by Willy Vlautin ‧ RELEASE DATE: Feb. 13, 2018
A powerful, haunting portrayal of lives rendered in unflinching, understated prose.
A spare, melancholic tale about a poor young man’s burning desire to succeed as a boxer.
Like his earlier novels, Vlautin’s (The Free, 2014, etc.) latest follows in the tradition of John Steinbeck's and Raymond Carver’s moving portraits of working-class people. The focus is on two nuanced characters. Horace Hopper is a 21-year-old half-Paiute, half-white man who works on 72-year-old Eldon Reese’s sheep ranch in a canyon outside Tonopah, Nevada. Horace, abandoned by his mother when he was 12, was taken in by Reese and his wife, Louise. Horace has grown up in a loving, generous family who gave him work, food, money, and a life, but he yearns for more, to “be somebody,” to fight like a Mexican boxer because “they’re true warriors who never quit.” He’s committed to going to Tucson, Arizona, to participate in a Golden Gloves competition. Reese tries his best to dissuade Horace, offering to give him his ranch when he can no longer run it, which is probably pretty soon. Horace says he has to go—“I’m gonna do great down there”—but promises to come back. With a heart full of hope and determination he moves to Tucson, finds a part-time job, and hires Alberto Ruiz as his trainer. Vlautin’s narrative seamlessly floats back and forth between Reese and Horace as he creates two beautifully rendered characters. Reese’s quiet life goes on: working on his tractor, talking to friends, missing Horace, drinking a cold beer. Horace works out and trains with Ruiz, but Ruiz notices a flaw in Horace’s boxing technique. He tends to “freeze up,” something another fighter would quickly pick up on. They’re going to work on it. Horace finds success in his first tastes of competition, but there’s a distinct sense of foreboding in the air as Vlautin slowly lets this poignant tale unwind to its inevitable, heartbreaking conclusion.
A powerful, haunting portrayal of lives rendered in unflinching, understated prose.Pub Date: Feb. 13, 2018
ISBN: 978-0-06-268445-5
Page Count: 288
Publisher: Harper Perennial/HarperCollins
Review Posted Online: Jan. 27, 2018
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 1, 2018
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by Margaret Atwood ‧ RELEASE DATE: Sept. 10, 2019
Suspenseful, full of incident, and not obviously necessary.
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Atwood goes back to Gilead.
The Handmaid’s Tale (1985), consistently regarded as a masterpiece of 20th-century literature, has gained new attention in recent years with the success of the Hulu series as well as fresh appreciation from readers who feel like this story has new relevance in America’s current political climate. Atwood herself has spoken about how news headlines have made her dystopian fiction seem eerily plausible, and it’s not difficult to imagine her wanting to revisit Gilead as the TV show has sped past where her narrative ended. Like the novel that preceded it, this sequel is presented as found documents—first-person accounts of life inside a misogynistic theocracy from three informants. There is Agnes Jemima, a girl who rejects the marriage her family arranges for her but still has faith in God and Gilead. There’s Daisy, who learns on her 16th birthday that her whole life has been a lie. And there's Aunt Lydia, the woman responsible for turning women into Handmaids. This approach gives readers insight into different aspects of life inside and outside Gilead, but it also leads to a book that sometimes feels overstuffed. The Handmaid’s Tale combined exquisite lyricism with a powerful sense of urgency, as if a thoughtful, perceptive woman was racing against time to give witness to her experience. That narrator hinted at more than she said; Atwood seemed to trust readers to fill in the gaps. This dynamic created an atmosphere of intimacy. However curious we might be about Gilead and the resistance operating outside that country, what we learn here is that what Atwood left unsaid in the first novel generated more horror and outrage than explicit detail can. And the more we get to know Agnes, Daisy, and Aunt Lydia, the less convincing they become. It’s hard, of course, to compete with a beloved classic, so maybe the best way to read this new book is to forget about The Handmaid’s Tale and enjoy it as an artful feminist thriller.
Suspenseful, full of incident, and not obviously necessary.Pub Date: Sept. 10, 2019
ISBN: 978-0-385-54378-1
Page Count: 432
Publisher: Nan A. Talese
Review Posted Online: Sept. 3, 2019
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Sept. 15, 2019
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SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
by Chinua Achebe ‧ RELEASE DATE: Jan. 23, 1958
This book sings with the terrible silence of dead civilizations in which once there was valor.
Written with quiet dignity that builds to a climax of tragic force, this book about the dissolution of an African tribe, its traditions, and values, represents a welcome departure from the familiar "Me, white brother" genre.
Written by a Nigerian African trained in missionary schools, this novel tells quietly the story of a brave man, Okonkwo, whose life has absolute validity in terms of his culture, and who exercises his prerogative as a warrior, father, and husband with unflinching single mindedness. But into the complex Nigerian village filters the teachings of strangers, teachings so alien to the tribe, that resistance is impossible. One must distinguish a force to be able to oppose it, and to most, the talk of Christian salvation is no more than the babbling of incoherent children. Still, with his guns and persistence, the white man, amoeba-like, gradually absorbs the native culture and in despair, Okonkwo, unable to withstand the corrosion of what he, alone, understands to be the life force of his people, hangs himself. In the formlessness of the dying culture, it is the missionary who takes note of the event, reminding himself to give Okonkwo's gesture a line or two in his work, The Pacification of the Primitive Tribes of the Lower Niger.
This book sings with the terrible silence of dead civilizations in which once there was valor.Pub Date: Jan. 23, 1958
ISBN: 0385474547
Page Count: 207
Publisher: McDowell, Obolensky
Review Posted Online: April 23, 2013
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Jan. 1, 1958
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