Reviews

An 80 page epistolary novelette (as opposed to a novella? Apparently just an arbitrary difference in word count earns your story one over the other) thats a quick read while retaining much of the abstract thought, beautiful imagery, and powerful moments of depth in simplistic phrasing and lines of thinking that Bill Callahan is known for as a song writer.

l0verb0y's review against another edition

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3.0

3.5 - in true Bill Callahan fashion, the most heterosexual use of epistolary prose i’ve ever seen

traphag's review against another edition

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3.0

I loved the atmosphere, but I wish it would have gone somewhere.

goomz's review against another edition

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4.0

I liked reading this slowly, taking it in, reading a few letters every day. Some of the anecdotes and non-sequiturs are silly, but they're so earnest and sincere, and give the book its subdued power. Some lines are tattoo-worthy, not that I'd go that far or anything. It even has a satisfying climax! Callahan builds his characters so subtly (even the eponymous one you never get to read any words from), and so quickly—the book's barely novella-length, after all. I feel like when I describe it my words could just as easily apply to Bill Callahan's recent music: calm, but restless. Relaxed, but passionate. Easy to return to. It's hard to run down the streets screaming recommendations for it when it's so brief and relatively low-key, but I know I'll find my ways to sneak it into conversations. I'm confident that people who have no idea who the author is and what he's known for would like this book as much as I do if they read it, although I can't think of any situation where someone could get into that situation. It's much more than a curious side-project of a musician. I legitimately want Bill Callahan to write more books, maybe even at the expense of his album releasing rate (did I go too far?).

I can feel the way your hips would fit into my hands perfectly, like a lifetime rifle or an overweight but well-groomed cat. Or a large-breed dog who rarely gets lifted but loves it sheepishly when it does. A foot finding a solid hold in a rock face where before there was none. And then for it to be covered in skin, what could be better. Child, take care of that hip.

It could almost be creepy, writing that way to a near stranger, but there's a poetic innocence to it too. I'm not the romantic type, I don't even read poetry, but I love it. I'm strongly considering keeping the book tucked between my bed and nightstand so it will be there for me in its neat little binding whenever I can't sleep.

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