Roger Scruton
The Clarion Review is proud to present the third and final installment of this novella by writer and philosopher Roger Scruton.
Zoë's dreams of meeting her destiny on the streets of London are running aground fast. To whom will she turn? To Dr Leacock, the predatory postmodern professor who's always too ready to help? To Michael, the mysterious art student, who surely pours his angst into
something worth living for? Back to her mother, whom she disgraced by her flight, and whom she still resents? Zoë takes her stand; will the world turn with her?
Roger Scruton
When we last saw Zoë, she had run away from home one morning, leaving her mother in tears. Now that her long-planned tirade against the family's Cypriot traditionalism is behind her, however, Zoë seems to have no clear idea of what she will do or where she will go when she leaves work later the same day. Or, rather, she has too many ideas...
Jonathan David Price
Coffee is all that matters to Mr. Johnson at this hour. One cup at eight. Only in the morning. He has only missed his coffee twice, the day he had to leave his wife and kids, and the day his mother died. He was bitter both days. Mr. Johnson likes his coffee bitter—two squirts of milk and … Read more
Roger Scruton
The first installment of the novella
A Dove Descending about a Greek girl who falls from too great a height. She lives in London with her pious mother, her recently-deceased father's continuing presence, and the lure of the modern life that books and a progressive professor have offered her. Now she must choose between the ancient culture she was born into and the freedoms offered by England.
T. L. Reed
Enid Brigham moved to Rumney as a bride of seventeen, back when New Hampshire had a lumber industry. She’d been through two husbands there, one bad and one good, but for sixty years she’d kept her little Cape looking like somebody cared. For the first decade, her waking hours were mostly drowned in the scream of the big blade down in the hollow behind the barn. The mill went bust, though, not long after her first husband lurched dead-drunk into the rig – “fell apart,” Enid often said, “more’n he done already.”
