![]() In a further desperate, uncomprehending gesture of hospitality, they screamed at their teenage son to go and collect every book in English he could find among their neighbors on the little street, and Moorehead’s Gallipoli was part of that dragnet. I was waiting out the healing of a nasty little scrape, and my hosts had kindly installed me and my beagles in a third-floor room with brushed stone walls, a stone floor covered in knitted rugs, and a wooden-shuttered rectangular window overlooking the water. ![]() ![]() I hadn’t read the book in decades, and back when I did read it, I read a battered, stained UK paperback while I was staying in a guest house in Canakkale. ![]() Our book today was a very thoughtful gift! The little old lady who reviews the same novel every week for the Silver Spring Scold recently tapped out her pin money onto the kitchen table, put on her finest bonnet, tottered around the corner to her favorite second-hand bookstore, Puss-in-Books, and procured for me a plastic-wrapped copy of Alan Moorehead’s feisty, eloquent 1956 book Gallipoli, a soup-to-nuts history of that doomed World War I campaign. ![]()
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