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949_peewee 's review for:
The Shipping News
by Annie Proulx
Rough, raw storytelling. Text hard to live with as I was pulled into the lives of the characters. Got through three chapters telling myself I could not read this book. By then I felt compelled to stay with this sad and difficult family to see how they rebuilt their lives.
Chapters headings--knots and mariners dictionary--pictures and explanatory text.
p107 "Quoyle went down with trembling legs, one hand on the rungs, his left arm fold across his daughter's waist. The ladder shook with his shaking. He could not believe she hadn't fallen, for in two or three seconds he had lived her squalling death over and over, reached out time after time to grip empty air."
p209 "Millennial bergs from the glaciers, morbid...the deceiving sound of shoreline where there was no shore...Foghorns...Frost smoke...Clouds mottled by reflections of water holes in the plains of ice. The glare of ice erasing dimension, distance, subjecting senses to mirage and illusion. A rare place."
p317 " 'Backing wind, fouls weather,' Billy Pretty said to himself, steering sideways down a hill. The wind angling to the north now. He had seen wind hounds a few days before, lozenges of light in a greasy sky. Imagined wind in his inner eye, saw its directions in the asymmetrical shapes of windstorm on old maps, roses of wind whose elongated points pictured prevailing airs."
Chapters headings--knots and mariners dictionary--pictures and explanatory text.
p107 "Quoyle went down with trembling legs, one hand on the rungs, his left arm fold across his daughter's waist. The ladder shook with his shaking. He could not believe she hadn't fallen, for in two or three seconds he had lived her squalling death over and over, reached out time after time to grip empty air."
p209 "Millennial bergs from the glaciers, morbid...the deceiving sound of shoreline where there was no shore...Foghorns...Frost smoke...Clouds mottled by reflections of water holes in the plains of ice. The glare of ice erasing dimension, distance, subjecting senses to mirage and illusion. A rare place."
p317 " 'Backing wind, fouls weather,' Billy Pretty said to himself, steering sideways down a hill. The wind angling to the north now. He had seen wind hounds a few days before, lozenges of light in a greasy sky. Imagined wind in his inner eye, saw its directions in the asymmetrical shapes of windstorm on old maps, roses of wind whose elongated points pictured prevailing airs."