I am just over halfway through this:
It’s only the third book I’ve read by Louise Erdrich. I love it. Truly love it. Her writing makes me wish I had been a novelist. That I could write well enough to be one (and had enough of a story idea …).
Here is a review from the New York Times.
And here is one from the National Book Foundation.
And here is an excerpt from the first few pages, after a woman is found by her son and husband, and they are rushing her to the hospital:
I was holding my mother tightly now in the backseat of the car. Her blood was on me. I reached onto the back window ledge and pulled down the old plaid quilt we kept there. She was shaking so bad I was scared she would fly apart.
All right, he said.
And then we flew there. He had the car up past ninety. We just flew.
It’s pretty awesome. I keep reading it over and over, and sometimes with her writing in general, I find myself paying just as much attention to the language as the story. It’s that beautiful.
I don’t understand people who don’t read. What do they DO with all their time?