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Halfway through Marisa Silver's crystalline new novel, Mary Coin, two women's lives converge near a frost-blighted field of peas in Depression-era California.

Vera Dare, a government photographer, aims her camera at a rumpled migrant family. Her thoughts drift to her own children: two young boys sent to a boardinghouse, because she cannot afford to take care of them. The woman on the other side of the lens is Mary Coin, a single mother with seven hungry children who is barely scraping by as a migrant farmworker. In the photos, she cradles a sick infant and looks considerably older than her 32 years.

You might pause to take a long look at the book's dust jacket and let Dorothea Lange's “Migrant Mother” (cropped close and colorized) meld with the story. Lange documented farm-laborers for the Farm Security Administration, which sought to draw national attention to rural poverty. Lange's iconic photo of Florence Owens Thompson, taken in 1936 near a California pea field, grounds Silver's fictionalized account. Improvising on cues plucked from history, she fills in the emotional lives of the two women with carefully distilled details of survival, love and loss.

How do Vera and Mary inhabit the biographical outlines of Lange and Thompson? Silver gracefully conjures Mary's Oklahoma childhood, as well a one-room sod house with centipedes inside the walls, and an earlier encounter with a traveling photographer who, struck by her Cherokee features, paid her to pose as a “real Indian princess.” She is seen as an idealized mother despite her desperate circumstances. “When she looked at her children playing their game of chase,” Silver writes, “she thought of them as a fist held up to fate.”

In contrast, the driven photographer is depicted as guilt-ridden, a woman who “felt her ambition as a disfigurement, something deeply unfeminine and not worthy of a mother.” The novel's preoccupation with the exploitive, selective nature of photography invites an examination of its own pastiche of fact and fiction.

When, late in the novel, Mary comes face to face with her portrait hanging in a gallery, someone in the crowd says, “You can see it all in her face.” Mary wonders exactly what it is they see.

Hardship? Dignity? Courage? Mary Coin is Silver's meditation on that question.

This book review originally appeared in High Country News.

Mary Coin

By Marisa Silver

Blue Rider

336 pages, $26.95

Published in Literature

When it comes to modern poetry, Mira Gonzalez is an invigorating force.

She recently released her first collection of poems, I Will Never Be Beautiful Enough to Make Us Beautiful Together, through Sorry House Publishing.

Originally from Venice, Calif., Gonzalez is the daughter of visual artist and singer Lora Norton, and the stepdaughter of Black Flag bassist Chuck Dukowski. Her mother, stepfather and brother, Milo, are also members of the Chuck Dukowski Sextet. While her family is known for music, Mira has made writing her creative outlet of choice. She lists Haruki Murakami, Tao Lin, and Virginia Woolf as her writing influences.

“I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember, or at least since I was very young,” Gonzalez said. “I guess I started focusing on writing poetry specifically sometime in early high school. I have always enjoyed reading and read a lot of books, which is what inspired me to start writing in general. What draws me specifically to poetry is how easily accessible it is for people who have a hard time or don’t enjoy reading full length novels.”

Gonzalez’s poems often focus on dating struggles, odd ex-boyfriends, depression and social angst, and the poems sometimes feature strange twists and turns. “Secular Humanist” is about a man named Stephen who is obsessed with naked women: “He wants to find every bone in your body, all two hundred and six of them. He wants to feel them through your naked skin with his fingertips. He wants to name them as he finds them.”

After she describes Stephen’s fantasies, Gonzalez ends the poem with, “He feels like a grain of sand, on a beach, that isn’t a real grain of sand, but is actually a very tiny piece of a clamshell from a clam that died 10 years ago.”

Gonzalez said much of her poem-writing process actually involves editing.

“When I write a poem, I usually sit down and type everything that comes to mind, which can sometimes be two to three pages or more,” Gonzalez said. “Once I have all of that out in front of me, I edit it down to only the best lines; then I edit each sentence to say what I mean to say in the most succinct way possible.”

The almost Zen-like simplicity of her poems stands out. They are deep, yet simple and powerful. She said her unique writing style didn’t come naturally to her.

“I don’t think doing that ‘comes naturally’ to anyone, really,” Gonzalez said. “I guess certain people could be more skilled at crafting sentences so that they express ‘big’ ideas in not very many words, but nobody can just sit down in front of a computer and write a sentence like that, no problem. For me, at least, it comes with a lot of careful thought and a lot of time spent editing. I will spend hours on one sentence sometimes, and if I feel that sentence isn’t expressing exactly what I want it to express, I will delete the sentence entirely. I think it takes a lot of precision and tedious work, and I’m still not entirely sure if I’m able to express things the way I want to express them”

The response to the book has been promising. The initial printing of 500 copies sold out very quickly, and Sorry House Publishing did a second printing. Gonzalez says that she’s very surprised by the book’s success.

“Any time copies of my book sell, I’m completely shocked,” Gonzalez said. “I didn't expect it to have anywhere near as much success as it did. I think a lot of credit for that can go to my editor, Spencer, who has done a great job marketing the book through Sorry House.”

I Will Never Be Beautiful Enough to Make Us Beautiful Together

By Mira Gonzalez

Sorry House

56 pages, $12.95, available at

Published in Literature

San Francisco-based writer Susan Steinberg experiments with form and structure in her arresting story collection, Spectacle, as she examines the roles men and women play.

“The woman,” she writes, “is supposed to know the subtle difference between being a woman and performing one.” An unnamed woman narrates these 13 first-person stories, revisiting certain touchstones—her relationships with her brother and divorced parents, especially her father, an addict; the memory of a friend’s death in an airplane accident; the shifting balance of power between men and women in relationships, especially in tense situations.

In the story “Superstar,” for example, the narrator accidentally scrapes a man’s car with her own. He screams at her and belittles her, “calling (her) certain names reserved for women,” until another man intervenes, taking over the fight, recasting her as “some sweet thing” he must protect.

Steinberg captures charged incidents in sharp and nervy prose, questioning common euphemisms. When the narrator must decide whether to discontinue life support for her father, she writes bluntly: “There are some who say I did not kill my father. Not technically they mean.”

The doctor who advises her “did not, of course, use the word kill. He had another word, a series of words, a more technical way of wording.” The woman feels pressured by the doctor and by her brother to make this decision over the phone at 4 a.m. In this story and throughout the collection, the narrator stands outside the heat of the moment and speaks from a cool, rational remove. When the doctor sighs, frustrated with her hesitancy, Steinberg writes, “The sigh applies pressure to the woman. Then the woman is supposed to give them what they want.”

She takes this emotional distance even further in the story “Universe,” in which the narrator’s unborn child dies, and Steinberg writes, “One could now drink heavily. One could now eat shark.” Sometimes, this technique makes the narrator seem callous, but in most of the stories, this flinty stance toward personal loss simply underscores its horror.

Steinberg applies the same intense analysis to lighter moments, as when the narrator agrees to hike with various boyfriends who love nature, as she does not. Steinberg writes, “I’d hiked all day through mud; I was scraped all over, dirty all over; I wasn’t averse to dirt; I was averse to something else: like the pressure of having to pretend I cared about a bird, a stone, a star.”

Spectacle is a penetrating collection, and although the narrator is sometimes powerless, the author never is. Steinberg masterfully controls language to convey her stark insights about unbalanced relationships, in which one person always has the upper hand over another.

This book review originally appeared in High Country News.

Spectacle: Stories

By Susan Steinberg


$14, 160 pages

Published in Literature

Death hovers over Benediction, the latest of novelist Kent Haruf’s books about the eastern Colorado town of Holt.

Two earlier works are called Plainsong and Eventide, and the liturgical nuances of the titles seem fitting as this benevolent Colorado novelist bids farewell to a dying world. A definition serves as the book’s epigraph: “Benediction—the utterance of a blessing, an invocation of blessedness.”

As with Haruf’s previous work, Benediction offers a nonjudgmental study of ordinary lives in a mundane rural environment, replete with the troubles and joys all humans encounter. Holt might appear uneventful, even boring, but Haruf’s sensitive portraits of its residents make readers empathize with their problems, from family strife to homophobia to money troubles to suicide.

“Dad” Lewis, a new character in the trilogy, receives a terminal cancer diagnosis on Page 1; the reader accompanies him through his last summer in this quiet, yet rich and isolated agricultural community. Dad was one of Holt’s eminent citizens, the owner of the hardware store; he ends his days surrounded by his wife, Mary; their middle-aged daughter, Lorraine; and the animated memories of a lifetime.

Other townspeople linger around him, some of them visitors from the wider world, others the ghosts of Holt’s outcasts, like his absent yet ever-present gay son, Frank, long estranged from his father and the conservative mores of a place that seems to have been bypassed by the 21st century.

Not only are the older townspeople of Holt fading away; even the young succumb. Lorraine’s daughter is killed in a car crash. Next door, Lorraine’s contemporary has died of breast cancer, leaving a daughter, Alice, to be raised by her grandmother, who rises to this unexpected responsibility with tough stoicism.

Alice is the only young person in Holt, it seems, who brings light and life to the older generations surrounding her. When Alice and the elderly women swim naked in the stock tank on a scorching day, joy reigns. “The women climbed into the tank with her and squatted down and lay back and floated and stood streaming. Their faces and bodies shining. Later they got out and dried off. … Their hair was still damp. It felt heavy and cool on the backs of their necks.”

It is a benediction, of sorts.

This book review originally appeared in High Country News.

Benediction: A Novel

By Kent Haruf


272 pages, $25.95

Published in Literature

One of the happy consequences of reading Kim Stafford’s work is that he makes you want to become a better person. The Portland, Ore.-based author of 12 books of poetry and prose writes with a quiet gentleness, intimacy and kindness.

100 Tricks Every Boy Can Do: How My Brother Disappeared is a personal and introspective memoir chronicling Stafford’s relationship with his older brother, Bret, who took his own life at the age of 40, with very little warning. In 82 chapters, some only a few paragraphs in length—”sippings,” as Stafford has called them elsewhere—the writer searches his “tunnel of memory” for clues to the painful mystery that still haunts him.

“For the work of memoir,” Stafford writes, “is to put personal memory in a form that may serve the memories of others.”

For Stafford, most memories are consoling, and 100 Tricks shows us a man—who just happens to be a gifted writer—looking back, struggling to make sense of tragedy. “I have written in this book what the philosopher José Ortega y Gasset called ‘salvations’—short narratives that seek to apprehend and save essential stories and discoveries: a moment, a fleeting glimpse, any episodic evidence toward understanding.”

Stafford’s economic and deft use of language is one of the book’s strengths. This comes as no surprise: Like his famous father, former U.S. Poet Laureate William Stafford, Kim Stafford is first and foremost a poet. “My soul has pockets,” the younger Stafford writes, “and into these pockets gather the places and moments that mutter my brother’s life.”

Stafford also has a history of offering wisdom with Zen-like simplicity, and 100 Tricks does not disappoint: “Happiness is born in struggle and even in failure,” and, “Each story will seek the right listener.”

Ultimately, many of Stafford’s questions remain unanswerable. Though 100 Tricks centers on his brother’s suicide, it is neither glum nor depressing. Instead, it’s a heartwarming and touching investigation into family and memory—a book about love and living well above all else.

This book review originally appeared in High Country News.

100 Tricks Every Boy Can Do: How My Brother Disappeared

By Kim Stafford

Trinity University

256 pages, $16.95

Published in Literature

Leland Stanford appeared to have it all: As president of the Big Four (The Associates), who built the Western half of the transcontinental railroad, the tycoon became one of 19th century San Francisco’s most-influential entrepreneurs. He served as California’s eighth governor, and founded the university that bears his name.

“Newspapers were soaked with ink about the Stanfords’ outsized lives,” writes award-winning author Edward Ball in The Inventor and the Tycoon, which tells the story of Stanford’s most-bewildering partnership: his work with photographer Eadweard Muybridge.

Stanford had the time and money to cultivate an unusual obsession: He wanted to know if all four hooves of a running horse left the ground at the same time. Artists had long painted horses galloping in just that fashion, but who in the days before motion pictures could demonstrate the truth?

Stanford found an answer, thanks to the eccentric English immigrant he met in 1872. Muybridge, renowned for his Yosemite landscapes, doubted that he could capture the necessary images. But he was certainly willing to try.

Using 12 cameras, Muybridge took a series of photographs at Stanford’s Palo Alto horse farm, which showed an airborne galloping steed, its four feet suspended briefly above the earth. Some years later, Muybridge invented what is sometimes considered the first movie projector, a spinning device called a zoopraxiscope.

Despite his technical genius, Muybridge was a deeply troubled man. In 1874, he shot and killed his wife’s lover. The defense argued that Muybridge’s flirtatious young bride drove him to insanity. Others saw him as a cold-blooded murderer, shrouded in secrecy and protected by a powerful patron. Muybridge was never convicted, but his reputation was forever tarnished.

An artful shape-shifter, Muybridge frequently changed professions, style of dress, and even the spelling of his name. But Ball’s thoroughly researched biography parts the clouds of Muybridge’s past, and examines both his and Stanford’s vices and virtues through the lens of the times they lived in, revealing them as avatars of Gilded Age excess, sinister collaboration—and the kind of world-changing inventiveness to which we owe contemporary cinema.

This book review originally appeared High Country News.

The Inventor and the Tycoon: A Gilded Age Murder and the Birth of Moving Pictures

By Edward Ball


464 pages, $29.95

Published in Literature

Eowyn Ivey's surefooted and captivating debut novel, The Snow Child, begins in 1920, as Mabel and Jack—middle-aged homesteaders in Alaska—try to rough it through their second winter there.

They'd moved West to escape painful memories of their only child, stillborn 10 years earlier, and the crush of nearby family that reminded them of their loss. The brutal Alaskan winters batter them with isolation and relentless cold, and they nearly starve. Eventually, with the help of friendly neighbors, the new landscape helps Mabel and Jack remember why they loved each other in the first place, and in a fit of playfulness, they build a snowman, shaping it like a girl and dressing it with a red scarf.

The snow girl vanishes, and Mabel and Jack begin to catch glimpses of a child in the woods, "a red scarf at the neck, and white hair trailing down the back. Slight. Quick. A little girl. Running at the edge of the forest. Then disappearing into the trees."

They leave gifts for the girl, who approaches them cautiously. Her name is Faina, and she gradually becomes a mysterious, seasonal daughter to them, eating at their table, accompanying them on chores, and always disappearing into the wilderness at the first signs of snowmelt.

The Russian fairy tale of the Snow Maiden ("Snegurochka") inspired Ivey, and she weaves it throughout The Snow Child, as Mabel consults the different versions of the story to try to account for the behavior of their surrogate child. Ivey takes a fantastical premise and runs with it, playing it two ways, creating a novel that is both realistic and magical.

Jack discovers that Faina was the child of a local drunk who died in the wilderness, leaving her to grow up alone and feral. Yet no one else has ever seen her, and there are odd parallels between the girl's life and the folktale Mabel studies; for instance, both Faina and the Snow Maiden have a red fox as a companion.

Ivey's prose has the lulling quality of a fairy tale, and the native Alaskan's portraits of the state's fierce winters and singular inhabitants are convincing enough to make readers believe in Faina.

At one point, Mabel thinks, "To believe, perhaps you had to cease looking for explanations and instead hold the little thing in your hands as long as you were able before it slipped like water between your fingers."

This book review originally appeared in High Country News.

The Snow Child

By Eowyn Ivey

Reagan Arthur

416 pages, $14.99

Published in Literature

In a career that spans five decades, New Mexico author John Nichols has written more books and screenplays than he can count on his fingers and toes. His first novel, The Sterile Cuckoo, was published when he was in his mid-20s, and The Milagro Beanfield War—the first book in his New Mexico trilogy—remains a classic of Southwestern literature.

In his latest novel, On Top of Spoon Mountain, Nichols revisits the landscape he knows best: high desert plains and jagged peaks.

Protagonist Jonathan Kepler decides he wants to climb a 13,000-foot mountain on his 65th birthday. Never mind that he's only 48 hours out of the emergency room following a heart-attack scare, or that he's got asthma. Or that he's got a whole slew of other reasons to simply stay home. Kepler is determined to climb Spoon Mountain, and he's doing it in three weeks.

Kepler, a thrice-divorced curmudgeon, knows he hasn't been exactly a model father or husband, and his current relationship, with a real estate agent, is tenuous, at best. He's on the waning edge of his writing career, and he envisions climbing Spoon Mountain with his two grown children, hoping to reconnect with them in a place they once enjoyed together. Perhaps the climb will somehow redeem his mistakes, or restore and heal the time he's already wasted. The souls in Dante's Purgatorio shed their sins as they struggle up steep and rugged terrain. Why shouldn't Spoon Mountain do the same for Jonathan Kepler?

Spoon Mountain, however, is no holy ground. And Kepler, outspoken and proud, proves to be more of a self-absorbed jerk than a contrite soul seeking a better life. On Top of Spoon Mountain showcases its author's sensitivity to the natural world, but unfortunately, this novel's characters are as predictable as its ending. Some too-sensational moments, along with a protagonist who speaks in clichés, also threaten the book's believability.

For those willing to forgive such shortcomings, On Top of Spoon Mountain will provide an entertaining and humorous read. There is something compelling in the story of a man who is seeking to conquer a mountain—and himself. Even though Kepler fails to conquer much of anything, his quest reveals that reaching a summit may be less important than the struggle to get there.

This book review originally appeared in High Country News.

On Top of Spoon Mountain

By John Nichols

University of New Mexico

232 pages, $24.95

Published in Literature

Khosi Saqr Clark, the narrator of Pauls Toutonghi's funny and winsome second novel, Evel Knievel Days, isn't a typical native of Butte.

Sure, he loves Montana and enjoys the annual Evel Knievel Days spectacle, complete with its "American Motordome Wall of Death," but his neurotic nature ("the obsessive-compulsive's worst fear: the world infinitesimally askew") and his singular heritage set him apart.

Khosi is the only child of an eccentric single mother, Amy Clark, a caterer specializing in Middle Eastern cuisine using recipes she learned from her husband, Khosi's Coptic Christian Egyptian father. Khosi's father left when he was 3 and made no effort to keep in touch, leaving behind only unanswered questions—and a garden full of invasive Egyptian walking onions.

Khosi works as a tour guide in his great-great-grandfather's Copper King Mansion. "He was a copper king," Khosi explains, "a second-generation Irish immigrant turned vest-wearing frontier industrialist."

Meanwhile, Khosi lives at home and keeps watch over his mother, who suffers from Wilson's disease, an ailment that makes her unable to process copper, and requires her to take "an army of pastel pharmaceuticals daily." Missed pills make her behave in odd ways; at times, Khosi finds her sitting on the roof.

"I was a card-carrying member of Mensa," Khosi explains, "but the problem was this: I hated leaving Butte. Butte was home. Butte was comfort. Butte was order." So Khosi never left for college, unlike his lifelong best friend and secret love interest, Natasha, who returned from college with a fiancé.

A crisis over Natasha and Khosi's desire to find out about the other half of his identity prompt him to travel to Egypt and seek his father. In the second half of the book, we experience Cairo through the perspective of a native Montanan who has never traveled. Khosi is often bewildered and in unexpected peril. He believes he's receiving advice from the ghost of his great-great-grandfather and learns his dad is even more of a shyster than he'd expected.

Khosi finally finds the personal order he's always craved by plunging himself into the disorder of Cairo in the conclusion of this quirky and heartfelt novel.

This book review originally appeared in High Country News.

Evel Knievel Days

By Pauls Toutonghi


304 pages, $24

Published in Literature

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