I haven't posted in this thread in quite a while, if only because my reading lately has been pretty slow. In the last month and a half though, I did manage to finish a few novels.
The Sisters Brothers, by Patrick DeWitt. This is the author's second novel and an attempt at a revisionist Western. The story of a pair of outlaw brothers is pretty typical and while this isn't a genre piece, it falls into a few of its trappings. One brother seeks redemption while on an assassination, the other quite the opposite. DeWitt plays a lot with these stereotypes, sometimes not as well, but does bring them to an interesting place eventually. What really works here is the humor and by the last third, the book finally settles into a really comfortable place and ends powerfully.
Also, the entire way through, I had imagined the main character looking like John C. Reilly. For no reason at all. When I get to the end and read the acknowledgements, whose name do I see? But, of course: John C. Reilly.
Joe and
Father and Son, by Larry Brown. Absolutely one of the South's finest voices and an absolute loss to American letters that we lost this writer so young. In both these novels the protagonists are down-and-outs and in both these novels their circumstances lead them to violence. In
Joe, Brown gives us one of the most abhorrent and realistic villains in Wade Jones, an old drunken leech of his own children.
Father and Son, on the other hand, delivers familial evil in a much more generational way. Fathers and sons, wives and other women and all the kids in between. It's such an elemental and powerful. One of the best I've honestly ever read.
Lime Creek, by Joe Henry. A lyrical novel of love and family on the Great Plains. The book has the unfortunate reek of musician-turned-first-time-novelist. There's some gorgeous language on display here, all very sensory and poetic, but I found myself wanting a lot more cohesion and clarity in its plotting. It was still a good read, but the problem I had with it is that I felt that Henry was trying to tell a story and he got just a little lost in how he was telling it. If this guy's written some shorter fiction, I'd love to get my hands on it.
Smonk, by Tom Franklin. A "Southern" telling the converging stories of E.O. Smonk, an aged and decrepit murderer, and Evavangeline, a violent 15 year-old ginger prostitute on the run from a troop of "Christian Deputies." Franklin has so much fun when he plays around with genre and so much fun when he plays with language. I just put it down after reading the last page just a few hours ago. His cocktail of violence and sex and humor is as effective as his work gets. His other novels,
Hell at the Breach and
Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter, played around genre in the same way in varying degrees of effectiveness, but
Smonk is the realization of the genius I read in his short story collection
Poachers.
Beyond these the next few weeks look pretty bleak. I'm moving soon and I need to start getting a few hundred books into boxes, so I kept out a few that will hopefully carry me through until mid-November. Mostly short fiction to help keep me sane between workshop submission from my creative writing class.
Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned, stories by Wells Tower.
Knockemstiff, stories by Donald Ray Pollock.
The Collected Works of Flannery O'Connor.
Long, Last, Happy, collected stories by Barry Hannah.
The Collected Stories of Katherine Anne Porter.
And a novel:
Fay, by Larry Brown.