Skip to main content

Stuff I'm Reading

 I've been reading "Plainsong," by Kent Haruf, and it's like a rough draft of the TV version of "Friday Night Lights."


Both of these works concern small towns; both concern high schools and varied family-shapes. In "Friday Night Lights," there is basically one "conventional nuclear family," then there is a boy raising his younger brother, a single mom with two daughters, a grandmother in charge of a high-school junior, and so on. "Plainsong" has two orphaned, elderly brothers "raising" a girl whose mother has lost her mind. Also, two kids basically take care of themselves when a parent begins confining herself to bed, rejecting food, going unwashed.

I liked "Friday Night Lights" best when it steered away from melodrama. For example, many celebrated scenes focused on tiny disagreements between "Coach Taylor" and his wife, Tami: disputes about the annual Panthers BBQ, awkward discussions about post-partum sex and "when to resume," chats about strange notations in the checking account that haven't been announced or explained, chats about how to accommodate a visiting, charismatic "frenemy" from childhood.

"Plainsong" has a similar approach to storytelling. Despite its heavy themes, the book still sometimes lingers on two little boys delivering newspapers, or on procedural details within the local Board of Education meetings, or on how to select and assemble a crib. We begin to understand Haruf's memorable characters in these small moments. When a little boy has to choose eggs for oatmeal cookies, it's a crisis, because the shopping list doesn't specify "brown" or "white" eggs--and how can I know whether or not the color-difference is crucial to the recipe?

I'm happy to take a break from serial killers and murder plots--and I see myself in Haruf's fictional people. It's a great gift if you can keep your readers spellbound--just with descriptions of ordinary life.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more