean, there they were out on that bridge, just going to town, and here comes this chicken truck —"

"Nobody," Joe said fiercely. "Never. Not under any circumstance. Jesus Christ, when I think what that laughter must have taught you about the world —"

"It taught me never to screw on bridges," I said, and he did laugh then, the exuberant, froggy laugh that always made people's lips tug up involuntarily at the corners. I knew he was laughing largely because I wanted him to. Joe was a lovely man then, in the supple greenness of his twenties.

My father was a tall fair boy who came to Trinity College because his father and grandfather had come before him; and before them his great-grandfather Cornelius Compton, an Episcopal bishop of modest fame in the South, had helped to found the university. There had been Comptons at Trinity since the beginning.

Meet the Author

Anne Rivers Siddons's bestselling novels include Nora, Nora; Sweetwater Creek; Islands; and Fox's Earth. She is also the author of the nonfiction work John Chancellor Makes Me Cry. She and her husband divide their time between Charleston, South Carolina, and Brooklin, Maine.

Brief Biography

Hometown:
Charleston, South Carolina and a summer home in Maine overlooking Penobscot Bay
Date of Birth:
January 9, 1936
Place of Birth:
Atlanta, Georgia
Education:
B.A., Auburn University, 1958; Atlanta School of Art, 1958

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Hill Towns 3.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 9 reviews.
PierresFamily More than 1 year ago
Ms. Siddons is a gifted writer, and I was excited to find one of her books, that I hadn't yet read. It's too bad she felt it necessary to pepper crude language throughout the book. As with other reviewers, I found this distracting, and it took away from the enjoyment of the book. In the end, my high hopes were dashed. I can only give this two stars, that being for her ablities and the hard work i'm sure she put into the book.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I think Anne Siddons writes with great sophistication and has a wonderful way with vocabulary. Her descriptive material is absoltely beautiful. She chooses areas of the country; The deep South, the popular vacation seaside of the North in Maine, the poor mountains of Virginia, etc., and introduces you to the specific groups of people that will carry the story line through the book. You get insight into a culture that you might not otherwise have had an opportunity to get to know. I enjoyed this book especially in my personal ability to relive the travels thru Italy. Again, I mostly enjoyed the wonderful descriptions of the cities, the countryside, the museums, her impressions of the culture, food and art, as visitor to all the places I was familiar with. It brought back wonder memories. I read her COLONY and found the same use of language that I very much enjoyed. I also enjoyed meeting this cast as it was so different from the group in Hill Town. I find her books a relaxing and fun read. I have just started Fox's Earth. This book seems a little bit heavier. But again, the language is wonderfully flowing.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
I am about 3/4 of the way through this book and have greatly enjoyed it. It is one of Ms Siddons best yet. Hill Towns has been the only one so far that has been out of print so had to order through Barnes&Noble 'used' section. Her writing makes you feel like you are in Italy with the characters.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Not only was this book a realistic story of how personal growth can upset a relationship's applecart, it made me want to go to Italy!
Guest More than 1 year ago
This was a book that tried way too hard to shock people. In fact, the author took so many cheap shots that it was kind of pathetic. The main character, Catherine, is afraid of bridges because her parents used to put her in the back seat of their car and have sex on bridges. Wow, am I supposed to be shocked? Her shrink is a lesbian. Am I supposed to be shocked again? I came away just feeling rather cheated.