Sunday, December 25, 2011
I have not yet been able to put words to just how much I love this book of Alyson's. I cannot describe her talent, the deep and never show-boating knowing that fills her every page. I cannot say what an honor it is to have an early copy of this novel in my home, or how lucky I am to have Alyson as an ever-enduring friend. But I began to tell you something of Boleto here, when I quoted from the very first page, and in a moment I will quote to you from a page deeper in.
Somewhere in Wyoming, Alyson's preparing a dinner for six. She's been out snowshoe-ing this morning with her son. She's been looking for, in her email words, "deer trails, moose tracks, pine cones recently flaked by squirrels, chickadees, ravens."
But before all that, she wrote this:
... He could always recall the peculiar stink of his mother's lilac blossoms when they thawed out in the spring. He could practically write lyrics to the music the field mice made in his bedroom walls, or the midnight bawling of cows and calves. These were the truths that were fixed inside him. They hung like well-used tools on a workshop wall. People were not fixed. People slipped away like weather over a horizon. You could love a person all you wanted, all that you were capable of, but a person would not settle once you left them behind.If there is justice in this literary world, Alyson Hagy will become a household name in the year about to dawn.