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juliaem's review
4.0
This is a beautiful, beautiful book, with a very interesting backstory. Sorensen (born in 1912) was raised LDS in rural Utah, but went on to travel the world with her second husband (Evelyn Waugh's brother), becoming a Guggenheim-fellowship-winning writer in her own right. The novel meanders through the big and heavy themes of religion, culture, infidelity, and parenting from the perspective of a thoughtful yet imperfect heroine coming to terms with the world she grew up in, fled from, and then attempts to come to terms with. I feel quite grateful to have had this recommended to me by a dear friend, as I'm unsure I would have stumbled across it otherwise.
One of the most interesting things about the book is how Sorensen's exquisite descriptions of Utah still resonate:
"Sometimes, away, one forgot the austerity of this country and its rocky slopes. One remembered only blue of heights melting at skyline, receiving first snow while summer was still hot in the valleys. One forgot the semidesert alkali-ridden outskirts of irrigated villages, sparse brush-and-sunflower-covered slopes, spraying crickets at every step. One forgot that scrub cedar looked ragged and twisted like trees by the sea deformed by constant wind. One forgot summer-dry creek beds, ravines empty but for gray rocks, and remembered only water running. One remembered the beauty of sheep and lambs and forgot the deep dust they left, and manure, and the stiff stripped stalks of nettle and wild clover. Today Kate thought of how quickly, given war or devastation of any kind, this country would be wild again. The villages were, from above, literally cries in a wilderness."
One of the most interesting things about the book is how Sorensen's exquisite descriptions of Utah still resonate:
"Sometimes, away, one forgot the austerity of this country and its rocky slopes. One remembered only blue of heights melting at skyline, receiving first snow while summer was still hot in the valleys. One forgot the semidesert alkali-ridden outskirts of irrigated villages, sparse brush-and-sunflower-covered slopes, spraying crickets at every step. One forgot that scrub cedar looked ragged and twisted like trees by the sea deformed by constant wind. One forgot summer-dry creek beds, ravines empty but for gray rocks, and remembered only water running. One remembered the beauty of sheep and lambs and forgot the deep dust they left, and manure, and the stiff stripped stalks of nettle and wild clover. Today Kate thought of how quickly, given war or devastation of any kind, this country would be wild again. The villages were, from above, literally cries in a wilderness."
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