In language both sensitive and terse, "Close to Autumn" explores the feelings of a motherless child. Edie is seven and long accustomed to living alone with her agreeable, devoted young father. She shyly admires his new girlfriend, too, and comes to cherish moments when the three of them can be together. But she is unaccountably…
Dana Gibson has the real gift, an ability to see and to think and to write in a way that is truly unique and original. Her prose makes even the most ordinary of events take on an almost edenic clarity and freshness. Sometimes her language seems Nabokovian to me in its lilt and life, and…
To vibrate out a tone of lasting woe; To send a foggy message, Brewing a mellow humor in the sharp, Naked unatmosphere of cinder block In the cafeteria; To expel, as though from a great depth, a note. But whose ambitions were these? They weren't mine For more than half an hour. Reflected in the…
When she was six she wanted to be a goldfish. She could breathe through clear water and watch the world through glass. But she didn't want to be orange, like her own fish, she wanted to be gold. That was when she lived with her father, and he bought her whatever she asked for. Usually…
I once asked Lizard whether he too watched the iridescent lights that played across his vision. Whenever I am weary and confused, I shut my eyes and wait as the orbs of yellow and phosphorescent blue creep in from the sides. Lizard said he wished he could slither between my lids. I laughed because I…
A man whose wife's enlarged heart was going learned of a drug That would enlarge the mind. The couple was old, but enlarging The mind with a drug was a new idea. Make the date late Eisenhower, early Kennedy. The couple was old, not born in this century, and the woman's heart, Stretched in girlhood…
I first met Wayne Johnson's "Red Deer" during my fiction writing class at Iowa in the fall of 1986. Among the students in that class were two young men who wrote exclusively about themes that have come to be associated with the American West. The majority of students in the class were Easterners, and they…
Susan Straight's prose is as innocent and hard as the lives of the people she loves. It is this love for her characters-unidealized, tangible, as deep as time-that makes her story so extraordinary. Little of moment happens: A woman lies next to her man at dawn and thinks about his back, yet in the evocation…
Our road passed through a flooded field— the pale, whitish water spread around us, then a dark border of trees . . . men were swimming in a kind of marathon. We watched them from our car, you beside me full of expectation and controlled hope—a quiet, a modulated joy. The water reflected the milky…
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