"That dream again-the clanging clattering donkey the gypsy peddler the storm-then waking in
a pool of sweat panting panic-stricken disoriented still hearing the sound of his own
terror-filled voice shouting "Mama!" as lightning flashed and cold rain coursed down his
tear-streaked face soaking his hair his shirt his shoes. He was lost! His heart raced his
breath came in spasmodic gulps. There was no Mama. Mama was dead! And somehow it was his fault!
"No it was just a dream just a terrible dream. He was not that child not anymore not now as
he peered through the steamy summer darkness seeking reassurance. Where was he? His
sleep-saturated brain told him he was floating on a cloud surrounded by fluttering filmy waves
flickering lamps twinkling dots of distant light and just there almost directly overhead a
great white beacon drawing him upwards. Was this heaven? Was that beacon Mama? Don't be silly!
It was the moon and there her back turned to him lay Evie and beyond her Papa and Mama Vera
and the girls all sleeping soundly on the crowded fire escape."-from the Prologue to Sleepy
Hollow. Plagued by feelings of guilt over the death of his mother intimidated by the
foreignness and pace of life in America the young immigrant protagonist of this novel set in
New York City's Lower East Side at the turn of the last century finds unexpected redemption in
the landscape and language of a literary classic from his adopted home.
