Brokeback Mountain

Brokeback Mountain by Annie Proulx


My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Probably the best short story I've ever read. Not one word out of place, not one misstep. The dialogue is spectacular.

"That summer," said Ennis. "When we split up after we got paid out I had gut cramps so bad I pulled over and tried to puke, thought I ate somethin bad at that place in Dubois. Took me about a year to figure out it was that I shouldn't a let you out a my sights. Too late then by a long, long while." (27)

"Come on, Ennis, you just shot my airplane out a the sky -- give me somethin a go on. This ain't no little thing that's happenin here." (31)

The love is outstripped only by the pain.

This story resists the simple 'gay cowboys' label frequently slapped on the movie. These boys are in love, yes, but they are also confused, angry and violently fearful. The tire-iron is an ever-present threat hanging over their fleeting embraces. A father's hatred and a wife's disgust only add to their self-loathing.

Proulx's writing is stunningly beautiful.

Clearly I need to read the rest of the stories that this one was originally published with. The edition I borrowed from the library was a slim, single-story version.

I read this for the GLBT reading challenge.

Postcards

Postcards by Annie Proulx


My rating: 3 of 5 stars

A hard book--not difficult to read, but the characters are hardened, their lives unforgiving, the land stark and mean. Bones jut up out of the soil and rock of this book, suddenly exposed and horrifying.

Proulx contrasts well against Kingsolver, who is all life, growth and healing, while in this book Proulx draws the living dead. Farmers who have lost everything, including limbs. A young man driven from home by guilt that wracks his entire life. Forty years of wandering the West without love or friendship or rest for the weary.

I don't mean to make this book sound horrific; it's a good story. She's an amazing writer. The flow of narrative is original, unpredictable and compelling.

Most of the chapters begin with an image of a postcard, hand-written and addressed, sent from one character to another. The magic of the postcards, and of the chapters themselves, is that we as readers often don't know who these characters are or what their situation is when we begin reading.

In this way, the beginning of each chapter is almost like the beginning of a book. We have to keep reading in order to find out what's going on, who these people are. Proulx keeps us delving, hunting through her landscapes like Loyal with his coyote traps, noting each twig and blade of grass.

We have to trust her to give us the story. She doesn't always give it, either. Some things we will never know. But this is a satisfying book in the end. It has a flavor all of its own.

It tastes of cracked leather, sagebrush, smoke, windblown dust, old bacon grease and motor oil.

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