He lay back and closed his eyes. He’d like some new blueberries in Newbury, but not if they’re Shawsheen green. Soon he was asleep and saw nothing of Plum Island’s odd little airport or the drawbridge. He awoke only when seagulls cawed loudly and circled the dank inlet for fish. The mud-yucky tidal flats stunk, but the ducks and gulls never cared. Birds liked strange places, Eric decided. Between clumps of reedy dune grass, he finally saw the silver-blue water glisten and roll.
Excerpt from Plum Island
By about the sixth inning, Eric and the others realized that Parnell was not only pitching a shutout but a no-hitter, too. Without exactly saying so to jinx the effort, they commented on his pitches and on the hitters still likely to be the most trouble. The eighth inning gave way to the ninth and still the spell continued. With a 4-0 lead, Parnell bore down on the final three hitters. Eric’s feet jiggled with tension as Dad smiled at him but said nothing.
Excerpt from A Summer At The Lake
From Plato and Aquinas to Descartes, Kant, Nietzsche, and Cassirer, classmates agreed with Eric that whatever philosopher he taught, Lund became that philosopher. Who could tell what Lund himself believed? Like trying to figure out what Shakespeare actually thought! Lund’s coy smile deflected all such direct questions as slightly obscene. “We are not what we seem,” he conceded once when admitting a weakness for a certain daytime soap opera. Which one, he would not say. The magnificent balance of Aquinas and the boldness (was it craziness?) of Nietzsche he conveyed with equal persuasion. Soon his sophomore philosophers gave up trying to “uncover” him and just savored the presence of a superior mind. Here was a reason to be at St. James, the only reason finally to be in a classroom at all, Eric thought. Was Lund a Platonist, a Tomist, a Nietzschean, an Existentialist? Who could say? That spring the only philosophical certainty was that they were all Lundians.
Excerpt from Breaking Points