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qstew's review against another edition
5.0
I found this book on a standalone metal bookshelf at a county jail when I was 23 years old. Unlike almost every other book on the shelf, it appeared brand new, untouched even. Why such a short book with a curious cover was in such condition intrigued me such that I couldn't resist bringing it back to my cell for further investigation.
Now, why I was in jail is no longer relevant, but suffice it to say that over the course of my ten days incarcerated I found myself re-reading this book at least once a day. I was then, and still am, baffled by the subtitling of this book as |A NOVELLA| considering there is little (if any) plot to be found.
That said, what it does contain is a series of independent ruminations and lyrical paintings in an attempt to capture a small, rural town which is never named. In some ways I believe the town very well could be universal, though it is simultaneously very apparent how personal a place it is to the author.
The language and diction is not straightforward in the slightest and at times it is a conscious effort to comprehend what is actually being conveyed in both literal and figurative senses. There are some excerpts which eluded me entirely and I merely accepted for the arrangement of words they were.
On the occasions I do try my hand at prose or poetry, I find myself defaulting to metaphors and allusions which are so personal to myself that in the absence of explanation or knowledge about the finer details of my life, one would have no chance at explicating what exactly I am writing - that is something I have accepted when sharing my writing with people and what I imagine Ms Farmer feels in portions of this work.
Perhaps it was this feeling of expressive kinship which drew me to this book as a source of solace and wonder in such a trying time, perhaps it was the 'escape-by-imagery'. Whatever it truly was, I couldn't have found a better book to get me through.
It certainly will not resonate with everybody; on the morning of my release I handed it over to one of the other inmates with whom I had somewhat developed a rapport, only to watch him put it back on the shelf after flipping through the first few pages. As I was patted down one last time by the cellblock deputy, I looked at him in bemusement as he called out to me, "Too confusing, it doesn't make sense. Take care and stay out of trouble."
Though I know he meant the book, I chose to impose my own metaphor on his parting words by assuming he was referring to the burdensome impasses at which we find ourselves in life. You can latch onto a morsel of hope and trust that you will find meaning by the end, simply enjoying the ride, or you can put it back on the shelf and assume there is none and miss out on something inarguably fascinating.
I have yet to obtain a copy for myself, but here I am nearly 4 years later and I still think about it in my more introspective moments of solitude.
Now, why I was in jail is no longer relevant, but suffice it to say that over the course of my ten days incarcerated I found myself re-reading this book at least once a day. I was then, and still am, baffled by the subtitling of this book as |A NOVELLA| considering there is little (if any) plot to be found.
That said, what it does contain is a series of independent ruminations and lyrical paintings in an attempt to capture a small, rural town which is never named. In some ways I believe the town very well could be universal, though it is simultaneously very apparent how personal a place it is to the author.
The language and diction is not straightforward in the slightest and at times it is a conscious effort to comprehend what is actually being conveyed in both literal and figurative senses. There are some excerpts which eluded me entirely and I merely accepted for the arrangement of words they were.
On the occasions I do try my hand at prose or poetry, I find myself defaulting to metaphors and allusions which are so personal to myself that in the absence of explanation or knowledge about the finer details of my life, one would have no chance at explicating what exactly I am writing - that is something I have accepted when sharing my writing with people and what I imagine Ms Farmer feels in portions of this work.
Perhaps it was this feeling of expressive kinship which drew me to this book as a source of solace and wonder in such a trying time, perhaps it was the 'escape-by-imagery'. Whatever it truly was, I couldn't have found a better book to get me through.
It certainly will not resonate with everybody; on the morning of my release I handed it over to one of the other inmates with whom I had somewhat developed a rapport, only to watch him put it back on the shelf after flipping through the first few pages. As I was patted down one last time by the cellblock deputy, I looked at him in bemusement as he called out to me, "Too confusing, it doesn't make sense. Take care and stay out of trouble."
Though I know he meant the book, I chose to impose my own metaphor on his parting words by assuming he was referring to the burdensome impasses at which we find ourselves in life. You can latch onto a morsel of hope and trust that you will find meaning by the end, simply enjoying the ride, or you can put it back on the shelf and assume there is none and miss out on something inarguably fascinating.
I have yet to obtain a copy for myself, but here I am nearly 4 years later and I still think about it in my more introspective moments of solitude.
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